Im embarrassed to take you to the company dinner, Mark muttered without looking up from his phone. There will be decent people there. You know, the sort of people who look after themselves.
Claire stood by the fridge, a carton of milk in hand. Twelve years married, two children together. Nowher husband was ashamed of her.
Ill wear the black dress. The one you picked out for me.
Its not the dress, Mark finally glanced at her. Its you. Youve let yourself go. Your hair, your face you just dont look right. Adam will be there with his wifeshes a stylist. And you well, you understand.
Then I wont go.
Thats sensible. Ill say youre unwella fever or something. No one will question it.
He disappeared to the shower, while Claire stayed frozen in the kitchen. Her two children, Oliver and Lucy, slept in the next room. The mortgage, the bills, the endless school eventsshed melted into this house, and now Mark couldnt even bear the idea of being seen with her.
Has he really got the nerve to say that? Charlotte, her best friend and hairdresser, gawped as if Claire had announced the end of the world. Ashamed? Who does he think he is?
Hes been promoted to warehouse manager.
And now youre beneath him? Charlotte slammed the kettle on. Remember what you did before the kids?
I was a teacher.
Not your job. Your jewellery! You made those beaded necklaces. I still have the blue stone onepeople always ask where I bought it.
Claire smiled, memories rushing back. Aventurine. Shed made pieces in the evenings, back when Mark still admired her.
That was a lifetime ago.
Then do it again. Whens this dinner?
Saturday.
Good. Come to mine tomorrow. Ill do your hair and makeup. Well ring Emmashe always has gorgeous dresses. And you can wear your own jewellery.
Charlotte, he said
Oh, stuff what he said. Youre going to that dinner. Let him sweat for once.
Emma turned up the next morning with a plum-coloured dress, long and off the shoulder. They spent an hour pinning and fitting, fussing with hairpins.
With this shade, you need special jewellery, Emma mused, circling her. Not silver, not goldsomething different.
Claire opened her old jewellery box. At the very bottom, wrapped in a soft cloth, lay a necklace and earrings: aventurine, handmade. Shed made them eight years ago for a special event that never happened.
This is a masterpiece, Emma gasped. Did you really make it?
All by myself.
Charlotte worked her magica soft wave in Claires hair, understated but elegant makeup. Claire stepped into the dress and fastened her jewellery. The cold stones rested against her collarbone with a familiar, reassuring weight.
Go on, have a proper look, Emma nudged her towards the mirror.
Claire approached, and the reflection showed not the woman whod scrubbed floors or simmered soups for over a decade, but the woman she used to be.
The restaurant overlooked the Thames, full of tables, tuxedos, shimmering evening gowns, music tinkling. Claire arrived fashionably late, just as planned. A hush fell over the room for a moment.
Mark was at the bar, laughing at a colleagues joke. He saw herand his face froze. She strode past him, head high, sitting at a distant table with steady hands and a straight back.
Excuse me, is this seat taken?
A man in his mid-forties, grey suit, kind brown eyes.
Its free.
Im Peter. Adams business partnerbakery trade. And you?
Claire. Im the warehouse managers wife.
He eyed her jewellery with obvious appreciation.
Aventurine? Thats handmade, isnt it? My mother was a collector. You dont see work like that often.
I made it myself.
Peter leaned in, examining the beadwork. Thats proper craftsmanship. Do you sell these?
No. Im a housewife.
Thats a waste. Hands like yours shouldnt be stuck at home.
He stayed by her side for the rest of the evening. They talked of gems, crafts, and how people can lose themselves in domestic routines. He asked her to dance, brought sparkling wine, made her laugh. Claire caught Mark glancing over, his expression souring every time.
When Claire prepared to leave, Peter walked her to her car.
If you ever change your mind about selling or exhibiting your jewellerycall me, he handed her a card. I have contacts whod love your work. I mean it.
She took his card and nodded.
At home, Mark couldnt contain himself for five minutes.
What the hell was all that? Chatting up Peter all night! Everyone noticed, you realise? Everyone saw my wife practically throwing herself at another man!
I wasnt throwing myself. We talked.
Talked! You danced with him, three times! Adam asked me what was going on. I was mortified!
Youre always embarrassed, Mark. Claire slipped off her shoes by the front door. You cant stand to be seen with me, you cant stand if anyone looks my way. Is there anything youre not embarrassed about?
Shut up. You think a fancy dress makes you someone special? Youre no one! You live off my earnings, and now youre swanning about pretending to be a queen.
Once, she would have cried and hidden away. But something inside had shiftedperhaps snapped, or perhaps finally set itself right.
Weak men are terrified of strong women, she murmured quietly. The trouble is, Mark, youre insecure. Youre frightened that one day Ill realise how small you actually are.
Get out. Go on thenleave!
Im filing for divorce.
He was silent, for the first time not angry but lost.
Where will you gowith two kids? You cant live off those trinkets of yours.
Ill manage.
The next morning, Claire took out Peters card and dialled his number.
Peter didnt rush her. They met in cafés, discussed crafts and the business. He introduced her to a friend who ran a gallery of handmade goods and explained how much people now valued genuine, unique work.
Youre gifted, Claire. Not many people have both talent and taste.
She began working late into the nightaventurine, jasper, carnelian. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings. Peter took her pieces to the gallery, and within a week, phoned backtheyd all sold. Orders began flooding in.
Has Mark any idea?
We barely speak now.
And the divorce?
Ive found a solicitor. The process has started.
Peter lent a hand without dramapassed on contacts, helped her find a flat for rent. When Claire packed her suitcases, Mark only stood in the doorway and sneered.
Youll come crawling back in a week. Just wait.
She shut her suitcase and left without looking back.
Half a year went by: a two-bed flat on the edge of town, the kids, her work. Orders streaming in, the gallery offering her a solo exhibition. Claire started an Instagram page, posted photos, watched her followers grow.
Peter visited, brought books for her children, called her now and thennever intrusive, always quietly supportive.
Mum, do you like Peter? Lucy once asked.
I do, love.
We like him too. He never shouts.
A year later, over dinnerno fanfare, no rosesPeter simply said, Id like the three of you to live with me. Will you?
Claire was ready.
Two years passed.
Mark trudged through a shopping centre, pushing a trolley for a removal firmafter his boss found out about the dinner-night debacle and sacked him. Now he lived alone, in a rented bedsit, with mounting debts and little hope.
He spotted them outside a jewellersClaire in a pale coat, hair neatly styled, that same aventurine set at her throat. Peter held her hand. Oliver and Lucy laughed, chattering easily.
Mark paused at the shop window, watching as Peter opened the car door for Claire, her smile radiant.
Then he caught sight of his own reflection: faded jacket, tired face, empty eyes.
Hed lost his queen. She, in turn, had learned to liveand lovewithout him.
The hardest truth is often the one we realise too late: we rarely value what we have until its goneand sometimes the greatest punishment is seeing the happiness we might have given, now shining without us.
