Three Brand-New Keys

Three New Keys

“Why do you look so pale today? Or is it another one of those diets of yours?” My mother-in-laws voice booms through the hallway, not bothering with a greeting.

Im standing by the cooker in my old dressing gown, stirring porridge, thinking, “At last, the whole of Saturday is mine. The entire day. From eight in the morning through till late evening.” Chris has gone fishing with Mike from next door; he said hed be back for dinner. Ive already mapped out my day in my mind: a calm breakfast, a walk along the Common, then the luxury of lying down with a book, nowhere to be, no one to hurry me. Days like this hardly ever come. You could almost say they never really happen.

And now, of course.

I turn. Margaret is already stepping into the kitchen, peeling off her coat and tossing it over a chair back without looking. It slips and falls to the floor. She doesnt notice.

“Hello, Margaret,” I say. My voice is perfectly even. Ive long since had to learn to keep it level.

“Hello, hello. Wheres Chris?”

“Fishing.”

She stops in the middle of the kitchen and looks at me as if Ive just told her tomorrow is Christmas.

“Fishing? He didnt say anything to me about it.”

“He probably forgot to mention,” I answer and turn back to the saucepan.

The porridge bubbles. I turn down the heat. Outside, the October sky is grey, but peaceful, no windand half an hour ago Id planned to stretch my legs outside, imagining the air is full of leaves. Now, all I can see is porridge, and all I can think is that the day is no longer mine.

Margaret picks up her coat, hangs it in the hallway, and returns to sit at the small table. She produces a large carrier bag from her handbag and sets it carefully on the oilcloth.

“Ive made some pasties. With cabbage. Chris loves pasties with cabbage.”

“Thank you.”

“Go on, at least try one before you turn your nose up.”

Im not pulling any faces. Im just standing with my back to her, ladling porridge into a bowl, hands steady. Inside, somethings wound tight as a spring, but outside, Im calm. Seven years practice.

“Sit down, eat with me,” I say, automatic politeness: as natural as breathing.

“Ive already had breakfast. Just a cup of tea, thanks.”

I put the kettle on and sit with her, eating my porridge quietly. Margaret watches my bowl.

“Is that your whole breakfast? Just porridge with water?”

“Milk.”

“Makes no odds. Did Chris at least have a fry-up before he left?”

“I dont know, Margaret. He left at sixI was asleep.”

She shakes her head. I know that shake well. It means: “Such a wife, sleeping so your husband leaves hungry.”

I keep my eyes on the window. A pigeon is pottering along the ledge, pecking at something invisible, living its own life.

“You could really do with changing your net curtains,” Margaret observes, surveying the kitchen. “Theyre looking a bit dreary.”

“I like them.”

“You like them. Chris said he wanted to change them, too.”

Chris has never once mentioned curtains. Not to me. Perhaps to her. Perhaps in one of those conversations I never hear, because theyre about me and about this flat, without me.

The kettle boils. I get up, make her tea, put it in front of her with a little sugar bowl and spoon.

“Thank you,” she says, stirring. “You should call Chris and let him know Im here.”

“Hes fishing, Margaret. Theres no reception.”

“No reception? Where on earth is that?”

“Thats what he said.”

She purses her lips and sips her tea, eyes falling on the carrier.

“Get a proper plate out, Ill put the pasties on it.”

I fetch a plate, set it beside her. She lines up the pasties in neat rows, big and golden. They smell of cabbage and dough. On any other day, in a different mood, I might take one.

But now I just watch.

“Tell me this,” Margaret begins, still busy with the pasties. “Do you and Chris actually talk?”

“We talk.”

“He rings me every day. Tells me things. But you never say much.”

“What does he talk about?”

She hesitates, but keeps working.

“Oh, just things. Says hes tired. Says its tense here.”

I put down my spoon.

“Tense,” I repeatnot as a question.

“Well, you know. Theres just something between you. I can tell.”

“You can, even though youre only here once a fortnight at most.”

“Im his mother. I just know.”

I stand, take my bowl to the sink and pause, watching the cul-de-sac from the window. A man is out walking his doga small tan thing tugging at a lead, dragging him toward a hedge. The man strolls, hand tucked casually in his jacket. A peaceful little scene.

“Anna,” Margaret calls.

“Yes?”

“Youre not upset, are you?”

I turn. Shes got the look Ive read a hundred timesit isnt guilt; its just waiting for me to answer: “No, of course not. Everythings fine.” That way she can carry on.

“No,” I say. “Im not upset.”

She nods, satisfied. Takes another sip of tea.

“Thats good. Because Im not your enemy, Anna. I want things to be okay with you two.”

“I know.”

Im forty-eight. Chris is fifty-one. His mother, seventy-three. Weve been married seven years, both second marriages. I thought people would be wiser the second time roundable to compromise, clear on what they wanted and didnt want.

But its all down to the person, in the end.

Margaret drains her tea, gets up.

“Show me what youve got in the fridge.”

“Why?”

Shes already on her way.

“Want to see whats here so I know what to cook for Chris when he gets back. Hell be hungry. Fishing always does that.”

“Margaret…”

“What?”

I pause, then say, “Ill make dinner myself.”

She stops, hand on the fridge door, looking faintly surprised.

“Anna, Im only offering to help.”

“I know. But Ill manage.”

“You always say that. But I can see how you both eat! Chris has lost weight.”

“Chris chooses for himself what to eat.”

“But hes a manhe wont cook for himself.”

“But he doesnt live alone.”

We stand across the kitchen: her with the fridge behind her, me by the sink. Between us two metres of beige chequered lino we picked out together, before we married, when this was just Chriss flat and Id begun making it a home. I chose, he agreed. Now Margaret says we should change itedges by the threshold are curling up.

“Fine,” she says at last. “As you like.”

She returns to the table, gathering her handbag. I think shes about to leave, and something inside me just unclenches.

“Ill just wait here for Chris,” she says.

The spring tightens again.

“He wont be back till evening.”

“Thats fine. Im in no rush.”

She pulls out her knitting from her handbagwool, needles. Settles herself on her chair, like someone not going anywhere.

I stare at her. At the needles in her hands. At the ball of wool beside the pasties. Her coat back on the chair, having wandered from the hook again.

I pick up my mug, pour myself more tea, and go into the living room.

I curl up on the sofa, legs tucked under, eyes on the walla small framed landscape I bought at a car boot sale three years ago. A river, a meadow, a drooping willow. Something calm and gentle. Ive always loved it.

From the kitchen I can hear Margarets needles clicking.

I take out my phone and text my friend, June: “Shes here again.” June replies a minute later: “No warning?” I write: “Shes got a key, hasnt she?” June sends a face-palm emoji and then: “Anna, seriously. Are you ever going to talk to him properly?”

I put my phone away.

I have. More than once. The first time was about two years after our wedding, when I realised Margaret visits not us, but Chris, in the flat that, before me, had been just his. I said, “Chris, you need to warn me.” Hed said, “Shes my mum, shes always just popped round.” I said, “But this is our home.” He said, “So what, let her come.” I said, “She cant just turn up unannounced.” He said, “Youre making a fuss.”

The second time was after shed rearranged all the spice jars, saying it was better this way. I came home, stood for five minutes trying to work out why I was so annoyed. Then I realisedit was my shelf, my spices. I knew where everything was. Now I didnt.

Chris said, “Just put them back then.” I said, “Its not about the spices.” He asked, “So what is it about?” I couldnt explain in a way hed understand. Or maybe I was just tired of trying.

The third time was when she came in while I was out and cleaned the whole flat. It sounds ridiculouswho gets upset about a spotless house? But I was. Because it meant she could come in without warning. Shed been in our bedroom, seen my things, my books, my slippers. Maybe shed looked around and thought whatever she thought.

Chris said, “She was only being helpful.” I said, “I know.” He said, “Whats the problem, then?” I said, “That she has keys.” He said, “Its my flat.” I said, “I live here too.” He said, “I dont understand what you want.”

I remember that clearly”I dont understand what you want.” After seven years together.

Im on the sofa, listening as Margaret gets up in the kitchen, turns on the tap, rustles through something, fridge door opens, more rustling.

I go in.

Shes at the worktop, chopping onions.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Making a stew. Chris loves a good stew.”

“Margaret, please, I asked you not to touch the food.”

“Anna, its only a stew. Whats the harm?”

“Ill decide what gets cooked in my kitchen, thank you.”

She puts down the knife, looks at me for a long moment.

“In yours,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

“Well.” She picks up the onion again. “All right.”

The knife resumes its rhythm as if nothings happened.

I take the chopping board from her. She lets it go, not fighting, just firm. Puts it back.

“Please dont,” I say.

We stand close. I can see the lines on her forehead, pursed lips, the flash in her eye.

“Youre forbidding me to cook now?”

“Im asking you to respect that this is my home too.”

“Chriss home. Hes lived here since he was born.”

“And he grew up. Ive lived here seven years now.”

She takes the board from my hands, gentle but definite.

“Ill talk to Chris,” she says.

“Do.”

“Youre being very rude.”

“Im asking for a bit of space.”

“Space! Are you listening to yourself? Too much TV, thats your problem.”

I step away, lean on the window. The pigeon has long gone. The man and his dog too. The street is empty, damp, leaves crawling on the tarmac.

“Anna,” Margarets tone softens, “dont be angry. Im only trying to help.”

“I know.”

“Chris is wilting without proper home food. You work, you havent got time.”

“I find the time.”

“All right, let me help too.”

She picks the knife up again. She only hears what she wants; everything else simply floats past.

I leave the kitchen for the bedroom, closing the door. Shes frying, clattering pans. She is, in my kitchen, making stew.

I try my book. Read a paragraph. Again. The words run into each other. I put it aside.

I call June: “Shes making stew.”

“In your kitchen.”

“In my kitchen.”

“Anna.”

“Yes?”

“You have to talk to Chris tonight. Not tomorrow or next week. Tonight, as soon as hes home.”

“Ive tried.”

“No, you hint. Theres a difference.”

Shes right. June and I have known each other twenty yearsshe knows me better than I do at times. Shes been saying this for three years: Anna, dont hint, say what you mean. But being direct is scary. Not because Chris is frighteninghe isnt. Hes not a cruel man. Just a tired one, very attached to his routines, devoted to his mother, petrified of conflict. So he just ignores anything that might lead to one. June calls it childishness. She says it frankly. I couldnt, not for a long time. Then I got used to it.

“Ill talk,” I say.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Ring me after.”

I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Smells of stew and cabbage drift in from the kitchen. The scent is nice, honestly. Maybe in another life, Id be pleased.

I think: forty-eight, accountant at a small firm, cooking most nights. I have my own life, my own ways of doing things, my own quiet Saturdays. I never asked for this stew, or for someone to rearrange my spices for me.

Small crack in the painted ceilingI know exactly where it is.

I emerge a couple of hours later. Wash, tidy my hair. The mirror shows the usual facejust tired. Not pale.

Margaret has already set the table for threebowls, spoons, bread, pasties.

“Sit, eat,” she says. “Stews ready.”

“Thank you, but Ill eat later.”

“Itll go cold.”

“Ill warm it up.”

She looks at me, wounded, making no effort to hide it.

“Anna, whats wrong now?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes, there is. You spent the day sitting in your room. You hardly look at me. What have I done?”

By the fridge, I pour myself a glass of water.

“Margaret,” I say, “lets be honest, shall we?”

“Lets.”

“You come round whenever you like. You let yourself in, whenever, because you have keys. Every time I come home, I wonder if youre here, or if youve been.”

“So? Im family.”

“Youre family for Chris. For me, youre my mother-in-law. Its not quite the same.”

She sits up straighter.

“Hows that any different? Were family.”

“Family talks things through. Family checks before dropping in. Family asks if its convenient.”

“Are you telling me I have to ask my daughter-in-law for permission now?”

There it is. The word: permission. As if asking for warning is something humiliating.

“Ring and say, Anna, Id like to come on Saturday, is that all right? Thats not humiliating. Its just polite.”

“Im visiting my son!”

“Who isnt home.”

“But youre here.”

“Yes, I am. I live here. I want to know beforehand whos coming into my home.”

Margaret stands. Quietly clears her plate, gathers her things, shrugs on her coat. Her hands are trembling slightlyanger, not weakness.

“Fine,” she says, “fine.”

“Margaret, I dont want an argument.”

“I can hear that.”

“Honestly. I want us to have a proper relationship.”

“Proper, meaning I ring and ask permission.”

“Ring and let us know, yes.”

She fastens her coat, grabs the pasties.

“Theres stew on the hob,” she says at the door. “The rest you can bin.”

She closes the door softly, without a slam. That almost feels worse.

Im alone in the kitchen. The stew really is still on the hob, in the big pot she must have rifled from the cupboard behind the frying pans. I hadnt known shed even seen it. I barely used it myself.

I pour a bowl of stew. Eat quietly, watching the street. Its good. Thats not in doubt.

Then I clean the pots, move the stew to the side, cover the pasties to keep the air off.

I sit and text June: “We talked.”

She replies: “And?”

I answer: “She left, offended.”

June: “Her right. You did the right thing.”

I put my phone away, thinking: still hours till evening. Chris will come home, see the stew and pasties, and Ill have to explain. That will take a while. Hell probably call his mum as soon as hes in, without taking his coat off. The talk will go just as I imaginehim: “Why did you do that?” Me: “Do what?” Him: “She was just helping.” Me: “I know.” Him: “So whats the problem?”

I take my book and move to the sofa. This time, the words make sense. The silence helps.

Chris returns about seven. I hear him fumbling with his keys, coming through the door, his tackle box thumping on the wall, heading for the kitchen.

“Oh, stew!” he says. “Mums been, hasnt she?”

I follow him in.

“She has. Sit down, Ill heat it up.”

Hes already taking off his coat, hanging it up, staring at the hob with anticipation. Chris is big and slightly plump, with a kind round facewhen things go well, hes cheerful; if not, he darkens in an instant. I know him inside outhow he holds his spoon, how he reads the news at night, how he calls his mum each day at half eight, how he never says anything she might not want to hear.

I reheat the stew, hand him his bowl. Hes already seated, rubbing his hands, delighted at the pasties.

“Ah, with cabbage. Did you try one?”

“Yes.”

“Nice?”

“Very.”

He eats. I sit across with tea. He tells me about the fishing, how Mike caught a massive bream and his own luck was rubbish, but the air was incredible, just couldnt get enough of it. I listen. Nod. Waiting.

“Is Mum upset?” he asks, still eating.

“A bit. Chris, we need to talk.”

He puts down his spoon and looks at me. His face closes a fraction.

“What about?”

“The keys.”

He hesitates.

“Anna…”

“Chris, I want you to ask your mum for her keys back.”

“Shes my mother.”

“I know. And thats why she should ring ahead. Its normal. Its just politeshows she respects our family.”

“She just wants to visit.”

“She comes without warning, lets herself in, into the bedroom, rearranges things, cooks food I didnt ask for.”

“Well, she just wanted to help. Whats so bad?”

“Chris.” I draw a breath to steady myself. “Listen to me, really listen. Not your mumme. I dont feel at home here. Im always wondering if shell walk in. I look around the kitchen in case shes moved something. Thats not how it should be.”

He leans back, folding his arms.

“Youre overreacting.”

I close my eyes for a moment. Open them.

“You always say that.”

“Because you always make a fuss. Mum popped round, helped out, and you…”

“And me what?”

“You turn it into a big issue.”

“Chris. She just came in, with her keys, while I was out. She rearranged things and started cooking without asking. Thats not an eventits a pattern.”

“A pattern,” he echoes, morosely. “What do you want me to do? Tell Mum not to come any more?”

“Telling her to ring ahead.”

“Shes seventy-three, Anna, not ninety. She knows how to use a phone.”

“Youre asking me to make her give back her keys.”

“YesIm asking. Not demanding. Asking.”

He stands and guzzles a glass of water at the sink, gazes into the darkness.

“Anna,” he says, “shes on her own. Dads been gone eight years. Its just her and me now.”

“I understand.”

“For her, the keystheyre a safety net. Make her feel not so alone.”

“Chris, she could just phone. She can come when shes invited. Keys to someone elses house isnt less lonelyits just about control.”

“Someone elses house,” he repeats, glancing round. “You see it as someone elses?”

“I mean its ours. Not hers.”

“Its my flat.”

He always says that, in the hardest moments, when he runs out of arguments. Its my flat. His final trumpthe reminder.

“Yes,” I reply quietly. “Yours.”

We pause.

“I wont ask for her keys,” he says.

“Fine.”

“Fine?” He sounds surprised.

“Yes. Then I know where you stand.”

“Dont be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Cold.”

“Im not cold. Im just clear.”

“Clear about what?”

I get up, carrying my tea.

“About who you choose,” I say.

“I didnt choose. I just dont want to upset Mum.”

“I know. Youve avoided that for years. But you dont mind hurting me.”

“No ones hurting you.”

“Chris,” I pause at the doorway. “Have you ever asked your mum how it feels to live in a house where anyone can walk in at any time? No, because you know the answer. And itd be awkward.”

He stays in the kitchen.

I sit in the living room and hear him moving about, then dialling. He speaks softly, but I catch: “Mum, dont be upset. Anna, well, shes like that… You know… Of course, come round whenever you want…”

Of course, come whenever.

I listen to him. Somewhere, deep in my chest, its quiet. Not painfuljust quiet, like a room with the lights off.

He comes in.

“Anna.”

“Yes?”

“Lets not do this. The silent bit.”

“What silent bit?”

He sits beside me. I dont move away, just stare at my hands.

“Did you call her?”

“Yes. Calmed her down.”

“Was she upset?”

“A little.”

“Right.”

“Anna.” He holds my hand. “I get that it bothers you. But cant you just… be a bit kinder?”

“Kinder.”

“Shes old. Shes alone.”

“Chris,” I say, “I was kinder for six years. I was understanding, patient. I said, Its fine. I said, She means well. I said, All right, all right, all right. And here we are. She still drops in, still cooks in my kitchen, still tells you Im tense, and you still say: Come whenever you like.”

He lets go of my hand.

“You just wont compromise.”

“Im tired of always being the only one compromising.”

“So what? Get a divorce?”

He says it as if expecting me to recoil, to protestto slam the lid on the conversation.

I dont answer.

“Anna, I asked.”

“I heard you.”

“And?”

“Im not going to respond to a question thrown out as a threat, Chris.”

“Its not a threat.”

“You said it just so Id say: No, no, not divorce, so wed never have to address the real problem.”

He stands, walks to the window.

“You make everything difficult.”

“Maybe.”

“Over a set of keys.”

“Its not about the keys. Its about what the keys mean. And you wont discuss that.”

“I am discussing it.”

“Noyou keep saying, but shes old, but shes lonely, but you exaggerate. Thats not a discussion. Thats just telling me why I should put up and shut up.”

He hesitates.

“I dont know what you want.”

Still, after seven years. Still.

I stand, slip my purse and keys into my coat.

“Are you going out?”

“For a walk.”

“Anna…”

“I need some air.”

I leave. On the stairwell its peaceful, someones cooking upstairs. I walk down and out into the close.

Its already dark. The lamplight makes the wet leaves shine black on the tarmac. I detour towards the park, benches, pathsquiet space.

I walk, not thinking of Chris or Margaret, but of myself. Im forty-eight, standing alone on a dark October night and, if Im honest, I dont want to go home. Not out of dreading an argument, not of seeing his closed face. Just… not home. Home used to mean comfort. Now it doesnt.

I pause by a bench, but its too damp to sit. Just stand and look at the trees, quiet, indifferent.

I message June: “He told his mum: come whenever you want.”

My phone rings half a minute later.

“Talk,” says June.

I do. Quickly, no details spared. She listens, then falls silent.

“Anna,” she says, “Ill say what I think. Youll get cross, but Ill say it. You live in his flat. That matters. So long as its his, youll always be a guesta good one, but a guest.”

“I know that.”

“No, you dont. If you did, youd have done something ages ago. Hell never ask for her keys. Because the keys arent about his mumtheyre about the fact the flats his. Youre the outsider. If it comes to it, hes got somewhere to go. You havent.”

Im silent.

“Anna?”

“I can hear you.”

“What will you do?”

“I dont know,” I say. “Not yet.”

“Dont rush. Just think it through.”

I pocket my phone, walk some more. Eventually, I wander by the parade of shops, duck into the DIY store, open till nine.

It smells of rubber and metal. Tools, paint, odds and ends. I walk the aisles without purpose, then spot ita stand of door locks, cylinders, mortice, Yale. I stop, pick up a pack, put it back.

I pick up another: good lock, three keys. Check the price.

Three minutes pass, the man at the till absorbed in his mobile.

I buy the lock, head home.

Chris is in the living room, watching telly. He glances around when I come in.

“Whereve you been?”

“Wandering.”

“A while.”

“Yeah.”

I put the bag from the shop on the kitchen chair, pour myself a glass of water. Then I put the bag in the cupboard under the sink.

Chris comes in.

“What did you buy?”

“Bits and bobs.”

He nods, makes himself a brew, stares out of the window.

“Anna,” he says, “Ive been thinking while you were out.”

“And?”

“I know it makes you uncomfortable, I do. But Mum… well, shes not going to change, is she? You know that.”

“I do.”

“So there we are. Were all adults. Maybe we just… accept things as they are?”

“Accept?” I repeat.

“Yeah. She visits, fine. At least you get stew and pasties.” He tries a small smile.

“Chris,” I say, “I wont accept it.”

Smile gone.

“Then I dont know what to say.”

“I dont need words. I need action.”

“Like what?”

“Actually talking to your mum. No smoothing over. Tell her, firmly, that there are boundaries. She cant just waltz in, or take over the kitchen.”

“Shell be hurt.”

“Maybe so.”

“Shes old.”

“Chris. Do you hear yourself? Since when does age let you do whatever you like?”

“Thats not what I mean.”

“So, what do you mean?”

He puts his mug down, looks hard at me.

“Anna, if you really cant stand it here, maybe… I dont know. Maybe think about whether this is really where you want to be.”

“Really want to be here?”

“Yeah. If youre so unhappy.”

Something inside me goes dead. Not brokenjust still. Like water about to freeze.

“You want me to leave?”

“I want you to think about it.”

“Fine,” I say. “Ill think.”

I take my tea to the bedroom. No reading. Just lie in the dark, listening to the telly next door. Eventually Chris switches it off, uses the bathroom, returns, settles in beside me.

“Asleep?” he asks.

“No.”

“Anna. Dont sulk.”

“Im not sulking, Chris. Im thinking.”

“About what?”

“About what you said.”

He sighs, turns over. Before long his breathing evens: asleep instantly, as ever.

I lie staring into shadow. The crack in the ceiling is hidden by the dark, but I know exactly where it is.

Chris leaves at eight in the morning, off to the allotment with Mike again. “Back for dinner.” I nod. He leaves.

I have my coffee. Sit at the table a while. Then get up, take the bag from the cupboard and place it on the table. I look at it for a long time.

Then I text Mr. Jenkins downstairs. Hes handy with odd jobs round the flats.

“Mr Jenkins, are you free today? Id like to change the front door lock.”

He replies in ten: “Can do in a couple of hours. Do you have the lock or shall I bring one?”

“Mine,” I reply.

“Ill await your call.”

I put the phone away. Finish my coffee. Wash the cup. Stand by the window. The pigeons back on the sillor maybe another. They all look the same.

Mr Jenkins arrives at noon, tall and stooped, toolbox in hand.

“Morning, Anna. Lets see this lock.”

He inspects it.

“Decent choicegood and sturdy. Give me half an hour.”

I withdraw to the kitchen while he works, hearing the scrape and click as he removes the old mechanism, sets the new one.

He calls out, “Done!”

I checkthree new keys offered on a ring.

“Try one,” he prompts.

I do; the key turns easily.

“Good quality.”

“German, I think,” he says approvingly. “Give it a few weeks, itll work even smoother.” He gestures at the old one. “Want it?”

“No.”

“Fair enough.” He packs up, I pay, and hes gone.

I close the new door and just stand there. For the first time in seven years, I own the only keys.

I call June.

“I changed the lock,” I tell her.

Shes silent.

“Does he know?”

“No.”

“Whens he back?”

“End of the day.”

“Anna. You know this isnt about keys any more. You know that, right?”

“I do.”

“Are you sure?”

“I just want no one coming in without me knowing.”

“Its his flat.”

“I know. Thats why Im thinking about the next step.”

June is quiet for a moment.

“So youre already thinking about it…”

“I am.”

“Divorce?”

“Yes.”

She exhales.

“Right, youll need a lawyer. Ive got a number.”

I take it down.

“June…” I hesitate. “Im not scared. Isnt that odd?”

“No, Anna. It just means you made your mind up long ago, even if you didnt let yourself know it.”

Maybe. Im still at the doorthree new keys in my palm, staring at the fresh brass cylinder.

Chris comes home around six. I hear him coming up the stairs, keys jangling, trying them in the new lock.

Pause.

Again.

Again.

Now, the doorbell.

I stand by the door, take a moment.

“Anna,” he says through the mail slot. “Locks not working.”

“I know,” I say. “I changed it.”

Silence.

“What?” His tone is different now.

“I had the lock changed, Chris.”

“Anna. Open the door.”

I open it. Hes on the doorstep, fishing box, rucksack, staring.

“You changed the lock.”

“Yes.”

“In my flat.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I step aside. He comes in, puts his things down, hangs his coat, methodical.

“Anna.”

“I’m listening.”

“Explain whats going on.”

I lead him to the kitchen. He follows.

“I changed the lock,” I say, “because Im not having anyone let themselves in uninvited any more.”

“Its my flat.”

“You said that yesterday. I remember.”

“Anna!” Theres something in his voice, bewildered maybe, that I havent heard in ages. “Do you have any ideayou cant justit’s my property!”

“You can say that.”

“Mums keys wont work now.”

“No.”

“Annadid it occur to you I might not want this?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And I did it anyway.”

He sits suddenly, as if his legs wont hold him.

“Youre serious.”

“I am.”

“You want to end things.”

For once, its not put as a question. Maybe, finally, he gets it. Maybe the pennys dropped.

“Yes,” I say.

“Over keys.”

“Not over keys. Over seven years of conversations that always ended with you choosing your mum. Over being told to accept it. Over you asking if I should even be here. Ive thought about it, Chris. Turns out youre rightnot as you meant, but you are.”

He looks at me, searching.

“Youre not joking.”

“No.”

“Anna, wait. Lets talk properly. Lets”

“Chris, weve been talking seven years. Ive nothing more to say.”

“You cant just… just up and”

“This wasnt sudden, Chris. You just never wanted to see it happening.”

He rubs his face, gets up, paces.

“So now what?”

“We call a lawyer, see what needs doing. The flats yoursIm not after it. Ill need some time to find somewhere new.”

“Youd already thought about this.”

“Yes.”

“For a while.”

“Guess so.”

He sits again, staring at the table.

“Mum…” he begins, then stops.

“Ring her,” I say. “Tell her. Your call.”

I leave him to it. The living room is darkening, lamp outside flicking on in the October gloom. I slip my book, a few bits into a bagcareful, methodical, unhurried.

Through the wall I catch his voice, soft. No detailsjust that hes talking to Margaret.

Outside, its just another autumn evening. Cars pass. A child squeals with laughter. Doors bang somewhere down the hallway.

Three new keys in my hand.

One of them is truly mine. For the first time in seven years, entirely mine.

My phone buzzes. June: “How are you?”

I think, then reply: “Quiet.”

She answers: “Good. Quiet means a beginning.”

Maybe. Tomorrow: paperwork, ringing around, property listings, a list of things as daunting as they are necessary. But nowquiet.

In the hallway, the three keys lie on the little shelf. Beside them rests Chriss old keythe one that no longer fits.

He leans against the doorframe.

“Anna,” he says, “are you sure?”

I look at himworn face, sloping shoulders, hands thrust in trouser pockets. Seven years together. I know the way he holds his spoon. I know his quirks and fears and that real, deep love for his mother that left no space for anything else.

“Im sure,” I say.

He nods. Slow, accepting, or perhaps just resigned.

“All right,” he murmurs.

And that word settles in the hallway,-between us, by the new lock and three keys and the coat on the hook. I dont know what it means. Acceptance, perhaps. Or simply weariness. Or something else for which Ive no words yet.

I pick up my bag.

“Im staying at Junes tonight.”

“All right.”

I close the door. The new lock turns with a gentle clickgood quality, as Mr Jenkins said.

“Anna,” Chris calls after me.

I pause.

“Will you ring?”

I meet his gaze. For a long moment.

“Yes,” I say. “Ill ring.”

And I head down the stairs into the cool, silent London night.