Im still haunted by this regret I acted too quickly in ending my marriage. Sensible men keep their lovers as fleeting celebrations, and I, foolishly, made mine a wife.
My good spirits faded as soon as I pulled up outside my building and stepped into the hallway. Home greeted me with the usual routines: slippers waiting by the door, the enticing smell of dinner wafting in, fresh flowers in a vase, and everything in perfect order.
None of it stirred me. My wife, after all, was always at home; what else would a woman of her age spend her days doing? Baking pies, knitting, tidying up. Well, perhaps the knittings an exaggeration, but you get the point.
Margaret met me in the hallway, smiling out of habit.
Long day? Ive baked some pies cabbage and apple, just how you like them
She fell silent under my heavy gaze. Dressed in her usual trousers and top, hair tucked under a neat scarfshe always wore it when cooking. Years as a chef made such habits ingrained.
Her eyes, still outlined with pencil, had a hint of gloss on her lips. Another habit, which today struck me as garish. Why bother painting over old age?
I probably shouldnt have been so blunt, but I couldnt help myself.
Makeup at your age is nonsense, Margaret. It doesnt suit you.
Her lips quivered, but she said nothing and didnt bother setting the table as she normally would. For the best, really; pies under a tea towel, tea already madeI could manage.
After a shower and dinner, my resentment eased, replaced by the days memories. I settled into my favourite armchair in my fluffy bathrobe, pretending to read. What had that new colleague said to me?
Youre quite an attractive man, and interesting too.
At 56, heading the legal department of a big firm in Manchester, I had a fresh graduate under me, and three women past forty, with one on maternity leave whose replacement was Evelyn.
Id been away on business when she arrived, so today was our first meeting.
I called her into my office, and she entered with a delicate hint of perfume and an air of youthful freshness. Blonde curls framed her soft face, and her blue eyes held a steady confidence. Full lips and a beauty spot on her cheekcould she really be thirty? Id have guessed twenty-five.
Divorced, with an eight-year-old son. I wasnt sure why, but I thought, Good.
I flirted a little, joking about being her old boss, and Evelyn blinked her long lashes before replying with words that linger with me even now.
Margaret, having recovered from my comment, showed up by my armchair with the nightly chamomile tea. I frownedher timing, as always, was off.
Yet I drank it with unexpected pleasure. I wondered what that young, pretty womanEvelynwas doing now, and felt the surprising prick of jealousy, long forgotten.
***
Evelyn stopped at Sainsburys after work for cheese, bread, and a bottle of kefir for herself. She came home neutral, not smiling, and hugged her son Oliver almost absent-mindedly when he dashed over.
Her father tinkered in the shed, a hobby space hed set up, and her mother tended to dinner. Dumping out her shopping bags, Evelyn immediately declared her headache and asked not to be disturbed. In truth, she felt empty.
It had been years since her divorce from Olivers father, and Evelyns attempts to become someones cherished partner had always ended in disappointment.
Every decent man seemed persistently married and only interested in a casual affair.
Her last relationship, at work, had felt like true lovefor two passionate years. He even rented her a flat (more for his own convenience), but as soon as commitment threatened, he insisted not only on breaking up but that she had to quit her job.
He even sorted out her next position. Now, Evelyn lived again with her parents and son. Her mother quietly sympathised, her father insisted a child should at least have his mother around, not just grandparents.
Margaret had noticed for years that her husband was facing a mid-life crisis. They had everything, yet something vital seemed missing. She was afraid to think what that vital thing might be for him. She tried to soften thingsalways well-groomed, cooked his favourites, avoided deep conversations (though she longed for them), and busied herself with her grandson and the garden. Still, Peter grew irritable and distant.
Maybe thats why, in their mutual search for change, Peter and Evelyns romance ignited so quickly. Within two weeks of meeting at the office, hed invited her for lunch and offered her a lift home.
Their fingers touched, and she turned to him with flushed cheeks.
I dont want to go home, he said huskily. Fancy coming to my cottage? Evelyn nodded, and they sped off.
Fridays, Peter left work an hour early, and it wasnt until nine that his anxious wife received a terse text: Well talk tomorrow.
He didnt realise how truly hed summed up the pending, and rather pointless, conversation. Margaret knew a marriage doesnt burn as fiercely after thirty-two years.
But he was so much a part of her life, losing him would be losing herself. Let him frown and grumble, act out, but let him stay in their home, eating supper, breathing beside her.
She spent a sleepless night searching for words to save her worldhers, more than his.
In despair, she pulled out their wedding albumyoung, radiant, everything ahead of them. She had been so beautiful; so many had wanted her as their own. He must remember that. Maybe, hed see the fragments of their happiness and know that not everything deserved to be discarded.
But he returned only on Sunday, and it was clear: it was over. A different Peter stood before her, adrenaline surging. There was no awkwardness, no shame.
Unlike Margaret, who dreaded change, Peter wanted it, planned it. His voice brooked no argument.
From now, Margaret was free. Hed file for divorce himself. Their sons family would move in with her. All by lawthe two-bedroom flat his sons family lived in was, in fact, Peters inheritance.
Their move into Margarets three-bed wouldnt worsen their accommodation, and shed have someone to look after. The car, naturally, was his. As for the cottage, he reserved the right to retreat there.
Margaret knew she sounded pitiful, unattractive, but couldnt help crying. The tears tangled her words; she pleaded, asking him to remember, to think of her health, at least. The last point sparked his anger. He leaned in and hissed:
Dont drag me into your old age!
It would be naive to say Evelyn truly loved Peter and accepted his proposal (overnight, at the cottage) out of passion alone.
It was the respectability: the status of a married woman, the comfort of having Peter choose her when another had refused.
She was tired of living in her fathers strict household. She craved stability. Peter could give her all that. Not such a bad option, she reasoned.
For a man in his late fifties, he wasnt an old codger. Fit, lively, bright, the boss of a department, shrewd at work, good company socially. And in bed, more interested than selfish. No more rented flat, no lack of money, no petty thefts by flatmatesjust benefits. Well, she did worry about his age.
But a year in, Evelyns disappointment grew. She felt young still, wanted excitementregular, not once a year or above all, soberly respectable. She loved concerts, longed to try the waterpark, sunbathed in bold swimwear, enjoyed outings with friends.
She managed all of it, juggling home and family, even with Oliver now always with her.
But Peter was falling behind. As an experienced legal manager, he made decisions all day, but at home, he became a tired man craving quiet and the veneration of his routines. Guests, theatre tripseven the beachwere accepted, but strictly in moderation.
He didnt resist intimacy, but then wanted to sleep immediately, sometimes as early as nine.
There were also his delicate digestionno fried food, sausages, or store-bought ready meals. His ex-wife had clearly spoiled him.
Sometimes he even waxed nostalgic about her steamed dishes. Evelyn cooked for her son, not understanding how pork chops could upset ones side.
She didnt keep track of his endless tablets, thinking a grown man ought to buy and remember his own medicines. Their lives gradually began to drift apart.
She took Oliver with her on outings, joined up with friendsoddly, Peters age seemed to spur her to live faster.
They no longer worked togetherthe company directors found it improper, so Evelyn moved to a solicitors office. She even felt relieved, no longer spending every day in the shadow of a man who reminded her of her father.
Respect, thats what Evelyn felt for Peter. Was it enough to build happiness?
Peters sixtieth birthday was approaching, and Evelyn wanted a grand bash. But he booked a table in a quiet, familiar restaurant hed visited often over the years. He seemed bored, but at his age, thats expected; Evelyn thought little of it.
His colleagues came to honour him. Old friends, couples who had known him through Margaret, werent invitedawkward, really. Family was distant, and after marrying young Evelyn, hed lost understanding.
His son was, for all intents, estranged. But surely a father had the right to choose his own life?! In marrying, hed imagined choice would look a bit different.
The first year with Evelyn was like a honeymoon. He loved being seen with her, encouraged her spending (she wasnt reckless), her fitness classes, friends.
He endured loud gigs and wild films. Swept up in this phase, he made Evelyn and Oliver full owners of his flat. Soon after, he gave his share of the cottage jointly owned with Margaret as a gift.
Privately, Evelyn asked Margaret to sell her own half as well, threatening to sell hers to strangers if refused.
Buying her outusing Peters moneyEvelyn registered the cottage solely under her own name, arguing it was best for Oliver. Her parents and Oliver spent all summer there now. It worked well enoughPeter wasnt keen on the energetic boy. Hed married for love, not to raise someone elses noisy child.
His former family was hurt. With their share of the money, they sold their flat and separated. His sons family found a two-bed elsewhere, and Margaret, his ex-wife, moved into a studio. Peter never bothered to find out how they were doing.
Now sixty, Peter was surrounded by well-wishers, wishing him health, happiness, love. Yet he felt no spark. Year after year, it was the same familiar dissatisfaction.
Of course he loved his young wife. He just couldnt keep up with her. Taming or claiming her simply didnt work; she smiled and lived on her own terms. She never crossed the linebut it still irritated him.
Oh, if only she had the soul of his old wife, Margaretcoming to his chair with chamomile tea, tucking him in if he drifted off. Hed gladly stroll the park with her, whisper over kitchen tea into the eveningsbut Evelyn tired of his long stories, and now seemed restless in bed. His nerves kept getting in the way.
I carry regret: I rushed the divorce. Clever men make their affairs a holidayI turned mine into a marriage.
Evelyns vivacity will last another decade at least; even at forty, shell seem much younger. That gulf will only widen. If Im lucky, Ill go in a flash. If not
These non-celebratory thoughts thudded in my head, racing my heart. I looked for Evelynshe was out dancing, radiant and vibrant. Of course, its happiness, waking up to see her nearby.
Seizing my chance, I slipped out of the restauranthoping to clear my head. But my colleagues spotted me, approaching in a crowd. Overwhelmed, I hurried to the nearest black cab and asked the driver to simply get me away. Ill tell you the route soon, I promised.
I needed to go somewhere I was truly wanted. Where entering meant someone waited just for me, valued my time, let me be myselfunafraid of seeming weak or, heaven forbid, old.
I phoned my son and, almost pleading, asked for his mothers new address. He was understandably standoffish but relented a little, remarking it was my birthday after all. He said Margaret might not be aloneno man involved, just a friend.
Mum says they went to school together. Names funny… Bunworthy, I think.
Bunton, I corrected, jealousy kicking in. I rememberedhed loved her too, back then. Shed been sought after, beautiful and bold.
Shed planned to marry BuntonId swooped in and won her. Long ago, but it somehow felt more real than my present with Evelyn.
My son asked:
But why do you want this, Dad?
The word Dad cut through me; suddenly, I missed them all more than Id thought. I answered honestly:
I dont know, son.
He gave me the address. The cab stopped at my request. I didnt want to talk to Margaret with anyone else present. It was nearly nineshe was always a night owl, whereas Id become an early bird.
I buzzed the flat.
A rough male voice answerednot my former wife. Said Margaret was busy.
Whats happened? Is she all right? I asked. He demanded to know who was calling.
Im her husband, actually! And you must be Mr Bunton! I blurted.
He coolly corrected mesaid I was the former-husband, so I had no right to bother her. Explained, without detail, that Margaret was taking a bath.
What, old love never rusts? I shot back, ready for a sparring match.
He replied drily, Noit turns to silver.
The door never did open.
