Emily stared out the window, watching thick London snowflakes blanket the city. The phone call with her husband was winding down just another routine conversation in their fifteen years of marriage. James, as usual, was reporting from his “business trip” in Manchester: everything fine, meetings going to plan, back in three days.
“Alright, darling, speak soon,” Emily said, moving the phone from her ear to end the call. But something stopped her. On the other end, she clearly heard a woman’s voice, melodic and youthful:
“Jamie, are you coming? I’ve run the bath…”
Emily’s hand froze mid-air. Her heart skipped a beat, then hammered wildly as if trying to escape her chest. She pressed the phone back to her ear but heard only the dial tone James had already hung up.
She sank into the armchair, legs suddenly weak. Thoughts spun uncontrollably: “Jamie… A bath… What bath on a business trip?” Memories flickered his frequent trips, late calls taken in the garden, the unfamiliar cologne lingering in his car.
With trembling hands, she opened her laptop. Accessing his email was easy she still knew the password from when trust and honesty defined them. Tickets, hotel bookings… A “honeymoon suite” in a five-star Manchester hotel. For two.
The inbox held more. Sophie. Twenty-six. Personal trainer. “You promised you’d leave her months ago. How much longer must I wait?”
Nausea hit. She remembered their first date James a junior manager, she a trainee accountant. Theyd saved for their wedding while renting a tiny flat. Celebrated first successes, weathered setbacks together. Now he was Commercial Director; she, Head of Finance at the same firm. Between them stretched fifteen years and a twenty-six-year-old named Sophie.
In the hotel room, James paced furiously.
“Why did you do that?” His voice trembled with anger.
Sophie lounged on the bed, silk robe slipping off her shoulder, blonde hair fanned across the pillow.
“Whats the big deal?” She stretched like a contented cat. “You said you were leaving her anyway.”
“That wasnt your decision! Emilys not stupid she knows now!”
“Good!” Sophie sat up sharply. “Im tired of being your secret. I want restaurants, meeting your friends, being your wife!”
“Youre acting like a child,” he hissed.
“And youre a coward!” She marched over. “Look at me! Im young, beautiful, I can give you children. What can she do? Just count your money?”
James gripped her shoulders. “Dont you dare speak about Emily like that! You know nothing about us!”
“I know enough,” Sophie wrenched free. “Know youre unhappy. That shes buried in work and chores. When did you last make love? Take a holiday together?”
James turned to the window. Somewhere in snowy London, fifteen years of marriage crumbled like a house of cards beneath one careless girls words.
Emily sat in the dark kitchen, cradling a cold tea. Dozens of missed calls from James lit her phone. She didnt answer. What was there to say? “Darling, I heard your mistress calling you to her bath?”
Memories surfaced: James kneeling in a restaurant with a ring. Moving into their first one-bed flat in the suburbs. Him holding her when she lost her mother. Celebrating his promotion…
Then endless overtime, mortgages, renovations…
When had they last talked properly? Watched films tangled on the sofa? Made future plans?
Her phone buzzed. A text: “Em, lets talk. I can explain.”
Explain what? That shed aged? That domesticity bored him? That a young personal trainer understood him better?
She faced the mirror. Forty-two. Crows feet, carefully hidden greys. When had the exhaustion crept in? The rigid routines? The endless chase for stability?
“Where were you?” Sophie glared when he returned from failed call attempts.
“Not now.” He loosened his tie, collapsing into a chair.
“It has to be now!” She planted hands on hips. “What happens next? You cant ignore this!”
James studied her beautiful, assured, vibrant. Emily had been like that fifteen years ago. God, what had he done?
“Sophie,” he rubbed his face, “youre right. This needs resolving.”
She beamed, rushing to him. “Darling! I knew youd choose us!”
“Yes.” He gently pushed her away. “We have to end this.”
“What?” She recoiled as if slapped.
“It was a mistake. I love my wife. Weve drifted, but I wont throw away fifteen years of shared joy, grief, everything.”
“You… coward!” Tears spilled.
“No. The coward was me starting this. Lying to the woman who stood by me through everything. Youre right Im unhappy. But happiness is built, not found in someone elses bed.”
The doorbell rang near midnight. Emily knew it was him first flight back.
“Em, please,” his muffled voice pleaded through the door.
She opened it. James stood dishevelled, stubble shadowing his guilty face.
“Can I come in?”
Silently, she stepped aside. They entered the kitchen where dreams were once shared, decisions made.
“Em…”
“Dont.” She raised a hand. “I know. Sophie, twenty-six, personal trainer. I read your emails.”
He nodded, speechless.
“Why, James?”
He gazed at the snow-dusted city.
“Because Im weak. Because I feared wed become strangers. Because she reminded me of you the energetic, hopeful you.”
“And now?”
“Now…” He faced her. “Now I want to fix this. If youll let me.”
“What about her?”
“Its over. I cant lose you. Em, I dont deserve forgiveness, but lets try? Counselling, more time together, rediscovering us…”
Emily studied him older, greyer, achingly familiar. Fifteen years wasnt just a number. It was shared jokes, silent understandings, forgiveness learned.
“I dont know, James.” Tears finally fell.
He hesitantly embraced her. She didnt pull away. Outside, snow blanketed London.
Somewhere in Manchester, a young woman wept, learning loves harsh truth: its not passion or romance, but a daily choice.
And in that kitchen, two weathered souls began piecing together shattered fragments. Ahead lay counselling, painful talks, relearning each other. But both knew: sometimes you must lose something to understand its worth.
