Stuart James - Apartment 6

He scribbled the address down on a piece of paper that was lying on a side unit in the kitchen, marking it as urgent at the top of the page.

When the call had finished, Oliver looked out of the window over West London. He’d grown attached to this place, the amazing views, the well-insulated apartment, quiet neighbours and vibrant life outside on the streets, although maybe he wouldn’t miss the crowds as much.

He’d get to know people in his new place, that was for sure. It wouldn’t take long. Oliver had a good feeling about the future. I just need to get Meagan out of my head.

He stood in the kitchen. Everything was in its place; tidy, neatly arranged. The thick white shelf to his left, stretching halfway along the kitchen wall, was furnished with souvenirs and memorabilia. The bag he’d bought as a kid on a family trip to Margate; Banksy pictures; photos of nights out with his parents, cousins, sister, all placed in large frames; mementos displayed along the shelf; spice pots; empty wine bottles he’d collected from trips abroad, their red-stained corks attached to a large board.

In the living room, he eyed the black sofa, the Marvel comics piled knee-high and perfectly in line, the statue of a ballerina which doubled up as a lamp. Everything in its place, a place for everything. He was a collector; hoarder was too strong a word.

Once he’d checked over the apartment, Oliver left, deciding to get something to eat at the café a few doors down.

‘Have you seen my white shirt?’ asked Rob. ‘I’m sure it was hanging in the wardrobe. I must be going mad.’

Meagan was still in bed, watching her husband hunt for his clothes. She had forgotten life could be like this. It was 10.30am and she was resting, relaxed, calm.

They’d been out the night before at a steak house on the Old Kent Road. As they left apartment six, Rob placed Meagan’s red coat over her shoulders, helping her into it. He opened the front door, holding her hand as they walked out onto the street. He sat beside her in the taxi on the way there, let her choose a meal and drink, as much as she wanted. He paid the bill himself, making conversation, taking an interest in what she had to say. When they returned home, she fell asleep in his arms. No sexual demands, no pawing and mauling.

This was good. Too good. Meagan thought she didn’t deserve this; her new life, new husband, it wasn’t her. It wasn’t them, Rob and her. But it was, and it felt so bloody good.

‘I may have washed it. Let me go and check.’

Rob reassured her. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll check. I’ll bring a coffee back up. Stay where you are.’

Rob left the room, returning a few minutes later wearing the ironed shirt tucked into his black trousers, her latte in hand. He placed the drink on the bedside unit. ‘Thanks, Meagan. I appreciate you doing this.’ He was fixing his collar in the mirror, standing back, eyeing the deep scars across his face, too embarrassed to mention them.

‘No problem. Good luck today, by the way. I hope it goes well for you.’

Rob had a meeting with a buyer for the strip bar he owned; it was too much hassle, too much stress, the cause of his continued anger. He was dealing with it. He was going to get help and get better. He said he owed her that much.

He leant forward, kissing her cheek. ‘I love you. I need you to know that.’

Meagan didn’t respond; it was too early, so she couldn’t say it back, not yet.

She lay in bed for another half hour. It was Saturday morning. The sun shone through the small window facing over the roof platform, illuminating the room. Meagan was immersed in the comfortable heat which penetrated the blankets.

She needed to get up, make a start, clean the kitchen, wipe down the worktops, mop the floor. It was her way of feeling normal. This new-found happiness was great, really great, but the couple of years she’d been married to Rob had taken its toll. She knew she’d struggle to deal with the sudden change, but she’d have to find a way.

As Meagan entered the kitchen, she thought about Oliver. She missed him, but maybe this was normal. Meagan had taken a lover behind her husband’s back. It wasn’t guilt she felt, she couldn’t. Rob had forced her to seek refuge, to get help. Now it seemed her husband was different, but she couldn’t forget her lust when she and Oliver made love in this kitchen.

She thought about how Oliver had made her feel, how she had been unable to control her lust. Oliver was willing to do anything for her. He was the guy she’d met on the train, the hapless gentleman who was there to help pick up the pieces. She wanted him in her kitchen, right this second.

No, don’t think like this. I can’t. I simply can’t.

Meagan picked up the phone she kept hidden, scanning through her recent contacts for Oliver’s name. It was next to Sarah’s, who had called during the week to check in.

She suddenly felt alone, isolated; Sarah hadn’t called for a while, it was as if she didn’t care.

Usually, your social media is filled with comments, love hearts, smiling emojis and thumbs up, approving of family pictures, photos of food you’re preparing, days out, weekend breaks. People asking how you are. How your day has been. Wishing you a great evening, or asking what you’re up to. Meagan had nothing. It’s like I never existed , she thought.

Rob never allowed her on social media.

She needed to occupy her mind. She got a J-cloth from the cupboard under the sink, damped it with warm water and wiped down the worktop. Then she filled a bucket with water, jabbed the mop inside and circled it across the floor. She had the radio on, listening to Heart London, turned up loud, too loud, but this was her now: a new, confident Meagan. This was good.

Maybe she could even fall in love with her husband all over again.

She laughed.

Yeah, right.

It was early afternoon. Meagan’s hands ached, throbbing from the hard work she’d just put into cleaning the place. She stood in the kitchen, taking in the smell of detergent. The windows behind were open, a light breeze pushing forward. She shivered and went to shut the window.

She debated whether to make a start on the bathroom, to hose out the shower, wipe down the cubicle, when she got distracted by the key in the front door.

Rob was standing in the hallway, his black jacket hanging over his shoulder. She noticed his shirt was ruffled. It looked inside out. As he entered the kitchen, the waft of Chanel hit her. His hair was slightly tousled, falling forward.

Meagan stepped forward, hoping for a compliment. Wow, the place looks amazing. Sit hun, let me get you something to eat. You should rest more. Stop being so busy all the time. It will get done.

Rob stood, motionless, oblivious to the hard work his wife had been doing.

‘How did it go?’ Meagan was instantly aware of the break in her voice.

‘What? How did what go, Meagan?’

She filled the kettle with water. ‘Here, let me hang up your jacket. You must be tired.’ Meagan walked towards her husband, reaching for his coat, taking it from his hands. She went out to the hall and placed it on the stand. When she turned, Rob was behind her. She jumped.

‘Wow, Rob, you startled me.’ She watched the menacing look on his face, the sudden change of expression.

‘I’m going for a lie-down. Bring me something to eat. A sandwich or something. Ham, cheese, no mayonnaise.’

Meagan reached her arm forward, running the back of her hand down his face. ‘Okay, it’ll be a few minutes. Go up Rob, take a rest.’

As he walked away, she clearly saw the label of his shirt, the tag that should have been on the inside.

Meagan was balancing the coffee in one hand, the plate with her husband’s sandwich in the other. She knocked on the bedroom door with her foot, struggling to push the handle down.