Margaret dialled her husband’s number, sitting on the cold, hard bench in the NHS surgery. October drizzle shimmered beyond smeared pane, and each damp minute gnawed at her back, worn raw after hours in queue for the cardiologist.
Colin, can you pick me up? Im just coming out, she asked, her phone pressed close.
There was a pause. Too long for such a simple question.
Margie… Sorry, I cant right now. The car… Its in the garage. Broke down, can you believe it? Had to take it to MotorMedic last minute.
How did it break down? Margaret frowned. It was fine yesterday.
Dunno, engine trouble. Listen, just grab a cab, Ill send you the money by transfer.
And then she heard itthe distinct trill of a young womans laughter in the background, carefree and silver, the laughter of someone who hadnt yet reached thirty.
Colin, Margaret said, as though the words were pebbles tumbling from her mouth, whos laughing over there?
Eh? Didnt catch that. Rubbish connectionI’ll ring you back!
He hung up with a clatter, as if scalded.
Staring at the darkened screen, Margaret felt coolness seep up around her heart. Something wasnt right. That cold certainty had been growing inside her, though shed tried to dismiss it, ashamed of her own suspicion.
She rode the bus home with her handbag clasped atop her knees, medicine rattling inside. Forty-six years married. Forty-six years making his tea, ironing his shirts, bearing children, carrying them both through lean times and loss. Sixty-eight, and suddenly she could no longer fathom the man beside whom shed spent nearly half a century?
Colin returned late that evening, wreathed in a cloying scent that wasnt hers. When he leaned in to kiss her foreheadsame old habit, never thinkingMargaret smelt floral sweetness, sharp and young.
So, the cars fixed? she asked, laying out the supper.
Yeah, yeah, its sorted. Was nothing, really, he replied quickly, not meeting her eyes.
She set his plate of fishcakes before him and studied the familiar way he chewed, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. He grimaced slightlytroubles with the crowns again. Hed turned seventy in March. Theyd celebrated simply, only close family. The children had gifted them a trip to the seaside spatheyd never booked it, because Colin always had another excuse.
What did the repairs cost? she asked, lightly.
Not much. Pennies, he mumbled, eager to move on. Margie, lets not go on about the car, all right? Rough day.
He retreated to the lounge and vanished into the glow of the telly. She cleared the table methodically, mind whirling with suspicionthe car, the perfume, the girls laughter. The truth pulsed beneath her skin: he was lying to her.
She didnt sleep that night. Colin snored away, but to her he seemed a strangerjumpy, irritable, hiding his phone like a schoolboy and always nipping out on errands with mates. Only last week hed bought himself a new jacket, far too fashionable. Shed said nothing, assuming he simply wanted to look younger. Midlife crisis, just delayed. Relationship crisis after fifty, like shed read in the doctors waiting-room magazines.
Next morning, once Colin had gone, Margaret opened the garage. Their beige Ford Mondeo, a family present for their ruby wedding, rested inside. She sat in the drivers seat, caressing the steering wheel. Something on the odometer made her frown. Mileage. Last time she and Colin drove together: one hundred twenty-three thousand. Now: one hundred twenty-eight. Five thousand miles in two weeks? They barely went anywhere.
She rifled the glovebox. Amid tissues and insurance papers was a chewing gum wrapper. Margaret never chewed gum, and neither did Colin. On the back seat: long blonde hairs, and a tuft of ginger dog fur. They had never owned a dog.
Her hands trembling, she shut the car and hurried inside for a glass of water. No, she wasnt losing her wits. Something very bad was happening.
That evening she pushed the topic at dinner.
Whys the car done so many miles lately, Colin? We havent been out much.
He didnt bother to look up from his phone.
Youre imagining things again. Nothing better to do, eh?
Im not imagining it! Theres someone elses stuff in the carhairs, and dog fur…
Margaret, are you all right in the head? he snapped. We nipped over to Annies last week, remember? Shes got a dog. Mightve brought some home.
She let the matter drop. Annies dog was black, not ginger. But in Colins eyes she saw a volcanic anger hed never shown her before.
The next day, as soon as he left, Margaret called MotorMedic.
Good afternoon, she said, steadying her voice. Did you recently see a beige Mondeo, reg… She gave the plate.
One moment, madam. Checking… Sorry, no, nothing in our records for that date. Are you sure it was us?
Margaret hung up. The world spun. Hed lied about the garage, clear as day. Lied straight to her face, conveniently, like hed done it before.
Hes spending money on another woman, she thought suddenly, the realisation like an electric jolt. No, impossible. Hes seventy. Surely not?
But the laughter, the perfume, the deceiteach piece fit neatly in the nightmare puzzle.
She rang her oldest friend, Helen, whom shed known since grammar school.
Helen, I think Colins seeing someone else, she said in a tremor, tears spilling at the first utterance.
What?! Margie, really? Why?
Margaret poured out the evidence: mileage, the hair, the laughter, the lies.
Helen paused. Could he be, um, hiring out the car? Folk do, for extra cash.
Margaret blinked.
Hiring it out? Without telling me?
Well, maybe he thought youd say no. Men can be like that. Daft as brushes.
Or maybe, Margaret thought, the money was for his young mistress. The words late-life affair flashed in her minda headline shed once scoffed at online.
Helen, will you help me find out?
Of course, love.
The next afternoon, Margaret invited her grandson Jamiesixteen, tech whizfor tea.
Jamie, can you put a tracker in Grandads car? Just so I know where it is?
He stared, surprised. Why?
Just for peace of mind. In case its stolen.
No problem. Theres an appcan show you every journey. No extras needed.
By dinnertime, Margarets phone held a moving blue dot for their Mondeo.
See, Gran, Jamie explained, these lines are all the trips. There, and there, yesterday and the day before. Looks like taxi routes.
The car had covered the whole town, to shopping centres, stations, the universityan endless weaving of taxi fares.
Thank you, Jamie, Margaret whispered, squeezing his hand.
Left alone, she watched the screen through a blur of tears. He really was hiring it out. Their carher childrens gift, a token of their shared lifehired out like any ordinary tool.
And the cash? Not household funds. Only that week, Colin had whinged about scraping by. Yet…
She fetched out an old photo album: wedding faces beaming beneath the municipal registry sign, battered flat with sweet peas on the walk home from work because Colin couldnt afford a shop bouquet.
How terribly far they had come. How little left.
That night, Margaret saw the cars dot skitter westward, halting at a bistro called The Lemon Tree. She phoned Helen.
The cars at The Lemon Tree. Lets go.
Twenty minutes later, crouched in Helens Vauxhall Corsa, they waited across from the café. Yesthere was the Mondeo, familiar and beige.
Twenty minutes passed. A girl emergedearly twenties, short skirt, leather jacket, bright blonde hair. She fished out car keys from a glossy handbag.
My God, Helen gasped. Whos that?
Margaret was silent, watching the girl slide behind the wheel. Then Colin appearedher Colin!clutching a gaudy bouquet and a box of expensive chocolates.
Margaret found herself breathless, limbs numb. She saw Colin stoop, offering flowers through the window, trading money, pressing a kiss to the girls cheek. That laughter again, unclouded and young.
Lets go, Helen said, alarmed, but Margaret was already out, crossing the tarmac on legs she barely felt.
Colin turned and saw her. His face crumpled, everything ending between them in that instant.
The girl sped off. Colin and Margaret stood under the jaundiced glow of the café lights.
Margie he started.
Lets go home, was all she said.
Back at the house, Helen left, closing the door quietly. Margaret poured herself valerian, swallowing the draught in one. Colin slumped on the sofa, head in hands.
So. Been hiring out the car. How longmonth? Two?
Colins voice was flat. Three.
Three months. All that time, lying to me. And wheres the money gone?
He didnt answer.
She was harsher: Colin? Where?
Just… little things, he mumbled.
Little things? she spat. Roses, chocolates, perfumenot little at all!
Margie, you wouldnt understand
No, you dont understand! Her voice cracked. You took *my* car! The one the children gave us! Spent the money on somegirl!
Shes not a girl, he blurted. Her names Chloe. Shes twenty-two. She gets me, Margaret!
The silence in the living room grew dense.
She gets you, Margaret repeated. Forty-six years together, but I dont?
You dont! he shouted. Im seventy, Margie! Seventy! Im old, and lifes gone! Jobs, bills, kidswhere was I? I just want to feel *alive* before I die!
He cried, and Margaret stared at him as if he were a stranger.
And Chloe makes you young? Do you sleep with her?
A long pause, then a nod.
She covered her face, fighting back the urge to scream and smash things. She sat like a stone, something breaking slowly inside.
I was frightened of getting old, Colin whispered. Of becoming frail, of you wiping my mouth, changing my pants. Chloe made me feel… young. So I rented the car out for extra cash, to spoil her. Young girls need gifts, you know?
I know, Margaret said softly. I know that youre just a selfish old man. The years I gave youchildren, pennies stretched to paper, your shirts ironed in the dark. All for this? You spent on a girl the age of our granddaughter. Betrayed me. Betrayed our family.
She stood at the window as the rain rattled the glass.
I never thought old men could cheat, she said quietly. I thought we were beyond all that, past the divorce statistics. Yet here we arebetrayal, theft, collapse. All the magazine crises for people our ageturns out were not immune.
Im sorry, Margie, he whispered. I didnt mean to hurt you.
She turned and saw fear in his eyes: the fear of her leaving. The fear of being old and alone.
Can you get over it? she murmured, half to herself. I wondered all the way home. And you know what? You cant. You can only accept that the man you loved is gone, and this is someone else, an old man running from death into the arms of a child.
Colin wept, hiding his face.
I cant live without you, he choked. Please dont go. Ill end it. I promise.
No more promises, she said dully. I dont believe a word.
She fetched a pillow and blanket. Ill sleep on the sofa. Tomorrow, we talk to the children.
What about? he asked, terrified.
About what comes next. Maybe split the house. Maybe I move in with Sarah. I dont know yet.
The night stretched on, interminable. Margaret stared at the ceiling, her world battered by cruel thoughts. Grown-up love wasnt just laughter and grandchildren; it was pain, poverty, betrayal.
At dawn, she was up before Colin, hair brushed and fresh lipstick. The face in the mirror was old, drawn, linedbut alive. She was not going to die of grief.
Colin shuffled in. Morning.
She nodded. I called Sarah. Shell come tonight.
Margie…
Colin. Dont.
The day plodded on, thick with unsaid words. Colin tried to talk, but Margaret cut him short. That evening, their daughter Sarah arrivedsturdy, stoic, so much like her father.
Mum, whats happened? she said, eyeing them both.
Margaret told her everything. Car. Chloe. The money. The lies.
Sarahs face set hard. Dad, who are you? How *could* you?
He reached to defend himself. Sarah cut him off.
Be quiet. You stole from Mum. You sold the car we bought *both* of you. Threw away our trust for some woman off the high street.
Dont call her that, Colin flared.
Ill call her what I like! Sarah shouted. What the hells wrong with you? Seventy and a mistress? Look at yourself!
Sarah, enough, Margaret said. I’m not after a row. I just need to figure out what to do.
Divorce him, Sarah insisted. Me and Tom will help. You can move in with us. He can rot here with his midlife crisis.
Margaret shook her head. Divorce at sixty-eight after forty-six yearsutterly surreal.
I dont know, she said at last. I need time.
Sarah left, Margaret stayed awake deep into the night. Another week passed, Margaret on the sofa, Colin in the bedroom, the house taut with invisible wire. She made tea, set two plates, but they ate apart. The Mondeo sat in the garage, untouched by either.
One morning, her son Tom rang from London.
Sarah told me. Are you all right, Mum?
Im getting by, she replied.
If you need, come to us. Emmad be glad. Spare rooms yours.
Thanks, love. Ill see.
Her head spun with calculation: stay and admit defeat? Go, and be the loser? Nothing felt possible.
Helen called daily.
How are you, Margie?
Fine.
Oh, dont lie. Consider packing him in, love. Why torture yourself?
Helen, forty-six years. You cant just chop off half yourself.
That halfs rotten, mate. Leave himyouve got time for a new life.
A new life at sixty-eighthilarious, if it didnt hurt so much.
That evening, pawing through old bills, Margaret found a pharmacy receiptfor Colins heart pills, expensive, better than her own. The sting flooded up again; shed saved on herself to buy him the good ones, while hed blown their cash on cafés and bouquets for a stranger.
She rose, furious, marching into the lounge where he sat slumped under the televisions bluish pall.
You know those tablets of yours? Three hundred pounds. Saved up for them. While you bought your Chloe flowers.
Colins eyes filled with abject misery.
I sold the car, he said quietly.
Margaret froze. What?
I sold the Mondeo. Today. Buyers coming tomorrow. The cash will go to youevery quid.
You sold our car? Without asking?
Its half mine. Couldnt bear watching you suffer. Better its gone.
She sat, hollow. He had sold their last symbol of unity, the last holiday present from the children.
Youre impossible, she whispered. First renting, now selling. Am I invisible?
I meant well…
Dont, she said. Just dont.
She returned to the sofa, tears hot and silent, for the car and the betrayal, for a life turned hollow overnight.
The next day, a young man arrived, shook on the deal, and drove the old Mondeo away. Colin brought the envelope of cash after.
Heres the money.
I dont want it, Margaret said. Its tainted.
Please
Keep it for Chloe, she snapped, and walked to the balcony, looking out into the cold, black November night. Traffic buzzed, windows glowed, and Margarets world was gone.
Colin came out to stand beside her. I finished it with her. Last week, he murmured. She laughed, hung up. I realised I was just a foolish old fool with a wallet to her. She never cared.
Margaret did not reply.
I lost everything for heryour trust, the family. And you know what? Im still terrified of death. I thought shed help. But the fear got bigger, because now Im just alone with it.
You chose loneliness, she replied. When you lied. When you betrayed.
I know. Im not asking forgiveness. I just want you to knowI get it now. Too late, I know.
She looked at his wrecked, pallid face, ten years older in a week.
Colin, she said, I genuinely dont know if I can forgive. Or trust you. Something inside is shattered. Im just not sure itll ever mend.
I understand.
Im afraid too, she whispered. Of being alone, of starting again. What if I cant?
They stood together, two elderly figures above a blinking city, each encircled by personal terrors and memories.
Perhaps we could try, Colin suggested, hesitantly. Start again. Ill change, really.
Dont promise. Just show me.
I will. Every day, so youll see.
Margaret sighed. Perhaps he would. Perhaps he wouldnt. Did she even know what she wantedstay, go, forgive, or not?
I just dont know, she said. I honestly dont, Colin.
Me neither.
They returned indoors: Margaret to the lounge, Colin to the bedroomliving now alongside, but separately.
The weeks limped on. December arrived, white and sharp. Colin became gentler; buying Margaret a thick new throw when he saw her shiver, bringing her hot drinks without words, tightening a loose wardrobe handle shed asked about for years. Trivial things, but she noticed.
One night he knocked.
Margie, can I come in?
She nodded.
He handed her a box, rifled from the top cupboard.
She opened ithis old letters, written during his conscripted National Service, their first years apart. Shed half-forgotten them.
That evening, she read them and cried. Margie, my dear, I miss you. When I come home, well marry and youll be the happiest woman alive.
I love you more than life itself.
Was this the same man whod betrayed her, forty years later?
Colin hovered in the doorway. I meant every word then, he murmured. You were my whole world. You still are. I just… lost sight of that. Got scared, confused. But you were always first.
Margaret closed the box.
The man who wrote these is gone, she said. You turned into someone else.
Can we ever go back? he begged.
She looked away. Time doesnt run backwards.
New Year came. The family invited them, but she refusedthey didnt want to play at happy families for the grandchildren. They welcomed the year alone, sharing ham and salad. Chinked glasses, but didnt meet eyes.
Happy New Year, Colin said.
Happy New Year, Margaret echoed.
After midnight, as she stood to leave, he stopped her.
I sold the car not just for you, but for me, he confessed. Couldnt bear seeing it gathering dust, soaking up my guilt. Every time I passed the garage, I remembered what Id done and wanted the ground to swallow me.
She paused.
Guilt, she repeated. Didnt you feel any when you drove her around?
I did. But I pushed it away, told myself I deserved one spell of youth. That youd never know. I was an idiot, Margaret. A frightened, foolish idiot.
She sat back down. You know what hurts most? Not the cheating. Love fades, people change, I get that. Its the lying. Every day, month after month. Thats what I cant forgive.
Ill never lie again, he whispered.
Dont promise. Just do it.
They sat quietly, facing half-eaten food, two old people once in love now adrift.
Some weeks later, Margaret still slept on the sofa. They spoke sometimes, cautiously, about weather, grandchildrennot the past. Always careful.
One evening, Sarah rang.
Mum, made a decision? Divorcing or not?
Silence.
I dont know, Sarah, Margaret said at last. I still dont.
Mum, you cant go on like this.
I cant forgive. But I cant go either. Not yet.
So youll just suffer?
Maybe.
That night, snow fell. Margaret watched the flakes, remembered winter parks, Colin building snowmen for little Sarah, both giggling, happy. It all felt realonce. Could old memories ever outweigh fresh pain?
At dinner, Colin cleared his throat. Margaret, I want to tell you something. Ive started seeing a counsellor. Specialist in, you know, late-life crisis stuff. Trying to understand why I did what I did. To change, if I can.
Margaret looked up. For once, he seemed honest, not sly.
Thats good, she said. Go. It might help.
You could try too. With a counsellor, I mean. For your hurt.
Maybe.
Something inside shifteda flicker of hope, maybe just bone-tiredness.
Winter wandered on, slow, thick with reticence. They lived like neighbours. Sometimes Margaret ached for the old Colin: his silly hugs, laughter, their evenings with cups of tea and TV.
But that man was gone, lost with trust and warmth.
Spring finally arrived, sun filtering through for the first time. On the balcony, Margaret let her face tip up towards the glow. Life went on, despite everything.
That evening, Colin sat across from her, hands trembling.
Margaret, I dont expect forgiveness or to win you back. I just need you to know: I see the ruins I made. I was afraid, selfish, stupid. Now Ill carry that with me. If you ever want to give me another chance, Ill prove every day that Im worthy. But if not… Ill understand.
Silence welled up between them.
I dont know, Colin, she said softly. I gave my whole life to you, to us. Now Ive lost it all overnight. I dont know how to start again.
Together, or apart? he whispered.
I dont know, she repeateda phrase thick with sorrow, uncertainty, and the terrible realisation that even dreams cant predict what comes next.
They sat, two shadows in the gathering dusk. Outside, the sun slipped lower, turning windows gold, while insideneither rose to turn on the lights.
