Max held onto his regret for rushing into divorce. Wise men keep mistresses as a holiday, but he made her his wife Max Peterson’s cheerful mood vanished the moment he parked his car and entered the building. At home he was greeted with comforting predictability: slippers at the door, the appetising aroma of dinner, a spotless flat, and fresh flowers in a vase. He wasn’t moved: his wife’s at home, what else would an older lady do with her days? Bake pies and knit socks. (Alright, maybe not the socks—but you get the point.) Marina appeared as usual, smiling and ready: “Hard day? I’ve baked pies—cabbage, apple, just how you like…” She fell silent under Max’s heavy gaze. She stood there in her trousered, at-home suit, her hair tucked away under a kerchief—her chef’s habit from a lifetime in the kitchen. Her eyes subtly lined, lips sparkling with gloss: another lifelong habit, one Max now found gaudy. Why doll up old age! He shouldn’t have been so blunt, but he spat out: “Makeup at your age is nonsense! It doesn’t suit you.” Marina’s lips quivered; she didn’t reply and didn’t set the dinner for him. It was just as well. The pies were under a towel, the tea brewed—he could handle it himself. After a shower and dinner, kindness began to return to him, along with memories of the day. Swaddled in his favourite bathrobe, Max settled into his reserved armchair and pretended to read. He recalled what that new colleague had said: “You’re quite the handsome man—and interesting, too.” At 56, Max headed up the legal department of a major firm. A recent graduate and three women over forty reported to him; another was off on maternity leave. Her replacement was Asya. Max had been on a business trip during her hiring; he met her properly today. He invited her into his office to introduce himself. With Asya came the scent of delicate perfume and the sense of youth. Blonde curls framed her soft face; confident blue eyes, luscious lips, a telling beauty spot. Thirty, she said? He wouldn’t have guessed above twenty-five. Divorced, mum to an eight-year-old son. He saw it as a good sign—for reasons he couldn’t explain. Chatting, he joked about being “the old boss.” Asya fluttered her lashes and protested with words that lingered with him for hours. His wife, her hurt eased, appeared with his nightly chamomile tea. He frowned—“Always at the wrong moment.” But drank it anyway. Suddenly, he wondered what Asya might be doing now, this young, pretty woman—and felt a sting of long-lost jealousy. **** After work, Asya stopped by the supermarket: cheese, a loaf, kefir for dinner. At home, she hugged her son Vasili with routine more than affection. Her dad tinkered in his workshop, mum made tea. Asya announced a headache—no one to bother her, please. Truthfully, she was simply low. Ever since her divorce from Vasili’s father, Asya had yearned, in vain, to become someone’s leading lady. But all the good men were married, seeking easy romances. Her last affair—a colleague—seemed head-over-heels for two burning years. He even rented her a flat (for his own convenience, really), but at the first sign of trouble, insisted they split up, and that she must resign, too. He even found her a replacement post. So now Asya was back living with her parents and son. Her mum offered compassion; her dad thought the boy at least needed his mother, not just grandparents. Marina, Max’s wife, had long noticed his midlife crisis. They had everything—except what really mattered. She feared to imagine what “the main thing” might be. She did her best: cooked his favourites, stayed well-groomed, avoided soulful chats she herself missed. She tried to distract herself with her grandson and the allotment. But Max was restless, grumpy. Perhaps that’s why, seeking change, Max and Asya’s affair began instantly. Two weeks after she joined the firm, he invited her to lunch and drove her home. He touched her hand, she turned a flushed face to him. “I don’t want to go home. Let’s visit my cottage?” Max whispered. Asya nodded; the car sped away. Fridays, Max finished early, but that night at nine, his worried wife got a text: “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Max little realised how succinctly he had summed up the upcoming, pointless conversation. Marina knew it was impossible to stay ablaze after thirty-two years of marriage. But losing Max meant losing part of herself, no matter how surly or foolish he could be. She spent the sleepless night rifling through their old wedding album—how beautiful she’d been! So many had dreamt of marrying her. Surely, he should remember. He returned only Sunday; she saw everything was over. Max was changed—energised, unapologetic, determined. She was “free” now; he’d file for divorce tomorrow. Her son’s family would move to Marina’s, all by the book. She tried, in tears, to plead for a pause, for him to remember, to think of his health (even her own, which angered him). He drew close and hissed, “Don’t drag me into your old age!” … To say Asya loved Max would be a stretch—she said yes that first cottage night more for the appeal of being wed, warmed by the sense of “winning” over the man who’d rejected her. She’d had enough of living where her father ruled the roost. She wanted a stable future, the kind Max could offer. Not a bad deal, really. Despite being sixty-ish, he didn’t look like a granddad—fit, sharp, the boss, pleasant, appreciative in bed. And no rented flats, pennilessness, or thieving exes. All pluses? Though his age did worry her. A year later, Asya started to grow disillusioned. She felt youthful, craving excitement—regular, not annual and “dignified.” She wanted concerts, trips to the waterpark, sunbathing, nights out with friends. Her son didn’t slow her down. But Max was flagging. The expert lawyer could navigate any office crisis, but at home was an exhausted man seeking silence and respect for his routine. He tolerated guests and outings—sparingly. He wouldn’t say no to intimacy, but would promptly fall asleep, even at nine in the evening. And his delicate stomach couldn’t handle fried foods or supermarket sausage. His ex-wife had spoiled him, apparently. He even pined for Marina’s poached dinners. Asya cooked for her son, puzzled at Max’s protests over pork cutlets. Medication schedules? She expected a grown man to sort himself. So her life increasingly took place without him—outings with her son, friends, carving her own path. His age spurred her to seize the day. They no longer worked together—management found office spouses inappropriate, so Asya joined a notary’s office. She felt relieved not to spend all day watched by a man who had, more and more, begun to feel like her father. Respect—not love—was what Asya felt for Max. Was it enough for happiness? Max’s 60th birthday approached; Asya craved a big bash. But he booked a discreet restaurant, one he’d visited many times. He seemed bored, which was normal for his age. She shrugged it off. Colleagues toasted the birthday boy. Old family friends were omitted. His son had cut ties. But surely a father has a right to run his own life? Though, marrying, he’d imagined the “running” would look quite different. The first year with Asya felt like a honeymoon. He loved being seen out with her, indulged her (modest) spending, her fitness hobby, wild concerts and movies. He gave her and her son his flat; after some time, signed over half the cottage he co-owned with Marina. Behind his back, Asya begged Marina to sell her half too, threatening to let sharks buy in. With Max’s money, Asya now owned the full cottage—great for family holidays by the river and woods. Her parents and son stayed there all summer. It worked well; Max wasn’t keen on her lively boy anyway. He’d married for love, not to raise another’s noisy child. His old family was hurt; after selling their flat with the cottage proceeds, they split up. Marina moved to a studio. Max took no interest. **** Now, 60: so many well-wishers, but Max felt no thrill. Dissatisfaction grew each year. He loved his young wife, sure. But keeping up was impossible. And he could never “tame” her; she smiled and lived by her own rules, nothing outrageous—but he found it irksome. Ah, if only she had his ex-wife’s soul! To approach him with evening chamomile, tuck a blanket around him, stroll through parks, whisper together at midnight in the kitchen—Asya found his long chats tedious, even bored in bed. His nerves interfered. Max held a secret regret—he had rushed the divorce. Wise men keep mistresses as a holiday, but he made her his wife! Cheerful Asya, with her youthful spirit, might keep up the fun for another decade. But even in her forties, she’d feel much younger—that gap would only widen. If he was lucky, he’d die swiftly; otherwise… These “non-festive” thoughts throbbed in his temples and his heart raced. Gazing across at Asya—so beautiful, dancing, sparkling eyes—he admitted, it was happiness to wake up beside her. But… He slipped out of the restaurant, hoping to clear his head. But colleagues followed. Restless, overwhelmed, he jumped into a taxi, asking to drive quickly. He’d decide the destination en route. He longed for somewhere he mattered, somewhere he was awaited, cherished, able to relax and not fear seeming weak—or, heaven forbid, old. He called his son, almost begging for his ex-wife’s new address. His son replied, now hostile but softened on hearing it was his birthday. But mum might not be alone, he warned—not a romantic interest, just a friend. “Mum said they studied together. Funny name—Bulkford or something.” “Bulkeith,” Max corrected, feeling jealousy surge. Yes, he’d loved her. She was popular back then. His son asked, “But why do you want this, dad?” Max flinched at the forgotten word and realised how much he missed them all. He answered honestly: “I don’t know, son.” His son recited the address. Max got out, not wanting witnesses when he met Marina. It was nearly nine—she was always a night owl, for him the morning lark. He buzzed. But an unfamiliar, muffled male voice replied. Marina was busy. “Is she all right? Is she healthy?” Max asked, anxious. The voice demanded his name. “I’m her husband, for what it’s worth! You must be Mr. Bulkeith!” Max shouted. “Mister” Bulkeith coolly corrected that Max was “ex-husband,” so no right to bother Marina, and didn’t bother to explain she was taking a bath. “What, old love never dies?” Max snapped, ready for a prolonged spat with Bulkeith. But the reply was brief: “No. Old love turns to silver.” The door didn’t open for Max…

Malcolm harboured a persistent regret over his quick divorce. Clever men, he mused, turn their lovers into magical holidays, whereas hed made his into a wife.

His buoyant mood had evaporated the moment he parked his Ford and stepped through his front door. Home greeted him with the monotony of middle England: slippers lined up and ready, the mouth-watering aroma of a proper dinner, spotless surfaces, and flowers in a vase. It was all there, dependable as a rainy Tuesday, but none of it moved him. His wife was at home, of coursewhat else would a retired lady get up to all day? Baking pies and knitting socks, presumably. Well, perhaps not the socks. That was a tad unfair. But you get the idea.

Margaret greeted him with her usual smile,
Tired, love? Ive baked your favouritescabbage pie and apple pie. Just how you like them
She trailed off under Malcolms heavy glare. There she stood, in her comfy trousers and a homely top, hair neatly done up in a scarfthe eternal chef, always preparing.

Years of kitchen work had drilled this into her: hair away, eyes lightly made up, a dash of gloss. All habit. Now, though, Malcolm shook his head. What was this clown-like obsession with makeup at her age? He couldnt help himself:
Cosmetics at your age are a bit daft! It doesnt suit you.

Her lips trembled, but she pressed on in silence, choosing not to set the table for him. It was probably for the best; pies were waiting under a cloth and the tea had steepedhe could manage.

After the nightly ablutions and supper, Malcolms irritation softened a little, as wistful recollections of his day returned. In his favourite bathrobe, sprawled in his personal armchair, he feigned reading. What was it that new girl at work said?
Youre quite a charming man, and rather interesting too.

Malcolm was 56, head of the legal department in a sizable London firm. On his team: a fresh-faced graduate and three women comfortably over forty. Another colleague was off on maternity, so theyd hired a new tempSophie.

Malcolm only met Sophie today, since hed been away on business during her induction. Welcoming her into his office, she entered with a cloud of delicate perfume and an unmistakable air of youthful zest. Angelic face, framed by light curls, confident blue eyes, a juicy mouth and a dimple on her cheek. She claimed she was thirty, but Malcolm would have guessed twenty-five.

Divorced, mum to an eight-year-old. Malcolm, for reasons he couldnt quite place, thought: Well, good.

He found himself flirting, muttering about being the offices old boss. Sophie batted her long lashes, contradicting him with words he now replayed in his mind, thrilling and unsettling.

Back at home, Margaret had gotten over the earlier slight, bringing his nightly chamomile tea to the armchair. He frownedpredictable as ever. Still, he drank it with grumbled gratitude. His mind drifted to what Sophie might be doing at this very moment, and a pang of forgotten jealousy stabbed his heart.

****
After work, Sophie popped into the Tesco. Cheese, a loaf, some kefir for dinner. At home, her mood was neutralno smile. She hugged her son, William, as he dashed up, but the gesture was more mechanical than motherly.

Dad was tinkering away in his shed (which he called his workshop), Mum was prepping dinner. Sophie dropped her shopping and declared, Headacheleave me be! In truth, she just felt down.

Since her divorce from Williams father a few years back, Sophie had been grappling with the hopeless quest for proper romance. All the eligible men were thoroughly married and only interested in flirtations, never anything substantial.

Her last flame, a workplace affair, had seemed head-over-heels. Two passionate years! Hed even rented her a flat (though mostly for his convenience), but when things got tricky, he pronounced it was best for them both to move onand demanded she resign too, finding her a new job himself.

So now Sophie was back living with her parents and William. Mum pitied her. Dad insisted the child at least needed his mother, not just grandparents.

Margaret had long noticed Malcolm was in the throes of a mid-life crisisa case of all comforts, nothing exciting. She feared what he might turn to for excitement. She tried to make things easier: comfort food, immaculate appearance, not pestering him for heart-to-hearts (though she sorely missed them).

She distracted herself with grandson visits, gardening, anything, but Malcolm remained irritable, restless.

Its no wonder, with both itching for change, that Malcolm and Sophies affair started at once. Just two weeks after Sophie joined, Malcolm invited her out for lunch, then drove her home after work.

He brushed her hand; she turned, cheeks flushed.
I dont want to say goodbye tonight. Want to see my cottage? he growled. Sophie nodded, and away they sped.

By Friday, Malcolm would finish work early, but at nine Margaret finally received a text: Well talk tomorrow.

Malcolm had no clue how accurate that message wasthere wouldnt be much talking, nor much needed. Margaret knew: after 32 years, passion doesnt burn forever.

Yet Malcolm was so much a part of her, losing him would be like losing a limb. Let him grumble, bluster, behave like an imbecileit didnt matter. He belonged there, in that armchair, eating dinner, breathing beside her.

Margaret scoured her mind for words to stop the implosionher life, after all, was the one crumbling. She didnt sleep a wink.

In desperation, she dug out their wedding albumtwo young souls, the future wide open. She really was beautiful once! Many wanted her as their own. Malcolm needed reminding. Maybe hed see these fragments and realise not everything should end up in the bin.

But he returned only on Sunday, and Margaret knewthis was it. Standing before her was a different Malcolm, lit up by adrenaline, shame and hesitation gone.

Unlike Margaret, who dreaded change, he welcomed it with open arms and steely planning. He spoke in a dont-argue tone.

From now on, Margaret was free. Hed file for divorce tomorrow. Their son and his family would move in with Margaretafter all, the two-bed their son lived in was Malcolms by inheritance. Family musical chairs!

Switching to the three-bed with Mum wouldnt cramp anyone, and at least Margaret would have someone to fuss over. He kept the car, naturally. The cottagehe reserved weekends there.

Margaret realised she appeared pitiful, but her tears refused to dry up, muddling her words. She begged him to reconsider, remember their history, think about his healthhers, at least. That last point sparked his fury. He leaned in close, hissed (nearly shouting):
Stop dragging me into your old age!

It would be a stretch to claim Sophie accepted Malcolms marriage proposal out of loveespecially that first night at the cottage. Being a wife appealed, and it was balm to the ego after being dumped by a lover.

She was fed up with her dads grumpy rule at home. She craved stability, something Malcolm could provide. Not a bad option, she conceded.

Despite his late fifties, Malcolm didnt look a granddad. Fit, lively, a department head, sharp, pleasant, even passionate in bednot self-obsessed. And no more renting a measly flat, scrimping for change, or theft by flatmates. Just perks! Though, yes, his age niggled.

A year on, disillusion crept in. Sophie, still feeling like a young woman, wanted excitementa concert, a trip to the water park, sunbathing in cheeky swimwear, evening chats with girlfriends.

She managed everythingfamily, home, fun. Even Williams presence never slowed her down.

Malcolm, though, showed his age. The quick-thinking legal whiz faded into a tired soul at home, craving calm and respect for his routines. He allowed guests, theatre, beachwithin strict limits.

He didnt mind intimacy, but then straight to sleep (often by nine, mind you).

Worse, he had a delicate constitution. No fried food, sausages, shop-bought stuff. His ex-wife had spoiled him, clearly.

Sometimes he even reminisced about her steamed dishes. Sophie cooked for Williams liking, not grasping how pork cutlets could cause a pain in the side.

She didnt keep track of his various pills, figuring a grown man should handle his own pharmacy, thank you. Bit by bit, more of her life happened without him.

She took William on adventures, kept up with her friends. Oddly, Malcolms age only made her want to live faster.

They no longer worked together, eitherthe firm considered it improper, and Sophie switched to a local solicitors office. She was glad, really, not to spend all day under his bossy gaze. She sometimes thought of him more as her father than her husband.

Respectthats what she felt for Malcolm. Was it enough for happiness, who could say?

Malcolms sixtieth birthday was looming. Sophie fancied a huge bash, but he booked a quiet table at the same old pub hed always visited. He seemed bored, but, well, at his age, it was natural. Sophie didnt fuss.

The night poured in colleagues. Family was distant, and the old crowd from the Margaret yearstoo awkward to invite. His son had practically disowned him. But surely, a dad had the right to his own life? Even so, Malcolm always pictured things turning out differently.

That first year with Sophie was a honeymoon. He loved seeing her in public, encouraged harmless splurges, didnt mind friends or fitness classes.

He even survived loud gigs and bonkers films. Buoyed by the whirlwind, he made Sophie and William joint owners of the flat, then handed over his half of the cottage (a relic from his first marriage).

Sophie, in secret, pressed Margaret to hand over her half, threatening to sell hers to whoever offered cash. Margaret, fed up, sold up. Malcolm, of course, footed the bill, so Sophie wound up with the whole cottagearguing it was good for William, with the river and forest nearby.

For the summer, Sophies parents and son moved out there. Not a bad thing; Malcolm wasnt a fan of Williams never-ending energy. Hed married for love, not for dealing with someone elses boisterous offspring.

The ex-family took their cut and split. Son and his family moved into a two-bed, Margaret downsized to a studio. How they managed, Malcolm neither knew nor cared.

So, the big six-oh. Well-wishers showered Malcolm with wishes of joy, love, luck. He felt not a trace of enthusiasm. Just the familiar numbness dominating more each year.

He did care for his young wifehe just couldnt keep pace. Even his attempts to rein her in didnt work. She smiled and lived on her own terms, never reckless, but it still grated.

Ah, if only she had a pinch of Margarets soul! Someone whod bring chamomile tea, tuck him under a blanket for an evening nap. Hed happily stroll the parks at a snails pace, whispering late into the night in the kitchen. But Sophie hated long conversations and, frankly, seemed bored in bed. He grew nervous, which didnt help.

Malcolm nursed a sorrowful regret. Smart men keep mistresses as their special treathed married his.

Sophie, with her vibrant personality, could gallop through the next decade at full speed. Shed always be decades younger. The gap only widened. If luck was on his side, maybe his life would end in a flash. If not…

Such non-birthday thoughts drummed in his temples, speeding his pulse. He searched for Sophieshe was, of course, among the dancers. Beautiful, sparkling-eyed. Waking next to heryes, that was happiness. Right?

Grabbing his chance, Malcolm slipped out the pub. He thought hed breath in some fresh air, shake off his melancholy. But colleagues followed. Sensing an unbearable rising tide inside himself, he dashed for the nearest taxi and pleaded to be taken away. Hed settle the destination later.

He wanted somewhere where *he* mattered. Somewhere hed walk in and be missed, where his time was treasured, and he could justrelax. Not having to fear being weak, or God forbid, old.

He rang his son and, almost pleading, asked for Margarets new address. His son, after some well-earned grumbling, relented, noting today was Dads birthday. He softened a bit, but warned Malcolm that his mum might not be alone. No, not a boyfriend. Just a friend.

Mum said they studied together. Funny surname… Oh, Bakerly or something.

Bakerton, Malcolm corrected, feeling a stupid surge of jealousy. Yes, hed fancied her. Lots had. She was beautiful, cheeky.

She was supposed to marry BakertonMalcolm had snatched her away. Ancient history, but it felt fresher than life with Sophie.

Dad, his son asked, why do you need it?

Malcolm shuddered at being called Dad again. He realised how much he missed them all.
Honestly, sonI havent got a clue.

His son gave him the address. The taxi pulled up, Malcolm got outhe didnt want witnesses to whatever happened next. Almost nine oclock, but Margaret had always been a night owl and, for him, the lark.

He dialled the buzzer.

But a gruff mans voice answered. He said Margaret was busy.

Whats wrong with her? Is she alright? Malcolm blurted. The voice demanded his name.

Im her husband!then, in a fit of old rivalryAnd you must be Bakerton!

Ex-husband, mate, corrected the man, so youve no business bothering her. Margarets in the bath. No explanation necessary.

Whats that then, old love never rusts? Malcolm sneered, ready for a row.

Nah, it just goes silver, Bakerton shot back.

And nobody opened the door.