**The Trick**
Guests danced in front of a small stage, led by the guest of honour himself—a sixty-five-year-old department head named Robert. “My, what a man…” the women sang along, slightly out of sync with the small band’s lead vocalist.
Gillian and her husband, worn out from the merriment, wine, and heavy food, lingered at the wrecked dinner table. At the far end, two colleagues were deep in debate while a third dozed, his head resting on folded arms.
Gillian leaned toward Robert and whispered in his ear,
“Should we head home? Everyone’s drunk—no one will notice us slip away. This noise is giving me a headache.” To sell it, she pressed her fingertips to her temples.
Robert cast a sidelong glance around the room.
“You’re right. Nothing left to do here. Let’s go,” he replied.
They slipped out of the restaurant unnoticed.
“Ah, that’s better!” Gillian inhaled the crisp night air deeply.
“Taxi?” Robert asked.
“No, let’s walk. It’ll do us good.” She hooked her arm through his, and they strolled slowly through the dimly lit streets.
“Won’t those heels make your feet ache?” Robert asked.
“Then you can carry me like you did twenty years ago. Remember? I wore those new shoes and got blisters. We had to walk from the cinema because we didn’t have a car yet, and the last bus had gone. You carried me all the way home.” She sighed wistfully.
Robert tightened his arm against hers in silent acknowledgment.
“Oh, we were so young and in love. Twenty years gone in a blink. Feels like just yesterday we married, when I was expecting Olivia… We were so happy…” Another sigh escaped her.
“I’ll be up for a promotion soon—more money, better opportunities. And Olivia’s due any day now. Then there’s my big birthday bash in autumn. We’re healthy. Isn’t that reason enough to be happy?” Robert mused.
Gillian didn’t answer—they had reached their doorstep.
She showered first, washing off the evening’s makeup. She emerged from the bathroom in a plush robe, hair still damp. Robert’s mind drifted to Emily, his mistress—her smooth skin, toned body, entrancing eyes, that cascade of thick hair… *Look what time does to women. Will Emily end up like Gillian in twenty years? No, she’ll always stay young to me—I’ll always be two decades older. If only she were here now…*
The thought of his fiery young lover stirred him so intensely he stepped under an ice-cold shower to cool off.
The next morning, he pulled a crisply ironed shirt from the wardrobe—faintly scented with fabric softener—and unhooked a matching tie. Gillian always paired them ahead. The kitchen smelled rich with freshly brewed coffee.
“I’m heading to the cottage today. The apples must be falling—I’ll gather them, make compote, bake a pie,” she said, setting a steaming cup before him.
“Why not wait till Saturday? We could drive together,” Robert mumbled through a bite of toast.
“That’s three days away. The fruit will rot. Besides, I’ll check everything’s in order.”
“Fine, suit yourself,” he said, draining his coffee.
“I’ll stay overnight. It’s too late for the last bus back. I’ve left your dinner in the fridge,” she called after him as he left the kitchen.
He froze, turning back.
“You’re seriously staying there alone?”
“Yes. Why does that surprise you? Or did you have other plans for me?” Gillian smiled faintly.
“No. Just… be careful.” He strode into the hall.
The front door clicked shut behind him.
Robert started the engine. Before driving off, he dialled Emily.
“Morning. Did I wake you? Sweetheart, great news—Gillian’s staying at the cottage tonight. We have the whole evening to ourselves,” he cooed.
“Understood, darling,” Emily sang back, followed by a loud kiss.
“Clever girl. See you tonight. Counting the hours.” He pocketed his phone, turned up the radio, and pulled away.
Everything was falling into place. His mood soared. *Time to come clean with Gillian—Emily keeps pressing me about when we’ll be together properly.*
After work, Robert stopped at a shop for a bottle of expensive wine and fruit. Peering up at their dark flat windows, he confirmed Gillian had left. He took the stairs two at a time, heart protesting, breath ragged. *Bloody hell—age catches us all. Need to hit the gym.*
He dumped the bag in the kitchen doorway—and froze. A woman stood silhouetted against the window.
“You… didn’t go?” he croaked, fighting to steady his voice. *Must text Emily—cancel before she arrives.* “Why are the lights off?”
“Surprise!” she chirped, turning.
Robert gaped. His hands slackened—nearly dropping the bag. He flicked the light on.
It was Emily.
She’d pinned her hair back—just like Gillian always did. No wonder he’d mistaken her in the dark. He exhaled sharply, dumped the bag on the counter.
“Well? Did I pull it off? You should’ve seen your face!” Emily laughed.
“Christ. Nearly gave me a heart attack. I thought Gillian was here. How did you… how do you have keys?”
“Aren’t you happy?” She wrapped her arms around him, and everything else faded away…
Morning light filtered in. Robert checked the clock—plenty of time. The other side of the bed was empty, but clinking sounds from the kitchen and the scent of coffee told him Emily was up. He grinned, sprang from bed, and headed for the shower.
He emerged, towel-drying his hair.
“Morning, love,” trilled his wife’s voice.
Robert choked on air, the towel slipping. Gillian stood before him in her frilly apron.
“You?! You’re back already?” He clutched the towel tighter.
“Now, now—nothing I haven’t seen in twenty years,” she smirked. “Get dressed. Breakfast’s ready.” She turned back to the stove.
He bolted to the bedroom. No trace of Emily—had he dreamt her? No, she’d been here. Where was Gillian so early? He dressed mechanically, mind racing. The empty wine bottle he’d left in the corner—gone.
Gillian poured coffee, set out toast. Robert wolfed down half a slice.
“Darling, you’re awake?” Emily’s voice came from behind.
He choked. Gillian thumped his back.
Hallucinating? Too scared to turn, he stayed rigid. Emily strolled in, sniffing the air.
“How sweet—making coffee.” She grabbed a cup.
Gillian acted as though Emily weren’t there.
“You’re pale,” Emily remarked.
“Are you ill?” Gillian echoed.
“What the hell is going on?!” Robert shoved back his chair.
“He’s delirious, poor thing,” Emily said, touching Gillian’s shoulder.
“You’ll be late, love,” Gillian smiled—first at him, then at Emily.
“I get it. You’re playing me. Brilliant act. When did you two team up?”
“Yesterday, after you rang saying your *frumpy, boring wife* was at the cottage. I came to see for myself. Instead of throwing me out, she suggested this little prank. Worked perfectly, didn’t it?” They exchanged grins.
“What now?” Robert’s voice was hollow.
“Normally, we’d ask who you choose. But…” Emily paused, “after meeting your wife, I’m stepping back. Don’t call—I’ve blocked you. Good luck fixing things with Gillian.” She placed her cup down, hips swaying as she left.
“Ciao, darling!” The door slammed.
Gillian sagged onto a chair.
“Gill, I—”
“Not now. Go.” She turned away.
Robert sat in his car, replaying how effortlessly they’d fooled him—two women pretending to be friends while he panicked like a trapped rat. Emily’s exit stung, but she was young—she’d move on.
But Gillian… He barely knew her. He’d expected screaming, plates hurled at his head. Instead, she’d outplayed him.
At work, he fumbled tasks. Colleagues whispered. Emily ignored his calls—she’d meant it. A shame, but life went on.
That evening, he called Gillian.
“Don’t hang up. We need to talk. I was a fool, but it’s over with Emily—”
The line went dead.
*She heard me. There’s still hope.* He rushed home, but she wasn’t there. The cottage? Locked.
“Lost your wife? She never came,” a neighbour said.
He called Olivia. His son-in-law answered—she was in labour. No, Gillian wasn’t there.
*Where is she?*
MemAnd as he sat alone in the empty flat, the weight of his choices pressing down like an anvil, Robert realised that some betrayals leave wounds too deep to ever truly heal.
