Once upon a time in London, the lovely Maisie Whitaker was set to marry. Everyone at university had assumed the pretty girl from their year would be the first to wed. Yet, to their surprise, her chosen groom turned out to be their professor—a distinguished doctor of literature, long and unhappily married. But since when had such things ever stopped anyone? At least the age gap was only thirty years—perfectly acceptable by some standards!
“Rubbish you’ve read online!” fumed Maisie’s grandmother, Agnes. “Have you lost your senses? He’s older than your own father!”
“And what of it?” retorted her granddaughter, flattered by the elderly professor’s attentions. “It’s the fashion these days!”
“Fashion, is it? Go on then—get a tattoo on your forehead while you’re at it! Might as well stamp ‘fool’ right across it!”
“Perhaps I shall!” Maisie laughed. “Just in time for the wedding!”
Agnes sighed, watching the girl preen before the mirror. “Lost generation indeed. No sense of decency left.”
“You’ve been to his home—drank tea with his wife!” Agnes pressed, hoping to stir some shame. “No remorse?”
“Why should I feel remorse? Am I to blame if he fell for me? And those visits were proper—helping a student with her dissertation!”
“Helping with the dissertation, was it? Take the help and walk away, then! Instead, you leapt straight into their marriage bed!”
“You’re such a prude, Granny Agnes!” Maisie huffed. “Hopelessly old-fashioned. These are modern times!”
“Call bedding another woman’s husband modern, do you? I’ve another word for it!” Agnes snapped. “And don’t tell me you love him—I shan’t believe it!”
With a scoff, Maisie flounced off—tomorrow, her besotted professor was taking her to a colleague’s anniversary party, their first public outing as a couple.
By then, they were already living together in a rented flat—the professor had left his wife and filed for divorce. Tonight, Maisie had come home to fetch a gown for the occasion.
The next day, in the café, the sight of radiant Maisie beside the balding Professor Archibald Wilson left the assembled academics and their wives stunned.
The women, particularly, exchanged glances—they’d all known his first wife, Margaret.
“Good heavens!” one whispered. “Surely that’s his daughter?”
But Maisie’s manner left no doubt—her coy smiles and possessive hand on his knee were hardly filial.
The professor noticed nothing. He was utterly smitten, his judgment clouded by infatuation. He knew it was wrong, knew he’d betrayed his vows—yet he felt powerless, as though under a spell.
When the music began, he danced with her endlessly, lost in the dim lights and nostalgic melodies, intoxicated by her youthful charm.
Then Maisie was whisked away for a slow dance by the guest of honour’s son—far too close for comfort. A colleague sidled up to Archibald.
“What exactly do you intend to do with her?” he asked bluntly. “What does she offer? Wisdom? Respect for tradition?”
“What do you mean?” Archibald blinked, expecting praise for his new love.
“I mean she’s a featherbrain. And you traded Margaret for this?”
“Jealous, no doubt,” Archibald thought. His friends’ wives were long past their prime, while he had a peach—ripe, sweet, and his alone.
But the chilly reception made one thing clear—his peers disapproved.
“Fine,” he decided. “I’ve a thrilling new life now.”
The music turned lively, and Maisie twirled, her short skirt flaring—too revealing for comfort. The women gasped.
Realising the mood had soured, Archibald hurried Maisie out before fists could fly.
For the first time, doubt crept in. Had he acted rashly? Should he have waited before divorcing?
Margaret would never have behaved so crudely, though she’d been just as lovely in her youth.
But he’d confessed everything—”I’ve fallen in love. I’m leaving. Forgive me.” And Margaret, ever graceful, had let him go.
Maisie’s laughter snapped him from his thoughts. She was his happiness now—and not dim at all. Cows, after all, had lovely eyes.
Days passed. Archibald worked tirelessly, while Maisie, degree in hand but jobless, waited at home. “Why work, darling? We can afford it!”
Archibald winced at “darling” but held his tongue—what if she left?
His life had transformed. After long days, he craved the sofa, but Maisie demanded outings—cafés, evening strolls, even ice-skating.
“Let me teach you, darling!”
His belly hindered the skates. He puffed, sweating—how had it come to this?
And thoughts of Margaret intruded. The divorce was days away.
She and their children had cut ties, siding with her. At first, he hadn’t cared.
Now, he wondered—how was she?
Two days before the divorce, he returned to an empty flat. No Maisie, no note—just a text: “Gone with Jeremy. Sorry.”
Jeremy—the colleague’s son, thirty, a rising star in artificial intelligence. The very lad she’d danced with so boldly.
Archibald had served his purpose—a stepping stone. Used, then discarded.
Stunned, he sank onto the sofa, dented by her weight.
No thoughts came—just nonsense.
“Good thing I never bought the wedding suit.”
“And this belly—must do something about it.”
Then—a revelation. No more skates to lace.
Relief flooded him. Middle-aged men would understand.
Stronger than heartbreak.
He called Margaret.
“May I come over?”
“For your things? I’ll pack them.”
“No—I want to return.”
“Don’t.”
“I’ve realised I love only you.”
“Archie, dear—spare me the poetry,” she quoted dryly, and hung up.
Shame washed over him. Only now did he grasp his folly.
Yesterday, all had seemed bright. Had it ever been real?
“At least no more skating,” he mused, yawning as he curled into the sofa’s hollow.
He’d make it up to Margaret.
Smiling at the thought, he drifted off—bliss at last. Love could go hang.
