Reigniting the Marriage — “Listen, Liz… How about we try an open relationship?” Victor suggested cautiously. — “What?” Liz didn’t catch on at first. “Are you actually serious?” — “What’s so strange about it? It’s perfectly normal,” her husband shrugged, working hard to keep his tone casual. “People do it all the time in Britain—super modern. They say it even reignites the marriage. You always said a little chocolate on a diet doesn’t hurt, helps keep you on track. Same principle, a bit of variety and all that.” Liz blinked slowly, taking it in. Comparing a bit on the side to a chocolate bar was… impressively daft. Or just cheeky. — “Victor…” she started, “if you want to leave, just go. I’ll give you your ‘freedom’, but don’t drag me into your nonsense.” — “Lizzie, no need to get all prickly,” he protested. “I do love you! It’s just… the spark’s gone. Could do with a bit of excitement, you know? Otherwise it’s just shopping lists and the electric bill. Too dull. We both need a shake-up. I’m not putting you in a box here—you can have fun with someone else too! What’s the harm?” Liz narrowed her eyes. Suddenly it was plain as day: her husband was lying. The darting eyes, fingers drumming nervously on the table… Yeah, he wanted his freedom. But not today, not tomorrow,—he’d wanted it yesterday. — “Vic? Come on. Tell me straight. Have you already found someone? Is this just to ease your conscience?” — “Oh, here we go!” Victor waved a hand irritably. “Would I really bring it up if that were true? Regret even asking now. You haven’t changed a bit—still living in the Stone Age. Forget it.” He stalked off with the air of a wronged saint, leaving Liz alone with her thoughts. Twenty-five years. She’d given him the best part of her life, stood by him through thick and thin, through skint stretches, all those late nights at work that suddenly looked suspicious… And now he sat there, fat and happy, wanting her to become an accomplice in a crime against their marriage. “Reignite”… Please. How convenient. That night, they slept in different rooms. Well—slept was a stretch. Liz lay awake, staring sometimes at the ceiling, sometimes out the window, wondering how they’d got there. Once, Victor had run to buy her armfuls of bluebells, worked extra shifts for their dream wedding, cried with joy when their daughter was born. Now… She almost wished he’d just leave. Where was the point of no return? When she stopped putting on mascara at home? When he forgot their anniversary, blaming overtime? Not that it mattered anymore. Half of her wanted to file for divorce and erase it all. The other half rebelled—how can you just throw away half a life? Maybe there never really was passion, but habit, a shared mortgage, and a well-oiled routine made up for it. Victor still felt like a safe pair of hands. Their daughter had left home, old age was ahead, but they’d always looked out for each other. Once, he’d even taken out a loan to help Liz’s mother. Not every man would do that. Inside, Liz burned with hurt, fear, and anger. Maybe Victor thought she was past it—just some old housewife who’d boil up Bisto and knit for the grandkids, waiting like a faithful dog for him to roll home from his escapades. No chance. — “Alright,” she declared the next morning, “have it your way.” — “What do you mean?” — “Let’s do your open relationship.” Victor nearly choked on his tea. He expected a row—she just calmly agreed. — “Well… good. You might like it,” he threw over his shoulder. “By the way, I’ll be late tonight.” Her heart twisted. That fast? …The evening was grey and silent. Liz felt wrecked. Unwanted. Like she’d been weighed and found wanting—like an out-of-date iPhone model. She studied her reflection. Tired eyes, crow’s feet, skin not as smooth as it once was. But still a trim figure, thick hair. Maybe she was still attractive? Maybe it was Victor who’d lost the plot. Other men had noticed her—like Andy, the manager next door, only transferred in a month ago. A handsome man, silver at the temples, a rumble in his voice, always with a sly glint. He’d watched her from day one—opening doors, bringing coffee, offering compliments. Asked her to lunch, and just last week, dinner. — “Andrew, I’m on a diet. The ‘married’ kind,” she’d quipped. — “Lizzie, marriage is a stamp in a passport, not a life sentence,” Andy had grinned. “But I won’t push it.” Victor wanted her to “reignite”? Wanted her to get out more? Why not. — “Good evening, Andy. You still up for that dinner? I seem to have found both a free evening and an appetite for breaking diets,” she messaged. It wasn’t vengeance. Liz just wanted to feel like a woman again. To breathe some life back into herself, after two days of Victor trampling on her sense of self. …The rest of the night, she felt a strange mix of shame and giddy excitement. Andy was all a date should be—thoughtful, attentive, making her feel like the only woman in the room. She was embarrassed, but those long-lost sensations came rushing back: anticipation, being at the centre of attention. Finally, something in her life besides Victor’s dinners and dirty socks. — “Come back to mine?” Andy suggested as she finished her dessert. “We’ll pick up wine, watch something… keep the evening going?” She nodded. Part of her screamed “What are you doing?” But Victor’s face flashed up, the way he said she should “enjoy life”. They’d barely made it to Andy’s when her phone started shrieking. Husband. She declined, again and again. — “Yes?” she answered, steadying her voice. — “Where are you?! It’s ten o’clock! There’s nothing but a mouse in the fridge and you’re out gallivanting! Have you lost your mind?” Liz froze. Andy, sizing up the row, quietly left the room. Romance quickly faded. — “Actually… I’m on a date, Vic.” — “A what?!” — “Are you daft? You suggested open relationships. You literally said: enjoy yourself, meet other people. Well, here I am, meeting someone. Problem?” A silence thick as fog, broken only by Victor’s huffing. — “So you actually went off with someone?! I was JOKING! I wanted to check you, you understand? CHECK! And you—just waiting for an excuse, yeah? Played the part for a day then straight into someone else’s arms?” Liz was stunned. — “Who did you run off to tonight, then?” — “No one! Just work. That’s all. Here’s what: I don’t want any filth from you. Either you pack up, or I’m leaving. We’re getting divorced.” He hung up. Liz stared at the wall, feeling spat on, humiliated. — “You alright?” Andy called through. — “Yeah… just nothing.” Liz tried to smile, and failed. — “Liz…” Andy checked his watch. “I think, given the circumstances, you probably need to go sort things out at home.” The fairytale collapsed; the pumpkin replaced the carriage; the gallant date didn’t want to drown in someone else’s family mess. Fair enough. He’d wanted a pleasant evening, not a soap opera. Maybe she should’ve just gone for a divorce right off. But hindsight always gets the best lines. That night, Liz didn’t go home—she booked a hotel. No desire for a blazing row. She needed space to admit it would never be the same. Three years passed… And life, like a sculptor, carved away all the excess—though not without pain. Victor was quick to get a new girlfriend. Even before the divorce was through. She vanished the minute they sold the house—taking his share of the money on the way out. Nothing ever happened with Andy. They still bumped into each other at work, but no more banter—just a polite nod. Liz realized something: men happy to play “lover” backed away the moment “life partner” or even “shoulder to cry on” flickered onto the screen. So Liz didn’t look for anyone else. Alone in her new flat, she found time and energy she’d never dreamed of—energy that household chores and Victor’s demands had always drained. Now she used it for herself. Morning swims banished her back pain; English courses kept her mind sharp. She chopped her hair short, changed her wardrobe—everything for herself. And most importantly, she became a grandma. Her daughter, Mary, had a baby girl six months ago. When the divorce storm was at its peak, Mary turned on Liz—Victor played the victim brilliantly, spinning tales of a cheating wife who broke the family for a bit of fun. Time put everything right. Mary visited to confront her mum, but saw not a fallen woman, but an honest, tired one. Liz told the truth: Victor had wanted all this. He’d been absent for years. She’d been lonely for longer. Now Mary, married herself, finally understood. When Victor paraded his new “girlfriend”, Mary sided firmly with Liz. Now, Liz was in Mary’s kitchen with her granddaughter. Little Sophie was reaching enthusiastically for her finger. — “Dad called again…” Mary grimaced. “Wanted to visit, see Sophie.” — “And?” Liz asked. — “Told him we’d be out of town. I don’t want him around, Mum. One minute he slags you off, the next he expects me to get you back together. I just get stressed every time he shows up. And I’m not letting him twist Sophie against you. He can enjoy his so-called freedom on his own…” Liz said nothing, just hugged her granddaughter closer. Victor got exactly what he wanted—complete and utter freedom. No one left to ask for anything, no one to stop him watching TV all night. And only then did he taste the real flavour of his freedom—a sharp, lonely bitterness. But now, it was far too late.

Warmed-Up Marriage

28 March

Sometimes I wonder if all marriages reach the point of tepid comfort, like lukewarm tea that no one really wants to drink. This evening began much as any other Mark sat at the kitchen table, flicking through news headlines on his phone, while I wiped crumbs off the counter, my mind on the electricity bill.

Alice How would you feel about trying an open marriage? Mark asked, in a careful, almost sheepish voice.

I spun around. Pardon?

Well, he shrugged, working hard to look nonchalant, its quite normal nowadays, you know people do it in France and all over Europe. They say it can actually liven up a marriage. Like you said when you were on that diet a little piece of chocolate can help keep you on track. Its just about having some variety.

A mistress compared to a chocolate? I couldnt decide if he was being spectacularly daft or just incredibly brazen.

Mark If you want to leave, then just leave properly. Ill give you your freedom, but please dont drag me into this nonsense.

Oh, Alice, dont bristle like that. I do love you. Its just the sparks gone. We barely talk, sleep back to back Its all so bland. We could both use a shakeup, and Im not putting boundaries on you. You could… meet someone too. Maybe it would do you good?

I narrowed my eyes. Suddenly I could see straight through him the fidgeting, the nail-tapping, those guilty glances. This wasnt about spicing up our marriage. He wanted freedom, sure and I suspected hed wanted it yesterday.

Mark Be honest with me. Have you already found someone? Is this your way of clearing your conscience?

Oh, for goodness sake! he huffed, waving me off. Would I bother asking you if there was someone else? I regret bringing it up. Sometimes youre stuck in the past century. Forget I said anything.

He left the kitchen in a huff, feigning insulted dignity, while I remained, alone with my spiralling thoughts.

Twenty-five years wed been together. Id seen him through highs and lows, through lean years and his endless overtime which now, I realised, might not have been about work after all. And now he sits, well-fed and content, suggesting I help him turn our marriage into a crime scene. Variety. How convenient.

That night, we slept in separate rooms. Well, he did. I stared at the ceiling, the window, trying to work out where it all had started falling apart. Once upon a time, Mark brought me armfuls of bluebells, worked extra shifts to afford our wedding, beamed over our newborn daughter. And now? Sometimes it would be easier if he’d just walked away.

When had we crossed the point of no return? Maybe it was the day I stopped putting on makeup at home, thinking I didnt need to bother anymore? Or perhaps when he first forgot our anniversary and blamed it on a work emergency? But, really, what did it matter now?

Part of me wanted to file for divorce, erase it all. But can you really throw away half a lifetime so easily? Maybe we lacked passion, but there was routine, a joint mortgage, and some semblance of stability. Mark had always seemed reliable. Our daughter had moved out for years now. In our shared past, wed tended each other through flu seasons and financial scares. Once, hed even taken on a loan to help my mum. Not every man would do that.

Inside, I was a storm of resentment, fear, anger. Did he think I couldnt find someone else? That I was some worn-out housewife, destined to knit socks for the grandchildren while he gallivanted until he fancied coming home again?

Not likely.

Alright, I told him the next morning. Lets do it your way.

Pardon? he blinked, half-choking on his tea.

Ill do your open marriage.

He hadnt expected that was bracing for a row, probably but I just told him calmly, and popped a slice of toast in the toaster. He gawked, and eventually muttered, Right then Good. Maybe youll even like it. Ill be late this evening, by the way.

My heart thudded. So soon?

The evening dragged, grey and silent. I felt hollow, discarded like an old phone, no longer worth upgrading.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Tired eyes, fine lines crowding at the corners, skin not quite what it used to be. But I was still in decent shape, hair thick and shiny. Maybe I was still attractive? Maybe the problem was Mark, not me. Other men seemed to think so. Take Andrew, the manager from Purchasing who transferred to our office last month.

A hint of grey at the temples, a rough-edged voice, a playful glint in his eye. Hed taken a shine to me right away always holding doors, bringing coffee, dropping compliments. Once or twice, hed invited me out for lunch, and just last week he suggested dinner at a restaurant.

Andrew, Im on a strict marriage diet, I had laughed.

Marriage is just paperwork, Alice, he smiled back, not a life sentence. But I wont push.

Mark wanted me to spice things up? Wanted me to let loose? Well, why not.

Good evening, Andrew. About dinner is the offer still open? Turns out I might have a free evening and a mind to cheat on my diet, I messaged.

It didnt even feel like revenge. I just wanted to remember what it felt like to be a woman. To reclaim myself, after two days of being trampled on by my husbands indifference.

The rest of the night was a blur of nervous excitement and guilt. Andrew was the perfect gentleman: pulled out my chair, kept my glass topped up, listened intently and the way he looked at me As if I were the only woman in the room.

I felt embarrassed but also alive, genuinely seen. Finally, something in my life besides Marks laundry and the dinner rota.

Shall we carry on the evening at mine? Andrew suggested after dessert. We can grab a bottle of wine on the way, watch something. Unwind for a bit.

I nodded. Part of me screamed, Stop! But another part remembered Marks impassive face, how easily he wanted me to have a bit of fun.

Wed only just walked into Andrews place when my phone began to ring. Mark. Once, twice, three times. I silenced it at first but he was relentless.

Yes? I answered, voice steady.

Where the bloody hell are you? he stormed. Its ten oclock! Theres nothing in the fridge to eat, and youre not home. Are you mad?

I was taken aback. Andrew, hearing the commotion, withdrew to give me space. The romantic atmosphere dissolved.

Im on a date, Mark.

What do you mean, a date?!

Exactly what it sounds like. You told me yesterday we were doing open marriage. You said, Go out, meet someone. Well, here I am. Having a bit of variety. Is that not what you wanted?

The pause was long and suffocating, punctuated only by his heavy breathing. Then, an outburst.

So you just ran into someones arms? I was joking! I was testing you! You couldnt wait, could you? Played the hurt wife for a day and then dashed off!

My mind reeled.

And where were you, Mark?

Nowhere! I was at work, thats all, he snapped. Right. I dont want to catch anything off you, thank you. Either you pack your bags, or I will. Were done. Were getting a divorce.

He hung up. I stood there, stunned and ashamed, staring at the wall.

Is everything alright? Andrew asked quietly.

Fine Just a little mess, I mumbled, failing to smile.

He looked at the clock, then at me. I think you should go, Alice. Best to sort things out first.

And just like that, the fairy tale shattered. The carriage turned back into a pumpkin, the charming gentleman slipping away, not eager for a starring role in someone elses drama. I couldnt blame him. Hed signed up for a pleasant dinner, not a family crisis.

I should have just filed for divorce straightaway. Hindsight is cruel.

That night, I went to a hotel instead of home. There was no going back not to an irate husband, and not to the old version of myself. I needed time and space to come to terms with the truth: things would never go back to the way they were.

Three years have passed.

Life, like an expert sculptor, has chipped away everything unneeded, even if it hurt in the process.

Mark moved on, and suspiciously fast. Even before wed signed the divorce papers, hed found a new girlfriend. She left as soon as we finalised the sale of our house, conveniently taking his share of the money with her.

Nothing ever happened with Andrew, either. We still run into each other at the office, but its all polite nods and casual, functional chit-chat. Ive realised something: men who embrace the role of lover rarely stick around when offered the job of partner, or even friend for a rainy day.

But I never felt the urge to search for anyone else. Strangely, as soon as I moved into my own flat, I found an abundance of time and energy. All the routines and demands of Marks care had smothered me for years. Now, I began to live for myself not for anyone else.

Mornings at the local pool have sorted out my back. Taking up French lessons has given my mind a new challenge. I cut my hair short, bought new clothes rebuilt myself.

And the most miraculous thing Im a grandma now.

My daughter, Claire, gave birth six months ago. At first, when the divorce drama started, she sided with her dad. Mark played the victim magnificently, painting me as the cheater whod destroyed the family.

But time sorts things out. Claire came to visit to talk, to see for herself. She didnt find a party-going woman as Mark described, but a tired, honest mother, who laid out everything as it had been. That Mark had pushed for all of this, that hed been drifting away for years. By then, Claire, herself newly married, understood. And when Mark turned up with another woman so fast, she shifted her sympathies fully to me.

Now, Im sitting in Claires kitchen, with little Sophie on my lap, her chubby baby fingers trying to squeeze mine.

Dad called again, Claire grimaced. Said he wanted to visit Sophie.

And what did you say? I asked, sipping my tea.

I told him wed be out of town, she sighed. I dont want him around, Mum. He slags you off one day, and then wants my help to get you two talking again the next. I get anxious every time he pops up. I wont have him turning Sophie against you, either. Let him live in his freedom he chose it.

I said nothing, just held Sophie a little tighter.

Mark got exactly what he wanted: total freedom. No one pestering for attention. No one to keep him from the sport on telly. But freedom, as it turns out, is laced with loneliness. And, for Mark at least, its much too late to change his mind.