**Second Chance**
“Jenny, are you heading home?” Her colleague Sarah tapped impatiently on the desk with manicured nails.
“No, I’ll stay a bit longer. My husband’s picking me up,” lied Joanna without hesitation.
“Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” Sarah swayed her hips as she left the office.
One by one, the staff trickled out. The corridor echoed with hurried footsteps and the click of heels. Joanna picked up her phone and sighed. “Probably had a few pints already, sprawled out in front of the telly.” She dialled, and after three long rings, she heard the murmur of the television before Victor’s voice finally came through.
“Hello?”
“Vic, it’s pouring outside, and I’m in suede boots. Can you come get me?”
“Sorry, love, didn’t expect you to call—already had a drink. Grab a cab,” he replied.
“Typical. Should’ve known better. You used to promise you’d carry me in your arms, remember?”
“Jenny, sweetheart, the match is on—” Cheering fans drowned him out, and she hung up.
Those days were long gone when he’d wait for her outside the office. Back then, he didn’t even own a car, but he’d still find a way. She sighed, shut down her computer, pulled on her coat, and stepped out.
Her heels shattered the quiet of the empty corridor. Downstairs, by the security desk, stood David Harrison, the deputy director—tall, sharp in his long black coat, looking more like a Hollywood actor than a corporate man. The office gossiped endlessly about why a man like him was still single.
Joanna had always been sharp-tongued. “Probably something wrong with him, if he’s still available,” she’d once quipped.
“Some model, apparently. Forgot her name—she’s always in magazines,” Sarah had countered, ever the fountain of society gossip.
Victor hadn’t been bad-looking in his youth. Thirty pull-ups daily on the park bars. Then… he’d let himself go. Beer belly, lazy evenings glued to the telly. Every day, Joanna came home to the same sight—Victor sprawled on the sofa, an empty lager bottle at his feet.
She’d nearly reached the door when a smooth baritone sent shivers down her spine.
“Joanna, working late?”
She turned with a practised smile. “Thought my husband would fetch me, but he’s busy.”
“Let me give you a lift.” David pocketed his phone and held the door open for her.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—I’ll call a cab,” she protested, stepping outside. Rainwater pooled on the pavement. Her suede boots wouldn’t survive.
“Consider your cab already here.” He took her arm, guiding her to his Range Rover. How could she refuse? Pity none of the girls saw—they’d be green with envy.
She hopped onto the high seat with a playful squeak, smoothing her skirt. David closed her door, circled the car, and settled beside her.
“I’ve been watching you. Firm but fair—never let anyone slack. You could head marketing, I think.”
“What about Margaret?” Joanna blinked, startled.
“Time she retired. Good worker, but she can’t keep up with the new systems.”
Joanna shifted uncomfortably. She owed Margaret. Yet, turning down the offer seemed foolish.
“She’s saving for her grandson’s flat,” she muttered.
“Not your concern. She’ll get a generous package. So, do we have a deal?”
She felt his gaze linger. When she turned, he was already looking ahead.
The car nearly missed her turning.
“Right here—that’s my building.” The silence stretched until she added, “Pull up by that entrance.”
The car stopped, but she lingered, searching for gratitude.
“Fancy lunch sometime?” His voice was velvet.
Her heart skipped.
“Maybe,” she said, flashing a coy smile before stepping out into the rain.
“Till tomorrow,” he called, dazzling as ever.
She floated home, head spinning.
The next day, they lunched together—openly. Dinners followed. Then…
Well. What woman wouldn’t crumble? If one resisted, it’s only because her husband hadn’t yet become a sofa-stuck bore.
Joanna had forgotten this lightness, this thrill. She felt desired, young again. Life no longer seemed grey. But every evening, Victor on the sofa stoked fresh irritation.
Tonight was no different. The telly droned; a half-drunk beer sat on the floor. She itched to kick it over, but she’d only have to clean it. Sighing, she changed, ignoring Victor’s stare.
“You’ve changed. You’re so…” He fumbled for words.
*Finally noticed, have you?* she thought bitterly.
“How so?”
“You look like when we first met. You’re in love?”
“What if I am? You ignore me. The telly and your beer matter more.”
“I noticed! Your hair’s different.”
“I’ve had this style for three years,” she snapped. “We haven’t been to the cinema in ages. Couldn’t we dine out? I’m tired too, but I don’t just flop on the sofa—I cook!”
“Your cooking’s better than any restaurant,” he said clumsily. “What’s got into you?”
She studied him—his voice, his awkward compliments, his gut. Nothing left but boredom. Maybe she *should* leave. But where would she go? Where would *he* go?
“You’re glowing lately,” Sarah whispered at work. “Rumour is, you and David Harrison… Going to ditch the husband?”
“Wish I could.”
“Lucky you. A husband *and* a lover. Veronica’s fifteen years younger, yet he’s sweet on you.”
Jealousy pinched. Veronica *was* younger, prettier, unattached.
“Sarah—that woman who does love spells. Her address?”
“Who’s the target? David? Or Veronica?”
“My husband. Just give it.”
Sarah texted it. “That bad?”
“Worse.”
“He’s not cheating?”
“Wish he were.”
“David won’t marry you. Why wreck things?”
“Not about him. Forget it.”
That evening, she visited the address. A woman in an expensive dress eyed her sharply.
“Here. A drop in his tea—no more. Too much, and his heart gives out. Or use it on your lover.”
Joanna paid and fled the incense-thick flat.
At home, she hid the vial behind tea bags. Neither Victor nor their daughter, Emily, ever rummaged there.
She walked in. Victor lounged before the telly, beer in hand. She blocked the screen.
“What?”
“Make yourself useful. Help with dinner.”
“I can’t cook, love.” He groaned upright.
“Learn. What’ll you eat when you’re alone?”
“Alone? You? Emily?” He trailed her to the kitchen.
“I’m leaving.” She spun—his belly bumped her. She wrinkled her nose.
Then it spilled out—years of resentment. She couldn’t stop, barely letting him breathe.
When she finally hung her head, he rasped, “What about me?”
“Keep rotting on that sofa.”
“Emily?”
“She’s grown. Let her choose.”
She hadn’t truly meant to leave, but the vial’s presence emboldened her. Maybe wounded pride would shake him awake.
“Enough.” She marched out.
He stumbled after her. “Wait—I love you! I can’t—” A gasp. A thud.
She turned. He slid down the wall, clutching his chest.
“Stop faking.” But his head lolled.
She dropped beside him, shaking his shoulder. No pulse.
“Emily! Your dad’s ill!”
Their daughter ran in. “The vial in the cupboard—in water!”
Joanna forced his mouth open. Her hands shook; most of it spilled.
“God, what am I doing?” She leaped up. “What did you give him?”
“From the vial, like you said.”
Joanna stared. An *unopened* vial.
“Then why isn’t he—? Call an ambulance!”
She tipped the cupboard, snatched the unlabelled bottle, and hurled it into the bin.
At the hospital, she babbled about poisoning him.
“With this?” The doctor sighed. “Harmless. It’s a heart attack.”
She paced the hall until they sent her home.
“Sedentary life. Beer, fags,” the cabbie mused. “Heart couldn’t take it.”
Daily, she visited, guilt gnawing her. David’s charm faded to nothing.
“Forgive me,” she whispered once Victor could walk.
“*I* should beg. I believed you’d leave. I stopped seeing you—but you’re beautiful. I’ll change.”
Three weeks later, he came home. Still on the sofa—but no beer**Sentence to finish the story:**
And as the seasons turned, with Victor back on his feet and laughter returning to their home, Joanna realized that sometimes, love just needed a wake-up call—not a goodbye.
