This evening began as any other, yet ended unlike any before. “Have you lost your mind?” Thomasina demanded, slamming her napkin down so violently the wine glasses trembled. “Inviting her here? To our home!”
“Tamsin, please calm down,” Nicholas adjusted his tie nervously. “Nothing happened. It was a routine work meeting.”
“A work meeting?” Her voice pitched higher. “At ten o’clock? With champagne and candles?”
“We were finalizing details for the new project…”
“Project? What project, Nic? What project requires *her*… this Chloe?”
Nicholas looked away. The plates from the dinner he’d carefully prepared – cottage pie, hoping to please her – still sat on the table. All his effort felt wasted now, ruined by one careless call.
Thomasina pushed back her chair and paced the kitchen. At forty-three, she looked younger, always stylish and composed. Nic often told friends he was lucky. “Listen carefully,” she halted before him, hands on her hips. “I’m not a fool, though you might think me one. That girl calls constantly. You work late, come home smelling of *her* perfume.”
“Tams, you’re blowing things out of proportion…”
“Am I?” She pulled his mobile from her pocket. “Fifteen missed calls from her today alone!”
Nicholas paled. He’d forgotten she saw all notifications via their shared family account.
“It was work related…”
“Work!” Thomasina’s laugh was bitter. “On Saturdays? Sundays? Midnight! What work demands that?”
Nicholas twisted his fork silently. Twenty-two years of marriage, and he’d never seen her like this. She’d weathered money troubles, her mother’s illness, with grace. Now, she seemed near breaking.
“Nic.” Her voice softened, thick with pain. “It’s obvious. You’ve fallen for her.”
“No,” he shook his head, the denial weak even to his own ears.
“Don’t lie! To me, or yourself! I’ve known you twenty-two years. You light up when she rings. Your eyes sparkle heading to the office. But coming home…” She trailed off, but he understood. Home had become dull, lifeless, compared to Chloe’s bright office. “Tams, let’s talk properly.”
“What about? How you’ve changed? How you barely notice me anymore? That we haven’t had a proper conversation in a month?” He looked at her then, truly looked. When *had* he last asked about her day? Chloe consumed his thoughts. “Is she young?” Thomasina asked quietly.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“How old, Nic, is Chloe?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Thomasina nodded, her worst fear confirmed. “I see. And I’m forty-three. Too old now.”
“Don’t talk rubbish.”
“Rubbish?” She walked to the hall mirror. “Look at me, Nic. These lines around my eyes? This grey I hide every month? She’s young, beautiful, no children, no baggage.”
“We don’t have children,” he reminded her.
“No,” she agreed. “My fault. I couldn’t give you that.”
“Tams, don’t…”
“I must! Finally say it! I’ve felt guilty for fifteen years. Seeing babies, wondering: Does Nic blame me? Does he want a wife who can bear him a child?” He tried to embrace her, but she stepped back.
“Don’t. Just tell me truly: Do you love her?”
Silence hung heavy. Nicholas stared at the worn kitchen tiles they’d bought years ago. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure, or afraid to admit it?”
“Tams, it’s complicated…”
“It’s simple for me.” She sat, hands clasped tightly. “Either you love me, or her, Nic. No third option.”
He slumped beside her, bewildered. Two decades shared with this woman who’d supported his every venture. Against that, six months with Chloe who’d turned his world upside-down.
“What do you feel when she’s near?” Thomasina pressed.
“I feel… young,” he confessed. “Like I’m twenty-five again.”
“And with me?”
“Like a husband.”
“Is that bad?”
“No… just… predictable.”
Thomasina nodded, seeming to find her answer. “So, I’ve become ballast.”
“Not ballast. You’re a wonderful wife, Tams. The very best.”
“But not beloved.”
He stayed silent. What could he say? That he loved his wife, respectfully, yet his heart raced for Chloe’s ring?
“You know,” Thomasina stood, clearing plates, “I understand. Truly. Too many years together, romance buried under routine. Then a bright young thing appears…”
“Tams, don’t talk that way.”
“How then?” She turned?”You changed your clothes, joined the gym, got a new haircut. For *her*.”
It was true. Chloe’s arrival had sparked a new vanity. “Does she know you’re married?”
“Yes.”
“And…?”
“Says she doesn’t want to break up our home.”
“Of course,” Thomasina scoffed bitterly. “She honours marriage by calling constantly.”
“We *are* working…!”
“Nic, enough!” Her hand slapped the table. “Don’t insult my intelligence! I saw how you glowed after that trip. Smiling at your phone.”
Nicholas bowed her head. Arguing was pointless. He *was* smitten. Feeling foolish excitement he’d forgotten.
“What do we do?” his wife asked, sitting opposite.
“Don’t know.”
“I do.” She met his gaze. “You must choose.”
“Tams…”
“No. Hear me. I won’t cling, or make scenes, or check your phone. But I won’t exist in this limbo either.” She resumed washing up, movements sharp. “You have one week to decide,” she said without turning. “Then you tell me.”
“And… if I choose her?”
Thomasina froze, plate in hand. “Then I file for divorce.”
“Tams, perhaps we shouldn’t rush? Maybe try…”
“Try *what*? Pretend? Act as if you love me? Nic, I’m forty-three. My remaining years… I want them with someone who truly wants me.”
“I do want…”
“No. You *pity* me. That’s worse than indifference.” He wanted to protest, but she was right. Pity and guilt were all he felt now.
“One week, Nic,” she repeated. “No meetings with her.”
“All right.”
They agreed.”
“All right.”
They agreed he’d sleep in the lounge for space. Thomasina retreated to their room. He stayed on his mobile. A new text glowed: “How are you? Miss X.” He nearly replied, remembered his promise, and set the phone aside.
Next morning, Thomasina left for her job without breakfast. Nic offered coffee; she merely shook her head. “Think hard,” she said, putting her coat on. “Twenty-two years isn’t nothing.”
“I know.”
“Do you? *I* don’t understand… throwing it all away for an infatuation.”
“It’s more than that, Tams.”
“Love?” Her laugh was mirthless. “You’re forty-five, Nic. Men mistake love for youth.”
“Perhaps.”
“*Perhaps*?” She paused near the door. “The worst pain? Not your falling for her. It’s that you never fought *for us*.” Her words struck home. He hadn’t fought; only schemed to see Chloe. “Tams, wait…!” But the door closed. Suddenly, their flat felt alien.
He spent the day reflecting. Roaming rooms, studying photographs
Nicholas drove through the drizzling London rain, the taillights of passing cars blurring through his tears as the weight of the empty passenger seat beside him finally drove home the crushing permanence of Theresa’s decision.
