The Second Chance
“Joan, are you heading home?” Her colleague, Charlotte, tapped impatiently on the desk with manicured nails.
“No, I’ll stay a bit longer. My husband’s supposed to pick me up,” Joan lied smoothly.
“Well, suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” With a sway of her hips, Charlotte left the office.
One by one, the staff departed, their hurried footsteps and clicking heels echoing down the corridor. Joan picked up her phone and sighed. “Probably had a pint already, sprawled in front of the telly with his belly up,” she thought bitterly. She pressed the call button. After three long rings, the murmur of the television filled the line before Victor’s voice finally came through.
“Yes?”
“Vic, it’s pouring out, and I’m in suede boots. Come get me.”
“Sorry, love, I’ve had a drink. Take a cab,” he replied.
“Of course. Nothing new from you. You promised to carry me in your arms when you proposed, remember?”
“Joan, darling, the match is on—” The roar of the crowd cut him off, and Joan ended the call.
Long gone were the days when he’d wait for her outside the office. Back then, he didn’t even have a car, yet he’d always find a way. With another sigh, she shut down her computer, slipped on her coat, and stepped out.
The hollow tap of her heels disturbed the quiet hallway. Everyone else had left. Downstairs in the lobby, the deputy director, Mr. Daniel Whitmore, stood by the security desk, phone to his ear. Tall, impeccably dressed in a long black overcoat, he looked more like a Hollywood actor than a corporate executive. The office gossips whispered he was unmarried.
Joan had always been sharp-tongued. “Must be something wrong with him if he’s still single,” she’d once muttered.
“He’s seeing a model—forget her name. She’s always on magazine covers,” Charlotte had said, ever the fountain of society gossip.
Victor used to be just as striking in his youth. Thirty pull-ups a day on the playground bars. And then… he’d let himself go, traded fitness for pints, grown a paunch. Now, every evening, Joan came home to the same sight: Victor on the sofa, a can of beer on the floor beside him.
She was nearly at the door when a smooth baritone sent shivers down her spine.
“Joan Elizabeth, working late?”
“I thought my husband would fetch me, but he couldn’t make it,” she replied with a practised smile, turning to face him.
Mr. Whitmore slipped his phone into his coat pocket and stepped closer.
“Let me drive you.” He pushed the door open, holding it for her.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t impose. A cab will do,” she demurred, stepping out into the rain. She paused at the top of the steps, eyeing the puddles and her ruined suede boots. Bloody spring—no sooner had the snow melted than the rains came.
“Consider your cab arrived.” He took her elbow, guiding her toward his gleaming Range Rover. How could she refuse? Pity none of the other women were around to see. Mr. Whitmore had no shortage of admirers.
He disarmed the alarm, opening the passenger door with a flourish. She hopped up onto the high seat with an exaggerated gasp, smoothing her skirt over her knees. He shut the door gently, circled the car, and slid in beside her.
“I’ve been watching you. Firm but fair—never too harsh, never too soft. I think you’d do well leading the marketing department.”
“What about Margaret?” Joan asked, surprised.
“Time for her to retire. Reliable, yes, but she struggles with the new systems.”
Joan shifted in her seat, torn. She felt a pang for Margaret, who’d trained her years ago. But the offer was too good to pass up.
“Her grandson’s about to marry. She wanted to save for his flat,” Joan said softly.
“That’s not your concern. If that’s the only issue, she’ll have a generous severance. So, do you accept?”
She felt his gaze linger on her profile. For a moment, she stared ahead, feigning contemplation. When she turned, he was looking through the windscreen.
Joan suddenly realised they’d nearly passed her street. “Turn right—this is mine. Stop by that entrance.”
The car halted, but Joan hesitated. Words of gratitude escaped her.
“Perhaps we could have lunch sometime?” His voice was like velvet.
Her heart leapt at the suggestion.
“Perhaps,” she said with a playful smile, slipping out onto the wet pavement.
“Until tomorrow,” he beamed.
His voice and smile left her dizzy as the Range Rover bounced over the potholes—typical for their neighbourhood.
The next day, under everyone’s watchful eyes, they lunched together at a café. Then came dinners… and then…
Needless to say, what followed was inevitable. What woman could resist such a man? Only one whose husband hadn’t yet sunk to the depths of a sofa cushion.
Joan floated through her days, desired, rejuvenated, ten years younger. Life no longer felt dull. Yet, each evening, the sight of Victor on the sofa grated more and more.
Tonight was no different. The telly droned, a half-finished bottle of beer on the floor. She itched to kick it over, vent her frustration. But she’d be the one cleaning it. Ignoring his stare, she began changing.
“You’ve changed. You’re so…” He trailed off, searching for the word.
“Finally noticed, have you?” she thought savagely.
“Changed how? I’m the same.”
“You look like you did when we met. Fallen in love?”
“What if I have? You never pay me any mind. The telly and your beer matter more.”
“I noticed! You’ve changed your hair,” he ventured.
“I’ve had this style for three years,” she snapped. “We haven’t been to the cinema in ages. Couldn’t we dine out for once? I’m tired too, but I don’t just collapse—I cook.”
“No one cooks like you,” he offered lamely. “What’s got into you?”
Joan looked at him—his voice, his clumsy compliments, his very presence—and felt only boredom. “Maybe I should leave. But where would I go? Where would he go?”
“You’re different lately,” Charlotte murmured when they were alone. “Glowing. In love? Rumor says you and Mr. Whitmore. Bold move. Given your husband the boot?”
“As if. You sound just like him.”
“Lucky you. Husband and a lover. Vera’s fifteen years younger, yet he’s smitten with you.”
Joan stayed silent, but jealousy pricked her heart. Vera was unattached, beautiful—just the sort men adored.
“Listen, give me that woman’s address—the one who does spells,” Joan whispered.
“Who’s the target? Mr. Whitmore? Or eliminating competition?”
“My husband. The spell to undo what’s already undone. So, will you?”
“Fine.” Charlotte scrolled through her contacts. “Sent. That bad?”
“Worse.”
“Surely Victor isn’t cheating?”
“I wish he were.”
“Then what’s missing? Mr. Whitmore won’t marry you.”
“It’s not about him. Thanks, I’ve work to do.”
That evening, she visited the address. A plump woman in an expensive dress answered, her sharp gaze making Joan shiver.
“Here to be rid of your husband?”
“No, nothing so drastic. Just…” She told her story.
“One drop in his tea daily. No more—it’s potent. Overdo it, and his heart might fail. Better used on the lover,” the woman advised.
Joan paid and fled the dim, herb-scented flat.
At home, she hid the vial in the kitchen cupboard—Victor and their daughter never rummaged there. Still, she tucked it behind the tea box. She hadn’t decided if she’d use it. Pity she hadn’t asked if beer would work.
Victor lay on the sofa, beer at his feet. She stepped in front of the telly.
“What?”
“Lazing again. Help with dinner.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Learn. What’ll you eat alone?”
“Alone? What about you? Emily?”
“I’m leaving.” She turned sharply, and his belly bumped her. She wrinkled her nose.
Then it all spilled out—maybe the potion’s influence, maybe years of resentment. She couldn’t stop, denying him even a word.
When she finally paused, he asked, stunned, “What about me?”
“Keep lazing.”
“And Emily?”
“She’s grown. Let her choose.”
Joan wasn’t truly leaving—but the vial gnawed at her. She hoped wounded pride would spur him to action, make him storm out. No sin on her conscience.
“Enough.” She walked away. He scurried after her.
“WaitAs she turned back to face him one last time, she realized love wasn’t found in grand gestures or secret spells, but in the quiet, everyday choice to stay and try again.
