Romantic Association - Truly, Madly, Deeply

We never had children either. Ethan isn’t much for families and I was always terrified of losing my figure. Can you imagine it? How could I waddle onto parties on yachts heavy with child in voluminous pregnancy dresses? Ethan would never have allowed it. That wasn’t what we were about as a couple. And I was frightened that he would want me to stay at home, out of sight, go off alone and leave me. Ironic really. I used to long for a daughter. Someone who I could bring up to be strong and independent. Someone who would find a man to love her for who she was, not how she looked.

I thought I would always be beautiful, always be wanted. Now my husband looks at younger women, the way he looked at me. His eyes and his hands tear the clothes from them too. The cars whoosh past me, billowing my dress. I pull my wrap tighter round me even though it isn’t cold. I walk the entire length of Park Lane, past the glitzy car showrooms, the lavish estate agents’ windows, the glittering hotel entrances. A few people pass me, but this is London, and they don’t look twice at the barefooted woman in their way. Eventually, I find my way back. There are tables outside The Dorchester, closed up for the night, patio heaters cold. I sit there watching the lights, letting my mind roam free. What will I do? Where will I go? Who will look after me? How will I live? What do you do when you are forty-five and have nothing to show for your life beyond a marvellous wardrobe and a hoard of designer shoes? I can’t hold a conversation. I can’t bake a cake. I can’t arrange flowers. For my entire marriage, I’ve been nothing but a shadow. A pretty, empty shadow.

When I next look at my watch its gone two o’clock. The night is cooler now, the traffic has slowed to a constant trickle and I’m shivering. I should reach inside myself and find anger, but all that’s there is fear. I’m afraid to confront Ethan. Afraid to confront my future. Afraid that if I cry or scream I will never stop. My feet are numb and my head throbs, but still I stay in my chair. I don’t know how long I wait, but eventually I notice that’s there’s a refreshing breeze. I can taste autumn in it, a subtle change, a freshening. I like autumn –a time when the old dies away heralding in the way for the new. I feel something in my heart gently settle. When I can put it off no longer, I pick up my shoes and head back into the hotel. The party is over. Streamers from party poppers litter the floor and weary, heavy-eyed staff tidy up and rearrange the tables. Soon there will be no sign of the party at all.

I make my way back up to our suite and let myself in, tossing my designer shoes to the floor. I can’t face the discomfort of them any longer. Ethan is sprawled out on the bed, naked, face down. He’s snoring heavily. His charcoal suit, his white shirt, his traitorous grey tie are scattered on the floor. The tie catches the moonlight and shines up at me. One by one, I pick them all up and put them on the clothes horse at the foot of the bed, folding the trousers carefully, smoothing down the lapels of the jacket as I have done for many years.

My suitcase is on the stand, still unpacked. Could I leave? Just walk out on my life? I pour myself a brandy from the decanter and go to the terrace. Looking out over London, the lights of the city beckon. It’s a place of infinite possibilities. I could lose myself here. I could start again. Learn things. Do things. Believe things. Look at my face in the mirror and like myself again. I had dreams. Once. I could have them again.

I take the last sip of the brandy and it burns down my throat and sizzles in my stomach like acid. The cut glass makes a clink when I put it back on the sideboard and I’m worried that it will rouse him. But he snores on, oblivious. He grunts and twitches, but doesn’t wake. Standing at the bottom of the bed, unmoving, I watch Ethan breathe, deeply, evenly. Nothing can disturb his sleep. Is this what I have to look forward to?

Quietly, I undo the zip of my overnight case-one from a matching set of Louis Vuitton. Inside my cosmetics bag, there’s a pair of nail scissors. I cross to the clothes horse. Carefully, meticulously I cut the bottom half from the grey silk tie and let it fall. It lies on the plush carpet, torn. There is hope in that severed tie, I think. Just a glimmer. But hope nevertheless.

I put the scissors away and zip up my case. It’s quite heavy but I don’t want to ring the concierge. I can manage by myself. I can manage everything by myself. I know I can. With one last lingering look at Ethan, I pull my wrap around me. When I leave, still barefoot, I softly close the door behind me.

ELIZABETH BUCHANbegan her career as a blurb writer at Penguin Books and moved on to become a fiction editor at Random House before leaving to write full time. Her novels include Light of the Moon and the prize-winning Consider the Lily –reviewed in the Independent as ‘a gorgeously well written tale: funny, sad and sophisticated’. A subsequent novel, Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman , became an international bestseller and was made into a CBS Primetime Drama. This was followed by several other novels, including The Second Wife, Separate Beds and Daughters . She has just finished a novel about SOE agents operating in Denmark during the World War II.

Elizabeth Buchan’s short stories are broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and published in magazines. She reviews for the Sunday Times , has chaired the Betty Trask and Desmond Elliot literary prizes, and has been a judge for the Whitbread (now Costa) awards. She is a past Chairman of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, and is currently a patron of the Guildford Book Festival and The National Academy of Writing.

Polly consults the ferry timetable. Having puzzled over it many times during the past seven years, she knows its little ways.

Buried in its print, is the key to the vessels which skim over the sunlit Greek seas and plough through the stormy ones. And, yes, there is one due to sail from Piraeus at 11.30 the following morning. This gives Polly plenty of time to arrive at the port and to find a coffee and sandwich. She is sometimes sea-sick and copes better being so on a full stomach.

Dan used to tease her about that.

In Athens, she checks in at her usual hotel –discovered quite early on in her travels. It is cheap and central and nobody bothers about her there. In her room there are the familiar blue-and-white striped ticking window blinds and the matching bedspread.

The mirror is new though, and Polly peers into it. She has left London in a rush –working in the office until the very last-minute, which meant there had been no time for leisurely preparation. She doesn’t much care what she looks like but others do. If you’re travelling on your own, it’s best to make an effort.

She phones Nico at the salon.

‘Ah Polly, Polly. Please come at once.’

Nico owns a chain of hairdressing salons but is always to be found in the one near Avidi Square. He is waiting for her when she walks in.

‘Hallo beautiful Polly,’ he says in his mixture of Greek and English. ‘Very, very good to see you.’

Polly replies in a similar mixture of language–only, in her case as she often teases him, her Greek improves each year.

Nico sits her down and wraps her up in a gown. ‘Your hair is good.’ Their eyes meet in the mirror. ‘You have kept it well.’

She has. She has. Shoulder length and still blonde with touches of honey and toffee, Dan loved her hair.

Nico examines a lock in a professional manner. ‘A small trim?’

‘Please.’