**The Prank**
Guests danced before a modest stage, led by the guest of honour himself—the sixty-five-year-old boss of William. “My God, what a man…” the women murmured in time with the singer from the small ensemble.
Margaret and her husband, weary from the revelry, wine, and rich food, remained seated at the wrecked table. At the far end, two colleagues were locked in a heated debate, while a third dozed off, head resting on folded arms.
Margaret leaned close to her husband and whispered in his ear:
“Shall we head home? Everyone’s had too much to drink—they won’t notice us slip away. This noise is splitting my head.” For emphasis, she pressed her fingertips to her temples.
William glanced around the room from under his brows.
“You’re right. No point staying. Let’s go,” he muttered.
They slipped out unnoticed.
“Ah, that’s better!” Margaret inhaled the crisp night air deeply.
“Taxi?” William asked.
“No, let’s walk. Clear our heads.” Margaret slipped her arm through his, and they strolled slowly through the dimly lit streets.
“Won’t the heels tire you?” William asked.
“Then you’ll carry me, like you did twenty years ago. Remember? I wore new shoes and got blisters. We walked home from the cinema because we didn’t have a car, and the buses had stopped. You carried me all the way.” Margaret sighed.
William tightened his arm against hers, silently confirming he remembered.
“Oh, how young we were. Twenty years gone in a blink. Feels like just yesterday we married. I was expecting Emily, and we were so happy…” Margaret sighed again.
“I’ll be promoted soon—better pay, more opportunities. Emily will give us a grandchild. Then my birthday in autumn. We’re healthy. Isn’t that reason enough to be happy?” William asked.
Margaret didn’t answer—they’d reached home.
She showered first, washing away the makeup. She emerged, hair still damp, wrapped in a plush bathrobe. William silently compared her to Angela, recalling his mistress’s smooth skin, firm body, alluring eyes, her cascade of curls… *What time does to a woman. Will Angela look like Margaret in twenty years? No, she’ll stay young to me—I’ll always be older. If she were here now…*
The thought burned so hot he stepped under an icy shower to cool off.
Morning came. He pulled a crisply ironed shirt from the wardrobe, faintly scented with fabric softener, and reached for the tie Margaret had paired with it. Coffee’s rich aroma lured him to the kitchen.
“I’m going to the cottage today. The apples must’ve fallen. I’ll gather them, make compote, bake a pie,” Margaret said, setting a steaming cup before him.
“Why not wait till Saturday? We could drive together,” William mumbled through a bite of toast.
“Three days is too long. They’ll spoil. And I should check everything’s in order.”
“Suit yourself.” He drained his coffee and set the empty cup down.
“I’ll stay overnight. No point rushing back, and I’ll miss the last bus. I’ll leave supper in the fridge,” Margaret called as he left the kitchen.
He froze, turning back.
“You’re really staying the night?”
“Yes. Why does that surprise you? Or—did you have plans for me?” Margaret smirked sadly.
“No. Just… be careful.” He walked out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
William started the car, dialling Angela before pulling away.
“Hello. Did I wake you, love? Listen—Margaret’s going to the cottage, staying overnight. So, we have all evening,” he cooed.
“Understood, darling,” Angela trilled back, followed by an exaggerated kiss.
“My clever girl. I’ll see you tonight. Already missing you.” He pocketed his phone, turned up the radio, and drove off.
Everything was perfect. His spirits lifted. *Time to talk to Margaret. End this charade. Angela keeps asking when we’ll be together.*
After work, he bought an expensive bottle of wine and fruit. Glancing up at their flat’s darkened windows, he confirmed Margaret had gone. He took the stairs two at a time, heart hammering, breath ragged. *Age spares no one. I should hit the gym.*
He dumped the bag in the kitchen—then froze. A woman stood by the window, backlit, silhouette sharp against the glass.
“You… didn’t go?” His voice strained to hide disappointment. *Must warn Angela—she’ll be here any minute.* “Why sit in the dark?”
“Surprise!” a cheerful voice chirped.
His jaw dropped. Angela turned, grinning.
He nearly fumbled the bag. Flicking on the light, he stared. Angela stood there, hair pinned up like Margaret always wore it—why he’d mistaken them in the dimness. He exhaled sharply, set the bag down.
“Well? Did it work? You should see your face!” Angela laughed.
“Christ. Nearly gave me a heart attack. How—how are you here? Where’d you get keys?”
“Aren’t you happy?” She embraced him, and everything else faded.
Morning light seeped in. William checked the clock—still early. Angela’s side of the bed was empty. A clink from the kitchen, coffee’s scent drawing him in… He grinned, sprang up, and headed for the shower.
He emerged, towelling his hair, naked.
“Good morning, darling,” sang his wife’s voice.
His breath caught. Margaret stood before him in her frilly apron.
“You?! You’re back?” He clutched the towel tighter.
“Why cover up? Twenty years—I’ve seen it all.” She turned to the stove. “Get dressed. Breakfast’s ready.”
He fled. No trace of Angela—had he dreamed her? But she’d been here. Where was the empty wine bottle? Vanished.
Margaret poured coffee, laid out toast. He ate hastily.
“Darling, you’re up?” Angela’s voice rang behind him.
He choked. Margaret thumped his back.
*Hallucinating?* He dared not turn. Angela entered, sniffed.
“How sweet of you to make coffee.” She poured herself a cup.
Margaret acted as if Angela weren’t there.
“You’re pale,” Angela noted.
“Feeling ill?” Margaret mirrored.
“What the hell’s happening?” William shoved his chair back.
“He’s delirious, poor thing.” Angela touched Margaret’s shoulder.
“Work calls, dear,” Margaret smiled—first at him, then Angela.
“Got it. You’re pranking me. When did you two—?”
“Yesterday. After you called me, gloating Margaret was gone, I came to see your ‘old, fat, dull’ wife.” Angela smirked. “Turns out she’s smart, fit, and lovely. No wonder you stalled leaving.”
Margaret nearly kicked me out—until I suggested this. Worked, didn’t it?” They exchanged grins.
“What now?” William’s voice cracked.
“Normally, we’d ask who you choose,” Angela said. “But… meeting your wife changed my mind. I’m leaving. Don’t call—you’re blocked. Keep your flat; I’ll find my own. Margaret and I discussed options—her choice now.”
She drained her cup, hips swaying as she left.
“Ta-ta, darling!” The door slam made him flinch.
Margaret sank into a chair, suddenly frail.
“Margie, I—”
“Not now. Go.” She turned away.
William sat in his car, replaying their act—how they’d fooled him, laughing while he sweated like a trapped rat.
Angela was young, fiery—but Margaret… He hardly knew her. He’d expected tears, thrown plates. Instead—this.
Work passed in a daze. Colleagues whispered. Angela’s phone rang endlessly. *Blacklisted, then.* A shame—but not the end of the world.
That evening, he called Margaret.
“Listen, don’t hang up. We need to talk. What I did—it’s over with Angela—”
The dial tone cut him off.
*She heard me. There’s still hope.* He rushed home—no Margaret. The cottage? Locked.
“Lost your wife? She never came,” the neighbour said.
He called his daughter. After endless ringing, his son-in-law answered, frantic.
“William, Emily’s in labour! Why’s it taking so—? Doctor! Wait—” The line died.
Margaret wasn’t there. Where? He remembered young Maggie, how he’d loved her instantly, stolen her from her own wedding. *”Forever?” she’d laughed. “Through sickness and health?”*
*”I’ll love you eternally!”* he’d roared, spinning her outside the pub.
Now, pulled over on the motorway, reality struck. *Promises are easy. Emily will side with her mother. A grandchild coming… Was Angela worth losing this?*
He checked theHe took a deep breath, turned the key in the ignition, and drove home, knowing that some wounds never truly heal.
