Claire! Claire, what on earth are you doing?!” Edward’s voice cracked with desperation. “You know how I feel about you! Why are you doing this?”
“Don’t, Edward! Don’t make this harder!” Claire turned towards the window to avoid his face. “It’s already decided. William is a good man, a partner at his firm, we’ll have a comfortable life.”
“And love? What we had? Does that mean nothing?”
Claire clenched her fists so tight her nails dug into her palms. Of course it did. More than she could admit. But Mum was in a private clinic after her second heart attack, the treatment cost a fortune – more than she or Edward could ever dream of having.
“It was lovely, but life isn’t a romance novel,” she said coolly.
Edward stepped towards her, hand outstretched, but stopped before touching her.
“Claire… Remember that day on the lake? When you fell through the ice? I pulled you out, we swore…”
“Stop it!” She whipped around. “Don’t bring that up! That was then.”
Edward looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. Then he nodded slowly.
“I see. Well then… Right.” He took his jacket from the dresser. “Wish you happiness, Mrs. Hughes.”
He left, shutting the door gently. Claire listened until his footsteps faded down the stairs, only then allowing herself to cry.
William Hughes *was* a good man. A fifty-year-old widower, partner at a prestigious financial firm, he offered Claire not just marriage, but stability. When Mum got ill, he quietly covered all the medical bills without condition, asking only for her hand.
“You’re young, lovely, clever,” he said, holding her hand. “I’m past my prime, need a companion. We suit each other.”
Claire nodded, feeling like tinned goods at the grocers. But what choice was there? Mum was recovering; the doctors promised full health with proper aftercare and expensive medication.
The wedding was small, quiet. William was a considerate husband. He didn’t demand love, content with respect and thanks. Claire honestly tried to be a good wife.
She didn’t see Edward for three months, then bumped into him at the doctor’s surgery.
“How are things?” he asked politely, like an acquaintance.
“Alright. You?”
“Same. Working rather a lot.” He’d lost weight, gained a tan, and wore a sharp new suit. Claire almost asked how, but bit her tongue. “How’s your mum?” Edward had always adored her mother, and she him.
“Much better. Recovering.”
“Give her my best.”
“I will.”
Standing in that sterile corridor, Claire suddenly remembered that winter day when Edward saved her. She was seventeen, he nineteen. Skating on the frozen tarn in the Lake District. The ice seemed solid, but she’d drifted too far from the bank.
The crack was soft, but Edward heard. He yelled for her to stay still, crawling towards her on his belly. When she plunged in, he grabbed her wrist. Minutes of struggle in the icy water followed, his frantic heaving, finally dragging her out, wrapping her in his own coat.
“It’s okay,” he’d whispered, rubbing her frozen hands. “I’ve got you. I won’t ever let go.”
Then, they’d sworn eternal love. She was seventeen; she believed it completely.
“Better go,” Edward said, snapping her back.
“Yes, of course.”
He walked away. Claire stood for ages, directions clutched in her hand.
Life with William was smooth. He built Mum a neat bungalow in Surrey, hired a private nurse, got Claire a respectable job in his firm’s admin department. She managed document flow, earned a good wage, and felt utterly pointless.
“You seem down today,” her husband noted over supper.
“Just tired, that’s all.”
“Need a break? Fancy the country cottage this weekend?”
William was observant. He noticed her moods, tried to please her, gave thoughtful gifts. Claire knew many women would envy her position.
“Alright, let’s go.”
The cottage was lovely, decked with a garden and a small pool. Claire lounged on a deckchair watching the clouds.
William read the paper beside her. “Listen, remember Edward Shaw?” he asked suddenly.
Claire startled.
“Vaguely. Why?”
“Paper mentions him. Done well for himself. Started his own building firm, does those fancy housing estates. Seems very successful.” He pointed to a photo: Edward by a half-built house, grinning confidently at the camera.
“Good for him,” Claire said flatly.
“Quite. Shame he wasn’t in the running for you back then,” William mused gently. There was no malice, only a tinge of regret.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. Just sometimes wonder how things might have panned out differently.” William was wealthy, but also perceptive. He knew precisely why Claire had married him.
“Circumstances aren’t fate, we make choices,” she countered.
“Quite true.”
They sat in silence. Claire thought of Edward’s success. He’d always been determined, hard-working; he just hadn’t had the start-up capital back then.
“William, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you regret marrying me?”
He set down his paper, looking at her steadily.
“No. Do you regret saying yes?”
The automatic ‘no’ stuck in Claire’s throat.
“I… I don’t know,” she admitted.
“Right.” He picked up the paper again. Conversation over.
That night, Claire lay awake. She thought of that frozen tarn, their sworn promises, how easily they’d shattered against life’s harsh reality. Mum was healthy, the bungalow secure, money no longer an issue. But something inside her had died the day she made her choice.
The following week, William flew abroad for work. Claire visited Mum. Mum bustled about, setting tea, plying her with scones.
“You’ve lost weight, love. Is William not feeding you?”
“Mum, he spoils me rotten.”
“And are you happy?” Mum asked unexpectedly.
Claire paused, scone halfway to her mouth.
“What sort of question?”
“A perfectly normal one. Money’s lovely, dear, but happiness matters too.”
“Mum, if it weren’t for William, you wouldn’t be here.”
“I know. And I’m grateful. But that doesn’t mean you had to sacrifice your own joy.”
“No one sacrificed anything.”
Mum eyed her keenly.
“Edward popped round last week. Asked after your health.”
“Why tell me that?”
“Because he loves you. And you love him. True love is rare, darling.”
“True love doesn’t pay the rent,” Claire snapped.
“Seems it does now. He’s doing very well.”
Clrose stood up.
“Got to go.”
“Think about what I’ve said.”
The drive home was unsettling. What did Mum want? To ruin her marriage? Make her feel guiltier?
William returned looking weary and pensive. Over dinner, he was quiet, then said, “Claire, we need to talk.”
“About what?”
“About us. Where this road’s going.”
Claire felt her pulse quicken.
“I’m not sure.”
“You are. You’re unhappy, and I see it every day. You try to be a good wife, but it doesn’t bring you joy.”
“William…”
“Let me finish. I married you not just because you’re beautiful. I hoped, in time… something deeper might grow than gratitude. It hasn’t.”
Claire stayed silent, lost for words.
“I
And sometimes, on quiet evenings watching telly alone with a cuppa, Claire found a peculiar comfort in knowing her story wasn’t grand romance but a cautionary tale – one where both men, in their own ways, hadn’t drowned her after all, but she remained forever adrift on the flat, ordinary waters of her own choices.
