**Fate**
*10th March*
Today, I overhead Emily chatting with Harriet. “Can you believe it? James is at it again,” she said during an ad break on ITV, interrupting some dreadful soap opera.
She glanced at me. I was half-reclined against the pillows, idly watching the telly.
“John, are you even listening?” she pressed when I didn’t respond. “James has gone off the rails.”
“I heard you. What’s it to you?” I muttered.
“What do you mean? Harriet’s my friend. I’m worried for her. Did James say anything to you?” She studied my profile carefully.
“He doesn’t report to me. Haven’t seen him in ages. And frankly, your friend’s a bit of a nag. I’d scarper too. Drop it, the show’s back on.”
“So that’s it, then? Harriet’s the problem? Typical. Blame the woman, never the bloke. Who made her like that, eh? He’s been messing about for years.” Emily pursed her lips while I stared at the telly, tense.
“You know, I nag you all the time. How many times have I told you to wipe your feet? You trail mud everywhere. Never rinse the bath after… Am I a nag too? Maybe you’re out gallivanting as well? Keeping James company?” She fixed me with a glare.
“Here we go. Picking a fight now.” I threw off the duvet and stood. “I’ll finish this in the kitchen.”
“I just feel sorry for her,” Emily called after me.
“And why’s that? They were madly in love once. He climbed through her window with flowers, second floor and all. What more does a woman want?” She raised her voice towards the open door.
“We’re all ‘love’ and ‘darling’ till you lot find a bit on the side. Then suddenly, we’re just nags.” She muttered to herself, as if I could still hear. “Harriet forgave him so many times. First time, he was on his knees, swearing on his life he’d never stray again, bawling like a baby. She forgave him—for the kids’ sake. Good man, my foot. He’s worn her down. Probably won’t stop till he drops dead.” She fell silent, listening. Not a sound from the kitchen.
*Maybe John’s cheating too? Why’d he storm off? Struck a nerve? Nah. He’s lazy. At least James takes care of himself—gym, suits. Mine’s got a belly and a receding hairline…*
But the doubt took root, sprouting unease. Emily stopped watching, numb to the telly. She slipped on her slippers and padded to the kitchen. I was perched on a stool, smoking, blowing curls towards the cracked window. A draught slithered in, making her shiver.
“Since when do you smoke?”
I startled, ash tumbling onto the table.
“Bloody hell, you scared me.” I brushed it to the floor. “Just… thinking. Alex and I go way back.”
“Then talk to him. Has he no shame? What example is he setting for his boys?” She snatched the ashtray from the sill and plonked it before me.
“Like he’d listen. Not my place. His life, his mess.” I took a final drag, stubbed it out, then shut the window.
“Let’s sleep.” I brushed past her.
Emily shook her head, flicked off the lights, and followed. I lay turned away, tuned into some debate on the Beeb. She killed the telly, the room dark. Just like every night these past months—backs turned, miles between us.
We met at uni, young and daft, inseparable. Married two years later. Life trundled on—rows, make-ups, the usual. Our daughter grew up, graduated, moved to London. Happiness? Emily didn’t think about it. But she *had* been happy. Friends divorced, remarried. Each with their sob story. Us? Twenty-seven years together. Twenty-five married. A quarter of a century.
Her mind circled back to Harriet. Her voice still ringing: *”Why? I gave him everything. Had his children. Now no youth, no husband—left alone at my age…”*
On his side of the bed, I lay awake, staring into the dark, swallowing sighs, still as a corpse.
—
Two days later, I was late home. Emily didn’t fret. Happened before. Traffic? Pints with mates? Work? My mood always gave it away. Cheery and tipsy—lads’ night. Sullen—office woes.
Finally, the lock turned. No usual grunts as I shed my coat. Just quiet steps to the kitchen.
She found me at the table, back rigid against the wall. Not relaxed—a coiled spring. Her stomach lurched. That same dread from before writhed inside. I stared ahead, like a man steeling himself.
“Something wrong?” she asked softly, fear swelling, pricking her eyes. “Want dinner warmed?”
“No. I’m fine.” I stood, avoiding her gaze, and left.
A whiff of perfume—foreign yet familiar. She’d caught it before.
Emily waited by the telly, but I never came. Ill? Asleep? She peeked into the bedroom. There I sat, still in my suit, hands clasped, head bowed.
“John…”
“Sit,” I said.
She obeyed, catching the scent again. Knew what was coming.
“I can’t lie. There’s someone else.”
“You’re leaving?”
Stupid question. Men only say it when they’re gone.
“Yes. I can’t fight it. She’s all I think about.”
*All I think about. So it’s been a while. And here I was, blaming the lads.* She smirked.
“If you go, don’t expect me to take you back. Not like Harriet.”
“I know. It’s decided. Can’t keep hurting us both. I’ll pack and go.”
She wanted to scream: *What about me? Our daughter? Twenty-five years?* But suddenly, she didn’t care. Always thought we were different. Knew she’d never tolerate a cheating husband. No begging, no clinging.
She left, door clicking behind her. Listened to hangers clacking, zippers yawning. Then I emerged, still suited, pausing by her.
“Sorry.”
She swallowed tears. No scene. Let the other woman wonder how she let me go so easily.
The door shut. Emily crumbled. Sobs for herself, her wasted years. When the shock ebbed, she rang Harriet—the only one who’d understand. They wept together over lost youth, cruel fate.
She told our daughter nothing when she called. Convinced herself solitude was bliss. No cooking, no mopping muddy prints, no snore-ruined sleep. She tackled chores long ignored. Stay busy. Don’t stew.
She waited. Knew she wouldn’t forgive, yet waited. But I didn’t return. Not in a month, not in two.
One evening, she logged into Facebook—untouched for years. Two messages awaited. A stranger: *”Fancy a chat? If you’re free…”*
Her profile pic—a decade old. Smiling, happy. Back then, men flocked whenever she updated. Foreigners, mainly. Always ignored.
She zoomed in on his avatar. Stock photo. “Edward.” No other info. New account. No posts, no friends.
Weird. She almost deleted it. Then thought: *Why not? Might as well. Let John see I’ve moved on.*
She replied: *”Married, but open to polite chat. Nothing crude.”*
The messages began. Edward rambled, sometimes profound, sometimes raw. Quoted Auden, Larkin. She lived for his replies. When they lagged, she fretted.
*”Know what fate means?”* he wrote once. *”Old English: ‘fǣt’—doom, judgment. ‘Ege’—spirit. So, the soul’s reckoning. ‘Not meant to be’ means undeserving. Fate’s just karma.”*
Then confessions: *”I hurt my wife. Betrayed her. Empty now. New love isn’t freedom—it’s exile. I miss home. Miss her…”*
Emily froze. So like us. But she stayed vague, only lambasting men’s faithlessness.
Two months passed. She asked for a real photo. *”I don’t care how you look. But who am I writing—a man or a lie?”*
He replied: *”Only if you update yours. You’re older now, surely?”*
Cheeky. Like he knew her. She teased him but styled her hair like the old pic, even dabbed on lipstick. Practised smiles in the mirror. Never sent it.
*”Keep the mystery,”* she wrote.
He sent poetry:
*”Snows still blur the tracks, chill the blood.
Rooks return too soon, love wakes too lateShe finally sent him the photo, and when Edward replied with his own—her breath caught—it was John, older, weary, his eyes pleading for forgiveness.
