Max kept his regret for the hasty divorce to himself—wise men turn lovers into special occasions, but he made his into a wife Maxwell Peters’ uplifted mood vanished the moment he parked his car and entered his flat. At home, predictability greeted him: slippers ready for his feet, the appetising smell of dinner, fresh flowers in a vase, and everything spotless. But it didn’t move him; after all, his wife was always home—what else is there for an older English lady to do all day? Bake mince pies, knit socks (alright, he exaggerated about the socks, but the point remained). Marina appeared with her usual smile: “Tired, love? I’ve baked pies—cabbage and apple, just how you like…” She fell silent under Max’s heavy gaze, standing in trousers and her house top, hair tucked under a scarf—the way she always cooked. The professional habit of tidying her hair: she’d spent her life as a cook. Eyes lightly pencilled, a bit of gloss—she was always tidy, but today it struck Max as brash. What’s the point of painting up your old age! He probably shouldn’t have been so blunt, but he blurted: “Makeup at your age is nonsense! Doesn’t suit you.” Marina’s lips trembled, but she said nothing—and didn’t go to lay the table. Just as well. The pies were under the tea towel, the tea was brewed—he’d manage. After his shower and supper, kindness began to seep back into Max, along with memories of the day. Draped in his favourite dressing gown, he settled into his armchair—the one waiting just for him—and pretended to read. What did that new woman at work say to him? “You’re quite an attractive man—and interesting too.” At fifty-six, Max managed the legal department of a major London firm. Reporting to him: a fresh grad and three women over forty. Another woman had gone on maternity: her spot was now filled by Asya. He’d been away for paperwork, so only met her that day. He invited her to his office for a chat and, with her, drifted the scent of delicate perfume and a wave of youthful freshness. Soft features framed by light curls, bright blue eyes meeting his confidently. Juicy lips, a mole on her cheek—was she really thirty? He’d have guessed 25. She was divorced, mother to an eight-year-old son. Oddly—he thought: “Good.” Chatting, he mildly flirted, saying, “Now you’ve got yourself an old boss.” Asya fluttered long lashes and replied with words he kept replaying now. His wife, over the offence, soon appeared by his chair with her ritual chamomile tea. He frowned—“Always picks the worst time!”—but drank, not without pleasure. Suddenly, he wondered: what is the young, pretty Asya doing now? And an old, forgotten feeling stabbed through him: jealousy. *** After work, Asya popped into Tesco for cheese, a baguette, and some kefir for supper. At home she was neutral, no smile, hugging her son Vasily more by routine than tenderness when he ran up. Dad tinkered in the balcony workshop, Mum cooked. Putting her shopping away, Asya announced she had a headache and didn’t want to be disturbed. Really, she felt bleak. Ever since she divorced Vasily’s dad years before, Asya had only struggled fruitlessly to become someone’s “main woman.” All the good ones turned out solidly married and only wanted something easy. The last one she’d dated from work seemed head-over-heels. Two passionate years. He even rented a flat for her (for his convenience, really). But when things got serious, he insisted not just on breaking up, but that she must immediately quit her job. He even found her a new position. Now Asya was back living with her parents and son. Mum pitied her, Dad said that at least the boy should grow up with a mother—not just grandparents. *** Marina, Max’s wife, long suspected he was struggling with a mid-life crisis. He had everything, but something vital was missing. She feared to imagine what “vital” could mean for him. She tried to soften things—making his favourite food, staying pretty, not pushing for deep conversation (though she dearly missed it). She distracted herself with their grandson, the garden, but Max was always glum, brooding. So, perhaps because they both craved change in their lives, Max and Asya’s affair flared instantly. Two weeks after she started, he asked her for lunch—then gave her a lift home from work. He touched her hand; she turned to him with a glowing face. “I don’t want to say goodbye. Shall we go to my country cottage?” Max said huskily. Asya nodded, and the car sped off. Fridays, Max finished work an hour early, but only at 9pm, the worried wife got a text: “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Max had no idea how accurately he’d described the future—“talking” was pointless now. Marina understood: after 32 years of marriage, one can’t burn with passion forever. But he was so much a part of her that losing him meant losing herself. Let him scowl, grumble, and act up, so long as he stayed—right there, in his favourite armchair, having dinner, breathing beside her. Desperate for words to save her life (really, just her life), Marina didn’t sleep till morning. Out of despair, she fetched the wedding album: young, so beautiful, so much ahead! Many had wished to call her their own. Her husband should remember this. She hoped he’d see those fragments of their old happiness and realise—some things cannot be thrown away. But he came back only on Sunday, and she saw: it was over. Before her, a different Max. He was charged with adrenaline; awkwardness and shame were gone. Unlike her, fearing change, he craved and embraced it. Even planned it. He spoke in a tone that brooked no dissent. From now on, Marina should consider herself free. He’d file for divorce tomorrow. Himself. The son’s family was to move in with her—according to the law: the double-bedroom flat belonged to Max, inherited. Family games. The move into a three-bedroom with Mum wouldn’t worsen conditions for the young family—and she’d have someone to fuss over. The car: of course, his. As for the cottage—he’d keep rights to use it. Marina knew she seemed pathetic and unattractive, but she couldn’t hold back tears. They caught in her throat, making speech garbled. She begged him to stop, look back, think of his health, at least… That last bit infuriated him. He approached, whispered, almost shouting: “Don’t drag me into your old age!” *** It would be foolish to claim Asya loved Maxim—she accepted his proposal on their very first night together at the cottage. Being a wife was appealing; she also found great comfort in showing her ex-lover, who’d rejected her, that she’d moved on. She was tired of living in her parents’ flat with Dad’s strict ways. She wanted stability. Maxim could give her that. Not a bad deal, really. Despite nearing sixty, he didn’t look like a grandad—fit, sharp, still a department head. Intelligent, pleasant, even considerate in bed. She liked that there were no rented flats, no cash struggles, no theft. All pluses? Well, she had doubts over his age. After a year together, disappointment grew. She still felt young, craved excitement—frequent, not once a year and dignified. She loved concerts, dreamed of waterparks, sunbathing in bold swimsuits, meetups with friends. Her youth and energy meant juggling all that with housework and family was easy. Even her son, now living with her, didn’t slow her down. But Max was clearly flagging. At work, the expert legal manager handled endless tasks briskly; at home, she got a tired man who mostly wanted quiet and respect for his habits. Guests, theatre, beach—allowed, but only in small doses. He was open to intimacy, but then straight to sleep—even at 9pm. Plus, she had to account for his sensitive stomach—no fried food, sausages, supermarket ready meals. The ex-wife had spoiled him. He even felt nostalgic at times for her steamed meals. Asya cooked to suit her son, couldn’t understand why pork cutlets made his side ache. She couldn’t memorise his tablets list either—surely a grown man could sort his own meds. Gradually, part of her life happened without him. She took her son as a companion, choosing activities to suit him, teamed up with friends. Oddly, her husband’s age spurred her to live faster. They didn’t work together anymore—the directors found it unseemly, and Asya switched to a notary office. She felt relieved not to spend all day with her husband—he was starting to remind her of her father. Respect—that’s what Asya felt for Maxim. Was that too little or just enough for two people to be happy? Max’s sixtieth loomed, and Asya craved a lavish celebration. But her husband booked a table in a familiar, modest restaurant, one he’d visited often. He seemed bored, but that’s normal at his age, she thought. Colleagues toasted the birthday boy. Old family friends from the Marina years—it was awkward to invite them; family was far away, and they hadn’t understood his marriage to a much younger woman. His own son had cut him off. But doesn’t a father have the right to live his life as he chooses? Honestly, when marrying, he’d thought “choosing” would look rather different. That first year with Asya was a honeymoon. He enjoyed being in public with her, encouraging her to spend (not too much), keep up with friends, do fitness classes. He coped with concerts, wild movies, made Asya and her son co-owners of his flat. Later, he even gave her his half of the cottage, previously shared with Marina. Meanwhile, Asya, behind his back, persuaded Marina to sell her half, threatening to offload it to unsavoury buyers. Buying it (of course with Max’s money), she registered the place solely to herself. Her rationale: the river, the woodland—perfect for children. Now, for summer, Asya’s parents and her son moved in at the cottage. In fairness, this worked well: Max was not fond of the boy, who was noisy and lively. He’d married for love, not to raise another’s offspring. The old family took offence. After getting the money, they sold their own three-bed and went separate ways—his son’s family found a two-bed, Marina downsized to a studio. Max didn’t care how they lived. Family games. *** Now, Max’s sixtieth: so many wished him health, happiness, love. But he was missing the spark. Each year brought that familiar discontent. He loved his young wife, sure. But couldn’t keep pace with her, that was it. And to “press down”, to rule her, didn’t work. She’d smile and live in her own way. Never crossed a line—he could feel it, but it frustrated him. If only he could transplant his ex-wife’s soul into Asya! Someone who’d bring him chamomile tea, tuck him in if he dozed off. Max would love slow walks in the park together, late-night kitchen chats—but Asya couldn’t bear his long stories, and seemed to be bored in bed now. He grew anxious, which didn’t help. Max kept inside his regret at rushing the divorce. Wise men turn lovers into rare treats; he’d made his into a wife. Asya, with her temperament, maybe ten more years would stay the playful filly. But even at forty, she’d still be much younger than him. That gulf would only widen. If he was lucky, perhaps life would end quickly—but if not? Such “un-festive” thoughts pounded, making his heart race. He scanned for Asya—there she was, dancing, radiant. Happy, though, of course—it’s wonderful to wake with her beside him. Gift baskets. Seizing the moment, he slipped out of the restaurant, longing for air, to shake off the gloom. But colleagues flocked over. Uncertain how to deal with the growing pain inside, he bolted for the waiting taxi and urged the driver to hurry. He’d decide the destination later. He yearned for somewhere he was truly appreciated—where arriving meant someone was waiting just for him. Where his time was cherished, he could relax, never feel old or weak or foolish. He rang his son, pleading for his ex-wife’s new address. Receiving a bit of well-earned scorn, he insisted—this was a matter of life and death. He let slip it was his birthday, after all. His son softened slightly and said his mum might not be alone. No boyfriend—just a friend. “Mum said they went to school together. The surname’s—something funny, Bulkovich?” “Bulkevich,” Max corrected, jealousy flaring. Yes, he’d fancied her once—many did. She was beautiful, bold. She’d planned to marry Bulkevich, but Max stole her away. Long ago, but yesterday enough to feel more real than life with Asya. His son asked, “Why do you want it, Dad?” The word “Dad” startled Max, and he realised how much he missed them all. So he answered honestly: “I don’t know, son.” Son gave him the new address. The driver stopped. Max got out—he didn’t want to speak with Marina in front of witnesses. He checked the time: nearly nine—she was an owl, who also was his lark. He buzzed at the door. But the answer was a muffled male voice—not his ex-wife’s. She was busy. “What’s wrong with her? Is she okay?” Max inquired, nervous. The voice demanded his name. “I’m her husband—even now! You must be Mr Bulkewich!” Max snapped. “‘Mr’? You’re her ex-husband, so you have no rights to bother Marina,” came the reply. Didn’t bother explaining: the friend was just taking a bath. “What, old flames never rust?” Max asked, gearing up for a long spat with Bulkewich. But he only replied, “No, they turn to silver.” Max never got through that door…

Martin harboured a regret so large it was threatening to burst out of him: he’d rushed into divorce. Clever blokes knew how to keep mistresses for holidays, but hed managed to turn his into his wife. Well done, Martin.

His sense of buoyancy evaporated the moment he parked his Vauxhall Astra and wandered into his building. Home greeted him with the expected embrace: slippersput on immediately; the delicious aroma of dinner; perfect cleanliness; vase of fresh flowers. All so predictably… domestic.

None of this moved him. His wife was always at home; what else is a woman meant to do all day once retired? Bake pies and knit socks, apparently. He exaggerated about the socks, mind, but it was the principle that counted.

Mary greeted her husband, smiling in the way only someone who has read too many cookbooks can:

Had a rough day, love? I baked piescabbage and apple, the way you like

Then she stopped, silenced by Martins steely gaze. She stood in homey trousers and a top, her hair tucked under a scarfthe ever-present chefs habit, after years as head cook at the local primary school. Her eyeliner ever so subtle, lips glimmering with gloss. Martin wondered, since when did she decide to paint her sunset? He found it rather tacky. What was this obsession with making old age sparkle?

Probably should have chosen his words more tactfully, but out came:

Makeup at your age is a bit much. Doesnt suit you.

Marys lips quivered, but she said nothing. Nor did she fuss about setting the table for him. Frankly, all the better. The pies waited under a tea towel, the kettle was onhe could manage.

After a shower and dinner, Martins mood softenedor perhaps he just remembered a compliment hed received earlier that day. He settled into his favourite armchair, wearing his beloved dressing gown, pretended to read. He recalled what the new colleague had said:

Youre actually quite an attractive man, and you seem fascinating too.

Martin was fifty-six and heading up the legal department of a sizable company. He had under his wing a recent university graduate and three women over forty. Another had gone and had a baby. Thats how Harriet entered the picture.

Hed been in Manchester on business when Harriet joined. Today was the first time hed actually met her.

He invited her into his office to say hello. She stepped in with the delicate scent of perfume and the unmistakable air of youth. An oval face framed by fair curls; clear blue eyes, full lips, a beauty spot on her cheek. Thirty, apparently. Martin reckoned twenty-five, max.

She was divorced, with an eight-year-old son. For reasons unknown even to himself, Martin thought, Good!

Chatting with her, Martin flirted a touch. Joke about being her ancient boss. Harriet fluttered her lashes and replied in a way that unnervedand now hauntedhim.

Mary, having gotten over the initial slight, appeared by his chair, herbal tea in hand. He scowlednever at the right moment. Yet he drank it, not without a small measure of gratitude.

Martin found himself wondering: What was Harriet up to right now? The thought jabbed his heart with an old, uninvited feelingjealousy.

****

Harriet nipped into Sainsburys after work. Some cheddar, a loaf, a bottle of kefir for her tea. Arrived home, more robotic than sprightly, and only managed a half-hug for her son, William, as he barrelled over.

Her dad was tinkering away in his shed (attached to the garden, where else?), mum fussing about in the kitchen. Harriet dropped the groceries, announced she had a headache and not to bother her. Truthfully, she felt despondent.

Ever since her split with Williams father, shed been chasing after the elusive prize of being someones leading ladyfruitlessly.

Every decent chap turned out heavily married or after a fleeting bit of fun.

Her last boyfriend, also a colleague, seemed besotted for two whole years. Even rented her a flatmainly for his own convenience, lets be honest. But the moment life required actual commitment, he declared they needed to break upand insisted she quit her job, too.

He even found her a new position. So Harriet ended up back with her parents and William. Her mum coddled her, while dad insisted at least the child should grow up with his mumand not just his grandparents and the ever-present dog, Walnut.

Mary, Martins wife, noticed her husbands existential crisis ages ago. He had everything, yet missed something fundamental. She dreaded to think what the fundamental might be. She tried to smooth things over: cooked his favourite dishes, kept herself well turned out, never poked him with heart-to-heart talks, though she missed those herself.

Tried mooring him with grandson and vegetable patch. Still, Martin shuffled about, perpetually glum.

So, it was probably inevitable that Martin and Harriets romance snowballed like a meal dealquick and a little bit questionable. Two weeks into Harriets arrival, hed asked her to lunch and gave her a lift home.

When he lightly touched her hand, Harriet turned to him with an embarrassed flush. Martin rasped,

I dont want today to end. Fancy coming to my place in the countryside?

She nodded, and away the car sped.

On Fridays, Martin finished work early, but only at nine did Mary receive a cryptic text: Well talk tomorrow.

Martin had no idea just how apt those words were for the conversation aheada proper waste of time, really. Mary knew passion fizzled after thirty-two years wed.

Still, her husband was so familiar, losing him felt like losing a limb. So he grumbled, brooded, even acted manly-stupid, but shed happily have him sat in his chair, eating, breathing beside her.

Mary, sleepless and desperate to undo her unraveling life (mainly her own), dug out their wedding albumyoung, gorgeous, unlimited future. So many had fancied claiming her; her husband needed reminding. Maybe, just maybe, hed catch sight of their happiness and realize not everything deserved the bin.

But he only returned on Sunday, and Mary knew: it was over. Before her was another Martin. Adrenaline to his eyeballs, confidence oozing everywhere. He was differentspeaking in that final, unbending tone.

From this moment, Mary should consider herself free. Martin would file for divorce himself. Their sons family would move in with Mary; the paperwork was ironclad. The two-bedroom the boy lived inMartins inheritance.

The three-bed with Mary would suit the younger crowd well enough. Shed also have someone to fuss over. Car obviously his, and hed reserve rights to his lakeside retreat.

Mary knew she looked pitiful, but couldnt stop the tears. They muddied her words. She begged him to reconsider, dredge up happier memories, at least think of his own health which, of course, drove him into a rage. He closed the gap between them and hissed,

Dont drag me into your old age!

Harriet, lets be honest, didnt fall for Martin. She mainly liked being a Wife, especially once her old flame had dumped her.

Living with her parents, especially her fathers strict rules, had worn thin. Stability appealed to her. Martin could provide: respectable, assertive, never boring (well, not boring yet). Not a bad choice, all told.

He didnt look much like a granddad, either. Trim, surprisingly youthful, a department head. Sharp, charming, surprisingly enthusiastic in bed. She liked that she wouldnt be stuck in a rented flat or broke or burgled. Just perks. Well his age made her nervous.

A year later, Harriets disappointment had grown. She still felt young, hungry for excitementregular excitement, not just once a year, nor the dignified variety. She wanted concerts, waterparks, bold beachwear, chats with girlfriends.

Thanks to her youthful energy, she managed all this alongside daily life and family. Not even William cramped her style.

But Martin was clearly fading. At work, he was quick-witted, handled complicated problems with ease. At home, however, Harriet got a tired, cranky man who craved peace, respect for routine. Guests, theatre, beachesfine, but only in small doses.

He didnt mind intimacythen straight to sleep, even by nine.

Plus, Harriet had to contend with his delicate stomach, unable to stomach fried food, sausage rolls, anything past a supermarket meal deal. Clearly, his former wife had spoiled him.

He even longed for her steamed dinners. Harriet cooked for William, couldnt grasp how pork chops could cause such agony.

Nor did she remember his extensive menu of tablets, presuming any grown man could buy his own and recall when to pop them. So, more and more, her life started to happen without Martin.

She took William on outings, joined her friends, pursued her own adventures. Weirdly, Martins age just made her more determined to live fast.

Eventually, Harriet moved jobsworking together in the same office had become inappropriate, so she ended up at a local solicitors. She even felt relieved not to spend all day watching her husband age like her father.

Respect was the main feeling Harriet held for Martin. Was that enough or not quite, for a happy couple?

Martins sixtieth loomed. Harriet wanted a proper bash. Martin managed a booking at his favourite, not-a-bit-fancy restaurant, where hed spent countless birthdays. He seemed half-asleep at times, but Harriet wasnt offended.

Colleagues raised their glasses. Their old family friends were awkward to invite, and his kin were far away or unimpressed by his young bride.

His own son had written him off. But Martin thought: doesnt a dad get to run his own life? Of course, hed privately imagined marriage would look a bit different.

The honeymoon phase with Harriet lasted a year. He enjoyed outings, encouraged her (reasonably modest) spending, her fitness classes and friends.

He held up under noisy gigs and mad films. With such confidence, he made Harriet and William co-owners of his flat. Later, transferred his share of his old house in the country over to Harriet.

Harriet, never one for waiting, encouraged Mary to sell her share. Threatened to flog it cheap if she refused. Martin, sighing, paid up, and Harriet put the place in her own name. Argued itd be great for Williamriver, woods, the lot. So for summers, Harriets parents and William lived at the retreat. This suited Martin, who never truly warmed to his energetic stepson. Martin married for love, after all, not to raise noisy heirs.

Old family sorely miffed. Mary, given her cash, sold the family flat and moved into a studio. His son found a two-bed for his lot. How they lived, Martin didnt enquire.

And so, sixty. Toasts raised, wishes offered for health, love, happinessand Martin, truthfully, felt none of the zip. Just old, familiar dissatisfaction.

He surely loved his younger wife. Just couldnt keep up. Couldnt bend her to his waysshe danced merrily through life, never overstepping, but it irked him. If only she had half Marys soulto bring chamomile tea, tuck him in, share stories late into the night. Martin would happily potter with her through the park, whisper long into evenings. Harriet, by contrast, never tolerated his endless musings. She even seemed bored with him in bed, which left him edgy.

Martin simmered in the realisation: clever men know mistresses are for special occasions, not for converting into a spouse.

With her vivaciousness, Harriet would stay playful for at least another decadestill far too young for him even then. That gap would widen, inevitably.

If luck held, hed drop dead all at once. If not?

These non-jubilee thoughts thudded in his skull and sent his pulse racing. He searched for Harrietshe was dancing amongst the crowd, sparkling, undeniably gorgeous. Of course, waking up beside her was happinessat least, he told himself.

Seizing a moment, Martin slipped out the restaurant doorplanned a walk to clear his gloom. Colleagues soon drifted after him. Overwhelmed by the pressure, Martin jumped in a waiting taxi, telling the driver to floor it. Hed decide the destination later.

He longed for a place where he mattered again. Somewhere that valued his time, where one could relax and not fear looking weakor, God forbid, old.

He phoned his son, asking for Marys address, needy as a puppy. Listened to his sons outrage, insisted with the desperate refrain, Its a matter of life and dea well, you know.

Its my birthday, actually. His son softened slightly.

Shes not alone, Dad, he added. No bloke, just a friend.

Mum said they were at uni together. Funny surnameBunman, something?

Bunster, corrected Martin, feeling jealousy creeping back. Hed loved Mary, back in the dayso had the rest. Shed been wild, beautiful. Meant to marry Bunster, till Martin snatched her away. Ages ago, but somehow more real than his new life with Harriet.

His son asked,

Why do you want to see her, Dad?

Martin winced at the lost address, and realized how much hed desperately missed them all.

His answer was honest:

No idea, son.

His son gave the new studios location. The driver pulled up. Martin got outdidnt want to talk to Mary with anyone else listening. It was nearly nine; shed be awake. She was always part lark, part owl.

He buzzed the intercom.

But it wasnt Maryit was a muffled male voice.

Shes busy, came the reply.

Busy? Is she alright? Martin pressed.

And who are you? demanded the voice.

Im her husband, if you must know! And you, Bunster?

The gent retorted that Martin was the ex-husbandand therefore had no right disturbing Mary. Explained that the friend was simply taking a bath.

What, old love doesnt rust? Martin shot back, ready for a full English stand-off.

No, mate, Bunster replied. It goes silver.

The door stayed firmly shut.