**Diary Entry**
Tamsin always woke before the alarm, as though her body held its own delicate clock. She rose, washed, and made breakfast. By the time her husband walked into the kitchen—clean-shaven, smelling faintly of cologne—the table was set: scrambled eggs or soft-boiled ones, slices of buttered toast, ham and cheese, a steaming cup of strong coffee. Tamsin herself never ate much in the mornings—just coffee and a sliver of cheese, nothing more.
Thirty years together. They knew each other so well now that words hardly mattered, especially in the mornings. “See you tonight,” “I’ll be late,” “Thank you…” A glance, the weight of footsteps, even silence—all spoke volumes. What more was there to say?
“Thanks,” said Edward, draining his coffee before standing.
In the early years, he’d kiss her cheek before leaving for work. Now, it was just a nod, a murmured word. He worked as an engineer at a rail factory, leaving early to beat the traffic across London.
Tamsin cleared the table, washed the dishes, and dressed for work. She was a lecturer at King’s College, a brisk twenty-minute walk from their Chelsea flat. Rain or wind never stopped her. Tall, lean, athletic. She wore trousers and blazers, always—grey, pinstriped, paired with soft-toned blouses. Summer was the only time she ever wore dresses.
Her once-dark hair had silvered. She never dyed it, instead braiding it loosely and coiling it at her nape. No makeup, no jewelry but her wedding band.
At work, she spoke endlessly—lectures, tutorials, meetings. At home, silence suited her. Edward preferred it that way too. To outsiders, they seemed the perfect couple: no shouting, no arguments.
Edward was two years older, still handsome. She’d long grown used to women noticing him. Jealousy had faded years ago. “Where would he go?” she’d think. “No one cooks for him like I do.” And she *did* cook beautifully.
They had a daughter, who’d married an army officer and moved away after graduation.
Students found Tamsin intimidating. She rarely smiled, remained composed, never lost her temper—but she was fair. If a student admitted they didn’t know an answer but had studied, she’d guide them, often nudging a pass. But cheating? Instant failure. Some thought they could charm their way through—pleading, wide-eyed—but she always knew. Lies never worked on her.
She didn’t gossip with colleagues. Kept to herself.
Once, in the canteen, she overheard two first-years talking. They hadn’t noticed her.
“That lecturer—total frump,” one snorted. “If not for the wedding ring, I’d think she was desperate.”
“She’s got a husband, apparently. Good-looking, too,” said the other.
“What does he see in *her*?”
“I live near her. She’s fine.”
“Fine? Dresses like a bloke. Doubt she even has—”
Tamsin stood. The girls froze.
“Sorry,” they squeaked.
*Frump. Desperate.*
In the staff room, she studied her reflection. *What does he see in me, really?* The bell rang, and she turned away.
At home, she cooked dinner—beef stew, slow-cooked in ceramic pots. Edward always parked below their window. Tonight, his spot was empty. Then the front door clicked open.
“No car?” she asked. “Broken down?”
“No. Parked somewhere else.”
She didn’t ask why. The oven timer beeped. Edward followed her in, sat heavily.
“Tamsin. Sit, please.”
She did, hands clasped on the table. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. Something was wrong.
“Truth is… I’m in love with someone else. I’m leaving.”
Her fingers tightened.
“Sorry. I’ll pack my things.” He stood and walked out.
She stayed motionless. *Go after him. Stop him.* But she didn’t. Closet doors opened, hangers clinked. A zipper hissed. Then silence. Then wheels over carpet, then tiles.
He took forever putting on his coat, tying his shoes. *He’ll come back. Say it’s a mistake.*
The door shut. The lock clicked.
She sat for a long time before finally burying her face in her hands.
That’s why he hadn’t parked below the window. So no one would see. Or maybe *she* had been waiting in the car.
Tamsin washed her face at the sink. *The stew.*
Her first thought was to bin it, pots and all. Instead, she wrapped them in foil and carried them upstairs—for the elderly neighbours. A young woman answered.
“Hello! You looking for the Wilsons? They moved. Sold the flat to us—just moved in yesterday! I’m Sophie. This is for us? Oh, smells amazing!”
“Housewarming gift,” Tamsin said, forcing a stiff smile.
She couldn’t sleep that night. Cried. Paced. Argued with Edward in her head. *Why now? Why not years ago? What do I do?*
*You knew it would happen. I fell in love,* his voice echoed.
Morning came. Coffee. Work. That evening, she didn’t cook. Just stared at the telly.
A knock. *Edward?* But he had keys. Maybe ignore it—but the lights were on.
Sophie stood there, beaming, holding a plate of pie.
“You fed us last night. That stew was *incredible.* My husband begged me to get the recipe. Thought I’d return the favour—first pie I’ve ever made.”
“Come in,” Tamsin said. “We’ll have tea.”
In the kitchen, Sophie chattered. “You live alone? Husband at work?”
Tamsin shrugged.
“Harry and I only married two months ago. I’m thirty-six—first time! Nearly missed the boat, eh? Lived with my mum till now, so I’m hopeless in the kitchen. Harry was divorced—” She stopped, catching Tamsin’s sharp look.
“You think I stole him? God, no. His wife left *him*—three years ago. Took their daughter—he adored her. Couldn’t stand their empty flat, sold it, gave her half. Drank himself silly till I found him.” She lowered her voice. “Mum warned me off. But he’s kind. Stopped drinking. Fixed our boiler last week—miracle worker.”
“Too much sugar in the pie,” Tamsin said.
Sophie laughed. “Teach me to cook? I’m a hairdresser—I could do your hair. A short cut would *suit* you.”
“No.”
“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
“*No.*”
Sophie left. Tamsin studied the mirror. *Maybe. Just maybe.*
Days later, she found Sophie outside. “Fine. Do it.”
“Brilliant! Weekend? I’ll bring everything.”
Saturday came. Tamsin baked a pie—first proper meal in days. The doorbell rang just as she slid it into the oven.
Sophie bustled in, kit in hand. “Ready?” She eyed the mirror in the hall. “Perfect. Fetch a chair?”
Tamsin hesitated. “I’m not sure—”
“That smell! What’s baking?”
“Apple pie.”
“Right—colour first, then tea, then the cut.”
Tamsin sat. The cape went on. Then—*snip.*
Her braid fell to the floor.
“Don’t panic. Thin, grey—no loss. You’ll *love* this.”
She surrendered. Later, they ate pie, Tamsin wrapped in a towel-turban.
Back in the chair, she closed her eyes. Her head felt light. Only one thought stuck: *If I’d done this sooner, would he have stayed? Stupid. It wasn’t the hair. Just time. Just age.*
“Done!”
Tamsin barely recognised herself. Stylish. Younger. *Was this her?*
“Brows next. Mascara. Lipstick—”
“*Now?*”
Sophie laughed. “Tomorrow. Happy?”
“More than.”
They became friends. Evenings together, Tamsin teaching her recipes. Sophie scribbling notes.
Tamsin had never had friends—not since school. Edward had been enough. Now Sophie filled the silence he left behind.
She liked her new reflection. Bought dresses, wore lipstick. Compliments came. She gave out Sophie’s number.
“Harry *adores* your pork roast,” Sophie gushed. “Your husband still travelling?”
Now, the truth didn’t sting. “He left.”
“*You?*” Sophie gasped.
Spring arrived. Buds swelled. Tamsin walked home in a light dress, coat folded over her arm. A breeze tugged at her scarf.
A car door slammed.
“Tamsin.”
She turned. Edward stood there.She studied him—his loose jacket, the new lines on his face—then stepped aside to let him in without a word, knowing some choices had no simple endings.
