Max kept his regret hidden, wishing he hadn’t rushed into divorce. Wise men turn affairs into romance, but he made his lover his wife Maxwell Petrov entered his townhouse in high spirits, only for them to vanish as soon as he stepped inside and parked his car. At home, he found the familiarity of slippers ready by the door, the delicious smell of dinner, a spotless living room, fresh flowers arranged in a vase. None of it moved him — his wife was at home, as always. What else would a retired English lady do all day? Bake pies and knit socks, he thought, though that was an exaggeration. But that was the essence of it. Marina greeted her husband with the customary smile: “Tired, darling? I made your favourite pies — with cabbage and apples…” She paused under Maxwell’s heavy gaze. Wearing trousers and a tidy house outfit, her hair tucked beneath a scarf — she always cooked that way. A professional habit from her years as a chef, her hair always put away. Her blue eyes were lightly made up; her lips shimmered with gloss. Another habit that now struck Maxwell as garish. What’s the point of painting oneself up in old age? He shouldn’t have been so sharp, but he blurted out: “At your age, makeup is nonsense. It doesn’t suit you.” Marina’s lips trembled, she kept quiet, and didn’t bother laying the table for him. That was for the best. The pies were under a cloth, the tea brewed — he could manage. After his shower and dinner, Maxwell’s kindness started to return, as did the memories of his day. Settled in his favourite terry dressing gown in his special armchair, he pretended to read. What was it that his new coworker said to him? “You’re quite a charming man, and interesting too.” Maxwell was 56 and headed the legal department of a major firm in London. Under his supervision was a recent graduate and three women in their forties. Another had just gone on maternity leave, and Aisling had been hired to replace her. Maxwell hadn’t met her before — he’d been away on business. Today was the first time. He’d invited her to his office for introductions. With her came a waft of subtle perfume and the sense of youth. Her delicate face framed by soft, blonde curls, confident sapphire eyes, full lips, a beauty spot on her cheek. Was she really 30? Maxwell would have guessed 25. She was divorced, with an eight-year-old son. Something about that felt right to him. Chatting with the new hire, he tried to sound playful, joking that she now had an old boss. Aisling fluttered her lashes and corrected him with words that thrilled him and kept repeating in his mind. His wife, recovered from her hurt, appeared beside his chair with chamomile tea, as she did every evening. He frowned — “Always at the wrong moment.” Still, he drank it with not a little pleasure. He wondered, what was his young, pretty colleague Aisling doing right now? His heart stung with the old, forgotten feeling — jealousy. **** After work, Aisling stopped by the supermarket for cheese, bread, and kefir for her dinner. She returned home in a neutral mood, without a smile. Out of routine more than affection, she hugged her son, Vincent, who came running. Her father tinkered in the conservatory, where he had a DIY workshop; her mother was busy in the kitchen. After putting away the groceries, she immediately announced her headache and asked not to be disturbed. Really, she felt despondent. Since splitting from Vincent’s father years before, Aisling had tried in vain to become someone’s cherished main woman. All the good men turned out to be married and wanted casual affairs. The latest was a coworker who seemed madly in love for two years, even rented her a flat (mostly for his own convenience). But when things got serious, he insisted she leave him and quit her job. He even found her a new position. And now, Aisling lived again with her parents and son. Her mother pitied her as only mothers can, her father insisted a child should grow up with his mum, not just grandparents. Marina, Maxwell’s wife, had long noticed he was in a midlife crisis. He had everything, yet something crucial was missing. She dreaded what that “crucial” thing might be. She tried to placate him, cooking his favourite dishes, keeping herself neat, avoiding heart-to-heart talks, though she sorely missed them. She tried getting involved with her grandson and their holiday cottage. But Maxwell was bored and gloomy. Because both craved change, Maxwell and Aisling’s romance flared up instantly. Within two weeks of her joining, he’d taken her out for lunch and driven her home. He touched her hand, she turned to him, cheeks rosy. “I don’t want this to end. Shall we go to my cottage?” Maxwell said hoarsely. Aisling nodded, and the car sped away. On Fridays, Maxwell finished work early, but at nine that night his anxious wife received a text: “We’ll talk tomorrow.” He hadn’t realised how perfectly he’d summed up the coming — and, really, pointless — conversation. Marina knew you couldn’t keep passion burning after 32 years of marriage. But her husband was part of her soul — losing him felt like losing herself. Let him grumble and sulk and act foolish, he still belonged in that armchair, still ate supper, still breathed beside her. Marina, searching for words to halt the collapse of her life, didn’t sleep all night. In a moment of despair, she got out the wedding album, memories of when they were young and full of hope. She’d been beautiful, wanted by many, and wanted Maxwell to remember. Perhaps he’d see those moments of their happiness and realise some things can’t be discarded. But he returned only on Sunday, and she knew: it was finished. Before her stood a different Maxwell, adrenaline filling him to the brim; embarrassment and shame gone. Unlike Marina, who feared change, he welcomed it wholeheartedly and had plans. He spoke with a tone that brooked no argument. From now on, Marina was free. He’d file for divorce himself, tomorrow. Their son and family would move in with Marina, as the paperwork for his son’s flat was in Maxwell’s name — inherited. Family negotiations. Moving into Marina’s three-bed would improve things for his son’s young family, plus give her someone to look after. Obviously, the car would be his. As for the cottage — he kept the right to stay there. Marina knew she seemed pathetic and unappealing, but couldn’t hold back tears. They impaired her speech — words came out muddled. She begged him to stop, to consider their memories and her health — that last bit made him furious. He got close, whisper-shouting: “Don’t drag me into your old age!” …It would be naive to claim Aisling loved Maxwell when she accepted his marriage proposal their very first night at the cottage. She liked the status, and it pleased her to accept the advances of a lover who’d once rejected her. She’d tired of living in her father’s strict household. She wanted security and stability. Maxwell could provide all that — not a bad option, she reasoned. Despite being nearly sixty, he wasn’t grandfatherly; trim, youthful, a department head. Brainy in business and affable in conversation. He was generous in bed, not selfish. She liked that she wouldn’t have a rented flat, no money woes, no thieving. Any cons? She worried about the age gap. A year later, Aisling’s doubts grew. She still felt young, wanted to really live — regularly, not just once a year or dignified occasions. She craved concerts, wanted to try the waterpark, loved bold swimsuits on the beach, and girls nights out. Her youth and energy meant she could juggle it all, even with her son. But Maxwell was losing steam. At work, he was a slick lawyer, fast and decisive, but at home Aisling found a tired man just wanting peace and respect for his routines. He tolerated guests, theatre, and even the beach — but only sparingly. He didn’t refuse intimacy, but then wanted to sleep, sometimes as early as nine. She had to watch his tender stomach, so no fried food, no shop-bought sausage, no ready meals. Apparently his ex spoiled him. He even missed her steamed dishes sometimes. Aisling cooked for her son, never understanding why pork chops made his side hurt. She didn’t memorise his medication schedule, thinking any grown man should buy his own tablets and know what to take. Gradually, part of her life happened without him. She’d take her son along, include his interests, meet up with friends. Oddly, her husband’s age spurred her to live more quickly. They no longer worked together — management thought it unethical, so Aisling switched to a notary office, even relieved that she wouldn’t have to be under Maxwell’s eyes all day, the man who increasingly reminded her of her own father. Respect — that’s the feeling Aisling had for Maxwell. Was that enough for happiness? Maxwell’s 60th birthday loomed. She wanted a huge celebration, but he booked a table at a favourite, familiar restaurant — a place he’d known for years. He seemed bored, but perhaps at his age, that was normal. Aisling didn’t mind. His colleagues toasted him. Inviting the old married friends he’d known with Marina was awkward. His family was distant; no support for marrying a much younger woman. He’d lost his son — disowned, more or less. But doesn’t a father have a right to live how he chooses? Truthfully, he’d pictured things turning out differently. The first year with Aisling had felt like a honeymoon. He enjoyed their outings, encouraged her to spend (not extravagantly), supported her hobbies and fitness. He even endured loud concerts and wild movies. On this high, he made Aisling and her son owners of his flat; soon after, he signed over his share of the cottage he’d once held with Marina. Aisling, behind his back, contacted Marina to buy out her half, threatening to sell to strangers. She bought the rest, paid for by Maxwell, and put the cottage in her own name. In her words, it was good for the child — rivers and woods nearby. That summer, her parents and son lived there. It actually worked out: Maxwell never cared much for Aisling’s restless boy. He’d married for love, not to raise someone else’s noisy child. His old family was hurt. They’d taken the money, sold their three-bed, and split up. His son found a two-bed, Marina downsized to a studio. Maxwell didn’t ask about their lives. Family games. The day of his 60th birthday arrived. So many people wished him health, happiness, love. But he felt no excitement. Not in years. A growing dissatisfaction dominated. He loved his young wife. He just couldn’t keep up. He couldn’t control or tame her, though she was careful not to cross any lines — he felt it, and it irked him. Oh, if only she’d had the soul of his ex-wife! Approaching with chamomile tea, tucking in his blanket when he dozed. Maxwell would have gladly strolled through the park with her, whispered in evening kitchen chats, but Aisling grew impatient with his long talks, and seemed to be bored in bed. He was anxious, and it hurt. Max kept his regret hidden, wishing he hadn’t rushed into divorce. Wise men turn affairs into romance, but he made his lover his wife! Aisling, with her temperament, would keep her spring for at least another decade. But even after forty, she’d seem much younger. That gap would only widen. If he’s lucky, he’d exit life swiftly. And if not? These ‘not so celebratory’ thoughts thudded in his temples, speeding his heartbeat. He searched for Aisling — she was dancing, glittery-eyed and beautiful. Of course, it was happiness to wake up and see her beside him. Gift baskets. Seizing a moment, he slipped out of the restaurant, seeking fresh air to clear his brooding. But colleagues spotted him, approaching. Overwhelmed with inner distress, he darted to a waiting taxi, asking to drive quickly. He’d decide the route later. He wanted to be somewhere he mattered, where his arrival was anticipated, where his time was valued and he could relax without fearing being seen as weak or — God forbid — old. He rang his son, almost pleading for his ex-wife’s new address. He heard a well-earned rebuke, but insisted, repeating it was a matter of life and death. He let slip that it was, after all, his birthday. His son softened a bit, adding that mum might not be alone. No boyfriend, just a friend. “Mum said they went to school together. Funny surname… Bulkley, I think.” “Bulkeley,” Maxwell corrected, feeling jealous. Yes, he’d fancied her back then. She was popular, bold. She’d planned to marry Bulkeley, but Maxwell had won her over. That was long ago, but felt more real than his new life with Aisling. His son asked, “What do you want this for, Dad?” Maxwell shuddered at the old endearment and realised how much he missed them all. He admitted: “ —I don’t know, son.” His son gave him the new address. The driver stopped where asked. Maxwell got out, not wanting witnesses for his talk with Marina. It was almost nine — she’d always been a night owl, while for him, she was a lark. He rang the buzzer. But a male, muffled voice answered — not his former wife. He said Marina was busy. “What’s wrong?! Is she all right?” Maxwell asked. The man demanded his name. “I’m her husband, actually! And you must be Mr Bulkley,” Maxwell called out. The man cheekily corrected him — “Ex-husband, so you’ve no right to bother Marina.” He refused to explain, only saying Marina was in the bath. “So, old love doesn’t rust away?” Maxwell asked, ready for a lengthy quarrel with Bulkeley. But the reply was brief: “No, it turns to silver.” The door stayed firmly shut…