**A Second Chance**
*Diary Entry*
“Anne, are you heading home?” My friend Emma tapped impatiently on the desk with her manicured nails.
“No, I’ll be staying late. My husband’s supposed to pick me up,” I lied without flinching.
“Alright, suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” With a sway of her hips, Emma walked out of the office.
One by one, my colleagues left. Outside, hurried footsteps and the click of heels echoed. I picked up my phone and sighed. *He’s probably already had a few pints, sprawled in front of the telly, belly up.* Three rings later, I heard the murmur of the television before Victor’s voice finally crackled through:
“Yeah?”
“Vic, it’s pouring out, and I’m in suede boots. Come get me.”
“Annie, love, I didn’t think you’d call—I’ve had a drink. Just grab a cab, yeah?”
“Of course. Why did I expect anything else? You promised to carry me in your arms when you proposed, remember?”
“Annie, sweetheart, the footie’s on—” The roar of the crowd drowned him out, and I ended the call.
Those days were gone—the days he’d wait for me outside the office, even without a car. I shut down my computer, bundled up, and walked out.
The corridor fell silent except for the staccato of my heels. Everyone had left. Downstairs, by the security desk, stood our deputy director, James Whitmore—tall, lean, in a long black coat, more like a Hollywood lead than a middle manager. The office gossips swore he was single. I’d always joked he must be ill if a man like that was still free.
“Seen with some model—forget her name. Always in magazines,” Emma had once whispered, the queen of office rumours.
Victor hadn’t always been like this. Back in the day, he’d done thirty pull-ups on the park bars without breaking a sweat. Then… then came the pints, the gut, the endless evenings on the sofa with a lager in hand.
I was nearly at the door when a smooth baritone sent shivers down my spine.
“Anne Elizabeth, working late?”
I turned, forcing a smile. “Thought my husband might collect me, but he couldn’t.”
James slipped his phone into his coat and stepped closer. “Let me drive you.” He held the door open.
“Oh, no, really—I’ll call a cab,” I protested, stepping into the rain. Puddles glistened on the pavement. My suede boots wouldn’t survive this.
“Consider your cab already here.” He guided me gently by the elbow to his Range Rover.
Resisting seemed absurd. A shame none of the girls saw—they’d have been green with envy. James had no shortage of admirers.
He unlocked the car, and I climbed in, giggling as I smoothed my skirt over my knees. The engine purred to life.
“I’ve been watching you,” he said. “Firm but fair. You could easily head up Marketing.”
“And what about Margaret? She’s been here years.”
“She’s retiring soon. Good worker, but she can’t keep up with the new software.”
I squirmed. Poor Margaret—she’d trained me. But the offer was tempting.
“Her grandson’s getting married. She wanted to save for his flat.”
“That’s not your concern. If that’s the issue, she’ll have a generous severance. So—agreed?”
His eyes lingered on my profile. I hesitated, then nodded.
Suddenly, I realised we’d passed my street. “Turn right—that’s my building.”
The car stopped. I lingered, searching for the right words.
“Perhaps lunch sometime?” His voice was velvet.
My heart skipped. “Maybe,” I said, flashing a coy smile before stepping into the damp evening.
The next day, we lunched together—publicly. Then came dinners. And then…
Well. What woman could resist a man like that? Only one whose husband hadn’t yet become a sofa cushion.
For weeks, I floated—desired, adored, ten years younger. Life wasn’t dull anymore. But every night, Victor’s slumped silhouette filled me with irritation.
Tonight was no different. He lounged before the telly, half-drunk lager on the floor. I wanted to kick it, to scream. But I’d be the one cleaning up.
“You’ve changed,” he murmured, studying me.
*Finally noticed, have you?*
“How?”
“You look… like you did when we first met. In love?”
“Maybe I am. You’d know if you ever looked up from the telly.”
“I noticed the haircut.”
“I’ve had this cut for three years.” I sighed. “We haven’t been to the cinema in ages. Or a proper restaurant. I work too, but I don’t collapse like a sack of potatoes.”
“Your cooking’s better than any chef’s,” he offered. “What’s got into you?”
I stared at him. His voice, his clumsy compliments—nothing stirred me but boredom. *Maybe I should leave. But where would he go?*
“You’re glowing,” Emma whispered at work. “They say you’re seeing James. Giving Vic the boot?”
“Wish I could.”
“Lucky you. A husband *and* a lover. Vicky’s fifteen years younger, and he’s mad for you.”
My stomach twisted. Vicky *was* pretty. Unattached. The kind men chased.
“Emma—that woman you mentioned. The one who does… spells. Give me her address.”
“Who’s the target? James? Or the competition?”
“My husband. Just give it.”
I went that evening. The woman—plump, shrewd—studied me.
“Want rid of him?”
“No! Just…” I spilled the truth. Mostly.
She handed me a vial. “One drop in his tea daily. No more. Strong stuff—overdo it, and his heart might stop. Or use it on your lover.”
I paid and fled.
At home, I hid the vial behind the tea bags. Victor wouldn’t find it. But could it work in lager? That, he’d drink.
Later, I stood over him, blocking the telly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Get up. Help me cook.”
“I can’t, love.”
“Learn. What’ll you eat when you’re alone?”
“Alone? What about you? Lucy?”
“I’m leaving.” I turned sharply—his belly bumped me. Disgust flickered.
Then it all poured out—every resentment, every disappointment. Twenty years of silence, shattered.
When I finished, he whispered, “What about me?”
“Keep rotting on that sofa.”
“And Lucy?”
“She’s grown. She’ll choose.”
I hadn’t *really* planned to go. But the vial gnawed at me. Maybe wounded pride would shake him.
He scrambled after me. “Annie, please—I love you. I can’t—” A gasp. A thud.
He slid down the wall, clutching his chest.
“Stop faking,” I snapped. Then his head lolled.
I screamed for Lucy. “The vial—in the cupboard! Water—now!”
She brought a glass. I pried his mouth open, spilling most. “God, what am I doing? What did you give him?”
“The vial, like you said!”
I stared at the unopened bottle in her hand. The other—the real one—was still hidden.
The paramedics arrived. “Heart attack,” the doctor said. “Husbands, eh? Stress, pints, no exercise…”
At the hospital, I begged to see him. They sent me home sedated.
Every day, I visited. Guilt gnawed me. James’s smile faded from memory.
“Forgive me,” I whispered when Victor could finally walk. “I was so scared.”
“*I’m* sorry. I believed you’d leave. I’ve been blind. Give me another chance.”
Three weeks later, he came home. No lager by the sofa. He’d lost weight—looked almost handsome again.
By May, he was at the park pull-up bars. By summer, he was lean.
James took Vicky to lunch now. I didn’t care. Victor and I had found our second wind.
My only regret? Wasting so much time. I should’ve shaken him awake sooner—no potions, no affairs. Just a good, hard nudge.
Love *always* deserves a second chance.
