The Second Chance
“Jane, are you heading home?” Her colleague Samantha tapped impatiently on the desk with manicured nails.
“No, I’ll stay a bit longer. My husband’s picking me up,” Jane lied smoothly.
“Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” With a sway of her hips, Samantha left the office.
One by one, the staff filed out. The corridor echoed with hurried footsteps and clicking heels. Jane picked up her mobile and sighed. “Probably had a pint already, sprawled in front of the telly, belly up.” She pressed the call button. After three long rings, the murmur of the television came through before Victor’s voice finally sounded:
“Hello?”
“Vic, it’s pouring out, and I’m in suede boots. Come get me.”
“Love, I’ve had a drink—didn’t think you’d ring. Grab a cab, won’t you?”
“Typical. Should’ve known.” Her voice sharpened. “You promised to cherish me when you proposed, remember?”
“Jane, darling, the match—” The roar of football fans drowned him out. She ended the call.
Those days were long gone when he’d wait for her outside work. Back then, he didn’t even own a car but still managed to fetch her daily. Jane switched off her computer, slipped into her coat, and stepped out.
The quiet corridor shattered under her staccato heels. Everyone had left. Down in the lobby, the deputy director, Daniel Whitmore, stood by the security desk, phone to his ear. Tall, trim, wrapped in a long black overcoat, he looked more like a Hollywood star than a middle-management bloke. Office gossip claimed he was single.
Jane had once quipped he must be odd, being that handsome and unattached.
“Dates a model. Can’t recall her name—always in magazines,” Samantha had whispered, her nose buried in society pages.
Victor hadn’t been half bad in his youth. Thirty pull-ups daily on the playground bars. Then… then he’d let himself go—beer, belly, the works. Now, every evening, Jane came home to the same sight: Victor flopped on the sofa, telly blaring, a lager can at his feet.
She’d nearly reached the door when a rich baritone sent shivers down her spine.
“Jane Elizabeth, working late?”
She turned with a practiced smile. “Thought my husband would collect me. Seems he couldn’t.”
Daniel pocketed his phone and approached. “Let me drive you.” He held the door open.
“Oh no, I’ll call a taxi,” she demurred, stepping into the rain. Puddles dotted the pavement; her suede boots wouldn’t survive.
“Consider your cab arrived.” He took her elbow, guiding her toward his Range Rover. How could she refuse? Pity none of the girls saw—they’d be green with envy. Plenty fancied him.
Daniel disarmed the alarm and opened the door. Jane hopped in, giggling as she smoothed her skirt. He shut the door gently, circled the car, and slid into the driver’s seat.
“I’ve watched you. Firm but fair—never overbearing, yet no pushover. You’d lead marketing well.”
“What about Margaret?” Jane blinked, thrown.
“Past retirement. Reliable, but… outdated.”
Jane fidgeted. Poor Margaret—she’d trained her. But the offer was tempting.
“Her grandson’s marrying soon. She’s saving for his flat,” Jane murmured.
“Not your concern. If that’s all, her severance will cover it. Well?”
His gaze lingered on her profile. She hesitated, then turned—only to find him staring ahead.
The car neared her street. “Turn right here. That’s my building.” She broke the silence. “Just there.”
The engine idled. Words tangled on her tongue.
“Fancy lunch sometime?” His velvet voice worked its magic.
Her pulse skipped. “Perhaps,” she teased, flitting out onto the wet pavement.
“Till tomorrow.” His smile dazzled.
Her head spun as the Range Rover bounced over potholes out of sight.
Next day, they lunched together—under everyone’s gaze. Dinners followed. Then…
Needless to say what came next. What woman wouldn’t falter before such charm? Unless her husband hadn’t yet sunk into sofa-stuffed oblivion.
Jane floated, desired, decades younger. Life gleamed anew. Only Victor’s slumped form grated more each evening.
Tonight, he lounged before the telly, a half-drunk lager beside him. She itched to kick it, spew her frustration across the carpet. But she’d only clean the mess. Ignoring his stare, she changed clothes.
“You’ve changed. Become so…” He groped for words.
*Finally noticed*, she thought bitterly.
“How so?”
“Like when we met. Fallen for someone?”
“What if I have? You’ve eyes only for the telly and lager.”
“I noticed! Your hair’s different.”
“Had this cut three years.” She sighed. “We’ve not been to the pictures in ages. Or dinner out. I work too, but I cook while you laze.”
“Your cooking’s better than any chef’s,” he offered. “What’s got into you?”
She studied him—his voice, clumsy praise, his very shape—all bored her now. *Maybe leave? But where? He’s nowhere to go either…*
“You’re different lately,” Samantha probed when alone. “Glowing. Smitten? Rumor says you and Daniel. Bold. Ditching the hubby?”
“If only.” Jane shrugged. “You sound just like him.”
“Lucky you. Husband *and* lover. Veronica’s fifteen years younger, yet he prefers you.”
Jane’s heart pinched. Veronica *was* pretty—unmarried, childless. Men adored that.
“Listen, Sam—got that witch’s address? The love-charm one.”
“Who’s the target? Daniel? Or eliminating competition?”
“My husband. *Un*-charm him. Yes or no?” She glanced at the door.
“Here.” Samantha tapped her phone. “That bad?”
“Worse.”
“He’s cheating?”
“Wish he would.”
“Daniel’s temporary—not proposing, is he?”
“Never mind. Work calls.” Jane hunched over her screen.
That evening, she visited the address. A plump woman in designer dress appraised her sharply. Jane shivered.
“Here to rid yourself of him?”
“No! Just…” She spilled most of it.
“One drop daily in his tea. No more—it’s potent. Overdo it, his heart may fail. Better used on the lover.”
Jane paid and fled the incense-thick flat.
At home, she hid the vial behind tea bags—Victor and their daughter never rummaged there. She hadn’t decided if she’d use it. Pity she hadn’t asked if beer would do.
In the living room, Victor lay as usual, lager nearby. She blocked the telly.
“What?” He blinked up.
“Make yourself useful. Help with dinner.”
“Can’t cook, love.” He groaned upright.
“Learn. What’ll you eat alone?” She turned to the kitchen.
“Alone? You? And Sophie?” He trailed after.
“I’m leaving.” She spun—his belly bumped her. She wrinkled her nose.
Then it poured out—maybe the vial’s influence, maybe twenty years’ pent-up grievances. She raged on, unstoppable.
At last, winded, she paused. Victor stammered, “What about me?”
“Stay glued to that sofa.”
“And Sophie?”
“She’s grown. Let her choose.”
Jane hadn’t truly planned to go—but the vial nudged her toward recklessness. Maybe wounded pride would rouse him, spare her a guilty conscience.
“Enough.” She marched out. He scurried after.
“Wait—Jane, I love—can’t live without—” A gasp cut him off.
She turned. He slid down the wall, clutching his chest.
“Don’t act. Up.” She moved to leave—then his head lolled.
She dropped beside him, shook his shoulders, checked his pulse—nothing.
“Sophie! Your father!”
Their fifteen-year-old rushed in. “Drops in the cupboard—water—” Jane babbled.
Sophie brought a glass. Jane pried his mouth open—her hands shook; most spilled down his shirt.
“God, what am I doing?” She leapt up. “What did you give him?” She gaped at Sophie.
“The vial you said.” Sophie fetched it—pharmacy-labeled. “Right?”
“Then why won’t he wake? Call an ambulance!” Jane tore through the cupboard, found the unmarked vial, and stared.
The cap was sealed—untouched. She hurled it into the bin.
Paramedics arrived. Jane wrung her hands. “I poisoned him.”
“With what?” The weary doctor took the labeled vial. “This? Harmless. He’Jane watched Victor playfully chase their granddaughter in the garden, his laughter ringing through the air, and realized the only magic she’d ever needed was the courage to speak her heart.
