**Second Chance**
“Jennifer, heading home?” Claire tapped her manicured nails impatiently against the desk.
“No, I’ll stay a bit longer. My husband’s picking me up,” Jennifer lied smoothly.
“Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” With a sway of her hips, Claire left the office.
One by one, colleagues vanished, their hurried footsteps and clicking heels fading down the corridor. Jennifer picked up her phone and sighed. “Probably already had his pint, sprawled in front of the telly like a beached walrus.” She dialled, listened to three long rings, then heard the muffled sounds of a football match before Victor’s voice finally crackled through.
“Y’alright?”
“Vic, it’s pouring. I’m in suede boots. Come get me.”
“Love, I didn’t know you’d call—had a beer. Just grab a cab, yeah?”
“Typical. Should’ve known. Funny how you promised to carry me over thresholds when you proposed.”
“Jen, sweetheart, the match—” The roar of the crowd drowned him out. Jennifer hung up.
The days of him waiting outside her office were long gone. Back then, he didn’t even own a car. Now? Just the sofa and Sky Sports. She shut down her computer, threw on her coat, and stepped into the empty hall. The sharp click of her heels echoed as she passed the security desk, where Deputy Director James Blackwood stood—tall, sharp-suited, phone pressed to his ear. With his dark overcoat and chiselled jaw, he looked more like a Bond villain than a middle manager. Office gossip swore he was single.
Jennifer had once joked he must be terminally ill—no way a man that handsome stayed unwed.
“He’s dating a model. Forgot her name. She’s always in *Vogue*,” Claire had whispered, the office’s self-appointed tabloid.
Victor used to be fit too. Twenty pull-ups at the park every evening. Then… well, then came the beer belly. Now, every night, she’d find him glued to the sofa, a half-finished lager at his feet.
She was almost at the door when a smooth baritone sent shivers down her spine.
“Jennifer, working late?”
She turned, flashing a practised smile. “Thought my husband would collect me. Guess not.”
James slid his phone into his coat pocket. “Let me drive you.”
“Oh, no—really, I’ll just call a cab—”
Outside, rain pooled on the pavement. Her boots were doomed.
“Consider your cab here.” He took her elbow, guiding her to a gleaming Range Rover. How could she refuse? Shame no colleagues were around to witness it—plenty of women fancied their shot with him.
The engine purred to life.
“I’ve been watching you,” James said, eyes on the road. “Firm but fair. You could run Marketing.”
“What about Margaret?” Jennifer blinked.
“Retirement’s overdue. Solid worker, but… she’s stuck in 2010.”
Jennifer shifted in her seat. Poor Margaret had trained her. But refusing promotion? Madness.
“Her grandson’s saving for a flat. She wanted to stay on,” she murmured.
“Not your concern. She’ll get a generous package. So?”
His gaze lingered a second too long. Then, just like that, they’d missed her turn.
“Right here—that’s my building.”
The car stopped, but Jennifer hesitated. Words tangled in her throat.
“Fancy lunch sometime?” James asked, flashing a smile that could melt glaciers.
Her heart skipped. “Maybe,” she said, grinning as she hopped onto the wet pavement.
The next day, they lunched together—in full view of the office. Then came dinners. Then… well.
Needless to say, what happened next. What woman *wouldn’t* cave to a man like that? Unless her husband hadn’t yet devolved into a sofa-shaped stain.
Jennifer floated through days, glowing, decades younger. Life wasn’t dreary anymore. Except… Victor’s nightly TV trances grated more each evening.
Tonight, same scene: him supine, abandoned lager on the carpet. She itched to kick it over, unleash her frustration. But she’d be the one scrubbing stains.
“You’ve changed,” Victor muttered, eyes still glued to the screen.
*Finally noticed, have you?* “How?”
“Like when we first met. You in love or summat?”
“And if I am? You’d not notice. Too busy with football and Fosters.”
“I noticed! Your hair’s different.”
“Had this cut *three years*, Vic.” She exhaled sharply. “When’s the last time we went to the cinema? Or a proper dinner? I work too, y’know. But I don’t just *flop* when I get home.”
“Your cooking’s better than any restaurant,” he offered weakly. “What’s got into you?”
She stared. His voice, his clumsy compliments, his gut—nothing left but boredom. *Maybe I should leave. But where’d he go?*
———
“You’re *different*,” Claire hissed when the office emptied. “Glowing. Affair with Blackwood, eh? Hubby know?”
“As if.” Jennifer shrugged. “Just bored.”
“Lucky cow. Husband *and* a lover. Veronica’s fifteen years younger, and *he’s* all over *you*.”
Jennifer’s stomach lurched. Veronica *was* stunning. And single.
“Claire… that woman you mentioned. The one who does… *spells*. Address?”
“Who’s the target? James? Or eliminating competition?”
“My *husband*. Just give it.”
———
The “witch’s” flat reeked of incense. A plump woman in designer lace eyed her.
“Here. One drop in his tea—*no more*. Strong stuff. Double it, his heart might give out. Or use it on the *other* man.”
At home, Jennifer hid the vial behind teabags. Later, she stood over Victor, blocking the telly.
“Help with dinner for once.”
“I can’t cook, love.”
“Learn. What’ll you eat when I’m gone?”
“Gone?” He sat up, alarmed.
“I’m leaving.” She spun—he barrelled into her, belly first. Disgust twisted her face.
Then it all poured out: two decades of resentment. Victor paled, clutched his chest—then collapsed.
“Dad!” Their daughter, Emily, sprinted in. “The vial—add it to water!”
Jennifer froze. *What did I just do?*
She snatched the wrong bottle—harmless heart pills—just as paramedics arrived.
“Not poison,” a medic said. “Heart attack. Stress, fags, booze…”
———
Weeks later, Victor—leaner, sober—walked hospital halls with her.
“Forgive me. I was terrified you’d leave.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ll do better.”
At home, no more lagers by the sofa. By summer, he was back at the park doing pull-ups.
James took up with Veronica. Jennifer didn’t care.
She only regretted waiting so long to shake Victor awake—no potions or affairs needed.
Love’s second chance? Never too late.
