After dropping his mistress off, Butcher bid her a tender farewell and drove home. He lingered outside his door for a moment, mentally rehearsing what he’d say to his wife. Then he climbed the stairs and unlocked the door.
“Hello,” Butcher called out. “Vera, are you home?”
“I am,” came his wife’s calm reply. “Hello. Shall I fry the pork chops, then?”
Butcher had promised himself he’d be direct—firm, decisive, manly! He’d put an end to his double life now, while his mistress’s kisses were still fresh on his lips, before the stale routine sucked him back in.
“Vera,” Butcher cleared his throat. “I’ve come to tell you… we need to part ways.”
Her reaction was cooler than he expected. Cool was Vera’s default. Once, he’d even teased her for being “Vera the Ice Queen.”
“What d’you mean?” she asked from the kitchen doorway. “Should I not fry the chops?”
“Up to you,” Butcher said. “Fry them or don’t. I’m leaving you for another woman.”
Most wives would’ve lunged at him with a frying pan or launched into a tirade. Vera wasn’t most wives.
“Oh, cry me a river,” she said. “Did you fetch my boots from the cobbler’s?”
“No,” Butcher faltered. “If it’s that important, I’ll go pick them up right now!”
“Heavens,” Vera muttered. “Just like you, Butcher. Send a fool for boots, and he’ll bring back the old ones.”
Butcher bristled. The conversation wasn’t going how he’d imagined—no fiery drama, no furious accusations. But what else could he expect from a wife nicknamed Vera the Ice Queen?
“Vera, I don’t think you’re grasping this,” he said. “I’m telling you, officially, I’m leaving you for another woman, and all you care about are your blasted boots!”
“Quite right,” Vera said. “Unlike me, you can go anywhere. Your boots aren’t stuck at the cobbler’s. Nothing’s stopping you.”
They’d been married for years, yet Butcher still couldn’t tell when Vera was joking or deadly serious. He’d fallen for her precisely because of her unflappable nature and quiet competence. That, and her practical skills and well-rounded figure.
Vera was steady, loyal, and cool as an anchor. But Butcher had fallen for someone else—hot, sinful, intoxicating love! The time had come to draw the line and move on.
“So, Vera,” Butcher said, infusing his voice with solemn regret, “I’m grateful for everything, but I’m leaving because I love another woman. I don’t love you anymore.”
“Well, colour me shocked,” Vera said. “Doesn’t love me, the poor daft sod. My mum fancied the neighbour. Dad loved dominoes and whisky. And look how brilliantly I turned out!”
Arguing with Vera was like punching fog. His righteous anger fizzled out, leaving him deflated.
“Vera, you really are brilliant,” Butcher said weakly. “But I love someone else—burningly, sinfully, sweetly. I’m leaving, understand?”
“Who’s the other woman, then?” Vera asked. “Not Natalie Bramble, surely?”
Butcher stiffened. He’d had a fling with Bramble last year, but how did Vera know her?
“How d’you—?” He caught himself. “Never mind. No, it’s not Bramble.”
Vera yawned.
“Then it must be Charlotte Thornby. Fancy her, do you?”
Butcher’s spine turned to ice. Thornby had been another mistress, long buried. If Vera knew, why had she stayed silent? Then again, she was a vault.
“Wrong again,” he said. “Not Thornby or Bramble. She’s incredible, the woman of my dreams. I can’t live without her, and I’m leaving. Don’t try to change my mind.”
“So it’s Maya, then,” Vera said. “Oh, Butcher. You’re a proper tit, aren’t you? Open secret, this. So your dream woman is Maya Wentworth—thirty-five, one kid, two terminations. Am I warm?”
Butcher clutched his head. Bullseye. He’d been seeing Maya Wentworth.
“How?” he stammered. “Who ratted me out? Been spying, have you?”
“Elementary, Butcher,” Vera said. “I’m a seasoned gynaecologist. I’ve seen every woman in this bloody town, while you’ve only sampled a few. One glance tells me who’s had you in her bed, you daft pudding.”
Butcher pulled himself together.
“Fine, you sussed it out! But it changes nothing—I’m still leaving.”
“You’re an idiot, Butcher,” Vera said. “Could’ve at least asked me, out of curiosity. And for the record, there’s nothing special about Wentworth—run-of-the-mill, medically speaking. Seen her medical history, have you?”
“N-no,” Butcher admitted.
“Exactly! First, go shower. Second, I’ll ring Dr. Simmons tomorrow—get you seen at the clinic straight away,” Vera said. “Then we’ll talk. Disgraceful, really. A gynaecologist’s husband can’t even find a clean woman!”
“What am I supposed to do?” Butcher whined.
“I’ll fry the chops,” Vera said. “You go wash up and do as you please. If you want a dream woman without the baggage, let me know—I’ll give you a referral.”
