The Second Chance
“Jane, are you heading home?” Her friend Emma tapped impatiently on the desk with her manicured nails.
“No, I’ll stay a while. My husband said he’d pick me up,” Jane lied without hesitation.
“Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” With a sway of her hips, Emma left the office.
One by one, the staff trickled out. The corridor echoed with hurried footsteps and the clatter of heels. Jane picked up her phone and sighed. “Probably had a pint already, sprawled in front of the telly.” She dialled, and after three long rings, the hum of the television filled the line before Victor finally answered.
“Hello?”
“Vic, it’s pouring, and I’m in suede boots. Come get me.”
“Sorry, love—didn’t think you’d call. I’ve had a drink. Best take a cab,” he said.
“Typical. Should’ve known better than to expect anything else. You promised to carry me in your arms when you proposed, remember?”
“Jane, sweetheart, the match—” The roar of the crowd drowned him out, and Jane hung up.
Those days were long gone—when he’d wait outside her office, rain or shine, even without a car. She shut down her computer, pulled on her coat, and stepped into the quiet hall. Her heels clicked sharply against the tiles. Everyone had left.
Down in the lobby, the deputy director, James Whitmore, stood by the security desk, phone to his ear. Tall, trim, and wrapped in a long black overcoat, he looked more like a Hollywood star than a corporate manager. The women gossiped—never married. Jane had always quipped that something must be wrong with him if he was still single.
“Seen with a model, can’t recall her name. Always in the magazines,” Emma had once whispered, her nose buried in tabloid gossip.
Victor hadn’t been so different in his youth. Thirty pull-ups on the bar every evening. Then… then came the laziness, the beer, the gut. And now, every night, the same scene: Victor on the sofa, telly blaring, a half-drunk pint beside him.
She reached the door when a rich baritone sent a shiver down her spine.
“Jane Whitaker—working late?”
She turned with a practised smile. “Thought my husband would collect me, but he couldn’t.”
James tucked his phone into his coat and stepped closer. “Let me drive you.” He held the door open.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—I’ll call a cab,” she protested, stepping into the rain. Puddles gleamed under the streetlamps, threatening her suede boots.
“Consider your cab here.” He took her elbow, guiding her to his car.
How could she refuse? A pity none of the girls had seen—they’d have been green with envy. Plenty of them fancied him.
James disarmed the alarm and opened the door of his sleek SUV. Jane hopped in with a playful gasp, smoothing her skirt over her knees. He shut the door gently, circled the car, and slid into the driver’s seat.
“I’ve noticed you. Firm but fair—never let anyone slip through. You’d make an excellent head of marketing.”
“What about Margaret Winthrop?” Jane asked, surprised.
“Time she retired. Reliable, but she can’t keep up with the new systems.”
Jane shifted uncomfortably. Poor Margaret—she’d trained Jane years ago. But the offer was too tempting to pass up.
“Her grandson’s about to marry. She wanted to work longer, help with the flat,” Jane murmured.
“That’s not your concern, Jane. If that’s all, she’ll have a generous severance. So—do we have a deal?”
She felt his gaze linger on her profile. When she turned, he was staring ahead.
Suddenly, she realised they were about to pass her street. “Turn right—that’s my building.” The car stopped, but Jane hesitated. Words of thanks wouldn’t come.
“Perhaps dinner sometime?” His voice was velvet.
Her heart skipped. “Perhaps,” she said, flashing a coy smile before stepping out into the damp evening.
“Till tomorrow,” James called, driving off with a careless wave.
Her head spun. The next day, they lunched together in full view of the office. Then came dinners. And then…
Needless to say, what followed. What woman could resist? Only one whose husband hadn’t yet sunk into the sofa like a cushion.
Jane floated through the days, giddy, desired, ten years younger. Life wasn’t dreary anymore—only Victor, sprawled before the telly, grew more irksome by the day.
That evening, he lay there as usual, an unfinished beer on the floor. She itched to kick it over, to spill her rage along with the drink. But she’d be the one cleaning it. Sighing, she ignored his stare as she changed.
“You’ve changed. You’re so…” He faltered.
*Finally noticed, have you?* she thought bitterly.
“How so? I’m the same.”
“You look like you did when we met. Have you fallen for someone?”
“What if I have? You never notice me. The telly and your beer matter more.”
“I *have* noticed. You changed your hair.”
“I’ve had this cut for three years.” She exhaled sharply. “We haven’t been to the cinema in ages. Or out to dinner. I’m tired too, but I don’t just flop on the sofa—I cook!”
“Your cooking’s better than any restaurant,” he offered lamely. “What’s got into you?”
She stared at him, feeling nothing but weariness. No spark, no warmth—just irritation. *Maybe I should leave. But where would he go?*
“You’re different lately,” Emma whispered at work. “Glowing. Smitten? They say you’re seeing James. And your husband—giving him the boot?”
“Wishful thinking. You sound just like him.”
“Lucky you. A husband *and* a lover. Veronica’s fifteen years younger, and he’s besotted.”
Jane’s stomach twisted. Veronica *was* pretty. And free.
“Listen, give me that woman’s address—the one who does love spells.”
“Who’s the target? James? Or removing the competition?”
“My husband. The *reverse* spell. Yes or no?”
Emma shrugged. “Sent it. That bad?”
“Worse.”
“Is Victor cheating?”
“I *wish* he were.”
“Then what’s the problem? James won’t marry you. He’s a fling.”
“It’s not about him.”
That evening, Jane visited the address. A plump woman in an expensive dress eyed her shrewdly.
“Here to ditch your husband?”
“No! Just…” She confessed. Almost all of it.
“One drop in his tea daily. No more—it’s strong. Overdo it, and his heart might give out. Better use it on the other one,” the woman advised.
Jane paid and fled the incense-heavy flat.
At home, she hid the vial behind the tea caddy. Only she used that cupboard.
Later, Victor lay on the sofa, beer in hand. She stepped between him and the telly.
“What’s wrong?”
“You just lie there. Help me cook—*do* something.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Then *learn*. What’ll you eat when you’re alone?”
“Alone? What about you? And Lily?”
“I’m leaving.” She whirled around—he stumbled into her, his belly pressing against her. She recoiled.
Then it all spilled out—twenty years of resentment. She couldn’t stop, didn’t let him speak.
When she finally paused, he whispered, “What about me?”
“Keep lying there.”
“And Lily?”
“She’s grown. She’ll choose.”
She hadn’t truly meant to leave—but the vial gnawed at her. Maybe wounded pride would shake him.
“Enough.” She walked out. He trailed after her.
“Wait—Jane, I love you. I can’t—” A gasp. He slumped against the wall, clutching his chest.
“Don’t pretend.” But his head lolled.
She screamed for Lily. “The vial—in the cupboard! Add it to water—”
Lily brought a glass. Jane forced it between his lips—most spilled down his neck.
“God, what have I done?” She scrambled up. “What did you give him?”
“From the vial, like you said.” Lily handed her a pharmacy bottle.
“This?” Jane’s hands shook. “Why isn’t he waking? Call an ambulance!”
She tore through the cupboard, found the real vial—unopened—and hurled it into the bin.
The doctor eyed the medicine she handed him. “This wouldn’t harm or help. It’s a heart attack.”
At the hospital, she paced until they sent her home.
“Sedentary life, beer, fags—heart couldn’tThe next summer, as Victor lifted weights in the garden, strong and lively again, Jane watched from the window, sipping her tea, grateful for the second chance they’d both almost lost.
