Tamsin always woke up before her alarm, as if she had an internal clock ticking away inside her. She’d get up, wash her face, and make breakfast. By the time her husband, Geoffrey, walked into the kitchen—clean-shaven, smelling of aftershave—there’d be scrambled eggs or soft-boiled ones, a plate of sliced bread, cheese, and ham, and a steaming cup of strong coffee. Tamsin herself only ever had coffee and a few bites of cheese.
They’d been married thirty years. By now, they knew each other so well they hardly needed words, especially in the mornings. “See you tonight,” “I’ll be late,” “Thanks…” They could read each other’s moods from a glance, from footsteps, even from silence. What was the point in talking?
“Thanks,” Geoffrey muttered, finishing his coffee before pushing back his chair.
When they’d first moved in together, he always kissed her cheek before leaving for work. Now, he just said thanks and went. He was an engineer at a railway factory, leaving early to fight his way through London traffic.
Tamsin cleared the table, washed the dishes, then got ready for work. She taught at a university just two bus stops from home, always walking, no matter the weather—rain, wind, didn’t matter. Tall and lean, she only wore dresses in summer. At the university, she stuck to gray pinstripe trouser suits with pastel blouses under the jacket.
Her once-dark hair had gone silver, and she never dyed it, just braided it loosely and coiled it at the nape of her neck. No makeup, no jewelry except her wedding ring.
As a professor, she talked all day in lectures and seminars. At home, she preferred silence. Geoffrey liked it quiet too. To everyone else, they seemed the perfect couple—no shouting, no arguments.
Geoffrey was two years older but still handsome. Tamsin had long grown used to women noticing him. She used to get jealous, but with age, she’d shrugged it off. “Where’s he going to go? No one’s going to cook for him like I do,” she’d tell herself. And she *was* a brilliant cook.
They had a daughter who’d married a soldier and moved away after university.
Students were a little afraid of Tamsin. She rarely smiled, always calm and collected. But she wasn’t cruel—you could reason with her, even during exams. If a student admitted honestly they didn’t know an answer but had studied, she’d help guide them to a pass. But cheat? She’d kick them out without hesitation. Some tried begging for mercy with pitiful looks, but lies never worked with her. She could always tell.
She never gossiped with colleagues or joined in department chatter.
One day in the canteen, she overheard two first-years talking. They hadn’t noticed her sitting behind them.
“What do you think of the chem prof? Total spinster. If it weren’t for the wedding ring, I’d think she was some old maid,” one girl said.
“She’s got a husband, actually. Pretty fit, too. And a daughter, already married,” the other replied.
“What’s he even see in her? And how do *you* know?”
“We live in the same building. She seems alright.”
“Alright? Dresses like a bloke. Doubt she’s even got boobs.”
Tamsin finished her lunch, stood, and looked straight at them.
“Sorry,” they squeaked, faces burning.
*Spinster. Old maid. So that’s what they think.* In the staff room, she studied herself in the mirror. *God. What does Geoffrey even see in me?* The bell rang, and she headed to class.
At home, she started dinner—beef stew in clay pots, timed to be ready when he got back. Everything was set. She went to the window. Geoffrey always parked right below, but his car wasn’t there yet. Then the front door clicked open.
Surprised, she went to the hall.
“No car? Did it break down?”
“No, parked somewhere else.”
She didn’t ask why. Back in the kitchen, she pulled the stew from the oven as Geoffrey sat at the table.
“Tam, sit down, please.”
She put down the oven mitt and sat opposite him, fingers laced tight. She knew immediately—something was wrong. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. They’d been distant for years, but now he seemed like a stranger—cold, tense.
“Right. I’ve met someone else. I’m leaving.” He wiped sweat from his forehead.
Her fingers clenched until they hurt.
“Sorry. I’ll pack my things.” He stood and walked out.
She stayed at the table. *Go after him. Stop him. Talk.* But she didn’t move. She heard the wardrobe creak, hangers clinking, drawers opening—probably grabbing documents. A suitcase zipped shut. Silence, then wheels thudding over carpet, louder on the tiled floor.
He took forever putting on his coat and shoes. *He’ll come back. Say he changed his mind. That he loves me.* But the door clicked shut.
She sat there for ages, staring at nothing, then finally buried her face in her hands and cried.
So that’s why he hadn’t parked below. Didn’t want the neighbors to see. Or was *she* waiting in the car? Tamsin splashed her face under the tap. *The stew.*
Her first thought was to dump it, pots and all. Then she remembered the elderly couple downstairs and knocked with the wrapped pots.
A young woman answered.
“Hello. Are the…” Tamsin realized she didn’t even know their names.
“The Wilsons? They sold up—their son took them in. We just moved in yesterday. Come in! I’m Jess, my husband’s Mark. Smells amazing.”
“For you. Housewarming gift.” Tamsin tried to smile, but her face wouldn’t obey. She handed over the pots and left.
That night, she barely slept—crying, pacing, arguing with Geoffrey in her head. *Why now? Why not years ago? What do I do?* *Didn’t you know this would happen? I’ve fallen in love…*
Morning came. She woke before the alarm, as always. Drank coffee, walked to work. That evening, for the first time, she didn’t cook. Just stared at the telly.
A knock startled her. *Geoffrey?* But he had keys. Maybe ignore it? The lights were on—he’d see. She opened the door to smiling Jess, holding a plate of cake.
“Sorry, you fed us yesterday. That stew was unreal—never had anything like it. Mark said I *had* to get the recipe. Thought I’d return the favor. First cake I’ve ever baked.”
“Come in,” Tamsin said. “Let’s try it.”
They went to the kitchen. Tamsin put the kettle on.
“You alone? Husband not back yet?” Jess asked.
Tamsin shrugged.
“Mark and I only married two months ago. I’m thirty-six—first time, can you believe it? Last-chance saloon, really. Lived with Mum till now, so I can’t cook for toffee. Mark’s divorced.”
She caught the sharp look Tamsin gave her.
“You think I stole him? God, no. His wife left *him* three years ago—ran off with someone else, took their daughter. Mark adored her. Couldn’t bear the flat alone, sold it, gave her half. Lived in rentals after. When I met him, he was drinking.” Jess lowered her voice. “Badly. Went to pieces after the split. Looked rough. Felt sorry for him. Mum told me not to marry him. But he’s kind, quit drinking. Hands like gold—if you need anything fixed…”
“Cake’s too sweet. Too much sugar,” Tamsin said.
“Yeah, I know. Teach me to cook? Oh—I’m a hairdresser. Could dye your hair, give you a chop. Short would suit you. Your face—”
“Sorry… Jess, right? Sorry, Jess, but I don’t want dye. Or a cut.”
“But I’m good. Know what I’m doing.”
“No.” Tamsin’s tone was final.
“Sorry.”
Jess left. Tamsin studied herself in the mirror. *Maybe I should cut it. Haven’t changed a thing in years.*
Days later, she ran into Jess outside. “I’ll take you up on that haircut.”
“Blimey, you won’t regret it. I’ll make you look like Helen Mirren.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. When?”
“Weekend?”
“Perfect. Don’t buy dye—I’ll bring everything.”
Jess dashed off. Tamsin watched her go, unsure.
That Saturday, she baked a cake—first proper food in days. The doorbell rang as she slid the tray in the oven. Jess burst in, case in hand.
“Ready?” She stopped at the hall mirror. “As Tamsin looked at her reflection that evening—her new hair, the cake cooling on the counter, Jess laughing beside her—she realized she hadn’t thought about Geoffrey once that whole afternoon.
