The dinner ended with divorce. Thomas had invited Sophie over later, and Emma burst out. “Have you lost your mind?” She tossed her napkin, nearly knocking over a glass at their Manchester home. “Bringing her into our house!”
“Emma, relax,” Thomas adjusted his tie nervously. “It’s only about the new client project.”
“A project? At ten in the evening? With champagne and candles?”
“We needed to finalise details…”
“What details, Tom? With that… Sophie?” Thomas glanced away. Plates from his carefully prepared beef Wellington still sat on the table – his attempt to lift Emma’s spirits. Now one reckless phone call had ruined everything.
Emma paced their sleek London-style kitchen. Forty-five yet youthful, she’d always kept herself trim. Thomas often told friends he’d lucked out with her. “Listen well,” she stopped, hands on hips. “I’m not a fool. That girl calls daily, you work late, come home smelling of her perfume.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Exaggerating?” She pulled his phone from her pocket. “Fifteen missed calls today alone!”
Thomas paled. He’d forgotten their shared mobile plan showed his notifications.
“Work calls…”
“Work! On weekends? Midnight?” Her bitter laugh echoed. “What emergency requires that?”
Thomas fiddled with his fork. Twenty-two years married, and he’d never seen Emma like this. Through financial woes or her mother’s illness, she’d held strong. Now she seemed frayed at the edges. “Tom,” her voice softened, raw with pain, “I see what’s happening. You love her.”
“No,” he shook his head, unconvincingly.
“Don’t lie! I’ve known you twenty-two years. You glow when she rings. Your eyes light up leaving for work. Then home…” She trailed off. Thomas knew – home felt grey and tedious since Sophie joined his Birmingham office.
“Let’s talk calmly,” he pleaded.
“About what? How you’ve changed? How you stopped noticing me?” She sat opposite him. “We haven’t spoken properly for weeks.”
Thomas studied his wife. When had he last asked about her day? Sophie consumed him. “Is she young?” Emma asked quietly.
“What does it matter?”
“How old?”
“Thirty.”
Emma nodded as her worst fears confirmed. “Right. I’m forty-five. Too old for you now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” She walked to the hall mirror. “Look at me, Tom. Wrinkles here. Grey hair I dye monthly. She’s young, pretty, no children, no baggage.”
“We don’t have children either,” Thomas reminded her.
“No,” Emma agreed. “My fault. I couldn’t give them to you.”
“Em, stop—”
“I must! For fifteen years I’ve felt guilty. Every time I pass a playground, I wonder: Does he blame me? Does he want someone who’ll give him a child?”
Thomas moved to embrace her, but she stepped back. “Don’t. Answer honestly: Do you love her?”
Silence hung thick. Thomas stared at the floorboards; Emma waited. An old grandfather clock they’d bought early in their marriage ticked loudly. “I don’t know,” he said finally.
“Or won’t admit it?”
“It’s complicated…”
“Not for me,” she folded her hands. “You choose her or me.”
Thomas sank beside her. His mind churned. Emma – his partner through everything, who’d believed in him when he started his business. Sophie – who’d turned his world upside down months ago. “How do you feel near her?” Emma pressed.
“Alive. Like I’m twenty-five again.”
“And with me?”
“I feel… like a husband.”
“Is that bad?”
“No. But…” he hesitated, “predictable.”
Emma nodded sharply. “So I’m a burden.”
“Never. You’re a wonderful wife.”
“But not loved.”
Thomas stayed quiet. How explain respecting Emma while Sophie’s texts made his pulse race? “Y’know,” Emma began clearing dishes, “I understand. Truly. Years together bury romance. Then young beauty arrives…”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“Why not? You dress smarter now, joined that posh gym, changed your hair. For her.” True. Thomas had revamped himself since meeting Sophie – new shirts, different aftershave. “Does she know you’re married?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Says she won’t break up a family.”
“Right,” Emma snorted. “Won’t break us, but calls daily.” Thomas insisted, “It is about work—” She slammed her palm down. “Enough! I watched you after that York conference! Grinning at her texts!”
Thomas lowered his head. Useless to argue. He loved Sophie – felt that dizzying rush lost for decades. “So what now?” Emma sat down.
“Dunno.”
“I do,” her gaze locked on him. “You choose.”
“Em—”
“No. Hear me. I won’t cling or snoop through phones. But I won’t live like this.” She stood abruptly to wash up. “One week, Tom. Then tell me your choice.”
“And if I pick her?”
Emma froze, plate in hand. “Then I’ll file for divorce.”
“Maybe we should wait? Try again?”
“Try what?” she turned. “Pretend nothing’s wrong? That you love me? At forty-five, I deserve someone who truly wants me.”
“You deserve—”
“No. You pity me. That’s worse than indifference.” Thomas realised she was right. Pity and guilt consumed him. “One week,” Emma repeated. “And no seeing her.”
“Fine.”
They agreed he’d sleep in the den to think. Emma left for bed; Thomas sat staring at his phone. A notification lit up: Sophie’s text. “Is everything ok? Miss you.” He almost replied, then remembered his promise.
Next morning, Emma left without breakfast. Thomas offered coffee; she shook her head. “Think hard,” she said, buttoning her coat. “Twenty-two years isn’t nothing.”
“I will.”
“You say that. But I don’t get throwing it away for infatuation.”
“It’s deeper than that.”
“Love?” She laughed. “Tom, you’re forty-eight. Men often confuse love with wanting youth.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“Perhaps?” She paused at the door. “Know what hurts most? Not that you fell for her. That you never
Driving through the steadily falling rain, Nicholas gripped the steering wheel, his tears blurring the familiar pavements of Sarisbury Green into indistinct streaks of grey.
