I often think back to those tangled days, as if they were a faded tapestry we still thread through our memories.
Emily Turner would have been lucky to have a husband like James Turner a man who could tinker with an engine one moment and stir a perfect stew the next. Youve got the gift of the gods, Id heard a neighbour say, a bloke who knows both the motor and the kitchen. Emily, my dear friend, had truly hit the jackpot.
Emily lounged back in her chair, her smile as bright as fresh snow. I caught a flicker of unease in Jamess eyes when he glanced at the newcomer, a new friend whod just set foot in our Manchester neighbourhood a month earlier. I chided myself foolish pride, an outsider trying to fit in.
Rebecca Clarke had arrived that month, brighteyed and a little lost in our town. Who could turn her away?
Dont dote on him, Emily teased James. He only learned to make borsch in his seventh year of marriage.
Still, what a borsch! Rebecca blurted, nudging Jamess elbow. Id marry a chef like that.
James puffed up a little, his shoulders straightening, while I noticed the faint pink flush on his ears the sure sign a compliment had hit home.
Just doing my best, he said.
Rebeccas first visit stretched into the night. She admired the flats recent redecoration, the childrens photographs, Jamess collection of vinyl records. Every topic turned back to him. James, where did you find that? James, you have such taste! James, tell us more.
I poured tea, watching her sit a touch too close to my husband, laughing loudly at his jokes that never quite landed, and touching his arm as she spoke.
Mom, whos that lady? our twelveyearold son, Harry, asked as I washed dishes after the guest left.
My friend. New.
Looks odd. Shes staring at dad all the time.
I froze, plate in hand. Even my son noticed.
Shes just imagined, I whispered to him.
I told myself the same for weeks. Maybe I was overreacting. Perhaps Rebecca was simply open and gregarious.
She kept popping up once to borrow a recipe, another time with tickets to an exhibition shed won, sometimes just passing by. Each time James was home, and each time Rebecca seemed to blossom in his presence.
Youre something special, James, not like any other, she said one afternoon, perched at the kitchen table. Emily, where did you dig him up? Men like him are as rare as a sunny day in December.
We met on the tube, fifteen years ago, on the escalator, Emily replied calmly. Romance!
Rebecca clapped her hands, James smiled, and I forced a smile of my own.
After one visit, James lingered in the hallway, saying goodbye to the guest. I heard their muffled laughter behind the closed door.
What took so long? I asked when he returned.
She was telling a joke. A funny one.
I let the subject drop, fearing Id look like a jealous fool.
Two weeks later, while James was in the shower, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. I wasnt planning to look, but the screen lit up as I passed.
Missing you. Youre a handsome fellow and a splendid conversationalist.
It was from Rebecca.
I sat on the edge of the bed, fingers moving toward the device. We shared passwords; nothing was hidden between us.
Their messages had been going on for weeks. Rebecca complained of loneliness, of the hardships of a new city, of how lucky she felt to have found someone as understanding as James. He replied with encouragement, calling her wonderful, promising shed find happiness, peppering his texts with countless smiley faces.
I slipped the phone back. From the bathroom came the sound of water and a faint whistling James was in good spirits.
James, he called, stepping out, towel draped over his head. He stopped dead when he saw my face.
Whats wrong?
I saw your messages with Rebecca.
A pause, brief but sufficient.
Its nothing, love.
Nothing?
Shes just friendly. A lonely girl in a strange town. You brought her to us, after all.
I stared at him, trying to read any hint of guilt. He seemed genuinely surprised.
Are you jealous? Seriously? Weve been together twelve years, we have two children, and youre jealous over a few emojis?
Shes flirting with you.
She talks to everyone like that. Youre blowing it out of proportion.
I wanted to argue, to say that proper friends dont text a husband at night, call him a heartthrob, say they miss him. But James was already pulling on a Tshirt and leaving the bedroom.
Rebecca didnt retreat; she appeared even more often, offering to mind the kids while I was at work, cooking dinner when I ran late. Our eightyearold daughter, Lucy, gushed about Aunt Vicky, who made the best pancakes and let her stay up watching cartoons.
I just wanted to help, Rebecca would say with an innocent look. Its hard doing everything on your own.
I have a husband.
Of course, of course. James is a wonderful father. Youre lucky to have each other.
Something in her words rang false, a vague doublemeaning I couldnt place, but it left a sour taste.
James now clung to his phone, taking it to the loo, tucking it under his pillow, checking it at every ping. At dinner he barely joined our conversation his eyes glued to the screen, a small smile playing on his lips.
Dad, are you listening? Harry asked three times before James finally looked up.
What? Oh, right, lad. Yes. Whats up?
I was talking about the swimming meet. Youll come, wont you?
Of course. When?
Saturday. Ive told you three times already.
James ruffled Harrys hair apologetically, then dove back into his phone. I cleared the plates in silence. Harry glared at his father, Lucy poked at her meatball, puzzled by the heavy hush at the table.
Rebeccas flirtation grew bolder. No longer hidden behind polite compliments, she brushed Jamess collar, brushed an imagined speck off his shoulder, grabbed his hand when she laughed, stared into his eyes far too long, licked her lips as she watched him.
I watched this little theatre from the corner of my own kitchen, as if I were a ghost in my own home. Rebecca acted as though I didnt exist, or as if I were a temporary nuisance to be ignored.
James, can you show me that photoediting program? You promised.
Now?
Whats the delay?
They disappeared into Jamess study, closing the door behind them.
That afternoon I decided to surprise James. I prepared his favourite lunch stuffed peppers he could never refuse, a shrimp salad packed it into a tin, and drove to his office.
The office was quiet at lunchhour; most staff were at the café. The receptionist gave me a nod; they knew me.
James Anderson is in. Hes just
I didnt catch the rest. I walked down the corridor to his office. The door was ajar.
I pushed it open and froze on the threshold.
James sat at the edge of his desk. Rebecca stood between his spreadlegged knees, arms wrapped around his neck. They were kissing deep, hungry, the kind of kiss that tells you its not the first.
My food container slipped from my hand, crashing to the floor.
They sprang apart. Rebecca looked more annoyed than embarrassed; Jamess face drained of colour.
Emily it isnt what you think.
Not what?
I heard my own laugh dry, cracked.
Emily explain. Tell me how she fell onto your chest by accident.
Rebecca smoothed her blouse, grabbed her handbag and said, I think Ill go.
Wait.
I stepped in front of her. She met my gaze with defiance, no remorse, no guilt.
You knew he was married. You came into my house, ate at my table, played with my children.
Adults are responsible for their own actions.
Rebecca shrugged, walked past me, clicking her heels. At the doorway she called, Ring me when youre free, James.
I turned to my husband. Twelve years twelve long years building a family, sleepless nights with newborns, his promotions we celebrated together, a threeyear renovation, seaside holidays where Lucy first swam alone, Christmas trees, birthdays, childrens illnesses all reduced to nothing.
James, Im sorry. I know Im at fault. But we can fix this.
We can?
I she whirled my head. But I love you, love the kids
When you get home, your things will be packed. You can take them and go to your Rebecca.
I turned and left. I didnt cry there were no tears left, only ice in my veins.
At home I packed methodically: a suitcase from the attic, shirts from the wardrobe, socks, underwear, ties everything in one heap. A razor, toothbrush, deodorant. Twelve years compressed into a suitcase and three bags.
When the children came home from school, Fathers belongings lay by the door.
Mum, wheres dad? Lucy asked, peeking into the bedroom.
Hell be living elsewhere.
Harry said nothing, stared at his mother, at the empty wardrobe, then went to his room.
That evening I called my mother.
Mum
I tried to speak calmly, but the words broke, tears finally spilling hot, angry, helpless.
Darling, Im coming. Hold on.
Mrs. Thompson arrived an hour later, embraced me, brewed tea, and sat me at the kitchen table.
Tell me everything.
I recounted Rebecca, the messages, the night in the office. She listened, silent.
You did the right thing, she said when I paused.
Right?
Of course. Betrayal isnt forgiven. You can forgive a mistake, a weakness, a folly, but not this.
I rested my head on her shoulder.
The divorce dragged on half a year papers, court dates, division of assets. James tried to return, calling, texting. I never opened the door.
The children stayed with me. Harry visited his father reluctantly every fortnight; Lucy missed him but soon found distraction in dance and drawing.
Two years flew by. I returned to work, enrolled in classes, lost six kilograms by dropping stresseating. Life slowly fell back into place.
Then David appeared by chance at a parentteacher meeting for Harry his nephew was in the same class. We chatted in the hallway, later met at the school café, then he called to ask how I was faring.
Youre lovely, he said on our third date. Im not great with flowery words, but its true.
David was the opposite of James steady, reliable, a man of few words but many deeds. The children took time to warm to him; Harry watched, as if assessing, Lucy felt a twinge of jealousy, but David never rushed, simply helped with homework, taught Harry to fix a bike, drove Lucy to her dance competitions.
A year later we married, quietly, no grand banquet, just close family who truly celebrated our happiness.
Darling, did you hear?
Mrs. Thompson called Saturday morning. David was flipping pancakes, the kids were running about.
Whats up?
I met Tanya Morozova yesterday. Remember her?
Of course.
She told me about your ex. James and Rebecca split long ago. He dumped her half a year after your divorce.
I slipped into the bedroom, closed the door.
He left?
Yes. Found someone younger.
Indeed.
Thats what I say a dog stays a dog. The snake got what she deserved. As they say, you reap what you sow
I hung up, sat on the bed, expecting some vindictive joy, but only a light relief and the thought, Good, its not my problem any more.
Emily, the pancakes are ready!
David peeked in with a steaming plate.
Im coming.
I rose, took his hand.
Is something wrong?
No, alls well.
James was a memory. Rebecca got what she deserved solitude and broken hopes. Here, in this kitchen, the scent of pancakes lingered, Lucy argued with Harry over the last banana, and David looked at me with a love that made me want to smile.
Life went on, and this new life turned out to be a good one.
