OBSESSION
In any workplace full of women, gossip always finds a corner to nestle. And as the saying goes, a gossip’s tongue is longer than a Sunday sermon. At a nursery in Manchester, the staff often whispered about Lucy, one of the childcare workers, dissecting her personal and married life—two things Lucy herself kept quite separate.
Lucy seemed to relish giving them material to chatter about. She had admirers aplenty—whenever a plumber, carpenter, or decorator visited the nursery, she’d drop everything to flutter around them, offering help she never really gave. Flirtatious smiles and coy glances were as far as it went, but everyone assumed she had a guilty conscience.
She chattered away merrily, always the centre of male attention—even with old Tom, the caretaker, who was just months from retirement. Lucy basked in the compliments, enjoying the thrill of being the most captivating woman in the room.
Yet, for all her flirting, Lucy was married to James, who adored her. He doted on her, blind to her harmless little games. “Well, if a woman is beautiful,” he’d tell himself, “it’s hard not to respond to attention. But Lucy’s loyal to me.” A trusting fool, he believed her when she swore her endless love.
Truth was, Lucy had married James at her mother’s insistence—her mother had claimed he was soft clay to mould into the perfect husband. And so he was. James was a skilled electrician, often away on jobs, but when home, he showered Lucy and their seven-year-old daughter, Sophie, with gifts and affection.
Still, something was missing in their quiet, comfortable marriage. Passion? Excitement?
Then, one day, Lucy fell head over heels. It began when Tom retired, and the nursery manager, Victoria, hired her son, Daniel, to take over as night watchman. Daniel was a fourth-year medical student, training to be a dentist. Victoria wanted to help him earn some extra cash—enough to treat a girlfriend to cinema trips and ice cream.
Never mind that Daniel didn’t have a girlfriend yet. With his prospects, one would surely come along.
The moment Daniel started work, Lucy couldn’t resist visiting him in his little guardhouse.
One winter evening, after the last child had been collected, Lucy let herself in uninvited. Daniel, ever polite, offered her a seat while he perched on the worn-out sofa. Lucy was a natural conversationalist, her words tumbling out faster than he could follow.
They talked for hours. Daniel gushed about medicine, his dreams, his friends. Lucy nodded along, sighing about her dull life. Before long, Daniel was holding her hand, soothing her. Night had fallen by the time he walked her home—luckily, she lived nearby.
And so began their whirlwind affair.
Lucy was powerless to stop herself, tumbling into the abyss without hesitation. Daniel soon confessed his love, and the entire nursery knew within days. As they say, you can’t stop wagging tongues.
Victoria summoned Lucy to her office.
“Lucy, you have a family,” she said coldly. “Leave Daniel alone. What do you two even have in common? You’re married with a child. He has years of study ahead. This isn’t love—it’s stolen moments. Do I need to sack you for misconduct?”
“Go ahead, Victoria,” Lucy shot back. “I won’t give Daniel up.” And with that, she stormed out.
“Don’t come crying later!” Victoria shouted after her.
The next day, Lucy requested leave. Victoria signed it without a word, adding only, “I hope you come to your senses. I won’t have a daughter-in-law with baggage.”
Lucy packed up Sophie—her so-called baggage—and fled to her parents’ cottage in the countryside, needing time to think. She couldn’t understand herself. Was this lust? Infatuation? Madness? Her heart screamed for love while her mind stayed silent.
In the village lived Madam Elsie, a wise woman of ninety. People came to her from miles around for advice. She had buried a husband and seven children, wept all her tears dry, and then—somehow—became a seer. Her predictions always came true.
Lucy brought her a basket of treats (Elsie never took money) and set off to have her fortune read.
Before Lucy could even knock, Elsie called out, “Well, lass, what’ll you name the lad?”
Lucy blinked. “What lad?”
“Your son. You’re due in spring—didn’t you know?”
Bewildered, Lucy stepped inside the dim cottage, crowded with old icons, dried herbs, and flickering candles.
“Sit, dear. I’ll tell you what’s what,” Elsie said, shuffling her worn-out cards.
“Don’t keep me waiting,” Lucy urged.
“Your daughter’ll marry a soldier, move far away. But you—go back to your husband. He’ll take you, faults and all. He’ll love that boy too. But if you turn from him, you’ll be alone in this world.”
Then Elsie muttered prayers, melted wax, and poured it into water. The shape it formed made Lucy gasp.
“A camel!”
Elsie waved her off. “That’s all, lass. I’m tired.”
Lucy left, baffled. A son? A camel?
For a moment, doubt flickered in her heart. But her mind was made up. She’d leave James for Daniel.
Except—where would they live? Daniel still stayed with his mother.
No matter. She’d figure it out.
After two endless weeks, Lucy returned to work and rushed straight to the guardhouse—only to find Tom back in his old seat, puffing on a pipe.
“I know who you expected,” he said dryly. “Daniel’s gone. Victoria sent him off to her relatives in Yorkshire. Says he’s better off herding sheep than chasing married women.”
Seeing Lucy’s devastation, he softened.
“He left you an address. You’re not really going, are you? Your James is worth ten of that lad. Daniel’s a rolling stone—he’ll forget you quick enough. A stolen kiss is sweet, but you’ll regret losing what’s yours.”
Lucy wasn’t listening. She was already sprinting to the post office, scribbling a letter to Daniel, clutching the address like treasure.
Three months later, the reply came. Lucy tore it open, only to freeze. In neat feminine handwriting, it read: “Daniel is my husband. Don’t write again.”
Furious, Lucy confronted Victoria, who only smirked.
“You’ll never have him.”
“But I’m carrying his child!”
Victoria scoffed. “Who’s to say it’s his? You’ll take maternity leave, and that’s that.”
Lucy packed her bags, telling James she was visiting her parents. He kissed her, reminding her to take care—for the baby’s sake.
Off to Yorkshire she went, passing fields of sheep along the way.
When Daniel saw her, his face lit up. “Lucy! What brings you here?”
She thrust the letter at him. “Your wife wrote this!”
Daniel frowned. “What wife?”
Then it clicked. Victoria’s sister had intercepted Lucy’s letters and forged that reply. Daniel had only come to help with the harvest.
Realising Lucy was pregnant, they rushed back home.
Lucy confessed everything to James. He listened quietly, packed his things, and left with only, “I hope you’re happy, Lucy.”
Daniel moved in at once. Victoria raged, threatening Lucy.
In time, Lucy gave birth to a son, Oliver. Her personal and married life merged at last. She doted on Daniel, hanging on his every word, granting his every wish like a genie.
When Oliver turned two, Victoria softened. She visited, cooing over her grandson, offering help. Soon, she was a regular guest, spoiling Oliver rotten, taking him to work, letting him sleep over.
For seven years, Lucy and Daniel’s marriage swayed between storms and calm—until Daniel left her for a young patient. “I can’t breathe without her,” he said.
Lucy let him go, remembering her own reckless love.
Then Victoria demanded Oliver. “You’ve still got Sophie. I need him.”
At first, Lucy refused—but soon, Oliver was spending more time at Grandma’s. Without noticing, he moved in.
Now Lucy was alone again. Where was James? Did he ever think of her?
She longed to see him, to apologise. But he’d left no forwarding address.
Time ticked on. Sophie married an army cadet and moved to a distant base.
By forty, Lucy was utterly alone. The nursery staff noticed her gloom and, for her birthday, gifted her a kitten.
“Maybe this little chap’ll bring you luck,” they teased. “Life begins at forty!”
Lucy laughed weakly but soon doted on the cat, spoiling him with toys and treats.
Then one day, the cat fell ill. Lucy rushed him to the vet—only to find James there, fixing the wiring.
Her heart stopped.
“You?” she whispered.
“Just a short circuit,” he said stiffly.
The vet diagnosed overeating. Laugh
