“Oi, where are you off to?” she called from the kitchen.
“George, where are you going?” Beatrice peeked out, drying her hands on her apron, eyeing her husband with surprise.
George, a forty-five-year-old manager at a well-known construction firm, had made up his mind. While his wife scrambled eggs for breakfast, hed packed his suitcase. Now, standing in the doorway of their spacious Kensington flat, he felt the weight of his decision.
Beatrice had always been the familys rock. She believed a proper fry-upbacon, eggs, black puddingwas the foundation of health and success. When the kids were little, shed rise before dawn. Three children demanded her full attention, and Georges salary had allowed her to devote herself entirely to home life.
He stayed quiet, watching Beatrice, his wife of twenty-five years, and convinced himself: this was right. Time for a change.
Lately, Beatrice had put on weight, losing the sparkle in her eyes that once charmed him. She didnt attract him anymore. For that, there was Imogenyoung, sharp-witted, with jet-black hair, met at a corporate event in Cornwall. Bold, just like him. Thats why he stood there now, suitcase in hand.
Enough! Why stay with a woman he didnt love? The kids were grown: James and Peter, graduates with jobs in London; Charlotte, in her fourth year of med school, still relied on his support. As for his wife why keep funding her? Imogen was rightit was time to split the flat.
“Going somewhere?” Beatrice asked, unruffled. “You shouldve said. Id have made you sandwiches. Not good to leave on an empty stomach.”
“Always with the food!” George snapped, annoyed he couldnt just say it outright. “Do you think there arent cafés out there? You live in that kitchen like the world doesnt exist!”
“Something wrong?” Her voice stayed sweet.
Shed suspected the mistress for a while. She knew this day would come. But she also knew her husband.
“Im leaving!” he burst out. “Im with someone else. A modern woman, not some housewife!”
“Congratulations,” she replied, as if commenting on the weather.
“Dont I deserve it?”
“Deserve more, really. Youre hardworking, smart, handsome…”
“The flat will be split,” he said, softening slightly.
“Fine by me. Well sort it legally.”
George frowned at how easy she made it sound. Hed expected screaming, not this eerie calm.
“Get a job,” he warned. “I wont support you.”
“Dont need it. Im remarrying.”
“Remarry?” He scoffed. “Whod want you?”
“Plenty. Women like me are in demand. Experienced, homely, good cooks Plus, Ill have my own flat after the settlement.”
He swallowed hard. The thought of Beatrice with another man gnawed at him.
“Ive got a meeting,” he muttered, setting down the suitcase. “Dont book anything today. Its disrespectful.”
At the office, doubt ate at him. Hed planned to crawl back if things went south with Imogen, but now
By evening, Imogen rang, impatient:
“Where are you? I found a place in Mayfair! We need to furnish the bedroom and book that trip to Barbados. Remember your promise?”
“Whats for dinner?” he interrupted.
“Nothing. Im detoxing. We could order Thai…”
George hung up. He pictured the shepherds pie Beatrice wouldve made, the quiet comfort of home. And the idea of another man calling her his wife.
No. That wasnt going to happen.
