6th March
Today was the day Id prepared for, meticulously and quietly. I set the oven, kneaded the dough, brushed the flour from my palms, and checked the kitchen clock. Everything had to be just right. The pasties needed to bake to that perfect golden colourcrisp at the edges, soft in the middleexactly as James liked them.
There was a time my life moved along in the most ordinary way. Id grown used to the silence of my little London flat, had almost made peace with the idea that it would always just be me and Pip, my tabby cat. But then, nearly three years ago, everything changed the moment James walked into that interview room at the library where I worked. Tall, self-assured, always with a glint of mischief in his blue eyes. I could never quite put a finger on it, but something inside me leapt.
From that moment, everything shifted. Love, a whirlwind of hope, white wedding liliesand the first time in ages, I truly felt I was where I belonged. I gave him everything, and I never saw the edges where love and self might blur.
Two years on, out of the blue, James packed a suitcase and said he needed to go away on businessjust a month, he promised. That month stretched out, aimless and ghostly, until it became a whole year. His calls were short and mechanical, his messages lifeless. I made excuses for him, clung to hope, even as it waned.
And then, one afternoon, Mrs. Jenkins from down the street told me with poorly concealed surprise shed seen James in Oxford Streetarm in arm, laughing, with a woman Id never met. He hadnt left London at all.
I could have made a scene, dialled his number, demanded an explanation. But I didnt. Silence, after all, is the best friend of revenge.
It was a year before the phone rang again, and his voice, so familiar and foreign, told me, The jobs done, Im coming home. Just before hanging up, with that casual entitlement, he added, Bake your signature pastiespotato and cheese. Ive missed them.
You really did bake my favourite pasties! were the first words out of Jamess mouth as he swaggered back into my kitchen, reeking of someone elses perfume. He perched on the old wooden stool, glancing around as if hed never been gone. He smiled at meblithe, assured, as if nothing bad had ever touched our lives.
He reached for a pasty, broke it open, and took a huge bite in that boisterous way he always had. I watched silently as the colour drained from his face, eyes wide with shock. He wasnt expecting what lay hidden inside.
Id prepared everything as I always had: the dough perfectly risen, filling seasoned to taste, each edge crimped in the way Mum taught me. But today, not every pasty was filled with mashed potato. One held a handful of tiny glass shards.
The moment James bit into it, the change was instant. He spat the mouthful out, but too late: blood welled in his mouth, his tongue and gums lacerated and stinging. Clutching the table, coughing, his eyes frantic, he tried to form words but only managed a rasping breath.
I kept my voice steady, my eyes fixed. Thats for your lies and your unfaithfulness, James. Next time you think about deceiving someone, remember this pain.
He groped for his phone with shaking hands, blood dribbling from his mouth. I had already turned away. I picked up my bagpacked days agoslipped on my coat, and walked to the door.
I didnt call an ambulance. I didnt look back or utter another word.
As I closed the door behind me, leaving James at the kitchen table with his agony and his guilt, I realised my story wasnt ending. It was, at last, turning a new page.
