**The Prank**
Guests danced before a small stage, led by the guest of honour himself—Henry, the sixty-five-year-old department head. “Goodness, what a man…” the women murmured in time with the singer from the small ensemble.
Eleanor and her husband, worn out from the revelry, wine, and rich food, remained seated at the dishevelled table. At the far end, two colleagues argued over some trivial matter while a third dozed, his head resting on folded arms.
Eleanor shifted closer to her husband and whispered in his ear,
“Shall we slip away? Everyone’s had too much to drink—no one will notice. My head’s pounding from the noise.” For effect, she pressed her fingertips to her temples.
Henry glanced around the room.
“You’re right. Nothing left for us here. Let’s go,” he said.
They slipped out of the restaurant unnoticed.
“Ah, that’s better!” Eleanor inhaled the crisp night air deeply.
“Shall I call a cab?” Henry asked.
“No, let’s walk. Clear our heads.” Eleanor took his arm, and they meandered down the dimly lit streets.
“Those heels won’t tire you out?” Henry asked.
“Then you’ll carry me, just like twenty years ago. Remember? I wore new shoes and rubbed my feet raw. We had no car then, and the last bus had gone. You carried me all the way home.” Eleanor sighed.
Henry pressed her arm to his side, confirming he remembered.
“Oh, how young and in love we were. Twenty years slipped by like a day. It feels like only yesterday we married, like I was still waiting for Charlotte… so happy…” Eleanor’s sigh was wistful.
“I’ll be promoted soon—better pay, more opportunities. Charlotte’s about to make us grandparents. And in autumn, we’ll celebrate my milestone. We’re healthy. Isn’t that reason enough to be happy?” Henry asked.
Eleanor didn’t answer—they had reached home.
She washed up first, scrubbing away her makeup. She emerged from the bathroom, her hair still damp, wrapped in a plush dressing gown. Henry’s mind wandered to Angela—his mistress’s smooth skin, her youthful curves, those enticing eyes, that cascade of curls… *What years do to women. Will Angela look like Eleanor in twenty years? No, she’ll stay young for me—I’ll always be twenty years her senior. If only she were here now…*
The thought of Angela’s passion stirred him so fiercely he stepped under an icy shower to cool down.
The next morning, he pulled a crisply ironed shirt from the wardrobe, faintly scented with fabric softener, and selected a tie from the rack. Eleanor always matched them in advance. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted from the kitchen.
“I’m going to the cottage today. The apples must have fallen—I’ll gather them, make compote, bake a pie,” Eleanor said, setting a steaming cup before him.
“Why not wait till Saturday? We could drive together,” Henry muttered around a bite of toast.
“That’s three days away. The apples will rot. And I want to check everything’s in order.”
“Suit yourself.” Henry drained his coffee and set the cup down.
“I’ll stay the night. It’s too late to come back, and I’ll miss the last bus. I’ve left dinner in the fridge,” Eleanor called after him as he left the kitchen.
He froze, turning back.
“You’re seriously staying overnight?”
“Yes. Why does that surprise you? Or did you have other plans for me?” Eleanor’s smile was sad.
“No. Just… be careful.” Henry retreated to the hall. The door clicked shut behind him.
He slid into the car and turned the ignition. Before pulling away, he dialled Angela.
“Hello. Did I wake you? Darling, I’ve got good news—Eleanor’s off to the cottage overnight. We’ve the whole evening to ourselves,” he cooed.
“Understood, my love,” Angela trilled back, followed by an exaggerated kiss.
“Clever girl. See you tonight. Miss you already.” He pocketed his phone and turned up the radio as he drove off.
Everything was falling into place. His spirits lifted. *Time to come clean with Eleanor. Angela’s been pestering me—when will we be together?*
After work, he stopped at a shop for an expensive bottle of wine and fruit. Peering up at their flat’s darkened windows, he smirked—Eleanor was gone. He raced up the stairs two at a time, lungs burning. *Years haven’t been kind. I should join a gym.*
He shrugged off his coat in the hallway, hauled the groceries to the kitchen—and froze in the doorway. A woman stood by the window, silhouetted against the night.
“You… didn’t go?” Henry’s voice wavered. *Need to warn Angela—she’ll be here any minute.* “Why’s it so dark?”
“Surprise!” The voice was bright—but not Eleanor’s.
Henry gaped as Angela turned. His grip slackened; the bag nearly slipped. He flicked the light on. It *was* Angela—her hair pinned up like Eleanor’s, the reason for his mistake. He exhaled sharply, dumped the bag on the table.
“Well? Did it work? You should see your face!” Angela laughed.
“Nearly gave me a heart attack. Thought Eleanor was here. How did you—how did you get in?”
“Aren’t you pleased?” She embraced him, and the world faded away…
Morning light filtered through the curtains. Henry checked the clock—still time to laze. The other side of the bed was empty, but the clink of crockery and coffee’s rich scent drifted in. He grinned, sprang up, and showered.
He emerged, towelling his hair, nude.
“Good morning, darling,” sang a voice—but it was Eleanor in her frilly apron.
Henry choked. The towel slipped.
“You?! You’re back already?” He clutched the towel to his waist.
“Why hide? After twenty years, I’ve seen it all.” Eleanor smirked. “Get dressed. Breakfast’s ready.”
He fled to the bedroom. No trace of Angela. Had it been a dream? No—she’d been here.
Back in the kitchen, he scanned the corner where he’d left the empty wine bottle. Gone.
Eleanor poured coffee, set out toast. Henry bit into a slice—
“Darling, you’re up already?” Angela’s voice chimed behind him.
He choked. Eleanor thumped his back.
Hallucinating? Angela breezed in, sniffed the air.
“How sweet of you to make coffee.” She poured a cup.
Eleanor stood unmoved, as if blind to her.
“You look pale,” Angela noted.
“Are you ill?” Eleanor echoed.
“What the hell is this?” Henry shoved back his chair.
“He’s delirious, poor thing.” Angela patted Eleanor’s shoulder.
“You’ll be late for work,” Eleanor said, smiling at him—then at Angela.
“I see. You’re pranking me. Brilliant performance. When did you two conspire?”
“Yesterday,” Angela said. “After you called, saying your *dull, aging* wife would be away, I came to see for myself. And what did I find? A lovely, sharp woman. No wonder you stalled. Eleanor wanted to throw me out, but I suggested something better—a trick. Worked a treat, didn’t it?” They exchanged a grin.
“What now?” Henry’s voice cracked.
“The script says we ask whom you’ll choose. But…” Angela paused. “Meeting your wife changed my mind.”
She set down her cup. “Don’t bother seeing me out. I’ve blocked your number. Find another flat yourself. You deserve each other.” She sashayed off.
“Ta-ta, *darling*!” The door slammed.
Eleanor sagged into a chair.
“El, I—”
“Not now. Just go.”
At his office, Henry fumbled through tasks, colleagues murmuring behind his back. Angela’s phone rang out—blocked, as promised. *Pity. But there are others.*
That evening, he mustered courage and called Eleanor.
“Listen—don’t hang up. We need to talk. What I did was vile, but with Angela, it’s over—”
The dial tone cut him off.
*She heard me. Not too late.* He sped home—but Eleanor wasn’t there. The cottage? The gate was locked.
“Lost your wife? She never came,” a neighbour said.
He called his daughter. After endless ringing, his son-in-law answered.
“Henry, Charlotte’s in labour. Why’s it taking so—Doctor! Wait!” The line went dead.
Eleanor wasn’t there either. Where? He remembered young, bright-eyed Ellie, how he’d sworn they’d be together forever. Their runaway wedding.
“You’ll never regret it? For better, forHe stood alone in the empty flat, the silence heavier than any words she could have spoken, and for the first time in years, he truly understood the weight of what he had lost.
