The Red Ribbon

The Red Bow

Nina stood at the stove, watching the steam slowly rise from the pot of porridge. Not the hearty, chunky oats youd get in fancy packets, but the sort that comes in nondescript supermarket bags for next to nothing thin, a bit bitter, the sort of breakfast that asks nothing and expects less. She gave it a stir, popped the lid on, and leaned her back against the fridge. The old Hotpoint made its usual approving hum, as if to say, Youre doing your best, luv. Keep going.

Outside, Builders Lane stretched out as usual blocks of post-war houses, soggy plane trees clogging the windowsills with fluff every spring, and the flower kiosk on the corner where half-dead tulips did their best to look cheerful. Nina had lived here for twelve years; by now the street was a bit like a callous on her foot or the certainty that the fourth stair would always squeak.

Boris strolled into the kitchen, unannounced as ever. He had a talent for drifting in. Tall, square-shouldered, wearing a pale grey shirt that Nina was sure she hadnt seen before though she only clocked that a moment after he entered, because the first thing she noticed was the scent. Light, floral, with a sweetness at its base not hers, not his aftershave, not old leather car seats.

Well then, my little warrior princess? Boris peered into the pan with the sort of friendly grimace you reserve for strange school dinners. Back on the bread and water again?

Porridge, Nina said. With onion.

Onion! Now were getting somewhere. Thats practically a banquet. He gave her shoulder a fond squeeze. Hang in there. Just a little longer and itll pay off. Those Birchwood Cottages aren’t moving anywhere. You’ll see.

Nina nodded. She knew how to nod in a way that could pass for agreement but was really just tiredness. Her head was spinning again day three of feeling off, not enough to faint, just as though the room was ever so slightly tipping. She knew perfectly well it was the diet, and kept quiet about it.

You eaten today? she asked.

Had a working lunch at the office. All right, really.

He grabbed the mug, filled it with tap water, downed it while standing, put it in the sink, and vanished into the lounge. Nina watched the mug. Then she switched the gas off and started ladling out the porridge.

In three years of thrift, Nina had become accustomed to many things swapping cottage cheese for the discount milk, mending her own coat for a fifth winter, the memory of her last hairdressers appointment receding into the mists of pre-Covid times. Since then, haircuts had been self-administered in front of the little mirror in the bathroom, avoiding eye contact with her reflection. Some days it turned out halfway decent. Other times, not so much.

Three years ago, Boris had shown her pictures a modest house in Birchwood Cottages, forty minutes out of town by train. Brick-built, with a loft conversion, apple trees in the garden and a charming old well that was now just ornamental. Green shutters. Wooden steps. A bench under the lilac bush.

There, hed said, laying the laptop on her lap. Look.

Nina had looked. Shed felt something warm in her chest, not exactly joy, but something close a sense of possibility. She had always lived in flats, crowding amongst other peoples walls, breathing in other peoples air. But here, on the screen, there were apple trees.

Itll take us around three years of serious saving, Boris said, businesslike. Ive worked it out. If we each put away this much every month, and you cut back a bit on your spending

How much is it?

He told her. Nina paused.

Thats a lot.

Its a house, Nina. Our house. A garden, air, quiet. You dont get those on the cheap.

She agreed. Not at once, but she did. They opened a joint account. Every month, Nina transferred half her pension and whatever she made from freelance work. She worked as an accounts clerk for a small firm, part-time, so it wasnt much, but it added up. Boris swore he was paying in three times as much from his salary.

Nina believed him.

She was generally good at believing people. It wasnt stupidity. It was a matter of survival, she thought: life goes smoother if you trust. If you dont, youre always checking, and that does your head in.

The first winter went by easily enough. Nina ate simply, dressed plainly, but it felt almost like a game. It reminded her of being a child and not having enough for ice cream, so you made up something else, and somehow the invention became more special. She made stews from whatever was on offer, read thrifty recipes and felt a curious relief when she snatched up a bargain. Almost fun.

Year two was less jolly. Her body started grumbling. Not loudly, but enough weak legs, tiredness that wasnt solved by sleep. Sometimes on the bus she realised she didnt remember where she was going, just stared out the window, mind blank. She didnt visit the doctor couldnt afford private and had neither the patience nor energy for NHS queues.

Probably should get some blood tests done, she once told Boris.

A private place?

Well, at least you dont have to queue.

Nina, each tenner counts now, every month. Maybe just pop down to the NHS clinic?

So she did. She queued, she got referred. Blood results: haemoglobin right at the bottom of normal. Not disastrous, but not great. Doctors orders: more red meat, iron-rich stuff, vitamins.

Nina bought the cheapest vitamins in the pharmacy. More red meat was off the table.

By year three shed abandoned the scales. Her bathroom mirror said enough. Her face had gone sharper, with yellowish shadows under her eyes; her hair, dull. At the charity shop on Elm Close, she found a good navy overcoat almost without wear, and started wearing it. The shop lady, a friendly, bottle-ginger sort with tired hands, said:

Cracking coat, love. Thatll last.

I know, Nina said.

We all know round here, the lady smiled not exactly cheerfully, but with real understanding.

Nina went home. She caught her reflection in the pharmacy window, stood for a second, and moved on.

Boris kept her spirits up. He was good at that. He made the future sound like a certainty, just around the corner. Just a little longer became the background music of Ninas days always playing but you stopped properly hearing it.

Youre brilliant, he said, seeing her tuck into another plain supper. A real warrior. I admire you for this.

Nina smiled. A real smile, but with no joy in it. Muscle memory, really.

Sometimes she rang her daughter, who lived in Leeds with husband and kids rarely called, always busy. Nina never complained. She didnt know how. Didnt want to.

How are you, mum?

All right. Were still saving for the house.

Still?

Nearly there. Not long now.

Well, good for you.

Then the chat wandered to the grandkids, the weather, ironing. Nina hung up and went back to the kitchen.

That autumn the third of their thrifty years Ninas sense of smell sharpened. She sometimes thought her body, getting less, had tuned in like a cats. Scents shed once missed became vivid.

She first clocked the perfume on Boriss shirt in early October. That same kitchen, stirring the porridge. She told herself she was imagining it, or had picked it up from someone on the bus.

It returned in November. Boris came home late, jolly as ever, saying hed been waylaid at a meeting. Taking his coat, Nina smelt it again floral, sweet, unmistakably womens perfume. Not hers, and definitely expensive, whatever it was called.

Tired? she tried, smoothing the fabric.

Exhausted. Meeting was three hours. Never again. He yawned, stretched and headed for a shower.

Nina hung up his coat and stood by the rack for a long moment. Then she made porridge for supper.

She was skilled at not thinking about things she didnt want to. Not cowardice more a deep-seated fear of what might follow. She didnt mind a confrontation, but feared what action shed have to take after.

The joint account ticked over. Boris showed her the statements. Nina stared at columns of numbers and felt hope, or something like it. Their savings grew. Slowly, but they grew.

See? Boris would say, jabbing his phone screen. Already this much. By spring, first step.

What sort of step?

Negotiations with Birchwoods owners. Terms, haggling, all that.

Nina nodded. She wasnt interested in the details those were his business, she did the saving. Thats how theyd divided it up.

In December, Boris worked late more often office parties, he said. Cant skip these things, Nina, or youll end up an outsider. She always understood. It was what she did best.

But one night, mid-December, he came home at one in the morning from this party. Not at all as someone seven hours into the pub ought to look; instead, he seemed refreshed. Strange word, but its what crossed Ninas mind. Clear-eyed, calm, voice steady. Rosy, not from drink, more from being outside, except there wasnt any real cold. Like someone whod simply had a wonderful evening.

Good party? Nina asked.

You know the job, he replied with a good-natured shrug. Birchwood will be different. No more office dos.

He kissed her on the forehead and went to bed. Nina sat in the kitchen a long time, listening to the fridge hum and watching the snow outside.

In January, she found the receipt.

It was by accident, as important things often are. Shed picked up his navy blazer a new one, only worn at New Year’s intending to brush it off before putting it away. She checked the pockets (habit) and there was a little folded slip.

She unfolded it.

Pearl and Chive, Kensington Road. Date: December 28th. The amount

Nina stared long enough to check twice. The sum was their food budget for a whole month. Groceries she measured out to the gram, to stretch to her next penny. She put the receipt away, hung the blazer, and went back to the kitchen.

The fridge hummed.

Nina poured herself a glass of water. She drank, set it down, picked it up again, set it down.

Boris was at work. Her remote job had no tasks today, so she was alone.

She wondered about the sort of people who went to Pearl and Chive at the end of December. Shed never been; just seen the tasteful ads at bus stops: white linen, smart lighting. A name like that couldnt be cheap.

Boris had said he was meeting his uni mate Alan that evening. Came home at ten, smelling, not of wine, but again that faint floral sweetness.

Nina didnt jump to conclusions. She was talented at keeping dangerous thoughts at bay. Maybe hed just eaten out alone. Maybe it was a work dinner. Maybe.

But that evening, when Boris got home, she looked at him differently not accusingly, not probing, just as if to see him properly.

How was your day? he asked, kicking off his shoes.

Fine, Nina said. Did you eat?

Grabbed something at work.

Theres soup.

He sat, ate, scrolled his phone. For all the world, he seemed relaxed. Or perhaps he was simply expert at hiding it.

Boris, she said.

Hmm?

That Pearl and Chive place is it expensive?

He glanced up briefly. One heartbeat.

No idea. Never been.

Oh, Nina said. Just saw it on an ad.

He stared back at his phone.

Nina sipped tea.

February was abnormally icy and quiet. Nina walked about in her charity shop coat, warming her hands on mugs, freezing on the bus. Dizzy spells were becoming more stubborn, so she scheduled a GP visit. The verdict was unchanged: Eat better. Take vitamins.

I do, Nina insisted.

What kind?

She named them.

Those are the basic sort. Itll do. Unless you can manage more

Cant, Nina said.

The doctor dropped the subject.

In February, Boris was unusually buoyant. He bought new things. Nina noticed a new belt here, a different pair of shoes there. Dark brown brogues, with fussy details handsome and pricey.

New? she asked one morning, eyeing the boots.

Sale. The old ones were finished.

Sale, she repeated.

Of course. Im not buying from Bond Street.

She nodded.

In early March, she saw a notification pop up on his phone as he shaved. The phone lit up: Southside Motors: Your Urban Cruiser is ready. Special red bow, as you requested. Collection at your convenience.

Nina looked down at her book.

She knew the Urban Cruiser a big, expensive 4×4. Not their league at all.

Red bow? came to her later, late at night as Boris slept beside her. The kind they wrap on cars when someone buys one as a gift grinning couples on tele ads, huge crimson ribbon. Make someones day

She lay on her side, staring at the dark, listening to Boris’s breathing.

She thought about cut-price porridge with onion.

About vitamins for a fiver.

About the charity coat.

About that last professional haircut, two Novembers ago.

About the not-quite-right numbers on the joint account.

The next day, she rang the bank for the balance. She was told the current total.

Nina paused. Then she thanked the bloke and hung up.

The figure was half what it should have been by their agreed plan.

Two years austerity, and half.

She sat at the kitchen table, staring at the vinyl cloth with the faded floral pattern. There was a coffee stain there, growing fainter with every scrub, but never gone.

Nina! Boris called from the lounge. You put the kettle on?

On it, she called back.

She got up. Water in the kettle, switched it on.

Her legs felt heavier than usual.

She didnt immediately begin following Boris around she hated the word; it sounded undignified. But the next Thursday, when he said he had to meet business partners after work, she left half an hour later, just for a walk. Or so she told herself.

His old grey car wasnt at the office or the usual restaurant. Instead, parked outside the Broadwater Shopping Centre on High Road. Nina wandered inside.

She found him by the jewellery counter upstairs, talking to a woman in her mid-thirties, maybe a touch older blonde hair in a neat bun, camel coat, that sort of effortless look she used to dream of. They stood close, in the way people do when their space is no mystery.

Nina didnt interrupt. She tucked herself behind a pillar, pretending to check her phone.

Boris said something; the woman laughed. The assistant laid something a chain or a bracelet on velvet. Boris nodded, produced his card, paid.

The woman took the bag, fastened her coat, and they left together.

Nina stayed where she was.

People moved past. The speakers played supermarket radio. Somebodys toddler whined about ice cream.

After a while, she left too. Sat on a bench outside. Early March meant the ground was cold, but the bench was dry enough. She watched traffic, watched passers-by, watched water gathering at the curb.

She didnt cry. Inside was something solid and quiet, like the soil under snow. Not empty, not hurt; just compact, and still.

She got up and went home.

The next few days, she was simply herself. Made soup, worked, watched TV. Boris was his usual bantering, sometimes absent-minded self full of Birchwood, full of hope.

Listen, he said one evening, we might manage some sort of payment plan. We wouldnt need all the money at once.

Payment plan, she echoed.

Yes. Its handy. Some up front, some later.

How much do we have now? she asked, as if she didnt know.

Well, with the last payments, its not bad. Im not sure exactly Ill need to check.

Check now?

Ill have a look later, he said, reaching for the remote.

Nina stood and went to the kitchen.

That evening she rang her daughter.

Mum, are you all right? her daughter asked. You sound odd.

Im fine. Tired.

Are you still… you know. Saving?

Yes.

Do you really want this house? Why not just get a decent flat nearby? Why all this Birchwood stuff?

Boris wants it.

And you?

Nina paused.

I do too, she said quietly. There are apple trees. And lilac.

Mum her daughter said, with the tolerant tone adult children use for their parents a bit knowing, a bit patronising.

Its all right, Nina replied. Howre you?

Afterwards, she sat with the silent phone and wondered if the apple trees even existed. If there was really a lilac bush, or just a pretty picture Boris had found because he knew it would mean something to her.

Not a thought, more a cold realisation, like a splash of water on denim.

Three days later, she rang Southside Motors. Just for interest, she said, about the new Urban Cruiser.

Lovely car! The woman on the other end burbled. We delivered one just last week, with a huge red bow. Gentleman bought it for his lady friend. So sweet.

A present?

Oh yes, all out. Full works really special.

I see. Thank you.

Nina hung up. Put the kettle on, waiting for it to boil.

Inside, all was steady and quiet.

She opened the laptop, reviewed the joint accounts transaction history she still had her login from all that setting-up. She looked at the incoming and outgoing sums: her monthly payments, regular as clockwork; his, now and then, often half what hed promised.

Outgoings, just as regular. Larger, more mysterious.

Nina took out an exercise book, the one for household spend. Opened a fresh page. She started to add things up.

She counted slowly, for two hours. The fridge kept humming. Daylight faded outside.

By the end, the picture was clear. Not all at once but like a puzzle, the pieces clicking into place.

Shed saved every month for three years. Three years eating cheap food, wearing used coats, skipping doctors, cutting her own hair over the sink. Three years shrinking herself to fit their budget.

And the money was leaking away. Not all, but enough. Regular withdrawals. And that woman with the neat bun and camel coat Boriss card, quick and practised as a regular outing. And at Southside Motors, the big red bow.

And the Pearl and Chive receipt. And the shirt that smelt of perfume shed never wear.

Nina closed the laptop and went into the lounge. Boris was reading the paper.

Do you want anything to eat? she asked.

No, thanks. Bit late now.

All right.

She went to bed early, staring at the ceiling. Boris joined her later and soon snored softly.

Nina didnt sleep. She wasnt thinking about him she was thinking about herself. When, exactly, had she last thought of herself as someone who deserved something nice? Not medicine or a warm coat something genuinely pleasurable.

Good coffee. How she missed it. The real, ground beans, not instant sachets shed been buying for a year and a half.

A bit of blue cheese. Shed last had that ages ago, before all the scrimping. Cheese with bread and grapes, in the evening, just to feel a bit festive.

Oysters. Shed only ever eaten them once, on a summer holiday as a young woman, and marvelled at their taste the whole journey home.

Nina turned over.

She didnt decide that night. The resolve grew, slow and steady, like bread rising in the oven. By the next morning, it was there clear, solid as a table with nothing extraneous on it.

The days that followed, she went through the motions. Cooked, worked, exchanged pleasantries. Boris noticed nothing. Or pretended not to.

One Thursday, she followed properly. Not to confirm, just to see. To make it real.

She put on her old grey coat before the charity shop navy one and walked after him.

He met the same woman. Blonde, crisp. They rendezvoused by the café on Victoria Road, strolled together to the small park. Not hurried, but companionable, familiar.

Nina watched from a distance, hiding behind bare trees. She saw Boris produce something wrapped; the woman opened it, they stood close, he kissed her gently.

Nina observed.

Then she looked at her own hands thin gloves, a bit worn, fingers reddened in the cold.

She stood for a moment, then walked home.

On the bus she sat by the window; the citys wet, grey light, the puddles, the naked trees, streetlights blinking on as if only half-convinced.

At home, she walked straight to the bedroom, dug out the big suitcase shed barely used. She packed only what was really hers: clothes, documents, pension and NHS papers, her bank book (where she’d squirreled away her own tiny savings, private and separate), phone charger, an unfinished paperback.

She hung her blue charity coat up; instead, she chose the deep burgundy jacket shed nearly forgotten. It was a bit snug, but it felt different. This wasnt a coat someone elses life had left behind.

Then she took out a sheet of paper.

She wrote: Thanks for the meal at Pearl and Chive and the big red bow. I hope it tasted wonderful.

After a moment, she left it simply at that. Folded it, wrote Boris and left it by the coffee stain on the kitchen table.

She picked up her suitcase.

The fridge rumbled as ever.

Well then, Nina said, softly, goodbye.

She closed the door, dropping her keys on the mat not because she ought, but because it was the one thing she could leave behind.

It was a normal evening on Builders Lane. Neighbours heading home. Someone walking a dog. The flower stall glowing on the corner.

Nina stood for a moment, then walked, suitcase in tow.

She knew exactly where she was going.

Two blocks away stood Gallery Foods the fancy food shop shed passed every week, never daring to enter. Inside, it smelled of freshly ground coffee and new bread. Soft lighting, dark wood shelves, the sort of place for those who shopped with indulgence rather than desperation.

Nina took a basket. Paused.

She walked the aisles.

Fishmonger: gleaming tuna fillets, ruby-coloured and marvellous. She picked one.

Oysters: six in a box, sitting on ice. She took them.

Cheese: blue, creamy, exactly as she remembered.

Bread: dark and seeded, crisp crust, not one of those sad, pale supermarket batons.

Coffee: ground, deep blue bag, Ethiopian, with blueberry and chocolate promised on the label.

At the till, she laid these out. She looked at them tuna, oysters, cheese, proper bread, good coffee.

The cashier, barely looking up, smiled: Nice choices, love.

Thanks, Nina said.

It came to a tidy sum. Nina paid with her own card.

She left.

She didnt want to go to her daughter too late, too far, too many questions. There was Val, her oldest friend, but shed explain tomorrow. Instead, she checked into a modest hotel across town nothing five-star, but sound.

Alone in her room, Nina unpacked her treats. She borrowed an oyster knife from reception. The woman behind the desk asked if she needed help.

Ill manage, Nina replied.

And she did. Not elegantly, but she managed.

She ate an oyster. Salty, glistening, with the undeniable taste of the sea.

Then the tuna. The bread. The cheese. Made coffee in the tiny pot on the side.

She ate slowly, relishing every bit. Out the window, the city lights sparkled. The radio played something gentle. The room was warm and silent.

Nina didnt think of Boris or Birchwood or what the morning held.

She thought only that the oyster tasted just as it had long ago, that the tuna left a subtle richness in her mouth, that the cheese was both sharp and soft, and the coffee really did have a hint of blueberries.

She thought: this is what I am.

Not a martyr. Not a woman who endures. Someone who knows the difference between fresh oysters and dirt-cheap pasta. Someone who can sit in peace and appreciate good things. Who for three years has been missing, and now, tentatively, is back.

She sipped her coffee, warm and fragrant.

Well, said Nina quietly, hello there.

And poured herself another cup.

She didnt know what would happen next. Didnt know where shed live, what shed say to Boris, whether shed ever find her own cottage with apple trees. Whether shed call her daughter tonight, or do it over breakfast. Whether tomorrow would hurt.

None of that mattered just now.

Because tonight, in a small hotel room with an empty oyster box and a cup of Ethiopian coffee, she was herself. Her taste, her choice, her evening.

It mattered.

She took her last piece of cheese, placed it on crusty bread and bit in.

A streetlamp flickered on outside. Then another. The whole row blazed, as if someone finally found the right switch.

Nina munched, watching the lights. She didnt say anything further, to herself or out loud. She simply sat. She ate. She was there.

And that, for now, was enough.

***

She woke before the alarm, blinking at the unfamiliar white ceiling just a faint mark by the cornice, impersonal but, in its way, liberating.

She rose, washed, brushed her hair. The mirror showed her a tired face, sharper than she liked, with dark circles; but there was something new, too. Or perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

Nina didnt linger. She dressed, took her bag. It was time to call Val, to talk to her daughter, to figure out her next steps. There was a lot to do.

But first, she went to the little hotel café and ordered a proper breakfast. Eggs, toast, coffee made to order.

She held the small glass mug in both hands, cradling the warmth.

Nearby, a lone old lady read and sipped at her tea. She looked anything but lonely self-contained, purposeful.

Nina thought: people like that the ones reading alone over breakfast theyre not actually alone, just busy with themselves. Its not the same thing at all.

Her eggs came, bright and hot, scattered with parsley. She finished every bite.

She texted Val: Can I come today? Ill explain everything.

Val replied instantly: Of course. Kettle on.

Nina slipped her phone away. Drained her cup.

She pulled on her burgundy jacket, picked up her case.

And stepped outside.

The city in early March wasnt quite spring, but not winter either dampness in the air, a stirring, as if even the tarmac could sense roots shifting beneath.

She paused outside the hotel a moment, then flipped up her collar and set off for the bus stop.

She let her mind wander not really thinking, just walking. Her legs felt steady. The dizziness had passed, if only for now.

Past the traffic, a young mum pushed a buggy. On a bare tree, a crow sat, judging the world with the air of someone unimpressed by human plans.

Nina grinned just a twitch at the lips. And what do you think? she murmured.

The crow beat its wings, hopped down, pecked at something, then took off, unconcerned.

She laughed to herself. Boarded the bus, found a seat by the window.

The city rolled by: terraces, off-licences, billboards, bare trees budding hope. For three years shed barely looked out, lost in counting pennies, in worries, in plans that, in the end, were never hers.

But the city moved on, with, or without her.

Shed catch up now.

The bus stopped at red a woman in her fifties in the next car belted out a tune with all the enthusiasm in the world, not caring who noticed.

Nina watched. The light changed. The world trundled on.

Nina leaned back, watching. Her phone was silent; Boris, presumably, was still piecing it together or perhaps hadnt noticed at all.

Nina was off to Val’s, for tea and a long overdue conversation. Tomorrow, and all its complications, would follow awkwardness, worry, fear, unanswerable questions.

But thered be better things, too.

Coffee that really tastes of berries.

Oysters that taste of the tide.

A mirror you can look into and see only yourself.

Not much, maybe, but not nothing.

The bus engine rumbled. The city passed in a smoky, living blur. Nina watched and wondered if apple trees truly existed real ones, not adverts. Syringa, too. And houses with benches and steps.

Not because someone gave them to you, but because you found them for yourself.

One day.

Not today. Today, just a bus, a window, a March thats somewhere between winters end and blossoming.

And for now, that was enough.