The phone rang, and she hesitated before picking it up.
“Hello, Charlotte?” came the familiar voice.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears so loudly she couldn’t speak. If it weren’t for the soft hum of the telly, Oliver might’ve woken up from the sound of her pulse alone.
“I missed you. I couldn’t wait any longer. I keep thinking about you. Let’s meet,” the warm voice on the other end coaxed.
Charlotte slipped out of the bedroom, closing the door gently behind her. She leaned against the hallway wall, legs suddenly weak.
“Charlotte, are you there?” His voice was inviting, intoxicating—terrifyingly real.
She shouldn’t have answered. Shouldn’t have picked up at all. Why hadn’t she checked the caller ID?
She’d tried so hard to forget him, forget that reckless night. She told herself she had a stable marriage, a good husband, years of shared history. She didn’t need anyone else…
Oliver had been the quiet, studious sort back in school—always top of the class in maths and physics. By sixth form, he’d started wearing glasses, earning him the nickname “Bookworm.” And it fit. Calm, steady, rosy-cheeked—he was the kind of man you could rely on.
Like the other girls, Charlotte had never really seen him as more than a friend. Sure, she’d asked him for help with tricky equations or whispered answers during exams. But she’d always fancied the lads who were charming, athletic, a bit cheeky.
Years later, they’d bumped into each other in town. Oliver wore contacts now. “He’s actually quite sweet,” she’d thought at the time.
He’d graduated from Oxford while she was still finishing medical school. They’d swapped numbers—just in case, they said. Five years since school, and the old classmates were planning a reunion. Oliver promised to call her with the details. She never intended to go.
But then he rang. Asked her to the cinema. She’d had flings here and there, but nothing serious. The ones she liked never noticed her, and the ones who did? She wasn’t interested.
“Go on, or you’ll end up a spinster,” her mum warned.
So she went. And that’s how they started dating. Before long, Oliver confessed his love, proposed. It was comfortable. He worked for a big firm, had a promising future.
“Still hesitating? Take him and mould him however you like,” her mum advised. So Charlotte said yes.
Their marriage was steady—if they argued, it was always her fault.
Then their daughter came. Oliver’s parents never interfered, but they adored their granddaughter, always happy to babysit. Her own parents, too, were quick to help.
A second child? Never happened. Passion had never been part of their relationship. Even in bed, Oliver was… predictable. She sometimes wondered why their love life was so dull. But then again, he was dependable. He wouldn’t stray.
Her colleagues and patients often wept over cheating husbands, messy divorces, the struggles of raising kids alone.
Their daughter grew up, finished school—didn’t follow either parent’s path. Studied design in London, lived a glamorous life. When Charlotte asked if she needed money, she’d just laugh. “Gran and Nana spoil me rotten—they’re competing over who loves me more!”
Yes, the grandmothers doted on their only grandchild. Oliver’s mum had once hinted at another baby—then each gran could have one! But Charlotte never regretted it. She often wondered how their daughter turned out so lively, given Oliver’s approach to intimacy.
Life went on.
Six months ago, she’d been made head of her practice, replacing the retiring senior GP. The new role was demanding—meetings, conferences.
That’s where she met James. Men were scarce at those events, and he stood out—tall, handsome, effortlessly charming. The older women doted on him maternally; the younger ones flirted shamelessly.
The closing night was a gala dinner. Charlotte planned to skip it—she wasn’t one for drinks and small talk. But her roommate insisted.
“The best connections happen at these things! You never know who might be useful. Trust me.”
So she stayed.
The host made a long, dull speech. Half the room gave up waiting and started drinking early.
An hour later, even the most dignified doctors were tipsy, swapping medical horror stories that sounded more like stand-up routines. Nothing was off-limits for medics.
Charlotte barely drank—just sipped for appearances. But she laughed along, biding her time to slip away unnoticed.
“You bored too?” James appeared beside her. “Let’s escape.”
She didn’t hesitate.
They walked through the hotel’s plush corridors, James chatting about his clinic. The distant thrum of music followed them.
“Come to my room. I’ve got a bottle of French wine—no one to share it with.”
She went. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because she didn’t want to sit alone. Maybe because she liked him. And she knew the feeling was mutual. Women always know.
He talked a while longer in his identical hotel room. A familiar melody drifted from the ballroom. He paused, listening. Outside, the city glittered.
Then he kissed her.
She didn’t stop him.
Later, tangled in his sheets, she thought of how dull her life had been. She’d never felt anything like this with Oliver. With James, she forgot everything—soaring, falling, lost in sensations she hadn’t known existed.
But all nights end. The music faded; the party was over. Exhausted and sated, they lay holding hands, dreading the coming morning.
“Stay one more day. I’ll sort the room,” he murmured.
“My ticket—”
“To hell with it. Buy another. I can’t lose you.”
It was flattering. But she knew this had no future.
“I’m married,” she whispered.
“You’re unhappy with him. I can tell.”
She shook her head, dressed quickly. “You’ve a train soon.”
She didn’t ask if he was married. What did it matter?
Back in her room, she packed. Her roommate eyed her but said nothing.
At the station, she tried to steady herself. Forget this madness.
Oliver picked her up, chatted about the conference, then his own news. She barely listened, eyes closed, willing James from her mind.
That night, Oliver hugged her.
“Too tired,” she muttered, turning away.
Life resumed. Work piled up. The memory of James dulled—until it flared up again, sharp and aching.
Then the phone rang.
“Charlotte?”
She barely whispered, “I’m here.”
“I can’t live without you. I’m at The Willow Hotel—near you. I’ll wait in the lobby. Come when you can.”
She hung up, leaned against the wall, breath uneven. Then returned to folding laundry, pretending nothing had happened. She wouldn’t go.
“Did I fall asleep?” Oliver stretched. “Who called?”
“No one. Just the telly.”
“Fancy an early dinner?”
She heated leftovers, avoiding his gaze, guilt gnawing at her.
“Not hungry?” he asked, watching her.
“Emily called—her little one’s ill. Said I should pop by.”
He nodded, then froze. “Wait—you said no one called.”
She stood, grabbing her coat. No energy left to lie.
“What am I doing? This isn’t fair to Oliver…” But something pulled her out the door. “Just one last time. To tell him it’s over—”
Oliver followed, but she was already gone.
Outside the hotel, she hesitated. She could still leave. Or go in, tell James it was finished.
Then he saw her through the window and came out. The moment he touched her hand, her body betrayed her, heart racing toward him.
“Come with me,” he whispered.
“Leave. Forget me,” she said, even as her body refused.
At dawn, she murmured, “I should go.”
“I’ll wait. My train’s at five.”
Back home, Oliver sat on the sofa. He hadn’t slept.
“Do you love him?” he asked quietly.
She said nothing. What was there to say?
If she left, and it didn’t work out? But how could she stay, feeling nothing for Oliver? Why had love found her so late?
They sat in silence.
“Don’t leave me. I’ll fall apart without you.”
And he would.
“Let’s go to bed.”
The next morning, she turned off her phone—no more calls. Oliver hovered, clumsy with worry.
“Stop it! I’m not leaving,” she snapped.
Yet her eyes kept darting to the clock. “He’ll be gone soon. That’s it.”
But at the last moment, she bolted.
“Charlotte!” Oliver called.
“Sorry!”
At the station, the train was boarding. She hurried alongside the carriages, squinting into the dimmingThe train blew its whistle, and as it pulled away into the distance, she clutched James’s hand, knowing there was no going back now.
