After dropping his lover off, Buchanan gave her a gentle goodbye and headed home. He paused for a moment at the door, weighing in his mind everything he might say to his wife. Then he climbed the steps and unlocked the door.
“Evening,” Buchanan called out. “Claire, you in?”
“I’m here,” his wife replied in her usual calm manner. “Hi. Well, shall I get on and fry those pork chops?”
Buchanan resolved to be straightforwardbold, direct, manly! To put an end to his double life, while his lovers kisses were still fresh, before he got sucked back into the dull routine.
Claire, Buchanan cleared his throat. I came to tell you we need to split up.
This news didnt faze Claire one bit. In fact, nothing ever seemed to rattle Claire Buchanan. There was a time, hed even teased her, calling her Claire the Cool.
Whats that supposed to mean? Claire asked, standing in the kitchen doorway. Am I not cooking the pork chops, then?
Up to you, Buchanan replied. Cook them if you want, dont cook them if you dont. But Im leaving you for another woman.
Most wives, after a revelation like that, either throw a frying pan or stage a dramatic scene. But Claire was never most wives.
Oh, look at you, all big and important, she said. Did you pick up my boots from the cobbler?
No Buchanan faltered. If its that important, Ill head over right now and fetch them!
Typical Claire muttered. Ask Buchanan to fetch boots, and he brings back the wrong pair.
Buchanan felt a stab of irritation. This break-up was not going how hed imagined. No raised voices, no wild tears, not even a hint of drama! But what could you expect from someone nicknamed Claire the Cool?
I really dont think youre listening, Claire, Buchanan insisted. I am officially announcing Im leaving you for another woman, Im moving out, and you just care about boots!
Fair enough, Claire replied. Unlike me, at least you can go outyour shoes arent stuck at the cobblers. Why not walk out the door?
Theyd been married a long time, but Buchanan still couldnt always tell when his wife was joking or when she was serious. Hed been drawn to Claire for her steady temperament, her refusal to bicker, and her thriftiness. Plus, she had always been reliableand, frankly, attractively put together.
Claire was as reliable, loyal, and calm as a ships anchor, but now Buchanan loved someone else. Loved her wildly, almost guiltily, with a passion he hadnt felt in years! So it was time to dot the is and cross the ts and move on.
And so, Claire, Buchanan declared, trying for a solemn, regretful, important tone, thank you for everything, but Im leaving because I love someone else. And I dont love you.
Well, theres a shocker, Claire replied. Doesnt love me, what a revelation! My mum, for instance, was in love with the neighbour. Dad loved dominos and whisky. So what? I turned out all right, didnt I?
Buchanan knew it was pointless to argue with Claireher words landed like cannonballs. His determination to argue melted away; suddenly, he didnt feel like fighting at all.
Claire, truly, you are wonderful, Buchanan said, almost sulking. But I love someone else, deeply, madly. Im going to be with her, do you hear me?
And this other womanis it Jane Kettle, by any chance? Claire asked.
Buchanan took a step back. A year ago, hed actually had an affair with Jane Kettle, but he would never have guessed Claire knew her!
How do you even? he began, but thought better of it. Doesnt matter. No, Claire, its not Kettle.
Claire yawned. Then is it Sarah Burbage? Headed over to hers?
A cold shiver ran down Buchanans spine. Sarah Burbage had indeed been another secret, but that was over ages ago. If Claire knew, why hadnt she made a scene? Then again, she rarely wasted words.
No, Buchanan said. Not Burbage, not Kettle. Its someone elsetruly extraordinary, the woman of my dreams. I cant live without her. Im leaving you for her, and thats final!
Oh, must be Martha, then, Claire said with an exasperated little sigh. Honestly, Buchananyou really are a hopeless case. Not much of a secret, is it? The woman of your dreams is Martha Valentine. Thirty-five, one child, two terminations am I right?
Buchanan put his head in his hands. Bullseye! He really was involved with Martha Valentine.
But how? he spluttered. Who told you? Were you spying on me?
Honestly, Buchanan, said Claire with a smirk. Dont be daft. Im a GP, remember? Ive had half the women in town in my surgery, while youve seen hardly any. All I have to do is look in the right place to know where youve been, you absolute mug.
Buchanan tried to recover his dignity.
Lets just say you guessed right, he declared, as stately as possible. Even if it is Valentine, it changes nothingIm going to her.
Youre a fool, Buchanan, Claire said lightly. Why not ask me, just out of curiosity? Trust me, theres nothing extraordinary about Valentinesame as all the rest, from a medical point of view. And have you seen the medical history of your so-called dream woman?
N-no Buchanan admitted.
Thought not! First things first, go get yourself under the shower. Then, tomorrow, Ill ring up Dr Simmons so he can see you at the clinic without making you queue,” Claire said, matter-of-factly. “Then well talk. Honestlyimagine, a GPs husband who cant even pick himself a healthy girlfriend!
So what am I supposed to do now? Buchanan asked, sounding utterly lost.
Im going to fry those pork chops, Claire replied. You go have a wash and do whatever you like. If you really want me to find you a dream woman without any ailments, let me knowIve got contactsBuchanan stood there, stunned and scrubbed raw by Claires implacable common sense. He heard the sizzle of oil and the rhythmic scrape of tongs. The kitchen glowed with its usual warm light. In the hallway, his bagpacked with nervous anticipationsuddenly looked ridiculous, as if it belonged to an amateur actor backstage.
He listened to Claire hum tunelessly as she busied herself with dinner, not a single beat skipped in her predictable domestic symphony. Something inside him loosenedperhaps pride, perhaps regretand he found himself moving as if by instinct. He climbed the stairs, dropped his bag on the floor, and stood in the shower letting the water scald him clean, as though he might find a version of himself worth keeping under all those years and stories.
When he finally came back down, the table was set for two, cutlery glinting, a fresh cloth on the wood as if it were any other Thursday. Claire poured herself a small glass of wine. She poured him one too. He sat, silent, awkward, and watched her plate his dinner. For all his declarations and affairs, his threats and plans, it seemed Buchanan wasnt going anywhere tonight. He took a bite; the pork was perfectly cooked.
Across from him, Claire fixed him with a familiar, wry little smile and said softly, Eat up, Mike. Tomorrow will sort itself out. It always does.
Buchanan chewedswallowedthen lifted his glass in an uncertain toast. The future was unwritten and the past was laughable. For now, all he could do was share this meal, let the silence settle, and at last appreciate, for one unexpected moment, the strange comfort of being truly seen.
