Chapter 4

That Saturday afternoon, Nathan came into the study.

Six years we'd lived in this flat and he'd never walked into the study and sat down.

He pulled up a chair beside me.

"What are you working on?"

"A logo."

"For who?"

"A client."

"What kind of client?"

"A bakery."

He was quiet for a moment.

"When did you start taking on work like this?"

"Last month."

Another silence. I could feel him working up to something, not quite finding the words. Before, in moments like these, I'd have helped. I'd have said you can just say it, I won't mind. Given him the opening. Taken care of the awkward pause for him.

I didn't do that anymore. If he didn't say it, I'd wait.

Eventually he stood up, made a small noise that could have meant anything, and left.

In the living room, I heard him turn on the television. Quietly, for once. He usually had it loud enough to rattle the windows when there was sport on. This evening he had the volume low enough that it might as well have been background noise.

As if he didn't want to disturb someone.

Daisy had changed too, in her own way.

She'd always been careful in this flat. Soft-voiced, contained, watching the room before she laughed. She was six years old and she'd learned to read us — both of us — before she'd learned to read proper sentences. A child that age should be reckless with her noise, unself-conscious, not wondering whether Mummy's in a bad mood or Daddy's irritable.

That was one of the things I'd done to her. I was sorry for it.

Now that I'd stopped being stuck in the loop of waiting and hoping and crashing, my moods had steadied. And the difference in her was immediate.

She laughed more loudly. She took up more space.

One afternoon she added a purple rabbit to the edge of the page I'd been sketching on. "I'm helping!" she announced, very pleased with herself.

"It's the best part," I told her.

She laughed — that clear, delighted sound she'd started making more often — and went back to her colouring book.

I turned away for a moment so she couldn't see my face.

She'd spent too many years watching me cry.

That was enough of that.

Six weeks in, I got a text from James Forsythe.

Nathan's colleague. I barely knew him.

Hi Sophie — hope you don't mind me messaging. Nathan's been off lately at work, keeps zoning out in meetings. Is everything okay at home?

I read it twice.

Then I typed: Everything's fine.

I didn't mention it to Nathan.

He wasn't fine, apparently. He was spacing out in meetings. Thinking about something. And I was supposed to — what? Call him? Ask what was wrong? Take care of it?

Before, when I'd been the one who wasn't fine — when I cried, couldn't sleep, sent him too many messages in a row — his response had been can you stop making a scene.

Now it was his turn to be the one who wasn't fine.

And I said nothing. Which, honestly, was worse.

That Friday evening, Nathan came home at twenty past six.

He hadn't been home before half seven in as long as I could remember.

He came through the door, put his bag down, and looked at the table.

Braised pork ribs. Stir-fried broccoli. A simple soup.

"You made ribs tonight," he said.

"Daisy wanted them."

"Didn't she have them last week?"

I looked at him briefly. He'd remembered what Daisy had for dinner last week. He used to not be sure which days she even had nursery.

"She likes them," I said. "I'll make them when she asks."

During dinner, I caught him with his phone under the table. He'd opened a text thread — ours — and was typing something. Then he deleted it. Typed again. Deleted again. His thumb hovered. He locked the phone and put it face-down by his bowl.

When he'd finished eating, he didn't get up and go straight to the bedroom the way he usually did.

He sat on the sofa. The television was on. He wasn't watching it.

I washed the dishes, wiped down the hob, dried my hands.

As I passed through the living room, he said my name.

"Sophie."

Not "hey." Not nothing. My full name.

In seven years of marriage, he had called me "hey" or simply not addressed me at all. He used my name now.

I stopped.

"I was thinking," he said, "maybe we could take Daisy to the aquarium on Sunday."

I stood there for a moment.

For years, I had been the one to suggest these things. The park. The aquarium. The cinema. The soft play. I'd suggest; he'd say he was too tired, or maybe another time, or why don't you just take her. And another time never came.

"Up to you," I said.

I walked into the study and closed the door.

Through the gap I could see a slice of the living room. Nathan was still on the sofa. One hand rested on the remote control.

The screen had gone dark.

He was sitting in the dark, in a room he'd had all to himself for seven years.