In Pursuit of a Mistress — “Vera, what are you doing?” her husband Roman gaped as she handed him a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt. — “Nothing much. While you’re lazing about, all the mistresses are being snapped up.” Vera pulled the duvet off him, sending goosebumps racing over poor, defenseless Roman. — “What are you talking about?” — “After the things you said last night, about the day not being far off when you’d get yourself a mistress, I’ve made a decision. The hour is upon us, Roman. It’s half-past five: time to get up and head to your naughty front line.” — “I was joking! We just had a row, remember? I’m sorry, I was out of line.” — “Oh no, you were completely right. It’s me who’s to blame. I let the fire of passion between us fizzle out. Used up all the petrol myself. Now there’s nothing but ash — can’t even grill a potato, let alone ignite a flame. I am rectifying this. Up you get.” — “Are you kicking me out?” — “I’m whipping you into shape. You’ll work out every day until you shake that spare tyre off. A mistress isn’t a wife — she won’t keep a Michelin mascot by her side. Up, I said!” Accepting he was beaten, Roman dutifully rolled out of bed and, in penitence, wriggled into his shorts over his boxers. — “Remind me to get you some proper trunks. In those parachutes, I’m afraid a single gust will carry you right off the lover’s bed.” After ten minutes jogging round the house under his wife’s beady eye, a breathless Roman collapsed indoors and, gripping the floor with his teeth, began to drag himself towards the sanctuary of his bed. — “Where are you slithering off to?” Vera blocked his path. — “I want to die on the mattress, in my sleep.” — “No dying, we’re looking for a mistress, not a coroner. Off to the shower. Twice a day, minimum. You couldn’t spare me, so for heaven’s sake, spare your new friend your natural aromas. And from now on, you brush morning and night!” came her voice, already halfway to the bathroom. “Scrub your head well — we’re off to the photo studio today.” — “Why?” — “To get a proper photo for the dating site. I can’t take it myself, I know you too well — the lens would still see a rigger, the king of pints, and a connoisseur of fried pasta with butter. We need a shot of an alpha male.” — “Vera, seriously, can we stop now?” — “Don’t waste all that wordplay — save it for the ears of tender young damsels. Now, let’s pick a candidate.” Roman perked up — he enjoyed browsing profiles as a harmless fantasy, and now, officially allowed, he could do so with impunity. He began pointing. — “How about her?” — “Are you joking?” — “What’s wrong?” — “Roman, I’m supposed to feel ashamed of myself next to your mistress, not for you. Just look! Even your old Mini looked better before trade-in. She’d need a sign: Caution, Facade Elements Prone to Detach.” — “Then what about her?” — “Her? Oh heavens, Roman! What will people think if my husband cheats with anyone he can get? Now this — this is a good option!” — “No way, she’d never answer me…” — “Honestly… Remind me, how did I fall for such an insecure guy? What was it that kept us together for fifteen years?” — “My sense of humour?” Roman ventured. — “Let’s be honest — if laughter truly extended life, your jokes would’ve widowed me on the honeymoon. Let’s not tempt fate finding out. Come, we’ll buy you a suit — we’ll fish for a mistress bait-and-tackle style.” — “Enough, Vera, can’t we just make up?” — “Where do you see a fight? Having a mistress is a sign of success. And being the wife of a successful man is a status. Frankly, one mistress won’t be enough…” In the shopping centre, Vera steered Roman to the priciest shop and emptied all the mannequins en route. — “Vera, these trousers and this jacket cost as much as winter tyres,” he protested as she pushed him into the fitting room. — “Don’t worry — we’ll get you rubbers at the pharmacy too, any kind you want, summer or winter, and with double protection. I don’t want any stray bouquets in this house.” — “Vera!” — “What, Vera? Safety above all! We’re not picking a scooter here — it’s the hypotenuse for our obtuse triangle.” — “Have you called your boss?” — “About what?” Roman asked, wrestling his arm into the blazer. — “Financial matters, obviously. You’ll need a raise now. How else will you support two ladies? I’m fine with cabbage soup, but a mistress? There’s a formula: one dinner out, three glasses of wine, five stars in the hotel — skimp on anything and the whole foundation collapses.” Roman finally straightened his tie. — “Handsome — just like our wedding day,” sniffed his wife. — “It suits you,” confirmed a neighbouring customer. — “Are you taking him? He’s on the hunt for a mistress.” — “No thanks, I’ve already got three,” she smiled wickedly. — “Don’t even think of picking her, Roman,” Vera warned, “We need someone loyal — like a debit card to another bank: safe for a discreet transfer. Now, to the perfume counter, let’s give you a few spritzes before you’re released into the wild.” They wandered the mall another hour before Vera nodded with satisfaction. — “All right Roman, you’re ready. Even without a photo. Now go and remember everything I taught you — be as suave and confident as you were when you sold the Mini.” Vera went home to make soup. Roman set off in search of the mistress for whom he’d trained all day. An hour later, the intercom buzzed at Vera’s flat. — “Good afternoon, my sweet lady. Is your husband at home?” The velvet, smouldering voice was unfamiliar but thrilling. — “Oh!” Vera gasped, as the ladle slipped from her hands. “No, he’s gone to his mistress.” — “May I come up? I have something rather special to propose.” From the suggestive tone, Vera’s temperature soared then plummeted — she nearly reached for the Night Nurse, but instead, buzzed the visitor in thrice. Within three minutes, Roman appeared at the door holding a lush red bouquet, ushering Vera by the waist. The little hallway suddenly felt very warm. — “Were you crying?” Roman asked, noticing her red eyes. — “A little. Thought I’d mucked things up but turns out, they were just what we needed — for the fire.” — “So, are you up for an evening with a charming, witty companion?” Roman’s eyes burned with hunger and possibly 50ml of brandy’s courage. “I’ll take you to a restaurant and tell the dazzling story of your beauty. True-life narrative — you’ll love it.” — “I w-w-want to,” Vera stammered, joining the game. “Just let me take my soup off the stove and fix my lashes.” — “I’ll call us a cab,” Roman winked. — “Where shall we go?” Vera grinned from ear to ear. — “Five-star restaurant!” — “There aren’t any here — just a ‘Five Cheese’ pizzeria.” — “Then pizza it is! Only the best for my mistress.” — “What if your wife gets jealous?” — “We’ll do our utmost to make sure she does,” Roman winked mischievously.

Author Walton MerrittReading 8 minViews 2

IN SEARCH OF A MISTRESS

Beatrice, whats going on? Henry gawked at his wife as she tossed him a pair of gym shorts and an old England t-shirt.
Whats going on is that while you lie here snoring, all the good mistresses are being snapped up! she reached for the duvet, yanking it away and unleashing a barrage of goosebumps upon Henrys defenseless, pajama-clad flesh.
What are you talking about?
After your little speech last night about the day will come when Ive got myself a mistress, Ive made up my mind. The day has come, Henry. Half five in the morning: time to rise and head straight to the lascivious frontlines.
Oh come on, I wasnt serious! We were arguing, remember? Sorry, I was out of line.
Oh no, you were right on the money. The faults all mine, I let our fire burn to embers. Spent all the fuel on myself until theres nothing but the ashes, not even enough there to roast a spud, never mind rekindle anything. Its being sorted. Now, up you get.
Are you chucking me out?
Just the opposite. Im pushing you into action. Every morning, youll work out until youve jiggled off that gut of yours. Mistresses arent like wives they wont tolerate a Michelin mascot sharing their bed. Up! Now!
Henry, realizing Beatrice would not concede, dragged himself from bed and, to atone for his imagined sins, laboriously yanked on the shorts over his saggy old boxers.
Remind me, we need to get you a proper pair of trunks. Wearing these parachutes, youll end up blown off the lovers bed entirely.
After ten shattering minutes jogging rounds through their little suburban garden with coach Beatrice drilling holes into him with her eyes, an addled Henry stumbled indoors, collapsed, and began clawing with his teeth at the carpet, inching towards the welcoming comfort of the bed.
Where do you think youre off to? Beatrice asked, halting the wriggling caterpillar in its tracks.
Id like to die in my sleep, please.
No time for dying, we’re hunting a mistress, not a coroner. Shower. Twice a day at minimum from now on. You didnt spare me with those natural aromas of yours, at least dont subject a bystander to it. And youll brush your teeth, morning and night! her voice echoed through the bathroom door. Wash your hair properly: were off to a photography studio afterwards.
What for?
We need a proper dating profile picture. I cant photograph you myself; I know you too well. All Ill see through the lens is a rigger, the king of lager and fried beans on toast. We need to capture a real alpha male.
Bee, can’t we just stop now?
Dont waste your breath. Save it for some delicate maidens ear. Now, come choose your candidate.
At this, Henry perked up: he secretly enjoyed flicking through dating profiles now and then, harmless daydreams, but now he had official sanction. He prodded at the computer screen.
How about her?
Are you joking?
Whats wrong with her?
Henry, the sight of your mistress should make me ashamed for myself, not for you. Look at her! Even your old Vauxhall looked better before we sold it. Shed need warning labels: Caution facade liable to fall off at any moment.
This one, then.
This one? Really? My word, Henry, what will my friends think if my husbands tryst is with any old thing? Here, look this is a cracking choice!
Youve lost your marbles. A woman like that would never look twice at me…
Honestly! What did I ever see in such a diffident Pinocchio? What lured me in for fifteen years?
My sense of humour? guessed Henry.
Henry, lets be honest: if laughter really lengthened life, with your jokes, I’d have been widowed on our honeymoon. Lets not tempt fate by searching for meaning. Lets buy you a decent suit well lure a mistress with live bait.
Please Bee, lets just make up now.
What are you on about? Mistress means youve made it, you know: its a status symbol. So is being the wife of a successful man. We really oughtnt stop at just one mistress, to be fair.
At the shopping centre, Beatrice marched him straight to the priciest menswear. Together, they undressed every mannequin going.
Bee, these trousers and that blazer cost more than a set of winter tyres, Henry protested as she frogmarched him towards the changing cubicle.
Never mind, well buy you some rubber at the chemists whichever kind you fancy: summer or winter, but always with extra protection. No strange bouquets in my house, thank you!
Beatrice!
What? Cant be too safe. Were not shopping scooters, were completing the hypotenuse for our obtuse little triangle. Have you called your boss yet?
About what? Henry asked, arm deep in a new jacket.
Money, obviously. Youll be needing a raise. How will you keep two women on what you earn? I can choke down stew at home, but that wont impress a mistress. Its like mixing cement: one dinner, three glasses of wine, five stars at a hotel skimp anywhere, and the foundation crumbles.
At last, Henry got dressed and straightened his tie.
What a dashing chap just like our wedding day, Beatrice dabbed her eye.
Suits you, sir, called out a woman from the next cubicle.
Interested? Hes hunting for a mistress.
No thanks, love, Ive three lovers already she grinned shamelessly.
Henry, strike her off; we want loyalty someone as reliable as a debit card from another bank you can safely transfer funds to. Perfume next. Well douse you, then send you to fly free.
They wandered the shopping centre for another hour before Beatrice finally nodded in satisfaction.
There you are: ready. Even without a photo. Go on, remember everything I taught you: be persistent, gallant, and bold, just like the day you flogged our Vauxhall.
Beatrice went home to make stew, and Henry set out to find the mistress he had been so rigorously prepared for.
An hour later, the intercom buzzed in Beatrices flat.
Good afternoon, young lady. Your husband about? The voice was velvety, electric, and hummed with such longing that the cheap door speaker only intensified its allure.
Oh! Beatrice squeaked, her ladle slipping from her palm in a wave of emotions. No, hes gone to see his mistress.
Might I come in? I have a little proposal for you.
The hint of suggestion, hot and thick, left Beatrice flushed and then chilled, so much so she almost reached for Lemsip, but changed her mind and jabbed the button three times. Three minutes later, Henry walked in, clutching a glorious bouquet of scarlet roses. He gently slipped an arm around his wifes waist, and the cramped hall seemed to ignite.
Have you been crying? Henry gawked at his wifes red eyes.
Just a little. I thought Id ruined things, but I see now I was just gathering kindling for our fire.
Well in that case, madam, would you agree to spend this evening with a most fascinating and charming companion? There was a wild glint in Henrys eye, and just possibly the sparkle of two fingers of brandy for courage. Im inviting you to a restaurant, where I shall tell the remarkable story of your beauty. Its pure documentary, but I promise, youll enjoy it.
Y-y-yes, Beatrice answered, her tongue in knots as she played along, Ill just take the stew off the hob and fix my lashes.
Ill call a cab, Henry nodded.
Where are we dining? Beatrice grinned, giddy as a girl.
At a five-star restaurant!
There arent any in this town. Best weve got is a pizzeria called Five Cheeses.
That settles it: only the finest for my mistress.
Will your wife be jealous?
We shall do our utmost to make her positively green, Henry winked slyly.

— Get Yourself Home! We’ll Talk There! — Max Barked, Not Wanting to Entertain Bystanders with a Scene. “Oh, whatever,” snorted Varya. “Varya, don’t push your luck!” Max threatened. “We’ll talk at home!” “Oh, how frightening!” she tossed her braid over her shoulder and marched toward the house. Max waited until Varya was out of sight, then pulled out his phone and spoke into the microphone: “She’s on her way home! Make sure you welcome her—just like we discussed! And send her down to the cellar to cool her temper! I’ll be there soon.” He pocketed his phone and set off toward the shop, hoping to reward himself for ‘disciplining’ his wife, but a perfect stranger stopped him with an outstretched hand. “Sorry to accost you like this,” the man smiled apologetically. “You were just with a young lady—” “My wife. What about her?” Max frowned. “Oh, nothing!” the man’s smile turned nervous and placating. “Er, by any chance, is your wife called Barbara Melton?” “Barbara, yes. She was Melton before the wedding. Why?” “And is her middle name Sarah?” “Yes!” Max snapped, growing irritated. “How do you know my wife?” “Forgive me,” the man stammered, “but was she born in ’93?” Max quickly did the math and replied: “Yeah. What’s with all the questions—how do you know Varya?” He tensed. She’d moved to their small English village just three years ago, from who-knows-where. Varya once confided her parents had tried to force her into marriage, so she’d run off. Strange enough that someone in their village, where gossip ran faster than the post, suddenly seemed to know all about Varya. “Sorry, I’m not acquainted with her personally!” the man flushed. “Just, well, I’m a bit of a fan!” “A fan?” Max growled, “Fan of what, mate—d’you think you can steal my wife?” “No, no, you misunderstand!” the man waved his hands desperately. “A fan of her skills, you see!” “Varya hasn’t got any special talents,” Max muttered, confused. “To get a lifetime ban from Muay Thai at eighteen for being too brutal—now that takes skill!” the man exclaimed. “A shame she stopped after a few private tournaments. Watching her in the ring was a sight to behold!” Max, his hands shaking, fumbled for his phone. It clattered to the pavement, scattering into pieces. By the time he’d gathered it up, it refused to turn on. Max took off running for home—murmuring under his breath, “Dear God, let me be on time!” When Barbara—Varya—first arrived in their village, Max immediately noticed her. Who wouldn’t? Young, athletic, spirited, and fun. She’d taken a job as a PE teacher at the primary school. People assumed she was just a student on placement, but it turned out she was twenty-five and here for good. When the villagers learned she came alone—well, the gossip brewed. “She’s hiding something!” clucked the old guard. “No family, just turns up out of the blue? There’s a secret, I swear!” “Maybe she’s just had a bad experience with a bloke and came here to mend her wounds,” others suggested. Max was intrigued, but cautious. “Lord only knows what baggage she’s lugging. In time, we’ll see.” Teachers’ lounges in England are hotbeds of personal tales, and within six months, Varya revealed her story: “My parents run a business—a decent family. But when things went bust, Dad decided to marry me off to settle our debts. You should’ve seen the groom! I chose to run.” “So you’re completely alone?” a seasoned colleague shook her head. “People live everywhere,” Varya shrugged, “but I’d rather make my own way than marry someone I don’t love! And I refuse to be some item up for sale.” “You’ll find love here, I’m sure!” her colleagues encouraged. “Small villages can still have decent people!” When the details trickled through the grapevine, Max made up his mind. “She’ll be my wife! The local girls are greedy and bold, but she’s an outsider. And we’ll never have to deal with her family!” That’s what he told his own: his mum, dad, and older brother. “She’s young, healthy, and athletic—teaches PE for a reason! She’ll give us healthy kids and pull her weight at home! How much can there be to do at school?” “A perfect match!” his family agreed. “If she kicks up a fuss, she’ll learn the hard way—our way.” They assumed the wedding was a matter of course. Max was good-looking, had a position as deputy manager at the local produce depot. When directors visited, he was nothing more than a clerk, but always had ideas for rationalising supply and handling stock—so much so, he was promoted. People joked about initiative being punished, but he’d built the entire depot’s success. Workers moaned about his tough discipline—and his brother Nick, as head of security, was a tyrant—but thefts stopped. How could Barbara refuse such a solid man? She accepted his courtship, then his proposal, moved out from her tiny flat, and into Max’s family home. “There’s only one way to live—together, as a family!” his mother declared. “Everything’s shared, everything together! I don’t know what you’re used to, but this is our way.” “I fled my old family ways for a reason,” Barbara replied. “Now I’m here, I’ll learn our new ones.” Her humility was welcomed. “Except I don’t know how to do much,” she admitted shyly, “Back home, our staff handled everything.” “We’ll fix that soon enough!” her father-in-law chuckled warmly. “We’ll teach you!” “I’m willing to learn, but I can’t abide unfairness,” Barbara warned. “My dear,” her mother-in-law interjected, “sometimes fairness is relative! Family has centuries-old rules. Honour your husband and his kin, be respectful, and a gentle woman is a beautiful woman! The men handle the big problems.” “If that’s how it is,” Barbara shrugged, “but I hope you’re not into punishments like the old days?” “No whips, no stables!” her father-in-law laughed. But Varya sensed what was coming. Within a month, her freedoms vanished. Work or shopping only! “Where are you off to? There’s work at home—garden, chickens, ducks!” “Varya! We’re a family! I can’t do it all myself!” her mother-in-law lamented. Truth be told, the men were always at work, from dawn ‘til late. Father-in-law nattered from his chair, but most of the chores fell to his wife and Barbara. Barbara worked hard but insisted on respect in return. If someone got lazy, she spoke up. “Work? Then everyone does their bit. If not, I’m not playing.” Two and a half years passed, and she would not settle. She stood her ground, demanded fairness. “What a handful this Barbara is!” her mother-in-law would exclaim. “If you say one thing, she says five back!” “She doesn’t respect me!” added her father-in-law. “I asked for a cushion, she brushed me off, said she was busy!” “Max, this isn’t right,” Nick said. “She’s disrespectful! Who forgives that?” “I know she’s enjoying herself at our expense! She needs taming—a circus beast needs breaking! And what if we have kids? She’ll take charge, say she’s the mother, and we’ll have no place here!” “We need a plan,” Nick decided. “Take her to the high street, then send her home alone. We’ll be waiting and have a word—or two—with her. If she listens, great. If not, we’ll use force. If she acts up, we’ll lock her in the cellar, say she’s gone on holiday. A month down there will sort her out!” And so they prepared. Max took Barbara for a walk, the family readied themselves, stoked their righteous fury, and waited for Max’s call telling them she was on her way. But Max was too late. The gate was intact; the front door—gone as if it had never existed. In the hall, Nick sat howling, cradling a broken arm. Max grabbed his brother’s phone, dialed for an ambulance, held it to his ear: “Tell them the address!” Nick nodded, writhing in pain. Among smashed furniture, his father lay unconscious. Alive, mercifully. In the kitchen doorway, his mother sat on the floor, a splendid bruise blooming across her cheek, holding a giant rolling pin snapped in two. At the table, Barbara sipped her tea. “Darling?” she looked up at Max, “Have you come for your share?” “N-no,” muttered Max. “Then I don’t know what to offer you,” she pondered. “Maybe a little fairness in our family?” “You should have warned us!” Max exclaimed. “You nearly…” “I know my limits. Everyone got what they deserved. Came at me with something, got it back the same way. Snapped the rolling pin over my own knee! And as for your mother, she ran into the door herself—never laid a finger on her.” “How do we even live together now?” Max asked. “I think, very harmoniously!” Barbara smiled. “And above all, with justice! And don’t even think about divorce—I’m expecting. My child will have a father!” Gulping, Max replied, “Alright, love.” Once everyone had recovered—tempers and bones alike—the family’s rules got a little update. And, from that day forward, there was peace and quiet in their home. And nobody ever dared wrong another, ever again!

There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val trudged to the rusty garden gate, fumbled with the ancient lock, and finally stepped inside her chilly old cottage, settling wearily on a chair beside the cold hearth. The house, closed up for three months, smelled unlived-in—dusty ceilings strung with fresh cobwebs, a mournful creak from the antique stool, the wind howling down the chimney—her old home seemed to complain: Where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave in charge? How will we get through the winter? “Wait a bit, my dear. Let me catch my breath, I’ll light the fire and we’ll be warm again…” Just a year ago, Granny Val bustled around: touching up the paint, fetching water, bowing before her icons, tending the stove, and whirling through the garden, planting and watering. The house had come alive with her—floorboards chirping under her brisk steps, doors and windows springing open to her touch, the oven working overtime baking delicious pies. They were happy together: Val and her old cottage. She’d buried her husband early, raised three children on her own, saw them all educated and settled. One son was now a sea captain, the other an army colonel, both living far away, seldom visiting. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed nearby in the village, serving as chief agronomist—always at work, popping by on Sundays for quick visits and a taste of Val’s famous pies. Her granddaughter, Svetlana—sworn by all the village as a true beauty, with striking grey eyes and long, golden, wavy hair—was her greatest comfort. Svetlana studied in the city and returned as an agricultural economist, married the local vet, and with a special social programme, moved into a sturdy new brick house—a veritable manor by village standards. But while Val’s garden flourished, Svetlana’s was bare—she wasn’t made for growing things, kept too gentle by her grandmother, and soon the arrival of a son, Vasya, left no time for gardening. Svetlana urged her grandmother to move in with them: the new house was modern, no stove to light, plenty of room. At 80, Val’s once-nimble legs finally faltered, and she agreed. But after a while, Svetlana despaired: “Granny, I love you—but you’re always sitting! I’d hoped you’d help me around the house!” “My legs aren’t what they were, dear…” “Strange, you only got ‘old’ when you came to me!” So, not living up to expectations, Val was sent back home, disheartened and sick from guilt over failing her beloved granddaughter. Now even shuffling between bed and table was a struggle; going to church was impossible. Father Boris, who’d long depended on Val’s help at the historic village church, began visiting her at home. Spotting her shivering in an old cardigan and scuffed slippers, he sighed—Granny needed looking after. He recruited Anna, a sturdy neighbour, and soon the cottage warmed up—Father Boris fetched wood, made tea, wrote her sons’ addresses on envelopes when her shaky hand couldn’t. Her letters boasted, “I’m doing very well, my dear son. Thank God, I have everything I need!” But the pages were smeared with teardrops. Life adjusted. Anna checked in, her husband old sailor Pete ferried Val to services. Svetlana, heartbroken, fell seriously ill and within months, cancer claimed her. Her husband took to her grave, leaving four-year-old Vasya neglected and hungry, until Tamara intervened. But with work and little time, Vasya was set for a local boarding school—well run, but no substitute for home. That’s when Granny Val turned up, delivered by sailor Pete. “I’ll take Vasya,” she declared. “Mum, you can barely walk! You can’t manage a child!” “While I’m alive, he’s not going to an orphanage.” The usually gentle Val’s firm words left Tamara no argument. Neighbours whispered, “She must be losing her mind—she needs looking after herself, and now she’s taken on a child!” Father Boris visited, fearing the worst, but found warmth and laughter: Vasya, clean and content, listened to tales on the old gramophone, while Grannie Val, lively and quick, whipped up curd buns just as she once did. Back at home, Father Boris relayed the miracle to his wife, Alexandra, who responded with a story of her great-grandmother Vera: on her deathbed, Vera overheard her newborn great-granddaughter cry and, against all odds, got up, cared for the baby, and lived ten more years, “because there was still work to be done at home.” As the old song goes: “It’s not our time to go—there’s still work to be done at home!” And Father Boris smiled in agreement.

“YOU MISSED IT, MARINA! THE PLANE’S GONE—AND SO IS YOUR JOB AND BONUS! YOU’RE FIRED!” HER BOSS YELLED DOWN THE PHONE, WHILE MARINA STOOD IN A TRAFFIC JAM, STARING AT THE OVERTURNED CAR SHE’D JUST PULLED A STRANGER’S CHILD FROM. SHE’D LOST HER CAREER, BUT FOUND HERSELF. Marina was the perfect corporate warrior: 35, regional director, sharp, organized, always on call, her life planned to the minute on Google Calendar. That morning was supposed to deliver the deal of the year—with a Chinese contract—if only she could make it to Heathrow by 10:00. She left early: Marina never ran late. Speeding along the motorway in her brand-new crossover, she mentally rehearsed her pitch. Then, a hundred yards ahead, a battered Fiat spun out, clipped the kerb, and rolled into the ditch, flipping over multiple times. Marina hit the brakes on instinct. Her mind instantly calculated: *If I stop, I’ll be late. Millions are on the line. They’ll destroy me.* Other drivers slowed, filmed, and moved on. 8:45. Time was running out. She was about to accelerate around the building traffic jam, but saw a small child’s mittened hand pressed to the shattered window. She cursed, slammed the steering wheel, and pulled onto the hard shoulder. In heels, she ran through the snow. Petrol stung her nose. The driver, a young man, was unconscious and bleeding; a little girl sobbed in the back, pinned by a seat. The door jammed. Marina snatched up a rock, smashed the glass, never mind the shards ripping her coat. She hauled the girl out, then wrestled the man to safety with a trucker’s help. The car went up in flames less than a minute later. Marina sat in the snow, clutching the rescued child, her hands shaking, tights ripped, face sooty. Her phone went wild: it was the boss. — “Where are you? Check-in’s about to close!” — “I can’t make it, Victor. There’s been a crash. I was pulling people out.” — “I don’t care who you rescued! You’ve blown the deal! You’re finished in this industry, understand? Get out!” She hung up. The ambulance arrived in twenty minutes. The medic checked the survivors. — “They’ll live. You’re their guardian angel, miss. If not for you, they’d have burned alive.” The next day, Marina was unemployed. Her boss kept his word, spreading rumors that she was unstable and irresponsible. Her field was tight—her reputation, ruined. Job after job rejected her. The car loan payment loomed. She sank into depression. — “Why did I stop?” she wondered late at night. “I should’ve kept driving like everyone else. I’d be drinking champagne in Shanghai right now—not left with nothing.” A month later, an unknown number rang. — “Marina? It’s Andrei—the guy from the Fiat.” His voice was weak but cheerful. — “Andrei? How are you—and your daughter?” — “We’re alive. Thanks to you. Marina, we’d love to see you. Please.” She visited their cramped council flat. Andrei, still in a back brace. His wife, Lena, wept and kissed Marina’s hands. Little Dasha gave her a child’s drawing: a wobbly but bright angel with black hair. They drank tea and ate cheap digestives. — “We don’t know how to thank you,” Andrei said. “We can’t offer much—we’re just a mechanic and a nursery worker. But if you ever need anything…” — “What I need is a job,” Marina said, half-laughing. “I was sacked because I stopped that day.” Andrei thought. “My mate owns a farm—not a pigsty, but a proper place. He’s looking for a manager, not to muck out stalls, but handle paperwork, grants, logistics. The pay’s not much, but there’s a place to live. Fancy it?” Marina, once squeamish about mud on her shoes, had nothing to lose. The farm was huge but neglected. Uncle Pete, the owner, was passionate but clueless about the books. Marina rolled up her sleeves. No more glass-top desks—just a rough wooden table. No Armani suit—jeans and wellies. She sorted the paperwork, snagged subsidies, found buyers. Within a year, the farm was in profit. And Marina found herself enjoying it. No politics, no fake smiles. Just the scent of milk and hay. She learned to bake bread, adopted a dog, dropped the hour-long makeup routine. Most of all—she felt alive. One day, a city restaurant buyer came with a group. Among them—Victor, her old boss. He recognized her, sized up her jeans and windburned face. — “Well, Marina, is this where you’ve ended up? The dung queen? You could’ve been in the boardroom. Bet you regret playing the hero that day.” Marina looked at him. In that moment, she realized she didn’t hate him. He meant nothing. Like a plastic cup. — “No, Victor,” she smiled, “I don’t regret it at all. I saved two lives that day—and a third: my own. I saved myself from ever turning into you.” Victor scoffed and walked away. Marina headed to the barn, where a newborn calf nuzzled her palm. That evening, Andrei, Lena, and Dasha came over. They were family friends now, grilling burgers and laughing together. Marina gazed at the star-filled sky—so bright, so different from the city—and knew she was truly home. Moral: Sometimes losing everything is the only way to gain what’s real. Careers, money, status—they’re just scenery. They can go up in flames in a moment. But humanity, a clear conscience, a saved life—these stay with you forever. Don’t be afraid to take the detour when your heart tells you to—maybe it’s your real turning point.