Dinner Ends in Separation

You know that dinner I told you about? Well, it ended with a divorce, honestly.
“Have you completely lost the plot?” Emma flung her napkin onto the table, making the wine glass wobble dangerously. “Inviting her here? To our home!”
“Em, calm down,” James said nervously, adjusting his tie. “It’s nothing serious. Just a standard meeting about work.”
“Work?” Emma’s voice shot up an octave. “At ten o’clock at night? With champagne and candles?”
“We were just discussing this new project…”
“What project, James? What project with that… that Eleanor?”
James looked away. The plates from dinner were still on the table – he’d put so much effort into that roast, wanting to do something nice for his wife. And now all that felt like it was going up in smoke over one careless phone call.
Emma stood up and started pacing the kitchen. Forty-three years old, but she looked younger, always kept herself trim and fit. James often told his mates at the pub he’d lucked out with her.
“Listen carefully,” she stopped right in front of him, hands on her hips. “I’m not daft, even if you think I am. That girl calls you every other day, you’re always late home from the office, smelling of her perfume.”
“Em, you’re overreacting…”
“Overreacting?” She pulled her mobile from her pocket. “What’s this then? Fifteen missed calls from her today alone!”
James went pale. He’d forgotten Emma saw all his notifications through their shared family account.
“It was just about work…”
“Work!” Emma laughed bitterly. “On a Saturday? Sunday? Midnight! What work is that urgent?”
James stayed silent, twisting a fork in his hands. Twenty-two years married, and he’d never seen her like this. Not even during the money troubles, or when her mum was ill. Emma’d always been so strong. Now she looked fit to crack.
“James,” her voice was quieter, but full of hurt, “I can see what’s happening. You’ve fallen for her.”
“No,” he shook his head, unconvincing even to himself.
“Don’t lie to me! Don’t lie to yourself! I’ve known you twenty-two years, d’you think I don’t notice? You light up when the phone buzzes. Your eyes shine when you leave for work. And when you come home…”
Emma trailed off, but James understood. He came home grumpy, tetchy. Home felt dull compared to the office where Eleanor worked.
“Em, let’s talk this through properly,” he pleaded.
“Talk about what?” She sank into the chair opposite. “About how different you’ve become? How you don’t see me anymore? How we haven’t had a proper chat in a month?”
James really looked at his wife then. When *had* he last asked about her day? Cared about her news? All he thought about was Eleanor.
“Is she young?” Emma asked softly.
“What does that matter?”
“How old is she, James?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Emma nodded, like her worst fears were confirmed. “Right. I’m forty-three. Too old for you now.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Silly?” She stood, walking to the hall mirror. “Look at me, James. Look at these little lines ‘round my eyes, this grey hair I dye every month. And she’s young, pretty, no kids, no baggage.”
“We don’t have kids either,” James reminded her.
“No,” Emma agreed. “And that’s my fault. I couldn’t give them to you.”
“Em, please…”
“No! I need to say this! I’ve felt guilty for fifteen years. Every time I see kids, I think: does James blame me? Does he want to leave me for someone who can give him babies?”
James stood to hug her, but she stepped back.
“Don’t. Answer me honestly: do you love her?”
Silence hung heavy. James stared at the floor. Up on the kitchen wall, the old clock they’d bought their third year married ticked loudly.
“I don’t know,” he finally said.
“Don’t know? Or afraid to admit it?”
“Em, it’s complicated…”
“It’s not for me,” she said, sitting back at the table, folding her hands. “You either love me, or you love her. No middle ground.”
James slumped into the chair next to her. His mind was a mess. On one side: Emma, his wife, the years they’d shared. The one who’d backed him when he started his own firm. On the other: Eleanor, appearing six months ago turning his comfortable world upside down.
“What d’you feel when she’s near?” Emma pressed. “What happens?”
“I… I feel young,” he admitted. “Like I’m twenty-five again.”
“And with me?”
“With you, I feel like a husband.”
“And that’s bad?”
“No, not bad. But… predictable.”
Emma nodded, like she’d got the answer she needed. “So I’ve become a chore.”
“Not a chore. You’re a wonderful wife, Em. Truly.”
“But not the woman you love.”
James stayed silent. What could he say? That he loved his wife, but differently? Respected her, valued her, but his pulse raced when Eleanor called?
“Y’know,” Emma stood and started clearing the table, “I get it. Really, I do. We’ve been together ages, the daily grind got to us, the spark faded. Then along comes this young, pretty thing…”
“Em, don’t talk about yourself like that.”
“How *should* I talk?” She turned to him. “I see what’s going on. You’ve changed how you dress, joined that gym, got that new haircut. All for her.”
It was true. James had changed since Eleanor came along. Bought new shirts, even changed his cologne.
“Tell me… does she know you’re married?”
“She knows.”
“What does she say?”
“Says she doesn’t want to wreck a marriage.”
“Yeah, right,” Emma gave a bitter laugh. “Doesn’t want to wreck it, but rings every day, sets up meetings.”
“We *are* working on the project…”
“James, enough!” She slammed her hand down. “Enough treating me like an idiot! I’m not blind! I saw the way you beamed after that last trip together. Saw you grinning at her texts.”
James dropped his head. Arguing was pointless. Emma was right – he’d fallen for Eleanor. Felt that dizzying rush he hadn’t known in twenty-two years.
“So what do we do now?” Emma sat down opposite again.
“Don’t know.”
“I do,” she looked him straight in the eye. “You have to choose.”
“Em…”
“No, hear me out. I won’t cling on to you. Won’t make scenes, snoop through your phone. But I won’t live like this either, in this awful limbo.”
Emma turned away,
He drove away with an aching emptiness in his chest, the weight of his suitcase in the boot nothing compared to the crushing weight of the irreversible choice and the image of Tamara’s silhouette watching him leave from the window of the life they’d built together.