After dropping his mistress off, Buchin kissed her goodbye tenderly and drove home. Pausing for a moment outside his front door, he steeled himself, mentally rehearsing what he’d say to his wife. He climbed the stairs, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
“Hello,” Buchin called. “Emily, are you home?”
“I am,” came his wife’s indifferent reply. “Hello. So, shall I fry the pork chops, then?”
Buchin vowed to be direct—firm, decisive, manly! He’d put an end to this double life before the warmth of his mistress’s kisses faded, before the humdrum routine dragged him back under.
“Emily,” he cleared his throat. “I’ve come to tell you… we need to separate.”
The news left Emily utterly unfazed. If anything, it was hard to ruffle Emily Buchin. Years ago, he’d even teased her for it, calling her “Emily the Ice Queen.”
“So, what?” Emily stood in the kitchen doorway. “Do I fry the chops or not?”
“Entirely up to you,” he said. “Fry them if you like, don’t if you don’t. I’m leaving you for someone else.”
Most wives would fly at their husbands with a frying pan or unleash a storm of fury. But Emily wasn’t most wives.
“Honestly, what a load of fuss,” she said. “Did you pick up my boots from the cobbler’s?”
“No,” Buchin faltered. “If it’s that important, I’ll go fetch them now!”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Emily muttered. “That’s just like you, Buchin. Send a fool for boots, and he’ll bring back the old ones.”
Buchin bristled. This wasn’t how a marital breakdown was supposed to go. Where were the tears, the rage, the righteous indignation? But then, what else could he expect from a woman nicknamed Emily the Ice Queen?
“Emily, I don’t think you’re listening!” Buchin snapped. “I’m telling you plainly—I’m leaving you for another woman! And you’re going on about boots!”
“Exactly,” she said. “Unlike me, you can walk out whenever you please. Your boots aren’t being repaired—why not just go?”
They’d been married for years, yet Buchin still couldn’t tell when she was joking and when she was dead serious. Back then, he’d been drawn to her steady temper, her quiet pragmatism. Plus, she was practical, dependable, and had a figure worth admiring.
Emily was as reliable, loyal, and unshakable as the anchor of a battleship. But now Buchin loved another—passionately, sinfully, deliciously! So it was time to lay his cards on the table and cast off into a new life.
“So, Emily,” he said with grave solemnity, “I’m grateful for everything, but I’m leaving. I love someone else. I don’t love you anymore.”
“Well, colour me shocked,” Emily deadpanned. “He doesn’t love me, the daft pillock. My mother fancied the neighbour. My dad loved dominoes and whiskey. And look how brilliantly I turned out.”
Arguing with Emily was like wrestling fog. Every word of hers landed like a hammer. His initial fire had fizzled out, and the urge to fight was gone.
“Emily, you really are brilliant,” Buchin said weakly. “But I’m in love with someone else. Passionately, sinfully, deliciously. And I’m leaving. Do you understand?”
“Someone else—who?” Emily asked. “Not Jessica Crawley, surely?”
Buchin stiffened. A year ago, he’d had a fling with Jessica, but he never imagined Emily knew her!
“How do you—?” He caught himself. “Never mind. No, it’s not Crawley.”
Emily yawned.
“Then is it Laura Burbage? She your next conquest?”
A chill ran down Buchin’s spine. Laura had been another affair, but that was history. If Emily knew, why had she said nothing? Then again, she was a vault—impossible to pry open.
“Wrong again,” he said. “Not Burbage or Crawley. This woman is incomparable—the pinnacle of my dreams. I can’t live without her, and I’m leaving for good. Don’t try to stop me.”
“So it’s Maya, then,” Emily said. “Oh, Buchin… you’re cracked. Hardly a well-kept secret. The pinnacle of your dreams—Maya Valentine. Thirty-five, one child, two abortions. Am I warm?”
Buchin clutched his head. Dead centre! Maya Valentine was the one.
“But—how?” he stammered. “Who told you? Have you been spying on me?”
“Elementary, Buchin,” Emily said. “I’ve been a gynaecologist for twenty years. I’ve examined every woman in this godforsaken town—you’ve only sampled a fraction. All I had to do was look to know you’d been there, you daft sod.”
Buchin steadied himself.
“Fine, you guessed right!” he declared. “Suppose it is Maya. That changes nothing. I’m leaving.”
“You’re a fool, Buchin,” Emily said. “Could’ve saved yourself the trouble by just asking. She’s nothing special—average in every way, medically speaking. Have you even seen her medical history?”
“N-no,” Buchin admitted.
“Thought not. First, go shower—immediately. Second, I’ll ring Dr. Thompson tomorrow and get you an urgent appointment. Then we’ll talk. Honestly, a gynaecologist’s husband who can’t even find himself a clean woman?”
“What should I do?” Buchin whined.
“I’ll fry the chops,” Emily said. “You wash up and do as you please. If you need a pinnacle of dreams without the mess—let me know. I’ll refer you to someone.”
