‘I wonder where everyone is? Ben and Isabel are normally so prompt. Maybe the traffic is bad? Now Dom and Tara are always late, that doesn’t surprise me in the least. Do you think I should call?’ Martha was desperate to tell someone her news. Tara would have such good ideas for the kitchen, she’d recently had hers completely renovated. Martha coveted Tara’s taps.

‘No.’

‘No, you’re right it looks a bit rude if I hurry them. I’m sure they’ll get here in their own time.’

‘They’re not coming.’

‘Who aren’t? Isabel and Ben or Dom and Tara? Oh Michael you could have told me earlier, I’ve cooked for six. Did they ring? Is it babysitting problems?’ Martha continued to dash about the kitchen as she fired these questions. She decanted a bottle of red that needed to breath, she poured olives into a bowl, she polished the champagne glasses for the second time and she tried to ignore the surge of crossness that she felt slither up her spine. Lovely as Michael was, he simply didn’t understand the logistics of how Martha managed their lives. He should have mentioned that they’d had a cancellation. She hated wasting good food, not to mention precious preparation time. If she hadn’t been in such a good mood she might have said something.

But then, she probably wouldn’t have.

‘So who can’t make it?’ Martha was already wondering if she had any last minute stand-ins. Would Eliza and Greg behave if she called them and invited them over? Or would they insist on smoking pot and talking about the unfair lack of facilities in state schools?

‘None of them are coming.’

‘None.’ Martha didn’t understand. She stopped dashing and stared at Michael.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I called them and cancelled.’

‘You cancelled?’ Martha thought she’d misheard, then all at once she understood. ‘Oh Michael you sweetie, you want us to celebrate on our own.’ She moved towards him and went to put her arms around his neck. She pushed aside the thought that he should have told her so she could have saved a fortune and an awful lot of time. It was a very romantic gesture.

Michael took hold of Martha’s arms and slowly, carefully put them back by her side.

He wasn’t looking at her.

‘I’m leaving Martha.’

‘We’re going out?’ she asked, hesitantly because there was something in Michael’s voice that didn’t say celebration. In fact his body screamed hostility, frustration, shame and solitude.

Michael sighed very deeply and starred at his mobile phone. He had been fiddling with it for a while and had finally plugged it into the re-charger.

‘I’m leaving you Martha. I’m moving out.’

The world stopped orbiting.

Martha stopped breathing.

Her heart beat against her skull.

She’d heard his words, or thought she had, but she couldn’t have. They were all wrong, they didn’t make sense. They swam in front of her but alluded the part of her brain that could decipher them; the part that could reassure her heart that she’d probably misheard Michael.

‘Isn’t it good news about the house?’ stuttered Martha. She waited for his beam, his nod. She wanted to tell her heart, ‘false alarm, just a joke.’

‘It’s over.’

‘What are you talking about?’ The voice didn’t sound like Martha’s. It was high pitched and very frightened.

‘I ... I. ’ Michael hesitated. He looked around the room and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m going to a hotel.’

‘A hotel? But I don’t understand.’ And she really didn’t. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It is, it’s difficult to say.’

Suddenly she didn’t want to hear, hard as it was for him to say, she had the feeling that it would be much more bloody hard to listen to.

‘Well don’t say it. Don’t say it. Stop being silly. Let’s get on with supper,’ said Martha quickly. She picked up a tea towel and started rubbing the already immaculate kitchen surface. Silly was one of the words Martha often used when talking to the children; the inadequacy of it suddenly hit her. Michael ignored Martha’s interruption.

‘It’s not you, it’s me. I just,’ he couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘Just what?’ she asked automatically, as result of years of self-training on how to take a polite interest. In fact, she didn’t want to know.

‘I need some space,’ he stumbled.

And Martha thought all the clichés were true after all.

‘You’re going to get space. There’s plenty of space at The Bridle Way. What are you talking about?’

‘I can’t do this anymore.’

‘What? What can’t you do?’ Martha demanded. Her voice was even quieter than usual. ‘Live happily with your wife and children?’

‘I’m not happy.’

Martha swayed. She felt behind her and lowered herself into a chair. He’s not happy. He’s not happy. But she was always asking him if he was happy. “Are you happy darling?” she’d sing, “Of course I am, which man wouldn’t be?” he’d reply, often accompanying his words with a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Aren’t we lucky,’ he’d volunteer. Often. He often said, “aren’t we lucky.” Lucky was like happy wasn’t it? Or at least part of it.

‘I realise this must be a shock.’ Michael’s lips moved and Martha watched them but she didn’t know who was talking. Not Michael, that’s for certain, not her Micky, not her sweet Mikey. The intruder was wearing Michael’s suits, admittedly. And he was wearing Michael’s watch but not his smile and his eyes, which occasionally flicked over Martha, were dead. There was no love in them and Michael’s eyes had always oozed love and concern. What was this imposter saying?
‘I’m not in love with you anymore Martha. Feeling as I do, I think it would be unfair to commit to the new mortgage.’

Martha’s head exploded. She felt it hit the walls but it must have sprung back together because she could feel it heavy in her hands. She felt an intense pain inside her brain and she thought that it was right. It was right that her head should split wide open, it should splinter and tiny shards of skull should have lodged into the walls surrounding. It wouldn’t be a loss. A cracked head was just, fitting. It was a useless head anyway, a pointless, hopeless mind that hadn’t seen this coming, hadn’t suspected. Indeed the opposite. Martha had thought, believed that she was safe from such exquisite, searing, clear pain. Because they were happy. Happily married, and that was like an insurance policy wasn’t it?

‘But you are already committed to me. Mortgage or no mortgage. I’m your wife.’ Martha insisted. She was desperately trying to be logical but she felt like Alice in Wonderland, confused, small and falling.

‘I know that,’ sighed Michael and then he flopped back into a chair too. He obviously couldn’t get comfortable, or maybe he wanted to make it clear that he really was going, because he immediately leaned forward and perched on the edge of the seat. He held his head in his hands. Martha thought, as she often thought, that he had beautiful hair. Blue black. His eyes were his best points. The eyes that had shone with love and concern but his hair was lovely too. They both fell silent. After an eternity Michael scraped back his chair and made to stand up.

‘Where are you going?’ Asked Martha quickly.

‘A local hotel. I’ve booked in for a few days and then we’ll think of something more permanent.’ He left the room.

‘Don’t go. Don’t,’ said Martha but she wasn’t ever sure if she’d said this out loud or in her head.