CHAPTER 46
Joanna
London
London. Joanna had lived here for thirteen years and taken it for granted: the bustle, the noise, the buildings, the underground. The people . . .
She had come here straight from Prague; it was something she had to do.
Martin had messaged to say they’d had a few viewings on the house and yesterday, someone had come back for a second look.
The London market might not be quite what it was, but it wouldn’t be long.
Soon, the house would be gone and Joanna wanted to see it one last time.
She walked through the hotel foyer. An uncertain winter sunlight filtered through a cloudy sky.
She sniffed. In Dorset, the air was fresh, slightly salty and sharp; it smelt of the sea, grass, sheep and sand.
In London, the air was more knowing. It smelt of newsprint, doughnuts and smoke, spicy food and dustbins.
You could actually smell the cosmopolitan-ness of London.
Funny, she’d never really noticed that before.
Joanna put on her London feet, walking briskly away from the impersonal modernity of the hotel.
She’d chosen not to stay with Steph or Lucy, though they’d both offered a bed for a few nights.
She was looking forward to catching up with them, but she also wanted to be free to get all the other stuff done.
And she’d decided to start with the hardest part.
Martin had mentioned in his text that he was currently working from home, so it was more than possible he’d be there at the house.
Did that matter? She only wanted to pick up a few things and say goodbye to the house that had been her home.
Actually, it was probably a good thing. Despite everything, she wanted to say goodbye to Martin too.
She walked up the steps to Waterloo station and headed for the Northern Line.
The journey would take her about forty-five minutes.
After that, she had a late afternoon meeting with Toby in Covent Garden and then tonight she was meeting up with Steph.
Yes, and when the house was gone, Joanna would have to decide where she was going to go.
From Archway, it was a short walk to the bus stop and soon she was on her familiar route, on the number 41 that would take her to Crouch End Broadway.
She looked out of the window at all the places she’d looked out at so many times, conscious of the empty bag at her feet, waiting to be filled with the parts of her old life that she didn’t want to leave behind.
She got off at the usual stop, walked past the Asian supermarket where she’d always bought her coconut milk, lime leaves and spices.
Bundles of coriander, layers of okra, aubergines and chilli peppers were stacked in cartons by the doorway.
The dry, husky scent crept towards her as she walked by.
Joanna breathed it in. And Martin, she thought.
Where would he go? He’d stay in London, she was sure.
She couldn’t imagine him anywhere else. Joanna, though – she already felt like a visitor here.
Already, London had opened its fist and let her go.
As always, it surprised her how quickly she seemed to have left the city behind.
Crouch End’s Broadway was always stuffed with traffic, but the area had more than its share of green spaces – it was one of the reasons she and Martin had chosen to live here.
The city was a rush; it had always made Joanna feel alive.
But . . . She let out her breath in a slow sigh.
After the rush, you needed a sense of calm.
Harriet always said there was no peace in London, but this wasn’t quite true.
There were four miles of tranquillity down Parkland Walk, for example, a former railway line connecting Finsbury Park to Alexandra Palace where orchids grew beside fig trees and it was possible to find a sense of quiet in the middle of it all.
She’d tried to explain this to Harriet, but her sister wouldn’t even try to understand.
Well, of course, I’ve only ever lived in Dorset, she’d say.
As if it were somehow Joanna’s fault. How would I know anything about the Big City?
Joanna smiled. But she felt that she was beginning to understand her sister – much more than she ever had before.
She turned the corner into the familiar and leafy road with its row of three-storey Victorian houses with black railings and dowdy little squares of front garden.
For a moment, she held her breath. Martin had already said that he would buy out their furniture and things they’d accumulated in their years together and Joanna was glad – she wanted to feel free of it.
Or at least, of most of it. But now. This could, she knew, be the last time she came back here. And there were so many mixed feelings.
One of their neighbours had planted some purple winter pansies in a window box.
Joanna knew the woman by sight – she was tall, with a helmet of dark hair that hid her face from scrutiny.
Joanna didn’t know her name – not unusual in London, where everyone seemed to be so busy most of the time.
This had been appealing after growing up in a Dorset village where everyone knew everyone else’s business.
Joanna walked briskly on. How she had loved the anonymity of the city.
The chance to be among people and yet on her own.
The bliss of shutting her front door on the world and knowing that it wouldn’t come knocking . . .
And Joanna had needed to be here in town too.
As a journalist, this was where the work was and as a freelance writer, it wasn’t so easy to get commissions or pitch ideas if you were away from the hub of things.
London was where it happened. Joanna might not have been born one, but she had become a city girl.
And now? The Internet had changed things.
It was so much easier to work from a distance and every piece of information was available online.
But she was beginning to think that now, she needed different things that London didn’t offer.
The landscape of the West Country was drawing her away. She didn’t have to come back here.
Still . . . She looked up at the house, her house.
And she remembered when they’d first seen it, the moment she’d first fallen in love with its bay-fronted windows, the red brickwork, the stained glass in the front door.
It was more solid than the flat they’d shared after university and before they got married; more of a home.
But that was then. Her gaze moved to the curtains at the window.
Now, it wasn’t her house anymore. She’d left the house as well as Martin.
Joanna took a deep breath. She walked up the concrete path to their front door and rang the bell. After a moment she could see the shape of Martin and his pale hair through the glass. He opened the door.
‘Jo!’ For a moment, the grin she hadn’t seen for so long illuminated his face and she remembered what she had loved about him – his enthusiasm, his way of making her laugh, making her feel loved.
‘Hello, Martin.’ She smiled back at him. ‘Sorry not to warn you I was coming.’ She had, she realised, done exactly what he’d done when he’d surprised her in Dorset.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He shook his head, but she saw a flicker of concern in his eyes. Perhaps he was wondering if the place wasn’t clean enough or tidy enough? Perhaps it wasn’t fair to turn up unannounced.
‘I could come back later, get a coffee or something?’
He stood aside. ‘No, come in. It’s good to see you.’ And she saw that he meant it.
‘Thanks.’ She passed him and walked into the hallway.
‘Can I take your coat?’
It was so strange, she thought, when this had been her home.
She slipped off her jacket and he hung it on the hook – a wood panel from an old school cloakroom; they’d found it at Bridport street market on a visit to Dorset, the first thing they’d bought together.
Joanna’s breath caught. This was harder than she’d anticipated.
‘Can I . . . ?’ She gestured to the kitchen. She wanted to look at every room, as if each one was a friend she was about to lose.
‘Sure.’ He made a gesture to show that she should go where she wanted to go. ‘It’s your house too, remember?’
She remembered. The dinners she had cooked, the evenings spent together, the days working in her office upstairs. She remembered all right. And yet she didn’t feel like a victim; she knew she had broken free. Martin, though, was still at a loss, she could see that.
‘I’ve come to collect a few bits,’ she said. ‘I’ll take them back with me.’
‘Did you bring a van or something?’ He peered outside as if expecting to see a removal lorry or Harriet’s pick-up truck parked in the road.
‘No.’ She held up the bag. ‘I’ve only got this.’ She wasn’t taking much. There really wasn’t much more that she needed. For some time now she’d been decluttering her life and this was where it had begun.
Martin blinked at her as if she had suddenly become Mary Poppins. ‘For all of your stuff?’
‘Yes.’ She relented. ‘If there’s anything else, maybe you could send it on later?’
‘Sure, yeah, no problem.’ Joanna watched him as he closed the front door. She had a sudden vision of what he would look like as he grew older. They would still grow older, just not together.
She stepped into the kitchen. She wanted to get this over with, she didn’t want to linger. There were good and bad memories in this house and she wasn’t sure she wanted either right now.
Martin followed her. ‘Have you got time for a coffee?’
Joanna hesitated. Thought of Toby. She did have time, but it probably wasn’t a great idea. ‘Sorry, no, not really.’
Martin didn’t seem surprised. ‘So, how have you been?’
‘Fine.’ There was a bottle of whisky on the worktop, next to a half-eaten loaf of white bread and a bottle of tomato ketchup. Well, Martin had never been a gourmet. She looked around. Kitchen things could so easily be replaced.
‘And have you . . . ?’ He hesitated.
She turned around. ‘Have I what?’
‘Found . . . someone else?’
Joanna sighed. ‘No, of course not.’ As if there might be a replacement husband lurking under a Dorset cliff somewhere. She eyed him more speculatively. ‘Are you seeing anyone, Martin?’
He shook his head much more emphatically than necessary. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said.
‘Hilary?’ On the kitchen shelf she spotted her favourite honeypot. Martin had never liked it.
‘No,’ he said.
She picked up the honeypot, examined the golden and brown bee on the lid. ‘Can I take this?’
‘Of course.’
Joanna wrapped it in some bubble wrap she’d brought with her and placed it carefully in the bag.
‘You’re an attractive woman,’ he said, looking at her as if he’d only just realised. ‘I wouldn’t blame you for finding someone else.’
‘No.’ What did he expect her to say? She left the kitchen, went into the sitting room, aware once more of Martin behind her, tracking her movements.
His name was still on her passport, her bank details, her will.
She must change all that. ‘I’m not looking for a man,’ she told him. ‘But if someone came along . . .’
‘It would be your business, yeah, I know.’
She regarded him once more. His hands were in his pockets, he had put on a bit of weight and he needed a shave. She wished that he’d leave her for a minute. This was hard enough already without Martin looking lost and reminding her of everything they’d once shared.
There was a miniature on the wall by the fireplace – a small painting Lucy’s husband Bill had done of Alexandra Palace. ‘I’d like this,’ she said.
‘Fine.’
Joanna wrapped this in bubble wrap too. ‘I’m going upstairs,’ she told him.
Their bedroom – this wouldn’t be easy. Joanna took a deep breath.
Thankfully, Martin didn’t follow her this time.
She went through her things methodically, selecting only a special few – the rest could go to a charity shop.
She was determined to live her life in a more minimalist way from now on; a freedom from the material leading to an uncluttered mind, that sort of thing.
In the bathroom, she saw a lipstick on the shelf. She picked it up, twisted it until the peachy stick emerged. She was almost sure it belonged to Hilary; she remembered that particular shade. But it was Martin’s life. And Joanna wasn’t part of it anymore.
By the time she left, half an hour later, her bag was full but not too heavy. He was standing by the door.
‘I want a divorce, Martin,’ she told him.
He didn’t seem surprised.
She would put the wheels in motion. She would make a new will, revert to her maiden name officially – not just for her writing, where she had always been Joanna Shepherd and probably always would be. ‘And let me know what happens with the house?’
‘Yeah, I will.’
There was a moment, as she stood on the doorstep, when she almost doubted herself, a moment when she looked at him and saw the earlier version of Martin, the man she’d loved. She put a hand on his arm and saw his eyes soften. ‘Sorry, Martin,’ she said.
‘Me too, Jo.’ He seemed to understand.
She smelt the familiar fragrance of him – a bit of soap, a hint of oak. For a few seconds she breathed it in. Then she gave a brisk nod and she walked away. No looking back this time.