After dropping his mistress off, Butcher said a tender goodbye and drove home. He paused for a moment outside his front door, mentally rehearsing what he’d say to his wife. He climbed the stairs, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
“Hello,” Butcher called out. “Claire, love, you home?”
“I am,” came his wife’s indifferent reply. “Hello. Well then, shall I fry those escalopes?”
Butcher had sworn to himself he’d do this directly—firmly, decisively, like a man! He had to put an end to his double life while his mistress’s kisses were still fresh on his lips, before the swamp of domestic routine sucked him back in.
“Claire,” Butcher cleared his throat. “I’ve come to tell you… we need to part ways.”
The news barely fazed her. Claire Butcher was famously hard to rattle. Once, he’d even teased her for it, calling her “Claire the Ice Queen.”
“What d’you mean?” Claire asked from the kitchen doorway. “Should I not bother with the escalopes, then?”
“Up to you,” Butcher said. “Fry ’em if you like, don’t if you don’t. I’m leaving—for another woman.”
Most wives would’ve flown at their husbands with a frying pan or launched into a furious tirade. But Claire wasn’t like most wives.
“Well, aren’t you a proper drama queen,” she said. “Did you pick up my boots from the cobbler?”
“No,” Butcher faltered. “If that’s so important, I’ll go fetch them right now!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Claire muttered. “That’s you all over, Butcher. Send a fool for boots, and he’ll bring back the old ones.”
Butcher was hurt. The whole conversation about ending their marriage wasn’t going as expected. Where were the tears, the shouting, the righteous fury? But then, what else could he expect from a wife nicknamed Claire the Ice Queen?
“I don’t think you’re hearing me, Claire!” he snapped. “I’m telling you straight—I’m leaving you for another woman, and you’re rabbiting on about boots!”
“Exactly,” Claire said. “Unlike me, you can swan off wherever you please. Your boots aren’t at the cobbler’s. Nothing stopping you, is there?”
They’d been married for years, yet Butcher still couldn’t tell when she was being sarcastic. Back in the day, he’d fallen for her precisely because of her calm, no-nonsense nature. That, plus her practicality and her figure.
Claire was steady, loyal, and unshakable—like an anchor on a battleship. But now, Butcher loved another woman. Loved her fiercely, sinfully, deliciously! It was time to pack up and start fresh.
“So, Claire,” he announced, solemn yet regretful. “I’m grateful for all we’ve had. But I’m leaving because I love another. I don’t love you anymore.”
“Well, colour me shocked,” Claire scoffed. “He doesn’t love me, poor daft sod. My mum fancied the neighbour. Dad loved dominoes and a pint. And look how brilliantly I turned out.”
Arguing with Claire was like wrestling fog. Whatever fire Butcher had mustered was fading fast.
“You are brilliant, Claire,” he muttered sourly. “But I love someone else. Passionately, sinfully. And I’m leaving. Got it?”
“Who’s the lucky lass, then?” Claire asked. “Not Natalie Bramble, surely?”
Butcher stiffened. He’d had a fling with Natalie a year back—but how did Claire even know her?
“How d’you—?” he stammered, then stopped. “Never mind. No, not Natalie.”
Claire yawned.
“Then is it Shirley Thistlewaite?”
Butcher’s spine iced over. Shirley had been another past affair. If Claire knew, why hadn’t she said anything? Right—she was unflappable.
“No,” he said. “Not Shirley, not Natalie. Someone else. An incredible woman, the love of my life. I can’t live without her. And don’t try to talk me out of it.”
“So it’s Maisie, then,” Claire said. “Oh, Butcher… you daft berk. Open secret, that. The love of your life? Maisie Valentine Hughes. Thirty-five, one kid, two terminations… Am I warm?”
Butcher grabbed his head. Bullseye! Maisie Hughes was exactly who he’d been seeing.
“But—how?” he stammered. “Who grassed?”
“Elementary, Butcher,” Claire said. “I’m a gynaecologist, darling. I’ve seen every woman in this blasted town, while you’ve only managed a handful. Takes one glance down there to know you’ve been sniffing around, you muppet.”
Butcher rallied.
“Fine, you guessed right!” he snapped. “Say it is Maisie. Doesn’t change a thing. I’m going.”
“You’re a fool, Butcher,” Claire sighed. “Should’ve asked me first. Nothing special about Hughes medically—just another patient, speaking as a doctor. Seen her medical records, have you?”
“N-no,” Butcher admitted.
“Didn’t think so. Right—first, go scrub yourself raw. Second, I’ll ring Dr. Simmons at the clinic, get you seen tomorrow,” Claire said. “Then we’ll talk. Honestly, a gynaecologist’s husband can’t even find a clean bird? Bloody embarrassment.”
“What should I do?” Butcher whined.
“I’m frying escalopes,” Claire said. “You wash up and do as you please. If you want a dream woman without the clap, let me know—I’ll recommend someone.”
