Ann wiped down the grey marble island and rinsed out the cloth. She hung it on the spout of the tap to dry. The door to the lounge was open and she could hear Ken muttering and cursing as he watched the news.

She ran her hand over the clean counter. She’d been so proud of the fancy marble top when she’d had the kitchen done up ten years ago. It had been her dream to have an island with four stools lined up against it. She used to love handing the kids their dinner and watching them eat as she leant against it, chatting to them about their day. She missed it. She missed the chatter and the noise. She missed being needed. The kitchen was so quiet and clean. She yearned for Zoë and John’s muddy trainers and boots to clatter through the door. Why had she been so irritated by the mud splatters? If only she’d known then how much she’d pine for them one day.

She glanced at her watch: eight o’clock. The evening stretched before her, like a heavy weight. Watch TV, rinse her wine glass, take off her make-up, moisturize, brush her teeth, fold her clothes on the chair in the bedroom, put on one of her three pairs of silk pyjamas and go to bed. Read for half an hour and turn out the light.

The same routine over and over again. It changed only when her kids called in, or if she and Ken were meeting friends for dinner. How often did that happen? Ann frowned as she tried to remember the last time she and Ken had gone out for a meal. Of course, Marie’s sixty-fifth, about six weeks ago. The four friends had gone to that posh new restaurant in town ‒ Larry had booked it for Marie’s birthday night. It was gorgeous, all low lighting and red velvet booths. The food was delicious and they’d had pink champagne as a treat. At dessert, the staff had sung ‘Happy Birthday’ to Marie and the manager had offered them a drink on the house.

 But then the bill had arrived. Ken had presumed Larry was going to pay as it was his wife’s birthday and he had booked the expensive restaurant and invited them, but instead he had pulled up the calculator on his phone, and announced, ‘Two hundred and ten euros per couple, including tip.’

Ann had thought Ken was going to have a heart attack. She could see him struggling not to say something. He’d rummaged around in his jacket pocket for ages, eventually pulling out his wallet and thumping his card on the table. Ann had told some silly story about the kids to try to distract them all from Ken’s irritation at having to pay so much for a meal. Ann liked Larry and Marie. They were one of the few couples that Ken agreed to go out with and she was terrified he might make a comment that would ruin the night. He was so short-tempered, these days. She wasn’t going to let the bill cause a problem between them, so she had talked and talked until they’d said goodnight to each other and climbed into separate taxis.

In the taxi, Ken had been apoplectic. ‘Bloody cheapskate. His wife’s birthday and he books one of the most expensive restaurants around and then expects me to pay for it! He orders champagne, not prosecco, oh, no, actual champagne for his wife, and I have to fork out for it. I don’t drink champagne. I didn’t even have one sip of it. Does he think I’m made of money?’

Ann was going to point out that she had enjoyed the champagne and had drunk three glasses, it had been a truly lovely treat, but she’d kept her mouth shut. There was no point in talking to Ken when he was on one of his rants. She’d looked out of the window and tried not to let him ruin the night. She’d enjoyed being out in town. They did it so rarely. On the few occasions they went out together or met up with friends, it was always local restaurants, casual dining. That was fine, but it had been really nice to get dressed up and go somewhere fancy. Ann had even had her hair blow-dried and had worn her favourite red dress. She’d felt excited and had really looked forward to the evening. But Ken had burst her bubble of happiness with his moaning and groaning.

He had huffed as the taxi fare ticked upwards with each mile. Once home, he’d stomped upstairs and gone into his bedroom with a perfunctory ‘Goodnight.’ Ann had sat up and watched an old movie, too awake from the bubbles to go to bed. She had poured herself a glass of wine and tried to block out Ken’s negativity. 

That had been six long weeks ago and there were no plans to go out again. Ann stood in her tidy, quiet kitchen and reached for her phone. No messages. She had three new emails offering her a holiday to Borneo, a deal on shoes, and an anti-ageing cream. She missed the days when her phone was constantly hopping with texts and messages from the kids, or other school mums, or sports coaches, or the school. Her phone used to ping non-stop. Now it was silent most of the time.

Maybe she’d bake some brownies. That would kill an hour. But she’d end up eating them all. Ken would have one, Zoë was in Spain with a girlfriend, and John probably wouldn’t call in to see her until the weekend. So, Ann would scoff the lot, then feel guilty about the calories. 

She drummed her fingers on the counter. She could go for a walk, but it was drizzling outside and it would make her hair frizz. She pulled the book she was reading from her bag but couldn’t concentrate on it.

She was going to be sixty-five in three months, on 18 May. Sixty-five years of age. The age when you officially became old in the eyes of society. Panic seized her. Was this it? Was her life reduced to clock-watching and killing time? She pushed down the fear. She had to get control of her emotions. It was normal to feel anxious as big birthdays approached. Sixty-five was another milestone, the official age of retirement. The official age of you ‘no longer having any real purpose in the world’. The dread she was experiencing was not unusual. She breathed in for ten, and out for ten, trying to calm her pounding heart. These moments of panic were getting worse. Maybe she needed to see her GP. She’d never been an anxious person before, but lately she’d been very jumpy and on edge, and she wasn’t sleeping well at all.

Ken called, ‘Ann, any chance of a cup of tea?’

‘Sure.’ 

She turned to fill the kettle. As she set about making tea for her husband of thirty-eight years, she imagined pouring it over his balding head. Would he react? Would he look up from grumbling about the news and actually acknowledge her? Would he look her in the eye and have a conversation with her?

When was the last time they’d properly chatted? Not about the kids, or putting out the bins, or paying car tax, but a real conversation about life, their hopes and dreams and fears.

Not for a long time, Ann thought. Not for a very long time. 

Ann made the tea, just the way Ken liked it, strong with a drop of milk. She went into the lounge where he was sitting in his big brown leather chair. Ann reckoned it was his favourite possession. If there was a fire, she was fairly certain he’d push her aside and try to heave the chair out of the front door. He’d bought it three years ago, on his sixty-fifth birthday, a present to himself, and had rarely been out of it since. It had a bit at the bottom that flipped out so you could rest your legs on it and a big cup-holder on the side. It was possibly the ugliest thing Ann had ever seen, but Ken had insisted on buying it, claiming it would help with his bad back, aching hips and whatever other ailment he chose to moan about. 

Ann knew all about aches and pains. She’d had her hip replaced three years ago and it had made a big difference to her life. The constant ache in her side was gone and she was able to get back to her daily walks. She’d told Ken to get his hips checked out, but he was one of those men who liked to complain about pain but never do anything about it.

Ann had raised two kids. She didn’t need a third. After months of nagging Ken to get his hips seen to and making two appointments to which he hadn’t shown up, she figured that he could just bloody well sort it out himself if they hurt that badly.

She handed her husband the tea.

‘Thanks,’ he said, giving her a half-glance. ‘Would you look at this fool? What an idiot. This is the man running our health system. What has this country come to?’

On and on he ranted, as Ann stood leaning against the top of the oversized chair. His words rolled over her, down her back, along the carpet and out of the door.

She’d found herself doing this a lot lately – switching off. When Ken went off on one of his monologues, she’d drift into her own thoughts. He never said anything new. He’d thought the previous health minister was a fool, and the one before that, and the one before that. Same old, same old.

Ann slipped out of the room while Ken was still talking. He didn’t notice. She sat at the kitchen table and pulled out her iPad, opened Solitaire and began to play. A solitary game for a solitary woman.

The next morning Ann cooked Ken his two rashers, one fried egg and a slice of brown toast and handed it to him on the plate with the blue flowers. He thanked her and ate heartily. They discussed the weather and what a busy day he had ahead of him. Ann wondered if he really was that busy any more. She knew that Jason Ackler was taking over from him and that Ken was handing over most of his work as he wound down to his retirement in June. Ann said nothing. She smiled, nodded, and made a kissing sound when Ken pecked her cheek.

After he left, Ann got herself ready, grabbed her bag and keys and headed out to the car. As she drove to work, she fretted about Ken retiring. What on earth was he going to do all day? He had no hobbies. Was he going to sit in his big chair watching sport? Would she have to come up with things for him to do? They had barely anything to say to each other as it was. What would they do with all this extra time together? Maybe Ann could work extra days in the shop. It made sense, given that it was the only thing that made her feel good. 

Second Chance charity shop had been her unexpected lifeline for the past two years. She’d started working there when John had left home. She’d found the empty nest very difficult to accept so she’d decided to do something about it. There was an ad in the window of Second Chance, looking for part-time staff. The cancer charity that ran the shop could only pay their staff the bare minimum wage, but Ann didn’t care. She wasn’t doing it for the money. She did it to keep herself from going crazy. The two and a half days she worked were the highlight of her week.

She pulled into the small car park at the front and parked in the space reserved for staff. She sat there, staring through the windscreen, and realized she couldn’t remember the journey. She had absolutely no recollection of driving through streets, traffic lights or junctions. She sat in the car, paralysed. Was this what it felt like to have a breakdown? Did it start when you were living inside your own head so much that you disassociated from real life? 

She was trying to remember something about her journey, desperately trying to jolt herself back into the world, when there was a knock on the window. Ann almost jumped out of her skin.

‘Hey, stop daydreaming and open up,’ Milly said, taking off her bicycle helmet.

Ann opened the door.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Sorry, did I give you a fright?’

‘Yes, actually, you did,’ Ann said. Mind you, these days every loud noise made her jump. It was as if her senses were heightened and she felt raw, as if a layer of skin had been removed.

‘Whaddaya think?’ Milly pointed to the thick silver ring in her eyebrow.

 ‘Oh, my goodness.’ 

Milly grinned. ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s …’ Ann searched for the right word. Milly acted like this super-confident feminist, but she was a bundle of insecurity and mush underneath. ‘It’s very striking,’ Ann said, pleased with her choice of word. ‘Did it hurt?’ 

‘Like hell, but so worth it.’ Milly wriggled her eyebrow. ‘I’m still not used to it. It feels weird, but I love it. I got it done to mark moving on from that dickhead Harvey.’

‘Good for you.’ Ann hoped that this statement meant she wouldn’t have to listen to Milly crying over Harvey any more. The boy had treated her like dirt and cheated on her all the time. For someone claiming to be a hard-nosed feminist, Milly had chosen a really awful boyfriend with no respect for her. It was about time she moved on. ‘Now, you’re not to take him back again, no matter what he says. A leopard never changes its spots. You deserve someone who treats you like a queen.’ 

Milly chewed her already bitten thumbnail. ‘I know, but he’s so fit and the sex is unreal.’

‘Sex won’t keep you together, though. Love and respect will,’ Ann told her.

‘I guess.’ Milly didn’t sound too sure. She was mad about Ann, but she was old and probably hadn’t had sex in decades. She reckoned that Ann had probably forgotten what sex was like, and Harvey really was good in bed. Still, she didn’t deserve to be cheated on. Ann was right about that. It was definitely time to move on. 

Mind you, Ann’s husband was no picnic. The one time Milly had met Ken she’d thought he was a grumpy old fart. He’d called into the shop and gone mental with Ann because she’d taken his car keys by mistake and he was late for a meeting. Milly thought he was going to have a stroke, his face was so red. Ann had been all flustered and apologetic. Milly’s blood had been boiling and she’d wanted to tell Ken to sod off and stop shouting at his wife over a stupid mistake. Ann was cool for an oldie and she deserved a nice husband who didn’t shout at her.

 Ann patted Milly’s arm. ‘Take your time before you go out with someone else. Don’t rush into anything ‒ you’re only twenty, you have your whole life ahead of you. I met Ken when I was twenty-two. I settled down too young. I should have travelled more first. Seen the world.’ She unlocked the shop door and switched off the alarm. 

Milly turned on the lights. ‘I’m never getting married,’ she announced. ‘I don’t want to be stuck with the same man for ages. It must be so boring, looking at the same face every single day, over and over again.’

Ann smiled. ‘I suppose it can be sometimes, but it’s also nice to have someone in your life you’ve been through so much with.’

Milly threw her bag behind the counter. ‘Why don’t you go travelling now? You’re fit for an old person ‒ you could head off with a backpack. It’s never too late. Look at that really old guy, David Attenborough, the one Greta Thunberg talks about. He’s, like, a hundred and he still goes and makes documentaries about animals and the climate and stuff.’

Ann tried not to take offence at the ‘old person’ remark. At twenty, anyone over thirty seemed ancient. ‘Ken doesn’t like to fly. He gets anxious on planes.’

Milly shrugged. ‘So go without him. I travel on my own all the time. To be honest, it’s easier. You don’t have to do the boring stuff your boyfriend or friend wants to do. There are loads of cool places you can go, and you can meet up with other single travellers and have great fun.’

Ann laughed as she pictured herself backpacking around Central America, hanging out with young people on gap years, trying to find themselves. ‘I’m not sure I’d blend in.’

Milly stuck a nicotine patch on her arm and pressed down. ‘Age is only a number. That’s what my granddad says.’

Although Ann didn’t admit it to Milly, she had thought about travelling alone, but she was too nervous to do it. What if she got sick, stung, bitten, mugged, assaulted, lost or murdered? A single older woman was easy prey. She loved the idea of heading off into the sunset, not knowing what the future would bring, not having the same old routine day in, day out, but her sensible side always made her think of the dangers.

They spent the morning sorting out the bags people had donated. Well, Ann sorted them out while Milly tried on anything she thought she might like. Her style was eclectic and she was good at customizing and altering clothes, so she got most of her wardrobe from the charity shop. As she liked to say to Ann, ‘The pay is crap, but the clothes are a pretty cool bonus.’

In the two years Ann had been working there, she had found only two donated things that she’d liked enough to buy. A navy wrap dress and a deep purple scarf with bright blue butterflies on it. Milly had persuaded her to buy the scarf because ‘You need to funk yourself up!’ and whenever she wore it, she felt cheerful.

The shop was kept busy with people donating, browsing and occasionally buying. The older browsers tended to ask Ann for advice while the younger ones were drawn to Milly. They worked well as a team and Ann enjoyed Milly’s chatter. She was so full of life, hope, ideas and freedom. Ann envied her. Oh, to be young again with no responsibilities and the world at your feet. She’d definitely do things differently if she had her time over. For a start, she wouldn’t have taken that boring, dead-end job in the bank that her father had got for her. She would have gone travelling and lived abroad for a while. Maybe Rome or Barcelona or some other cool European city where you sat in cafés sipping espressos and smoking while you watched the world go by. She would have drunk more wine, worn shorter skirts, danced more and had passionate love affairs. She’d done none of that … not one single thing.

Milly watched the clock, and at exactly five, she rushed over and locked the door. 

‘I’ve got an hour to transform myself into a goddess,’ she said. ‘I’m going clubbing with the girls. Maybe I’ll meet Mr Right tonight, or Mr Wrong but smoking hot.’ She winked at Ann. ‘Any plans yourself?’ 

Ann shook her head. ‘Not really. Probably just a quiet night in.’

‘You need to get out more,’ Milly said, stuffing her phone into her bag and rummaging for her helmet. ‘Get your lazy-arse husband off the couch and go dancing. It’s so much fun and it always makes you feel better.’

Dancing, thought Ann, sadly. When was the last time we went dancing? Suddenly the thought of going home, cooking dinner and watching TV again made her feel physically ill. She wanted more. She wanted change. Her life was drifting by and she didn’t know how to stop it.