After dropping off his mistress, Butcher gave her a tender goodbye and drove home. He paused for a moment outside the front door, mentally rehearsing what he’d say to his wife. He climbed the stairs and unlocked the door.
“Hi,” said Butcher. “Vera, are you home?”
“I’m here,” Vera replied flatly. “Hi. Well then, shall I fry the escalopes?”
Butcher had sworn to himself to act decisively—boldly, sharply, like a proper man! To put an end to his double life before the warmth of his mistress’s kisses faded, before he sank back into the dull mire of routine.
“Vera,” he cleared his throat. “I’ve come to tell you… we need to split up.”
Vera took the news with remarkable calm. Vera Butcher was rarely rattled. Once, Butcher had even teased her for it, calling her “Vera the Ice Queen.”
“What do you mean?” Vera asked from the kitchen doorway. “Should I not fry the escalopes?”
“That’s up to you,” Butcher said. “Fry them if you want, don’t if you don’t. I’m leaving you for another woman.”
Most wives would fly at their husbands in a rage, skillet in hand—or at least unleash a furious scene. But Vera wasn’t most wives.
“Oh, what a fuss over nothing,” she said. “Did you pick up my boots from the cobbler?”
“No,” Butcher faltered. “If it’s so important, I’ll go fetch them right now!”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake…” Vera muttered. “That’s just like you, Butcher. Send you for boots and you’ll bring back old ones.”
Butcher was offended. This wasn’t how a breakup speech was meant to go—where were the fireworks, the passion, the righteous fury? But what else could he expect from a woman nicknamed Vera the Ice Queen?
“Vera, I don’t think you’re hearing me!” Butcher snapped. “I’m telling you officially—I’m leaving you for another woman, and you’re going on about boots!”
“Exactly,” said Vera. “Unlike me, you can go wherever you like. Your boots aren’t at the cobbler. So why not walk away?”
They’d been married a long time, yet Butcher still couldn’t tell when Vera was joking and when she was serious. He’d fallen for her precisely because of her calm, unflappable nature—her quiet strength, her practicality, and, of course, her shapely figure.
Vera was steady, loyal, and cool as a ship’s anchor. But now Butcher loved another woman—wildly, sinfully, deliciously! It was time to cut ties and reel in a new life.
“So, Vera,” he said with solemn regret, “I’m grateful for everything, but I’m leaving because I love another woman. And I don’t love you.”
“Oh, spare me,” Vera scoffed. “He doesn’t love me, the wilted daisy! My mum fancied the neighbour. Dad loved dominoes and gin. And look—turned out just fine, didn’t I?”
Arguing with Vera was pointless. Every word of hers had weight. Butcher’s initial fire had fizzled out, leaving no urge to fight.
“Vera, you really are wonderful,” Butcher muttered weakly. “But I love someone else. Madly, sinfully. And I’m leaving. Understand?”
“Who’s the someone else?” Vera asked. “Not Natalie Bramble, is it?”
Butcher stiffened. He’d had a fling with Bramble a year ago, but he never imagined Vera knew her!
“How do you—?” he started, then stopped. “Never mind. No, Vera, not Bramble.”
Vera yawned.
“What, then—Selina Puddleford? Fancy her now?”
Butcher’s back went cold. Puddleford had been a past mistress, but Vera knowing—and saying nothing? Of course—she was granite, impossible to crack.
“Wrong again,” said Butcher. “Not Puddleford, not Bramble. This woman’s different—magnificent, the peak of my dreams. I can’t live without her. I’m leaving, and don’t try to stop me!”
“Must be May, then,” Vera said. “Oh, Butcher… you’re cracked. Big secret, isn’t it? The peak of your dreams—Maya Valentine Gosling. Thirty-five, one child, two abortions… Am I close?”
Butcher clutched his head. Bullseye. He’d been seeing Maya Gosling.
“But how?” he stammered. “Who told you? Were you spying on me?”
“Elementary, Butcher,” said Vera. “Sweetheart, I’m a gynaecologist with years of experience. I’ve examined nearly every woman in this blasted town—while you’ve only managed a handful. One look, and I know if you’ve been there, you daft pea pod!”
Butcher pulled himself together.
“Fine, you guessed!” he snapped. “So what if it’s Gosling? It changes nothing. I’m leaving.”
“You’re a fool, Butcher,” Vera sighed. “Should’ve asked me first. There’s nothing special about Gosling—just another woman, medically speaking. Seen her medical history?”
“N-no,” Butcher admitted.
“Thought not! First, go scrub yourself raw. Second, I’ll call Dr. Simmonds tomorrow—he’ll fit you in at the clinic without the queue,” Vera said. “Then we’ll talk. Honestly, a gynaecologist’s husband picking up dodgy women—what a disgrace!”
“But what should I do?” Butcher whined.
“I’m frying the escalopes,” Vera said. “You wash up and do as you please. If you want a dream woman without the… complications, let me know. I’ll recommend someone.”
