Fate
“Just got off the phone with Emily. Can you believe it? James is at it again,” said Claire when the TV ad break interrupted her favourite soap on BBC Two.
She glanced at her husband. He was propped up against the raised pillows, half-sitting, watching the advert with mild interest.
“Tom, are you listening? James is making a fool of himself,” she repeated when he didn’t respond.
“I heard you. What’s it to you?” he muttered.
“How can you say that? Emily’s my friend. I care about her. Has James said anything to you?” Claire studied his profile carefully.
“He doesn’t report to me. Haven’t seen him in ages. And honestly, your friend’s a bit of a drama queen. I’d probably stray too if I were him. Let’s drop it—the show’s back on.”
“Oh really? That’s what he told you? So, it’s Emily’s fault now. Always the woman’s fault, isn’t it? Just to justify your own wandering ways. And who made her like this? He’s been at it for years!” Claire pursed her lips while Tom stared fixedly at the screen.
“You know, I nag you all the time too. How many times have I told you to wipe your feet before coming in? You drag mud and sand everywhere. Never rinse the bath after yourself… Does that make me a nagging shrew too? Maybe you’re stepping out as well? Keeping James company?” Claire fixed him with a glare.
“Here we go. Now it’s my turn.” Tom threw off the duvet and got up. “I’ll finish the episode in the kitchen.”
“I just feel sorry for my friend,” Claire called after him.
“They were so in love once. He climbed up to her window with flowers—second floor and all. What’s wrong with you men?” she shouted toward the open door.
“When you’re courting us, we’re ‘sweetheart,’ ‘darling,’ ‘love.’ The moment another woman comes along, we’re suddenly unbearable,” she mused aloud, as if he could still hear. “Emily forgave him so many times. First time, he was on his knees, swearing it’d never happen again, crying his eyes out. She forgave him for the kids’ sake. Oh, James is a good man—just sucks the life out of her. Guess he won’t stop until he’s six feet under…” Claire fell silent and listened. Not a sound came from the kitchen.
“Or maybe Tom’s cheating too. Why’d he bolt like that? Hit a nerve? No, he’s too lazy. At least James takes care of himself—goes to the gym. Mine’s got a belly and a receding hairline…”
But the seed of doubt had taken root, sprouting anxiety. Claire no longer watched the TV, her interest in the show gone. She slipped her feet into slippers and headed to the kitchen. Tom sat on a chair, legs crossed, smoking, blowing streams of smoke toward the cracked window. A draft crept in, making her shiver.
“Since when do you smoke?”
Tom startled, ash tumbling onto the table.
“Blimey, you scared me.” He brushed the ash onto the floor. “Maybe I’m upset too. James and I are mates.”
“Then talk to him. Isn’t he ashamed in front of his kids? What kind of example is he setting?” Claire grabbed the ashtray from the windowsill and set it in front of him.
“As if he’d listen. Not my place to lecture him. His life, his choices.” Tom took one last drag and stubbed out the cigarette before shutting the window.
“Let’s go to bed.” He walked past her without another word.
Claire shook her head, turned off the light, and followed. Tom lay on his side, back turned to her half of the bed. The TV played some late-night talk show. Claire switched it off and lay down. They’d been falling asleep like this for months—backs to each other.
They’d met in their happy university days, inseparable. Married two years later. Their life was ordinary—arguments, reconciliations, moving on. Their daughter grew up, graduated, and moved to London. Claire hadn’t thought about happiness. But she’d been happy. Friends divorced, remarried. Everyone had their reasons. Yet they’d been together twenty-seven years, married for twenty-five. A quarter of a century.
Her thoughts returned to Emily. Her voice echoed: “Why does he do this to me? I’ve given him everything. Had his children. Now I’ve got no youth, no husband—left alone in my old age…”
On his side of the bed, Tom lay awake, staring into the dark, suppressing sighs, perfectly still.
Two days later, Tom came home late. Claire didn’t panic. It happened. Traffic, mates, work. She could usually guess why by how he looked. Cheerful and tipsy? Caught up with friends. Grumpy? Work trouble.
Finally, the lock clicked. She heard him undress—unusually quiet, no usual huffing. Then he went to the kitchen.
When she entered, Tom sat at the table, back against the wall. But he wasn’t relaxed—he looked coiled, tense. Her stomach dropped. The same unease from that night stirred inside. Tom stared ahead like a man making a grave decision.
“Something wrong?” she asked softly, anxiety swelling, filling her, leaking from her eyes. “Should I heat up dinner?”
“No, I’m fine.” He stood, avoiding her gaze, and left.
She caught a faint whiff of perfume. Not hers. Familiar, though. She’d smelled it before.
Claire waited in the living room, but Tom never came back. Sick? Gone straight to bed? She peeked into the bedroom. He still sat on the edge of the bed in his suit, hands clasped, head bowed.
“Tom…” she called.
“Sit,” he said.
She obeyed, keeping a distance, catching that foreign scent again, feeling his tension. Claire stayed silent. Somehow, she already knew.
“I can’t lie. There’s someone else,” he finally said.
“You’re leaving?”
A pointless question. Men only said this when they’d already decided.
“Yeah. I can’t fight it. I think about her all the time.”
“All the time. So, it’s been going on a while. And here I was, naive, thinking it was just lads’ nights out.” Claire smirked.
“If you go, I won’t take you back like Emily did,” she said.
“I know. I’ve made up my mind. I can’t keep lying to you. I’ll pack and go.”
She wanted to ask—what about her? Their daughter? Their twenty-five years? But suddenly, none of it mattered. She’d always thought it wouldn’t happen to them. But she knew she’d never forgive his infidelity. She wouldn’t cling like Emily.
She stood and left, closing the door behind her. She listened as Tom moved about, hangers clacking in the wardrobe, a suitcase zipping shut. Finally, he emerged, still in his suit. He paused as he passed her.
“Sorry.”
Claire held back tears and screams. No hysterics. Let the other woman wonder how calmly she’d let him go. She’d cry later.
The moment the door shut, she let the tears flow—anger, self-pity. Once the shock faded, she called Emily. Only she’d understand. They wept together over lost youth and shared fates.
When their daughter called, Claire said nothing. She convinced herself she liked living alone. No cooking, no scrubbing muddy footprints, no snoring to keep her awake. She caught up on chores, stayed busy. Better than stewing in resentment.
She waited for Tom to return. Knew she wouldn’t forgive, yet waited. But he didn’t come back—not in a month, not in two. One evening, she opened her laptop, logged into her long-dormant social media.
Two unread messages. A stranger—Edward—wanted to meet. If she was free, he’d wait for her reply.
Her profile picture was a decade old—Claire smiling, happy, beautiful. Back then, updating it always drew men, often from abroad. She’d never answered, just deleted them.
She zoomed in on Edward’s picture—clearly a stock photo. Fake. His profile was new, empty—no posts, no friends.
Weird. She decided to ignore him. Then thought—why not? Maybe it’d help. If Tom checked her page, let him think she’d moved on. She replied, saying she was married but open to chat—nothing flirty. She and Tom weren’t divorced yet.
Their messages began. Edward rambled sometimes, other times wrote with raw honesty. He quoted Auden, Larkin, Betjeman.
Claire waited for his replies. If none came, she worried—was he ill? Then relief when they resumed.
“Ever think about fate? It’s like life’s judgment. We reap what we sow. If happiness slips away, maybe we didn’t deserve itClaire reached for Tom’s hand, whispering softly, “Let’s go home.”
