**A Second Chance**
“Joanne, are you heading home?” Emily tapped her manicured nails impatiently against the desk.
“No, I’ll stay a bit longer. My husband’s picking me up,” Joanne lied smoothly.
“Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” Emily swayed out of the office, hips swaying.
One by one, colleagues left. Outside, hurried footsteps and clicking heels echoed. Joanne picked up her phone, thoughts drifting. *Probably already had a few pints, sprawled in front of the telly, belly up.* She sighed and pressed dial. After three rings, the muffled buzz of the TV reached her before Victor’s voice:
“Yeah?”
“Vic, it’s pouring, and I’m in suede boots. Come get me.”
“Jo, love, didn’t think you’d call—had a couple. Just grab a cab, eh?”
“Typical. Should’ve known. Remember when you proposed? Promised to carry me in your arms.”
“Jo, pet, the match—” A roar of fans drowned him out. Joanne hung up.
Gone were the days he’d waited outside her office. Back then, he didn’t even have a car but still fetched her daily. Sighing, she shut her computer, bundled up, and left.
Her heels shattered the corridor’s silence. Everyone had gone. Downstairs, by security, stood Daniel Blackwood—deputy director—tall, trim, his long black coat straight out of a film. The women whispered: *Still single.*
Joanne had quipped once, “Must be something wrong with him, fit like that and still free.”
“Dating some model. Forget her name—she’s all over magazines,” Emily had said, always in the know.
Victor had been just as striking in his youth—thirty pull-ups daily at the park gym. Then… laziness set in. The pints, the gut. Now, coming home meant the same sight: Victor on the sofa, telly blaring, a lager at his feet.
She’d nearly reached the doors when a smooth baritone sent shivers down her spine.
“Joanne Elizabeth, working late?”
“Thought my husband would collect me. He couldn’t.” She turned, forcing a smile.
Daniel pocketed his phone and stepped closer.
“Let me drive you.” He held the door open.
“Oh, no, really—I’ll just call a cab,” she protested, stepping into the rain. Puddles dotted the pavement; her suede boots were doomed.
“Consider your cab here.” Daniel took her elbow, guiding her to his Range Rover.
How could she refuse? Pity none of the girls saw—they’d be green. Plenty hunted for his attention.
He disarmed the alarm, swinging her door open. She hopped in, giggling at the height, smoothing her skirt demurely. Daniel shut her in, circled the car, and slid into the driver’s seat.
“I’ve watched you. Firm but fair—never let anyone slack. You could lead Marketing.”
“But what about Margaret?” Joanne blinked.
“Past retirement. Solid worker, but… she struggles with new systems.”
Joanne shifted, guilty. Margaret had trained her. Yet the offer was tempting.
“Her grandson’s saving for a flat—she wanted to stay longer,” Joanne murmured.
“Not your concern. If that’s all, she’ll get a generous package. Well?”
His gaze lingered on her profile. She paused, pretending to weigh it. When she turned, he was staring ahead.
Suddenly, they’d passed her street.
“Turn right—there’s my house. That block.”
He stopped, but Joanne hesitated, scrambling for gratitude.
“Perhaps lunch sometime?” Daniel’s velvet tone sent her pulse racing.
“Maybe,” she teased, flashing a smile before darting into the rain.
“Until tomorrow.” His grin dazzled.
Her head spun as the Range Rover bounced over potholes—plenty in their estate.
Next day, under everyone’s gaze, they lunched together. Then dinners followed. And then…
Needless to say what came next. What woman wouldn’t falter for a man like that? Only one with a husband not yet couch-bound.
Joanne floated, desired, decades younger. Life sparkled again. Yet each day, Victor’s sprawled form grated more.
Tonight, same scene: telly on, half-drunk lager on the floor. She stifled the urge to kick it, spill her fury with the beer. But she’d clean it. Sighing, she changed, ignoring his stare.
“You’ve changed. Gone all…” Victor trailed off.
*Finally noticed, have you?* she thought smugly.
“Gone what? Normal,” she countered.
“You look like when we first met. Found someone else?”
“What if I have? You ignore me. Telly and lager mean more.”
“I noticed. Your hair’s different,” he ventured.
“Had this cut three years.” She exhaled. “We haven’t been to the cinema in ages. Or a proper dinner. I work too, but I cook—you just *lie* there.”
“Jo, your cooking beats any chef’s,” he offered. “What’s got into you?”
She studied him—his voice, clumsy compliments, his very sight bored her now. *Maybe I should leave. But where?*
“You’ve been odd lately,” Emily whispered at work. “Glowing. Daniel Blackwood, eh? Giving Vic the boot?”
“As if. You sound just like him.”
“Lucky you. Husband *and* a lover. Veronica’s fifteen years younger, yet he’s after *you*.”
Joanne’s heart pinched. Veronica *was* stunning, single—men adored that.
“Em, that woman who does charms—her address?”
“Who’s the target? Daniel? Or eliminating competition?”
“To *un*charm my husband. Well?”
Emily sent it. “That bad?”
“Worse.”
“He’s cheating?”
“Wish he would.”
“Daniel’s temporary—not proposing, is he?”
“Not about him. Thanks, I’ve work.”
That evening, Joanne visited the address. A plump woman in designer dress eyed her sharply.
“Here to ditch the husband?”
“No! Just…” She spilled most of it.
“One drop daily in his tea. No more—it’s strong. Overdo it, his heart gives out. Better use it on the lover.”
Joanne paid, fleeing the incense-heavy flat.
At home, she hid the vial behind tea bags—Victor and their daughter never rummaged there.
But she hesitated. Maybe in his lager—he’d drink that.
Entering the lounge, she blocked the telly. Victor blinked up.
“What?”
“Just *lying* there. Help with dinner for once.”
“Can’t cook, love.” He groaned upright.
“Learn. What’ll you eat alone?” She turned.
“Alone? You? And Lucy?” He hurried after.
“I’m leaving.” She spun; his belly bumped her. She grimaced.
Then it all spilled—maybe the vial’s influence, maybe years of pent-up resentment. She raged, unstoppable.
Finally breathless, Victor whispered, “What about me?”
“Keep lying there.”
“And Lucy?”
“She’s grown. Her choice.”
Joanne wasn’t truly leaving—yet the vial taunted her. She’d hoped wounded pride would make him storm out. No guilt then.
“Enough.” She walked off.
Victor scrambled after. “Wait—Jo, I love you. I can’t—” A gasp cut him short.
She turned. He slid down the wall, clutching his chest.
“Don’t fake it.” She stepped away—then his head slumped.
She shook him, checked his pulse—nothing.
“Lucy! Your dad!”
Their fifteen-year-old dashed in. “Kitchen cupboard—drops in water!” she babbled.
Lucy brought a glass. Joanne tipped it into his mouth—most missed, soaking his shirt.
“God, what am I doing?” She leapt up. “What did you give him?” Lucy showed the pharmacy vial.
“Then why isn’t he—? Call an ambulance!”
Rummaging the cupboard, she found the real vial—unopened. She hurled it into the bin.
Paramedics arrived. Joanne babbled, “I poisoned him.”
“With this?” The doctor sighed. “Harmless. Heart attack. Hospital now. Married long? Tiff, eh?”
At the hospital, Joanne paced until a doctor sent her home—sedated, shoved into a cab.
“Sedentary life—lager, fags. Heart couldn’t take it,” the driver lectured.
Daily, she visited, heart breaking. Daniel’s charm faded to nothing.
“Forgive me. It’s my fault,” she whispered once Victor could walk the wards.
“No, *I’m* sorry. I believed you’d go. Scared me breathless. I’ll change. Give me another chance…”
Three weeks laterVictor came home a changed man—not a beer in sight, just love and gratitude, and Joanne realized sometimes the darkest moments lead to the brightest new beginnings.
