**A Second Chance**
“Jean, are you heading home?” Her colleague Emily tapped impatiently on the desk with manicured nails.
“No, I’ll stay a bit longer. My husband’s picking me up,” Jean lied smoothly.
“Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” Emily swayed out of the office, hips swaying.
One by one, the staff trickled out, the corridor echoing with hurried steps and clicking heels. Jean picked up her phone and sighed. *Probably had a few pints already, sprawled in front of the telly.* She pressed call. Three long rings later, the murmur of the TV filled the line before her husband Victor finally answered.
“Ye? What’s up?”
“Vic, it’s pouring, and I’m in suede boots. Come get me.”
“Sorry, love, had a couple already. Grab a cab, yeah?” His voice was careless.
“Of course. Didn’t expect anything else. Remind me—wasn’t it you who promised to carry me in your arms when you proposed?”
“Jean, sweetheart, the match—” The roar of the crowd cut him off. Jean hung up.
The days when Victor waited outside her office were long gone. Back then, he didn’t even own a car, but he’d still come for her. Jean exhaled, shut down her computer, and shrugged on her coat.
Her heels shattered the silence of the empty corridor. Downstairs, by the security desk, stood the deputy director, David Maxwell—tall, trim, in a sleek black overcoat, looking more like a film star than a corporate man. The office gossip insisted he was single. Jean had once joked he must be ill if a man like that stayed unattended.
“Some model, forget her name. Always in magazines,” Emily had whispered knowingly.
Victor hadn’t been bad himself once—thirty pull-ups a day at the park. Then came the beer, the belly, the nightly sprawl on the sofa. Every evening, Jean stepped into the same scene: Victor glued to the telly, an open lager beside him.
She was nearly at the door when a smooth baritone sent a shiver down her spine.
“Jean Elizabeth, working late?”
“Thought my husband would fetch me. He couldn’t.” She turned with a practised smile.
David pocketed his phone and stepped closer. “Let me drive you.” He held the door open.
“Oh no, I couldn’t—I’ll just call a cab,” Jean protested, stepping outside. Rain pooled on the pavement. Her boots wouldn’t survive the puddles.
“Consider your cab here.” David guided her gently toward his Range Rover. How could she refuse? Shame none of the girls saw—they’d have seethed with envy.
He unlocked the car, and Jean hopped in, feigning a playful stumble as she smoothed her skirt. David shut the door, circled the car, and settled beside her.
“I’ve noticed you. Firm but fair—you’d make a fine head of marketing.”
“But what about Katherine?” Jean blinked, caught off guard.
“Past retirement. Reliable, but struggling with new systems.”
Jean shifted uncomfortably. Katherine had trained her once. Still, the offer was tempting.
“Her grandson’s getting married. She wanted to help with the flat,” Jean said softly.
“Not your concern. She’ll have a generous severance. So—do we have a deal?”
His gaze lingered on her profile. She hesitated, then turned—but he was already watching the road.
She realised with a jolt they’d nearly passed her street. “Turn right. That’s mine—just there.”
The car stopped, but Jean lingered, fumbling for the right words.
“Fancy lunch sometime?” David’s voice was velvet.
Her pulse leapt. “Maybe.” She flashed a coy grin and slipped out into the damp evening.
“Till tomorrow,” he called.
Her head spun. The car rumbled away over potholes—plentiful in English neighbourhoods.
Next day, they lunched together, under everyone’s gaze. Dinners followed. Then—well. Best not dwell on *then*. What woman could resist a man like that?
Jean floated, adored, ten years younger. Life wasn’t so dull anymore. But every evening, Victor’s slumped form on the sofa grated more. Tonight, an unfinished beer sat by his feet. She itched to kick it, spill her frustration onto the rug—but she’d be the one cleaning. She sighed, ignoring his stare as she changed.
“You’ve changed. You’re all…” Victor trailed off.
*Finally noticed, have you?* she thought venomously.
“How so? Same as ever.”
“You look like you did when we met. Fallen for someone?”
“What if I have? You barely glance my way. Just the telly and your pints.”
“I *noticed*. Your hair’s different,” he ventured.
“Had this cut three years!” She exhaled sharply. “We haven’t been to the cinema in ages. Or dinner. *I* come home and cook—no lounging about.”
“Your cooking beats any restaurant,” Victor offered lamely.
Jean eyed him—his voice, his clumsy compliments, his very presence—all stale. *Maybe I should leave. But where?*
“You’re glowing lately,” Emily murmured at work. “Everyone’s saying it’s David Maxwell. Given your husband the boot?”
“If only. You sound just like him.”
“Lucky you. Husband *and* a lover. Veronica’s fifteen years younger, yet he’s hooked on you.”
Jean’s heart pinched. Veronica *was* pretty. And free.
“Listen—that woman who does love spells. Her address?” Jean whispered.
“Who’s the target? David? Or the competition?”
“My *husband*. Just give it.”
Emily tapped her phone. “Sent. That bad?”
“Worse.”
“Not David, surely? He won’t marry you.”
“He’s not the point. Forget it.”
That evening, Jean visited the address. A plump woman in designer dress studied her.
“Here.” She handed over a vial. “One drop in his tea daily. *One*—no more. Strong stuff. Overdo it, his heart might give out. Better used on the other man.”
Jean paid and fled the incense-thick flat.
At home, she hid the vial behind tea boxes. Victor sprawled as usual, beer at his feet. She stepped in front of the telly.
“What?” He blinked up.
“Make yourself useful. Help with dinner.”
“I can’t cook, love.” He groaned upright.
“Learn. What’ll you eat alone?”
“Alone? What about our Anna?” He hurried after her.
“I’m leaving.” She spun—he bumped into her, belly first. She wrinkled her nose.
Then it all spilled out—twenty years of resentment. Victor stood stunned.
“And you?” he croaked when she paused.
“Keep lazing about.”
“And Anna?”
“She’s grown. Let her choose.”
Jean wasn’t truly leaving—but the vial goaded her. Maybe wounded pride would shake him.
He trailed her, pleading. “I can’t—without you—” His voice choked off.
She turned. He slid down the wall, clutching his chest.
“Don’t act—” she began, but his head lolled.
“Anna! Your dad—” She shook him, checked his pulse. Nothing.
“The vial! In the cupboard—add to water!” she shrieked.
Anna rushed back with a glass. Jean pried his mouth open—most spilled down his shirt.
“God, what am I *doing*?” She leapt up. “What did you give him?”
Anna held up a pharmacy bottle. “This one. Right?”
Jean paled. She yanked open the cupboard—there sat the untouched vial. She hurled it into the bin.
The paramedics arrived. “Poisoned him? With *this*?” The doctor frowned at the harmless medicine. “Heart attack. Must’ve rowed?”
At the hospital, Jean paced until they sent her home, sedated.
“All that beer, no exercise,” the cabbie tutted. “Heart just quit.”
Daily, she visited, guilt gnawing her. David Maxwell faded to nothing.
“Forgive me,” she whispered as Victor recovered. “I was so scared.”
“*I’m* sorry. Thought I’d lost you. I’ll do better.”
Three weeks later, Victor came home—slimmer, no beer in sight. Jean didn’t mind him on the sofa now.
David took up with Veronica. Jean didn’t care.
She only regretted wasting years. A shake-up—no potions, no affairs—was all Victor needed.
Love’s second chance was never too late.
