Page 2 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘We should take half each and do our own thing,’ Stuart had joked, and Juliet had looked at him as they both did the maths. What had begun as a throwaway remark was now a reality. A ‘conscious uncoupling’ that they now found themselves endlessly apologising for and over-explaining, even though the advantages outweighed the disadvantages: they were still firm friends, but they were going to split the proceeds from the house sale and each buy somewhere that gave them the lifestyle they wanted for the next phase. It felt natural, logical and easy.

It might appear unseemly, to walk away from a twenty-five-year marriage that wasn’t actually in ruins, but freedom of choice seemed better than constant compromise. Why should one of them have to live in the other’s dream home when they could each have their own? Why should they try to be compatible when they weren’t? Juliet had no more desire to go and join Stuart on a cycling weekend than he had to go to the latest play at the National. Wasn’t it better for them to do their own thing than feel guilty and have to make excuses all the time?

‘It means that when we do see each other, we really look forward to it,’ Juliet had explained to her spellbound book club. ‘It seems so much better than falling into a spiral of resentment and mutual disinterest. We still really like each other. And we’ll always love each other deep down. But we don’t want to spend our lives together anymore.’

She hadn’t written an article on it yet. After years of doing features on everything from pregnancy cravings to playground politics to perimenopause, she still wasn’t sure this experiment was going to work and she didn’t feel she could recommend it just yet. Maybe two years in, when the benefits were proven, she would share her template for an amicable midlife separation with the world. She could already imagine the reader comments. Eighty per cent acerbic judginess; twenty per cent ‘go for it’.

Stuart had bought a third-floor apartment in a newly built block near the river in Richmond and was putting a water-rower in the spare room, like Kevin Spacey had in The West Wing. Juliet had nothing yet. She had looked at over a dozen flats, but none of them was quite right. She didn’t know what she wanted – only what she didn’t want.

The tyranny of freedom was overwhelming.

2

By ten o’clock, everything was gone. Every last box, whisked away by the removers, to go to either Stuart’s flat or Juliet’s storage unit on a nearby industrial estate. The house was a shell, not a cobweb or a dust bunny in sight; not a streak on a window or a fingerprint on a mirror.

‘Well,’ said Stuart, ‘I’d better get over to the flat so they put everything in the right place.’ He held out his arms. ‘Hug.’

She stepped into his embrace yet again, squeezing him tight around his love-handleless middle, trying not to feel rising panic about saying goodbye. To the house. She wasn’t too worried about saying goodbye to Stuart. She would be able to see him any time she liked.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Single life starts today.’

‘Whatever you do,’ she said, ‘no Bycra photos on Tinder.’

‘Bycra?’ He was often puzzled by her buzz words. This particular one was her own invention.

‘Bicycle Lycra. No woman wants to see those shorts. Don’t take it personally. It’s just a general rule. No Bycra, and no photos with an oversized carp or pints of lager.’

He gave a laugh. ‘Fair enough.’ He squinted down at her. ‘Have you been looking already, then?’

He wasn’t jealous. Just curious.

‘God, no,’ she said. ‘It’s my job to know these things.’

‘Well, when you do start looking,’ he said, ‘know that you are drop-dread gorgeous and don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise.’

She swallowed. She felt mean for the Bycra advice now. It was a good piece of advice, though, as he wouldn’t have a clue. Whoever swiped right on Stuart would be lucky. Though she imagined he’d probably meet someone at parkrun. A willowy fitness freak who would make him protein balls and tofu stir-fries. She imagined them giving each other North Face jackets for Christmas and booking worthy, joyless holidays in a two-man tent on a wild and windy moor.

What had happened to the bloke she’d drunk a pitcher of Pimm’s with outside a Thameside pub that summer all those years ago? They’d walked back to her flat arm in arm, singing ‘Live Forever’, weaving along the Hammersmith pavements. He was safe and uncomplicated and funny. Safe, she realised, wasn’t as sexy as dangerous, but it was exactly what she had needed after everything that had happened. They’d had barely a cross word. Their relationship had never been passion-fuelled, but it was sustainable. No histrionics, no mug-throwing, no sulking.

For a moment, she panicked about what they were giving up. But, as Stuart kept pointing out, they weren’t giving it up. Just reframing it.

‘Bye, then,’ he said now, giving her a little squeeze on the shoulder.

She watched as he headed out of the door and jumped on his bicycle. She eyed his unfamiliarly narrow bum with a burst of affection, but nothing more. And off he rode, her dear, sweet, now ex-husband, cycling off into his new future with a BMI of 24 and a clear conscience.

As soon as he had disappeared down the road, she ran upstairs to the bathroom. She looked in the mirror and thought of all the versions of herself she’d scrutinised over the years at 42 Persimmon Road. The feisty young journalist. The newlywed bride. The exhausted mum of first one, then another baby. The chair of the PTA. The magazine editor who’d given up a proper job, at forty, to go freelance and write in the attic. The thrower of the best parties on the street because she didn’t stress about stuff that didn’t matter but made an effort with things that did. Who would host in her trademark dishevelled sexiness, in black leather jeans and a white shirt, half undone and off the shoulder, with bare feet and black cherry toenails, her dark hair in a messy bun. Could she still pull off that look? Or was it time for something more demure and groomed?

Right now, she was not looking her best. Her hair was scraped up into a tight ponytail. The ratty old T-shirt and jogging pants she’d worn to clean the house were heading for the bin. Her skin was grey with grime and the sweat from the exertion had dried on her. She wrinkled her nose, then reached into the bag she’d brought up with her, drawing out a pair of scissors.

She’d watched the YouTube video several times and reckoned it would work. She loosened her scrunchie and tipped her head upside down, then chopped the ends of her ponytail clean away. She stood up and shook out her hair, then grinned at her reflection. There it was, the perfect, just-got-out-of-bed, jaw-length bob. She snipped into the ends to soften the edges, fluffed it up a little and nodded in approval. Once it was washed, she’d be perfect. She reached into the shower and turned on the hot tap.

Half an hour later, she was looking at a new incarnation in the mirror. She wore vintage Levi 501s, a pristine white T-shirt and a tuxedo jacket. She slipped her feet into black ballet flats, then leaned forward to apply liquid eyeliner and her sexiest, reddest YSL lipstick.

She packed the last few things in her bag. A collection of mementoes: a battered A to Z, a faded paperback, a notebook half filled with scribblings. And a vintage Hermès scarf, the slippery silk cool on her fingers, the colours as bright as the day it had been made. She should wear it now, she decided. She tied it the way she’d been taught, spreading it onto her outstretched arm to fold it, then looping it round her neck, tucking in one end and leaving the other loose. It felt like a talisman. A ticket back to the past. She felt a shiver of excitement mixed with uncertainty.

What would she find, in her quest to rediscover herself? A new life? Peace? Contentment? Passion?

She heard her phone ping. Her Uber was here.

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