Martin was haunted by regret. Hed rushed his divorce where clever men keep their lovers as elegant treats, hed made his mistress a full-time wife.
Martins buoyant mood vanished the moment he parked his Volvo and entered his front hallway. Home greeted him exactly as expected: slippers laid out neatly by the door, the scent of roast drifting in, every surface gleaming, and fresh daffodils arranged in a vase.
Honestly, hardly touching. Of course his wife was home what else is a retired woman meant to do all day? Bake pies, knit socks maybe. Okay, socks was stretching it. The gist was clear.
Margaret, as usual, came forward with a gentle smile:
Long day, love? Made your favourites cabbage pie, apple tart
She trailed off under Martins heavy gaze. She stood there in her sensible trousers and homey top, her hair tucked beneath a scarf, always when cooking. It was a professional chef habit, that hair. Liner just so, a hint of gloss which suddenly struck Martin as dreadfully gauche. Whats with tarting up your twilight years?
He probably couldve been kinder, but it flew out:
Isnt makeup a bit much, at your age? Doesn’t suit you, Margaret.
Margarets lips trembled. She didnt reply, nor did she bother to set the table for him. Just as well. Pies under a tea towel, a pot of tea steepinghed manage.
After a shower and dinner, Martins mood thawed somewhat, as did memories of his day. He settled into his favourite armchair in his battered old dressing gown, pretending to read. That new recruit had said:
Youre actually rather charming, Mr. Brown. Very interesting!
Martin was fifty-six and headed up the legal department at a major London firm. Under him: one freshly minted solicitor and three seasoned women all comfortably over forty. Another had gone off on maternity, so theyd brought in Alice.
Martin had been on business up north when Alice signed her contract, so only met her today.
Hed invited her into his office to get acquainted. With her came a fresh waft of perfume and youthful self-assurance. Heart-shaped face framed in golden waves, blue eyes bright, lips plump, a beauty spot on her cheek. Not thirty, surely? Martin would have said twenty-five.
Divorced, mum to an eight-year-old. For reasons unclear, Martin thought, Well, good.
Chatting with her, hed flirted a bit, joking that shed landed a crusty old boss. Alice fluttered her lashes and countered, with words that still echoed in Martins mind.
Margaret, whod recovered from his comments, appeared beside his chair with his evening chamomile. He scowled; always at the worst moment.
Still, he drank it happily enough. He found himself wondering what Alice was doing right now. The old pang of jealousy struck.
***
Alice popped into Sainsburys after work. Cheese, loaf, a bottle of kefir for herself. No smile when she got home: she hugged her son Toby in automatic fashion, not much warmth.
Her father pottered in the conservatory, where he kept his model railway, and mum prepped dinner. As Alice unpacked, she declared her head ached and not to touch her. Truth be told, she was feeling glum.
Alice, since splitting up years ago with Tobys dad, had been strivingwith little luckto become someones cherished leading lady.
All the good men were securely married and keen on things no more serious than a pleasant fling.
Her last affair had been two wild years. Hed even rented her a flat (more for his own convenience), but when things got sticky, declared they must break upand she absolutely had to quit her job too.
Hed even found her a new one. So Alice was back, living with her folks and Toby. Mum comforted her as only a woman can, and Dad insisted a child must have at least his mum as well as his grandparents.
Margaret, meanwhile, had long noticed Martin was suffering what can only be described as a midlife crisis. Everything on paper, but missing the spark. She dreaded what might pass for spark to her husband. She tried smoothing things over: made his favourite meals, kept herself tidy, didnt push for soul-baring conversations (though she very much wished she could).
She threw herself into gardening and doting on their grandchild, but Martin just moped.
And so, both craving a change, Martins and Alices little romance sprang up overnight. Just two weeks after Alice joined the company, Martin invited her for lunch and then drove her home.
He brushed her hand; she turneda flush on her cheeks.
I dont want this evening to end Fancy coming to my cottage? he asked hoarsely. Alice nodded, and off they sped.
On Fridays, Martin wrapped up work an hour early. Yet it was only at nine that his anxious wife got a text: Well talk tomorrow.
Martin had no idea how aptly hed summed up the comingand ultimately pointlesschat. Margaret knew fires dont rage after thirty-two years of marriage.
But Martin was so fundamentally hers, losing him felt like having a bit of her heart carved out. He might grumble, mutter, act up like a typical bloke, but he belonged there, in his chair, eating supper, breathing beside her.
Margaret lay awake, rummaging desperately for the words that might save (well, her own) life.
She found herself flicking through their wedding album. There they were, young with the world ahead of them. Shed been quite the looker! Plenty had wanted her as their own. Her husband needed to recall that. She hoped, when he saw those scraps of happy past (yes, on her terms), hed realise some things shouldnt simply be binned.
But he arrived only on Sunday, and straight away Margaret knew: it was the end. Before her was a changed Martin, positively fizzing with adrenaline. All shame or awkwardness was gone.
Unlike herself, nervy about change, Martin wanted itplanned it, even. He spoke with all the tact of a drill sergeant.
From now on, Margaret could consider herself free. Hed file for divorce, himself, tomorrow. The flat, where their sons family lived, would go to Margaret (as the paperwork showed it was actually Martins inherited property). The family would move, everyone as per the law.
Their sons lot wouldnt suffer from moving to the roomy three-bedroom with Margaret, and shed have people to fuss over. The car was, naturally, his. The cottagehed reserve the right to visit.
Margaret, painfully aware of her own pathetic tears, failed to stop them. They clogged her throather pleas came out garbled. She begged him to stop, to remember, to consider health, at least his own. That last bit triggered his anger.
He moved in close and hissed, almost shouted:
Dont drag me into your old age, Margaret!
It would be generous to say Alice loved Martin, and so agreed to marry him that first night at the cottage.
But the married woman status appealed; as did the sizzle of having been left for (and now chosen over) her stubborn lover.
She was fed up of living in a home ruled by her fathers blunt judgements. She wanted some stability. All of which Martin provided. Not the worst option, she admitted.
Despite speeding towards sixty, he didnt look remotely like a granddad. Tidy, fit, youthful. Head of a department, smart as a tack, good company. And in bed, thoughtfuland generous. Plus, thered be no rented flats, skint weeks, or missing socks, thank goodness. Mostly perks; she did have mild age concerns though.
A year in, Alice found a slow disappointment growing. She still felt like a young girl, wanting more excitement than strictly dignified and once-a-year doses. She craved concerts, day trips to a waterpark, sunbathing at the beach in a cheeky swimsuit, gossipy coffee sessions with friends.
Thanks to her brio, she juggled all this with home and son just fine.
Martin, meanwhile, was clearly flagging. At work, the competent solicitor, at home he was well, tired, craving quiet, and fiercely protective of his habits. He tolerated guests, theatre, even the beach, but in strict moderation.
Never said no to intimacybut afterwards, straight to sleep, even if it was nine oclock.
He was a delicate eater too: no fried food, no sausages, no shop-bought ready meals. His ex had spoiled him.
Occasionally, he even longed for her steamed dinners. Alice cooked as Toby preferred, baffled that pork chops could cause an actual stomach ache.
She didnt bother memorising his tablet schedule. Grown men, surely, can handle their own pill routine. Over time, she found more and more of her life simply going on without Martin.
Shed take Toby as her sidekick, factor in his adventures, hang out with friends. Rather odd, but Martins age seemed to push her to rush her living.
They no longer worked togetherthe firm frowned on manager-spouse arrangements and Alice moved to a notarys practice. It was a relief not being monitored daily by a man who was starting to remind her of her dad.
Respectthats what Alice felt for Martin. Whether thats enough for a couples happinesswho can say?
Martins sixtieth approached, and Alice dreamed up a blowout bash. But he booked a quiet table at some local bistro hed dined at for years. He seemed bored, but at his age, fair enough. Alice didnt fuss.
It was Martins colleagues who toasted him. Inviting old family friends from his first marriage felt awkward. His extended family kept their distance and hed found scant sympathy marrying a younger model.
His son hardly spoke to him. Officially disowned. A father can lead his own life, surely? Although, truthfully, Martin had pictured leading his life in a different vein.
The first year with Alice was a honeymoon. He enjoyed going out with her, cheerfully indulged her moderate spending, her friends, her fitness classes.
He even survived concerts and mad films. On this wave of goodwill, he made Alice and Toby co-owners of the flat. Later, he handed over his share of the cottage he and Margaret had owned jointly.
Behind his back, Alice pressed Margaret to sell her half. She threatened to flog her share to dodgy buyers.
Martin footed the bill, and Alice took full ownership. Her logic: it was good for Toby, with river and woods nearby. That summer, Alices parents and Toby stayed at the cottage all seasonsuited Martin, who was hardly captivated by Alices boisterous son. After all, hed married for love, not custodial duties for someone elses noisy child.
The old family was stung. Taking the money, they sold off their three-bed and split up. The son moved his brood to a two-bed; Margaret, now single, ended up in a studio. How they lived, Martin couldnt saynor did he care much.
And so, came the big six-oh. Folks lined up to wish him health, happiness, lovewhich he hadnt felt for ages. Year by year, that familiar sense of dissatisfaction grew stronger.
Loved his young wife, certainly, but couldnt keep pace with her. And pinning her down was impossible. She smiled and just got on. She never oversteppedbut that, too, was grating.
Oh, if only she had a pinch of Margarets soul! Coming over with chamomile tea, tucking a blanket round him when he nodded off. Martin would love slow walks in the park and kitchen whispers late at night. But Alice didnt stand his long stories. She seemed to be getting bored in bed too. He got anxious, and it didnt help.
Martin nursed his regret: hed rushed the divorce. Seasoned men know how to keep a lover magicalhed made his into a missus!
With Alices fire, shell still be a cheeky filly for a decade. But even after forty, shell seem much younger. That gap will only widen. If hes lucky, hell drop dead instantly. If not
These not-very-party thoughts throbbed at his temples, sent his heart racing. Martin scanned the crowd for Aliceshe was dancing, looking radiant and sparkling-eyed. Yes, happiness is waking with her. But…
On impulse, Martin slipped out of the restaurant, craving air, hoping to shake off his gloom. But colleagues followed, determined to keep the party alive. Feeling overwhelmed, he flung himself into the first black cab he saw. Just drive, please! he barked. Hed figure out the destination later.
He fancied somewhere where he mattered, where simply entering made him welcome. Where time with him was valued and he could drop his guard, unafraid of seeming weakor worse, old.
He called his son, almost pleading, for Margarets new address. He got a well-earned earful, but insisted: this was a matter of life and dedeath.
He muttered that it was his birthday bash, after all. His son softened: Just so you know, Mum might have company. Not a boyfriend. Just an old friend.
Mum said they went to school together. Silly surname um, Crumpet, I think.
Crumpett, Martin corrected, with a jolt of jealousy. Yes, hed fancied her. Shed had admirers aplentypretty, bold.
She nearly married Crumpett, but Martin had swept her away. Ages ago, but so fresh, it felt more real than his new life with Alice.
His son asked, What do you want with this, Dad?
Martin flinched at the old endearment. Not sure, son.
His son gave him the address. The cabbie stopped as requested; Martin got out. He didnt fancy any more witnesses as he spoke with Margaret. It was nearly nine; but she was always a night owland somehow, for him, also a morning lark.
He buzzed up.
But it was not Margaret who answered, but some older-sounding man. Shes busy, he said.
What is it?! Is she alright? Martin fretted. The voice demanded Martin state his business.
Im her husband, you know! And you must be Mr Crumpett, Martin retorted.
The Mr corrected him: ex-husband, therefore no right to trouble Margaret. No explanation that his friend was merely having a bath.
What, old flame doesnt rust? Martin said acidly, ready for a proper squabble. But Crumpett replied, calmly:
No, it just becomes silver.
The door stayed firmly shut.
