Once, during my husband’s birthday celebration, my son tugged at my sleeve and whispered, “That’s her! She’s wearing that skirt!”
A fortnight before my own birthday, I had been searching through the upstairs cupboard. Oliver had begged me for the old picnic blanket—needed for a school trip—and, as mothers do, I agreed.
“Please, Mum,” he’d said, earnest as ever. “I promised my mates I’d bring the blanket and lemonade. And I said you’d bake those treacle tarts too.”
So, dutifully, I rummaged. Suitcases long forgotten, cables in knots, fans from sweltering summers past. Then, tucked behind the corner, I spotted it—a polished black box, small and square, hidden away like a secret.
I wasn’t prying, truly. But curiosity won. I settled onto the floor, lifted the lid, and there it was.
A skirt. Rich burgundy satin, finely embroidered at the hem, delicate as a sigh. Exquisite. Unmistakable.
I’d admired it months earlier, walking through Camden with Geoffrey—my husband. We’d passed a boutique, and I hesitated by the window. “Far too dear,” I’d said, though a part of me hoped he’d take note.
“Nothing’s too fine for you,” he’d chuckled.
So when I found it, neatly folded in tissue, nestled in that box, I knew. This was my gift. A quiet thrill warmed me.
Perhaps we were still all right.
Not wanting to spoil the surprise, I shut the lid, replaced the box, and handed Oliver an old tartan throw instead. I even bought a cream blouse to pair with the skirt, hiding it in my drawer, patient as the days crept by.
My birthday came. Family gathered. Geoff presented me with a wrapped parcel, grinning like a schoolboy.
Books. A lovely stack of novels, carefully chosen—but no skirt. Not a word.
I waited. Perhaps he meant to give it later, over supper, just the two of us.
That moment never arrived.
Days later, I stole back to the cupboard for another glance. The box was gone. Vanished without a trace.
Still, I held my tongue. A wife ought not to doubt.
Hope clings, even when sense begs otherwise.
Three months passed. No skirt. No mention. Only silence.
Then, one afternoon, as I rolled pastry for a christening order, Oliver entered the kitchen. His fingers fidgeted. His voice was small.
“Mum?” he said. “I’ve something to tell you. About the skirt.”
I set aside the rolling pin.
“I know Dad bought it,” he began. “When we went to Oxford Street for my football boots, he left me outside the shop. Said he needed to fetch something.”
My stomach turned.
“Then, one day, I skipped lessons. Came home early for my cricket bat—but heard voices upstairs. Thought it was you and Dad.”
He swallowed hard.
“But you’re always at the bakery then. I hid under the bed.”
My heart ached for him.
“She laughed, Mum. Wasn’t you. I saw her legs. She was wearing the skirt.”
The room tilted.
I pulled him close.
No child should bear such a secret.
Days later, we hosted Geoff’s birthday. I roasted the beef, chilled the wine, polished the silver. I wore emerald green and my grandmother’s pearls. I played my part—gracious wife, cheerful hostess—while inside, I frayed.
The party hummed until Oliver tugged my sleeve.
“Mum,” he whispered, urgent. “That’s her. The skirt. She’s wearing it.”
I followed his gaze.
Eleanor.
Geoff’s secretary. By the sherry table, glowing in that unmistakable burgundy skirt.
The one he’d hidden.
The one I’d thought was mine.
She stood beside her husband, Alistair, sipping champagne, bright as a summer’s day.
I lifted a tray of canapés and glided over.
“Eleanor! That skirt is breathtaking. Wherever did you find it?”
She faltered. “Oh—thank you. It was a gift.”
“How kind,” I said, smiling. “Strange—I once had its twin. Found it in my home. Then it disappeared.”
Her smile faltered.
Across the room, Geoffrey stiffened.
“Alistair!” I called, beckoning him. “Do join us—we’re admiring Eleanor’s skirt. Geoff, come along!”
We stood in a circle. Eleanor’s grip on her glass trembled. Alistair frowned. Geoffrey looked ill.
“I adored that skirt,” I said softly. “Thought it was meant for me. Now I see it was meant for another.”
Geoffrey cleared his throat. “I gave it to Eleanor. A bonus. For her hard work.”
“How generous,” I replied, calm as still water. “Was that for her diligence at the office… or her visits to our bedroom at midday?”
Silence.
Alistair stepped back. Eleanor’s face drained of colour.
“Leave Oliver out of this,” Geoffrey muttered.
“Too late,” I said. “He already is.”
Guests had noticed. The room hushed. The truth hung thick as fog.
That night, when the last guest had gone, I told Geoffrey, “I want a divorce.”
No pleading. No remorse. Only quiet defeat.
The papers were signed swiftly. He took a flat in Chelsea.
Eleanor, I heard, returned to her family in Dorset.
Oliver asked if I was alright. I said yes—until he believed me.
I began to live again.
Morning strolls through Hyde Park. Baking scones just because. Rekindling friendships long neglected. Laughter rediscovered.
I even bought that skirt—not just in burgundy, but in every shade they had.
Because henceforth, if anyone would love me as I deserved, it would be me.
