He Opened the Car Door

Years ago I lived in Salford, on the edge of Greater Manchester, in a beautiful flat in a predominantly Jewish part of the city. Every day, on my way to work, I'd see the same elderly couple. Late eighties, maybe early nineties. And every day, he opened the car door for her.

I made up a whole story about them in my head. That they must have been married for decades. That every single day of those decades, he'd done this same small thing — walked round, opened the door, waited while she got settled. I used to wonder how many thousands of times that must have happened over a lifetime together. One door, opened again and again, for longer than I'd been alive.

I remember thinking: that's the kind of relationship I'd love to have. Someone who's still a gentleman, still doing the small thing, sixty years in.

Six or seven years later, I went on a first date with the man who's now my husband. He opened the car door for me. Let me in. Walked round. Got in himself. And at the end of the night, he opened it again to let me out.

I phoned my mum before I'd even got through the front door.

"He opened the car door, Mum."

She knew exactly what I meant.