After dropping his mistress off, Burchin bid her a tender farewell and drove home. He paused for a second outside his front door, mentally rehearsing what he’d say to his wife. Then he climbed the stairs and unlocked the door.
“Hello,” Burchin called. “Claire, are you home?”
“I’m here,” his wife replied flatly. “Hello. Should I start frying the pork chops?”
Burchin had sworn to himself he’d act decisively—boldly, firmly, like a man! He’d put an end to his double life while his mistress’s kisses still lingered on his lips, before the dull sludge of routine dragged him back down.
“Claire,” Burchin cleared his throat. “I need to tell you… we should split up.”
Claire took the news with remarkable calm. In fact, it was nearly impossible to rattle her. Once, Burchin had even teased her for it, calling her “Frosty Claire.”
“You mean I shouldn’t bother with the pork chops?” she asked from the kitchen doorway.
“Up to you,” Burchin said. “Fry them if you like, don’t if you don’t. I’m leaving you for another woman.”
Most wives would fly at their husbands with a frying pan or launch into a furious scene. Claire wasn’t like most wives.
“Oh, what a fuss over nothing,” she said. “Did you pick up my boots from the cobbler?”
“No,” Burchin faltered. “If it matters that much, I’ll fetch them right now!”
“Honestly…” Claire muttered. “Trust you, Burchin. Send a fool for boots, and he’ll bring back the old ones.”
Burchin bristled. This wasn’t how a marital breakup was meant to go—where were the tears, the fiery accusations? Though what else could he expect from his stone-faced wife, Frosty Claire?
“Claire, I don’t think you’re listening!” he snapped. “I’m telling you straight—I’m leaving you for another woman, and all you care about are boots!”
“Exactly,” Claire said. “Unlike me, you can walk away whenever you like. Your boots aren’t at the cobbler’s. So why not?”
They’d been married a long time, but Burchin still couldn’t tell when Claire was joking or serious. Back when they’d met, he’d been drawn to her steady temper, her avoidance of drama, her quiet efficiency. Plus, her housekeeping skills and her firm, pleasant curves hadn’t hurt.
Claire was dependable, loyal, and unshakable as a battleship’s anchor. But Burchin loved someone else now—passionately, sinfully, deliciously! So he had to make a clean break and cast off into his new life.
“And so, Claire,” Burchin said with solemn finality. “I’m grateful for everything, but I’m leaving you. I don’t love you anymore.”
“Good lord,” Claire sighed. “He doesn’t love me, the poor sod. My mum fancied the neighbour; Dad loved dominoes and whisky. And look how brilliantly I turned out.”
Arguing with Claire was pointless—every word of hers landed like a sledgehammer. Burchin’s earlier fervour had fizzled out; he no longer felt like making a scene.
“Claire, you really are brilliant,” he said weakly. “But I love someone else—so much it burns. And I’m leaving. Understand?”
“Who’s the lucky lady?” Claire asked. “Not Natalie Brampton, surely?”
Burchin stiffened. A year ago, he’d had a fling with Natalie, but he had no idea Claire even knew her!
“How on earth—?” he started, then stopped. “Never mind. No, it’s not Brampton.”
Claire yawned.
“Then maybe it’s Sarah Whittington? Fancy her, do you?”
Burchin’s back went cold. Whittington had been another affair—though long over. If Claire had known, why had she stayed silent? Right—she was unflappable, impossible to pry a word from.
“Wrong again,” he said. “Not Whittington or Brampton. This one’s extraordinary, the woman of my dreams. I can’t live without her, and I’m walking out. Don’t try to stop me!”
“Ah, so it’s Maisie then,” Claire said. “Oh, Burchin… you absolute muppet. Open secret, if ever there was one. The woman of your dreams? Maisie Valentine Greyson. Thirty-five, one child, two terminations… am I warm?”
Burchin clutched his head. Bullseye! He’d been seeing Maisie Greyson.
“But how?” he stammered. “Who told you? Have you been spying on me?”
“Elementary, Burchin,” Claire said. “Love, I’m a gynaecologist. I’ve examined every woman in this blasted town—while you’ve only managed a fraction. One look is all it takes to know you’ve been there, you daft nit.”
Burchin pulled himself together.
“Fine, you guessed right!” he declared. “Even if it is Greyson, it doesn’t change a thing. I’m still leaving.”
“You’re dim, Burchin,” Claire said. “You might’ve just asked! Honestly, there’s nothing special about Greyson—just another ordinary woman, medically speaking. Have you even seen her medical history?”
“N-no,” Burchin admitted.
“Exactly. First, get in the shower. Second, I’ll ring Dr. Simmonds tomorrow—he’ll see you at the clinic without an appointment,” Claire said. “Then we’ll talk. It’s embarrassing—a gynaecologist’s husband who can’t find a clean woman!”
“What am I meant to do?” Burchin whined.
“I’m frying the pork chops,” Claire said. “You wash up and do what you like. If you want a dream woman without the hassle, just ask—I’ll recommend someone…”
