The past stays in the past
“Go sort this mess out with our partners once and for all,” the director snapped, glaring at James. “I’ve already spoken with their boss—they’re expecting you. Leave tomorrow morning, take the documents. Don’t let me down,” he added, rapping his fingers on the desk.
“No problem, I’ll handle it,” James nodded. “I’ll drive.”
Business trips were routine in James’s line of work, and he didn’t mind them one bit—new towns, new faces, the same predictable rhythm: drive or fly, sort the issue, check into a hotel, grab dinner, then head home.
His wife, Emily, was used to these little excursions by now. Once a week or so, James would vanish off to some corner of the country, big town or small.
“Em, I’m off in the morning,” he announced when he got back to their cosy flat in Manchester.
“Long one? Or the usual?” she asked, the faintest note of concern in her voice, as always.
“Just the usual, back before you know it,” James grinned, pulling her in for a hug and planting a kiss on her temple.
His travel bag was always prepped. Emily, ever the organised one, kept it stocked. James trusted her entirely—just added his keys and documents at the last minute.
Twelve years they’d been married, raising their son, Thomas, a bright lad who split his time between school and football. This was James’s second marriage, but his first truly happy one. Thomas was the pride of his life—sharp, kind, and disciplined, thriving in both class and sport.
Whenever the lads got together for a pint or a weekend barbecue, James never missed a chance to rave about Emily:
“Lucky doesn’t even cover it. I trust her with my life, and she trusts me right back.”
“Lucky sod,” some would sigh. Not all his mates had the same luck. A few, like James, were on their second go at marriage. His best mate, Oliver, was somehow on his fourth.
The next morning, James woke to the smell of pancakes.
“She’s relentless,” he thought fondly. “Up before dawn, cooking away. Too good for me—best not jinx it.”
“Morning, love,” he said, strolling into the kitchen after his shower.
“Knew that’d get you out of bed,” Emily winked, sliding a plate across the counter. “Miss my cooking, and you’ll hurry home.”
“Cheeky,” James laughed. “Speaking of—big match for Thomas today, yeah?”
“Yep, against the Birmingham lot,” Emily nodded. “He reckons they’ll smash ‘em.”
“I’ll ring tonight to see how it went,” James promised, knowing Thomas was still fast asleep.
With his bag packed and documents in hand, he kissed Emily goodbye and set off in high spirits. A four-hour drive to Leeds lay ahead. Out on the motorway, away from the city bustle, he took a deep breath. September had just begun, but golden leaves were already swirling past his windscreen.
The meeting flew by—issues resolved, paperwork signed. All that remained was dinner before the drive home. James preferred the roads at night—quieter, clearer. He chose a cosy little pub on the outskirts of Leeds, the kind of place that didn’t attract rowdy crowds.
Parking up, he glanced at the sky. Dark clouds gathered, and thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Thunder in September?” James muttered. “Now that’s rare.”
Inside, he took a seat by the window. The waiter took his order just as lightning split the sky. Then, with a crack of thunder and a gust of rain, the door flew open—and in walked a woman. James froze. He’d have known her anywhere. It was Claire, his first wife—the woman he’d once worshipped, then grown to despise. Time hadn’t dulled her beauty one bit.
Their marriage had been chaos. Five years with Claire felt like fifty. Passion had curdled into poison—arguments, affairs, jealousy. James left, came back, left again, until he finally ripped off the bandage for good. After the divorce, he met Emily, and life finally settled. He hadn’t seen Claire since.
“What’s she doing in Leeds?” he thought, his chest tightening.
Claire scanned the room. The waiter gestured to a table nearby. She shrugged off her coat, her auburn hair spilling over her shoulders. That same proud posture, that same smirk. James hesitated—bolt into the downpour or stay put?
Then Claire spotted him. For a second, she froze. Then, recovering, she flashed a smile.
“James? Bloody hell, is that you? Fate’s got a sense of humour, hasn’t she?”
He forced a grin, aiming for indifference.
“Claire. Yeah, it’s me.”
“Mind if I join you?” she said, already sliding into the seat opposite before he could answer.
Rain lashed the windows as the thunder faded. The waiter took her order, warning there might be a wait. Claire wiped her hands on a napkin and launched in.
“So, how’ve you been?”
“Good,” James said shortly. “You?”
She didn’t answer, chattering instead about herself, all smiles. James barely listened, lost in memories.
They’d met when Claire worked at a branch of his company. Phone calls led to a work party, where they’d talked all night in her hotel room. The next day, they wandered through an art gallery. The second night wasn’t spent talking.
“I’ve got my car,” he’d said then. “Fancy heading back together?”
“Wouldn’t say no,” Claire had laughed.
They moved in fast, married faster. But soon, James noticed her flirting with clients.
“Why do you egg them on like that?” he’d asked once.
“It’s part of the job,” she’d waved him off. “Gotta keep ‘em sweet.”
Then he’d come home early from a trip to an empty flat. Claire had rolled in at dawn, reeking of wine.
“Where were you?” he’d demanded.
“Since when do you care?” she’d shot back.
Later, he’d caught her with someone else. She didn’t even bother with excuses.
“James.” Claire’s voice snapped him back. She was leaning in, eyes locked on his. “Come back to mine after this? I’m living here now—regional sales director. We could… relive old times.”
He studied her—still stunning, but ice-cold. No flicker of feeling. She might as well have been a colleague he barely tolerated. The past was exactly where it belonged.
“No, Claire. Not happening,” he said flatly.
The food arrived. James excused himself, stepping onto the terrace. Suddenly, he ached to hear Emily’s voice.
“Hi, love,” she answered, warm as ever. “Miss you. Knew you’d be back late.”
“Soon,” James smiled. “Just grabbing a bite, then hitting the road.”
Dinner with Claire passed in a blur. She prattled on; he pushed food around his plate.
“Could’ve cooked this better myself,” he muttered, standing. “Cheers for the company.”
With a polite nod, he ducked back into the rain, jumped into his car, and sped home—where warmth and love waited. On the way, he rang Thomas. His son whooped down the line—his team had won. James laughed, his heart full.
