Deception
Fate deals its hand differently to each of us. Some are fortunate enough to meet their one true love early in life, while others only find it after enduring betrayals, divorce, and the crushing weight of hopelessness.
George was among the latter. He met his future wife while still at university. Tansy, a pretty and reserved girl, had come from a small provincial town to study. George took an instant liking to her, though he was an ordinary, unremarkable young man. For a long time, Tansy showed no interest in return.
But in their final year, when many of their peers had found their partners—some even starting families—Tansy suddenly lowered her gaze to George. He was over the moon and, scarcely able to contain his joy, proposed almost at once. To his delight, she accepted.
George’s mother saw through it at once. The girl had no desire to return to the provinces. Marriage to George secured her a place in a bustling regional city near London, a spacious flat in the city centre, and a comfortable life. But seeing her son so smitten, she chose not to shatter his illusions.
The wedding took place right after graduation. A country inn hosted the celebration, packed with their university friends. Only Tansy’s parents were absent. She explained that her father was bedridden, her mother unable to leave his side. When pressed, she spoke little, her face shadowed with sorrow, tears trembling on her lashes. George’s parents, not wishing to upset her further, dropped the matter.
They did their best to stand in for her family, and for a time, all lived together harmoniously. Tansy soon fell pregnant, abandoning any thought of work. Money was ample, and with a child on the way, there seemed little point. Nine months later, she bore a son. George’s parents insisted the boy be named after Tansy’s father—Theodore.
A second child took eight years to conceive. By then, George and Tansy had their own flat. The birth was difficult, premature—a tiny, frail girl, christened Elsie in honour of George’s mother.
Neither of Tansy’s parents lived to meet their grandchildren. Her father died a year after Theodore’s birth, her mother following eight months later.
When Elsie started school, Tansy announced she wanted a job. Tired of domesticity, she lacked both experience and qualifications, but George’s parents pulled strings, securing her a position as a director’s assistant—secretary, really.
She began spending hours at the gym, dressing smartly, wearing makeup. Gone was the provincial girl; now she was a poised, sophisticated woman. Friends ribbed George for keeping such a beauty hidden away.
Tansy neglected the children. Theodore, nearing university, would soon be independent. Elsie spent most days with her grandparents, spoilt rotten in compensation for her mother’s absence.
More often, George endured Tansy’s complaints. He’d let himself go, she said, grown a paunch. He ought to join a gym, tone up. And increasingly, she held up her boss—a man twice his age yet fit as a man of thirty—as an example.
George understood. One day, he visited her office on a pretext: his father’s upcoming milestone birthday required an unusual gift, and he needed her input.
The reception area was empty. Knocking, then entering the director’s office uninvited, he found it deserted—until he noticed a side door. The muffled sounds beyond left no room for misunderstanding.
Without hesitation, he pushed it open. There was his modest, demure Tansy, skirt hitched up, straddling the director on a sofa, his trousers around his ankles. Seventeen years of marriage, and he knew her silhouette anywhere.
George stood frozen, then quietly closed the door and left. He didn’t know why he hadn’t erupted, hadn’t dragged her away, hadn’t struck the smugness from the man’s face.
Tansy returned home that evening as if nothing were amiss, a cat that had got the cream. Now it made sense—their recent distance, her endless excuses. Exhaustion, headaches. She’d been saving her energy for him.
George confronted her. She recovered swiftly from her shock.
“Well, if you know… All the better,” she said lightly. “I’m leaving you.”
“The children?”
“Theodore’s practically grown. Elsie can decide for herself.”
Elsie, after little thought, chose neither parent. A stepfather held no appeal; neither did the risk of a stepmother. But her grandparents doted on her—comfort and advantage lay there.
So it was settled. And George was left alone. No longer a boy, but a man in his prime. The director had his own home, but Tansy claimed the car. George didn’t quibble. Let her take it all—he wanted none of it.
Some time later, he met Lillian. Her husband, too, had left her. There were no children—an infection in her youth had seen to that. They lived together quietly.
Theodore graduated and married. Elsie abandoned further education. Then George’s father died unexpectedly. His mother followed two years later. Elsie became sole mistress of their flat.
The money ran out, yet work held no allure for her. She began frequenting George’s home. Lillian fussed over her, feeding her well, always sending her away with leftovers. Soon, it became routine—Elsie appearing every few days for a meal, departing with a laden bag.
“You indulge her,” George grumbled. “She’s grown, more than capable of fending for herself. Her grandparents left her money, a flat. They’ve spoilt her rotten.”
“She’s caught between two worlds. Poor girl. Your parents did spoil her, yes—but must we abandon her entirely? It’s no trouble,” Lillian defended.
“And now you spoil her,” George muttered.
“Who else should I spoil? You know I can’t have children. This is the closest I’ll come.”
After the divorce, George saw nothing ofYears later, long after Tansy’s passing, he often wondered if it had all been worth the heartache—but then he’d glance at Lillian, quietly knitting by the fireplace, and know that sometimes love arrives late, yet just in time.
