**Diary Entry**
*15th May, 2023*
“Valerie! Valerie, wait!” shouted our neighbour Peter Thompson, waving his arms as he hurried after me near the front steps. “Where are you off to so quickly? We need to talk!”
“I haven’t the time, Peter—I must collect my granddaughter from nursery,” I said, attempting to sidestep him, but he blocked my path.
“Your granddaughter can wait. This is serious—it’s about your husband, Michael,” Peter insisted, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling eagerness. “Do you know where he was yesterday?”
I froze. A cold weight settled in my chest, though I fought to keep my voice steady.
“Of course. At our cottage in the Cotswolds. He was tending to the potatoes.”
“The cottage?” Peter smirked. “Funny, that. Because I saw him in town yesterday afternoon—near Boots on High Street. With a woman. They were quite… familiar with each other.”
His words hit me like a hammer. Michael *had* left early yesterday, saying he’d be back by supper. And when he returned, he was exhausted, his clothes dirty—complaining about his aching back from digging in the garden.
“Must’ve been a mistake,” I said quietly.
“A mistake?” Peter pulled his mobile from his pocket. “I’ve got proof. Quite blurred—taken from a distance—but it’s unmistakably Michael.”
I didn’t want to look, yet my eyes betrayed me. The silhouette *did* resemble him—the same hunched shoulders, hands in pockets.
“Who is she?” I whispered.
“Don’t know yet. But mark my words, I *will* find out. I’ve got connections, Valerie. People tell me things,” Peter said, pocketing his phone with a satisfied air. “Now, don’t take it too hard. Men will be men, after all. Probably nothing serious.”
I turned and walked toward the building, my legs unsteady. Behind me, Peter called out:
“If I learn more, you’ll be the first to know! Neighbours ought to look out for one another!”
At home, I sat at the kitchen table for a long while, staring out the window. Forty-three years of marriage. Forty-three *years*. Two children raised, two grandchildren doted upon. Could he *really* be unfaithful now, at our age?
Michael came home at his usual time, kissed my cheek, washed his hands, and sat down to supper.
“How was the garden?” I asked lightly, studying him.
“Fine. Finished the potatoes, thinned the onions. My back’s killing me,” he said, stretching with a crack of his spine. “I’ll go back tomorrow—the flower beds need weeding.”
“Didn’t pop into town? Boots, perhaps? For a balm for your back?”
He looked up, startled. “Why would I? I brought everything I needed.” A pause. “Did you need something from town?”
I turned toward the stove. Either he was a flawless liar, or Peter had been mistaken. But the *photo*…
“Michael, have you seen Peter today?”
“Our neighbour? Briefly this morning in the lift. Odd fellow—kept asking where I was going, as if he were MI5.” Michael frowned. “Why? What’s he said to you?”
“Nothing. Just being nosy, as usual.”
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Forty-three years sharing a bed—and now doubt slithered in. Another woman? At *our* age?
The next morning, Michael kissed me, packed his flask and lunch, and left for the cottage. “Back by supper,” he said. “Might stop by the fishmonger’s if they’ve anything fresh.”
I saw him to the lift. Within half an hour, the doorbell rang. Peter stood there, triumphant.
“Valerie, might I come in? News!”
With a sigh, I let him in. He settled at the table, cleared his throat importantly.
“Right. The woman—her name is Lydia Wilkes. Nurse at St. Thomas’ Hospital. Widowed three years ago. Lives alone; children moved to Manchester. She and your Michael have been acquainted for six months—met in the GP’s waiting room.”
“How do you *know* this?”
“My wife’s cousin works reception there. Says she sees them together often—in the canteen, chatting outside. And,” Peter leaned in, “your husband visits the cardiologist weekly. Did you *know*?”
My hands went cold. Michael had never mentioned heart troubles.
“No,” I admitted.
“Exactly! Hiding it! And why?” Peter nodded smugly. “Follow him tomorrow. See where he *really* goes.”
“I can’t *spy* on my husband!”
“Why not? You’re his *wife*! I’m just looking out for you,” he said, rising. “But it’s your life.”
Later, I wept at the table. Forty-three years of trust—shattered by whispers.
That evening, Michael returned with fresh mackerel, chatting about his day. Normal. Familiar. Could he *really* be lying?
“Michael,” I ventured, “have you seen a doctor recently? Is something wrong?”
He stilled. “Why?”
“We’re not young. We must be careful.”
“I’m *fine*,” he said stiffly.
“Promise you’d tell me if you weren’t?”
“Of course. Why? Has someone said otherwise?”
I shook my head.
The next day, I waited outside St. Thomas’. Ridiculous—like some dreadful detective show.
At eleven, Michael arrived. He entered the pharmacy, then the hospital, where a plump nurse in scrubs greeted him. My heart pounded.
An hour later, they emerged. She handed him a slip of paper. They parted.
“Excuse me,” I asked the security guard, “that nurse—Lydia Wilkes?”
“Ah, yes. Works with Dr. Harris—the cardiologist. Fine nurse.”
At home, I paced. Was he ill? *Why* keep it from me?
Michael returned, weary. Over supper, I finally whispered, “Peter said he saw you in town. Near the hospital.”
Silence. Then: “So he *did* see me.”
“Michael—what’s wrong?”
“My heart,” he admitted. “It happened three months ago—at the cottage. Thought it was the end. The doctor… it’s serious. Might need surgery. I didn’t want to worry you.”
I embraced him tightly. “You old *fool*. We face things *together*.”
“Lydia’s just my nurse—kind, thorough. Not some sordid affair.”
I flushed. “I followed you. Like a fool.”
Michael chuckled. “And what’d you see?”
“You. Talking. Her handing you a diet plan.” He passed me the slip—low salt, more greens.
“Forgive me. I should never have doubted you.”
He kissed my brow. “Peter, though—*he* needs sorting. Too much time on his hands.”
A week later, Peter returned, triumphant.
“Well? Confronted him?”
“I did. You were right—he’s been seeing that woman.”
Peter *beamed*. “I *knew* it!”
“Lydia’s his nurse. He’s been having heart troubles.”
Peter’s face fell.
“Next time,” I said icily, “*verify* before you meddle.”
That evening, Michael laughed. “Serves him right.”
“Should we move? Away from busybodies?”
“Nonsense. Let *him* scurry off, not us.”
Peter did slink off, his nosiness subdued.
Michael recovered well—no surgery needed. Lydia remained a friend.
I’ve learned something vital:
Some people know *too* much yet understand *nothing*.
