After dropping his lover off, Buckley gives her a gentle farewell and drives home. Outside his flat, he pauses for a moment, running through in his head what hell say to his wife. He heads up the stairs and unlocks the door.
Hello, says Buckley, Verity, are you in?
Im here, his wife replies without emotion. Hello. Well then, shall I go and cook the pork chops?
Buckley promises himself hell be directbold, decisive, like a proper bloke. Hell finally put an end to this double life, while the taste of his lovers kisses still lingers, before he gets swallowed up again by humdrum routine.
Verity, Buckley clears his throat, Ive come to tell you we need to separate.
Verity seems completely unbothered by the news. Its almost impossible to faze Verity Buckley. Buckley used to tease her for ithed call her Stoic Verity.
What do you mean? she asks from the kitchen doorway. Should I not bother with the pork chops then?
Its up to you, says Buckley. Cook them if you want, dont if you dont. Im leaving you for another woman.
Most wives would come at their husbands swinging a frying pan after such an announcement. Or burst into a fury. But Verity is not like most.
Big whoop, she says. Did you pick up my boots from the cobbler?
No, Buckley falters, But if thats important, Ill go right now and fetch them!
Oh, honestly Verity grumbles. Typical you, Buckley. Send a fool for boots and hell bring back the old ones.
Buckley feels wounded. The conversation about the end of their marriage isnt at all how he pictured. Theres no drama, no emotion, no righteous outrage! Then again, what else can he expect from his wooden wife, Stoic Verity?
I dont think youre listening to me, Verity! Buckley says. Im officially telling youIm leaving you for another woman. Im going, and all you care about is your boots!
Fair enough, says Verity, Unlike me, youre free to walk wherever you like. Your boots arent at the cobblers. Why not go for a stroll?
Theyve been together for years, yet Buckley still cant work out when his wife is joking and when shes dead serious. He fell for her all those years ago precisely because of her steady temperament, her calm, her few but measured words. Plus, hed been fond of her resourcefulness and her shapely figure.
Verity is solid, faithful and cool-headed, sturdy as a thirty-ton anchor. But now Buckleys heart belongs to anotherfiercely, sinfully, sweetly! Its time to put the cards on the table and pack for a new life.
So, Verity, says Buckley, with a mixture of ceremony, sorrow and regret, I am grateful for everything, but Im leavingI love someone else, not you.
Well, thats a turn-up, says Verity. He doesnt love me, the daft thing! My mum fancied the neighbour, my dad loved dominos and whisky. Look how well I turned out, eh?
Buckley knows arguing with Verity is pointless. Every word from her lands with the weight of a brick. All his initial bravado fizzles out, and he loses any desire to quarrel.
You are brilliant, Verity, Buckley admits glumly. But I love someone else. Fervently. And Im leaving. You get that, right?
Whos the other woman? Verity inquires, That Natasha Crosby, is it?
Buckley recoils. A year ago, he did indeed have a secret fling with Crosby, but he never imagined Verity even knew her!
How do you know? he starts, then stops himself. Anyway, its not Crosby.
Verity yawns.
Maybe Sylvia Burton then? Off to her?
Buckleys back goes cold. Burton was also once his lover, now in the past. And if Verity knewwhys she never said anything? Of course, shes tough as old boots. She never gives anything away.
Wrong, Buckley says. Its not Burton or Crosby. Its someone elsesomeone amazing, the woman of my dreams. I cant live without her and Im going to her. Please, dont try to stop me!
Must be Maureen then, Verity says. Oh, Buckley youre a simple soul. The worlds worst kept secret. The woman of your dreams is Maureen Victoria Gooseby. Thirty-five, one child, two terminations correct?
Buckley grabs his headbullseye! His romance is in fact with Maureen Gooseby.
Buthow? Buckley stammers. Who told you? Are you spying on me?
Dead easy, Buckley, says Verity. Listen, Im a gynaecologist by trade. Ive examined just about every woman in this town, while youve barely scratched the surface. All it takes is a look in the right place and I know exactly where youve been, you daft thing.
Buckley tries to collect himself.
All right, suppose you guessed right! he says defiantly. Lets say it IS Gooseby. It changes nothing. Im leaving for her.
You are a fool, Buckley, says Verity. You could have just asked me! Theres nothing special about Gooseby, shes no different to anyone else, trust meas a professional. Have you seen her medical history?
N-no Buckley confesses.
Exactly! First offyou get yourself in that shower, pronto. Tomorrow Ill ring Doctor Simmons, hell see you at the clinic, no waiting, declares Verity. Then well talk. Its a disgrace: a gynaecologists husband cant find himself a woman in good nick!
So what am I supposed to do? Buckley whines.
Im going to cook those pork chops, says Verity. You go wash up, do as you please. If you want the woman of your dreamsand shes disease-freecome to me, Ill give you some recommendationsAnd with that, Verity disappears into the kitchen, her footsteps sturdy and sure. Buckley stands blinking in the hallway, coat sagging off his shoulders, consigned to the memory of being someone important. What did he expect? Shouting, begging, fireworks? Instead, hes left with the smell of frying, the ordinary hush of the flat, and the low, relentless hum of Veritys old radio from behind the kitchen door.
He lingers by the bathroom, caught between the old life and whatever comes after. Finally, Buckley slips off his shoes, feeling the oddest sensationa mix of relief and humiliation, tenderness wrapped in loss. He hears Verity clattering pans, humming tunelessly, as if nothing at all has changed.
A breeze drifts in through an open window. For one foolish second, Buckley wonders if hes dreaming: that maybe he will walk into the kitchen, wrap his arms around Verity, and the notion of ever leaving will feel as ridiculous as his worries about the boots. But he knows himself. And he knows Verity.
He turns up the hot water. As steam fills the air, the world shrinks to the gentle sizzle of pork, and the promise of a perfectly ordinary nighthis last in this life, or his first in a new one.
Dinner in ten, Verity calls out, her voice neither warmer nor colder than usual.
Buckley looks in the mirror, at the man he isno more, no less. With a sigh and the beginnings of a laugh, he starts to wash his hands, still tasting the sweetness of infidelity and the steadfastness of home.
Behind him, in the kitchen, Verity sings a familiar old songsoft, unwavering. Buckley listens, uncertain, as home and freedom blur together in the fading evening light.
