As it echoes, so it answers
Clara Whitmore leafed through her favourite Sunday paper, eyes flicking past headlines without lingering. Her thoughts drifted into a private reverie, circling a single, aching question.
Looking for you, read the lonely personal ad section, and Clara skimmed past it without a second glance. The inquiry had always been straightforward for her, a tidy little box. Yet tonight she lingered over the pages, each one crowded with phone numbers of hopeful strangerssome searching for a lifelong companion, others for a nights fling, a fleeting hour.
Clara didnt crave fresh thrills; she simply wanted a voice on the other end of the line to hear her out. That evening she had no one to pour her heart into, and the need was almost painful. She dialled the first number she saw.
Good evening, Dating Services, how may I help? a pleasant, confident female voice said.
Hello, Clara whispered, her voice trembling. She didnt know what to say next.
Ill guide you through, the velvettoned voice replied, growing impatient with Claras hesitation.
Excuse me, could I be a bit more honest? Clara steadied herself.
Youre not looking for a man, then? Im short on time for confessions. Call the helpline; they have counsellors, the operator said, rattling off a number before hanging up. Clara scribbled it downthis helpline might be her only salvation.
She dialled carefully, each digit a small prayer not to slip.
Hello? Good evening! May I speak with you? I really need to talk, Clara gathered courage.
Of course, go ahead. Im listening, a calm voice answered.
And so the heroine began her tale. At first her words tumbled, nervous, then steadied into a steady rhythm. It felt easier to confess to a stranger, a passing passenger on a midnight train. Clara laid everything bare, without embellishment, as if she were trying to make sense of herself, perhaps to justify, perhaps to excuse. She asked for no advice; she simply needed to vent.
She launched into the bitter chronicle.
My husband left me. A year ago we celebrated our silver wedding anniversary. I thought I was the happiest woman alive.
George and I met at the teachertraining college. He was already married to Margaret, with two small childrena son and a daughter. The kids were his world. Margaret adored George, ready to give everything for him, even if it meant sacrificing her own dreams. She was the picture of the devoted, almost biblical, wife.
I envied her. Here was a man with a wife who was a meek mouse, while I was beautiful and clever. I imagined the two of us could have gone anywhere.
In short, I shattered that perfect marriage. No proverbDont bite off more than you can chew, Happiness built on anothers miserycould sway me. I loved him, and that was all.
Years later I realised I had been the serpent in the garden, the sly temptress. On the ruins of that family we tried to build a stolen happiness. Margaret accepted her fate without protest, sipping her bitter cup. She never begged for Georges return, only whispered, Dont forget our children. She spent the rest of her life devoted to them and their grandchildren. No one could replace her husband; she never sought a replacement.
George and I had a son, Sam. We raised him in comfortno want. We could afford yearly trips to the seaside, a spacious flat in central London, a foreign car, a cottage in the countryside. Both of us taught at the college, each a dean of our own faculty. We never forgot Georges children; we cared for them, hosted them during school breaks. Sometimes we spent holidays with his daughter and son. I sometimes joked, Ask your mother to take you to the sea once.
I knew Margaret barely made ends meet as a nurse, and I wanted to strike a sore spot. Yet she never asked us for helpnot out of pride, but because she didnt want to intrude. Im sure George, in secret, still supported her financially.
Our son Sam grew up, married, and left the nest. The flat now belonged to just George and me, a vast space in the heart of the city, and for a while life felt smooth and untroubled. Then the storm arrived at the door.
Rumours swirled through the faculty. One whispered, Clara Whitmore, did you hear that George often spends extra tutoring sessions with a wayward student? The comment startled me, made me laugh, then cringe. A dean and a struggling student? Nonsense.
But a year earlier, after celebrating our silver anniversary at a restaurant, George dropped a bomb.
Clara, Im sorry, Im leaving for someone else. Lets divorce, he said, dead serious.
It was the textbook tragedy: an ageing wife, a vigorous husband, a young lover. I exploded in a fit of hysteria.
Youre abandoning me for that talentless pipping? I shouted. Youll regret this. Ill have her expelled! The children will never forgive you! My words were raw, my fury futile. George walked out with his new flame.
The world turned grey. That was only the beginning of my upheaval.
George and his lover moved into a flat next door, helped by colleagues who claimed they were supporting a young couple. It felt like a cruel joke. Every winter morning, I stood at the bus stop shivering, watching them drive past in their shared car.
The studentnow smug, triumphantlooked at me as if I were a discarded prop. She was confident, just as I once was when I whisked George away from his first family. Now, only ash remained where love once burned.
What about George? His eyes sparkled with fresh passion, his fiftyyearold self soaring like a gull. Grey in the beard, fire in the chest, they said. Love knows no calendar.
Long ago, I asked him, How did I manage to take you from your family so easily? Margaret was the perfect, obedient wife.
Clara, I was bored in that cosy swamp, he replied, kissing my hand.
It seemed boredom struck him again, a craving for reckless desire. As the saying goes, Swear today, rethink tomorrow. He was a man who collected broken marriages like trophies.
I sought solace in Georges children, but they aligned with their father. Their chorus echoed, What goes around, comes around. To them I was a foreign aunt who stole their mothers husband. No amount of gifts, trips, or flowery words could win them over. A year passed without a word from them.
Our divorce was quiet, no drama. He mentioned that Helen, his new partner, was expecting, and it seemed fair to split the flat into two. I agreed without protest; resisting would have been like trying to catch yesterdays night at sunrise.
Help the growing family, they said.
Now I sit in a empty fourbedroom flat, fortyfour years old, feeling as though Im turning into a wilted leaf. I still keep up with my appearanceexpensive creams, perfume, stylish clothesyet a hollow ache gnaws at me. My only solace is Sam, who still worries for me and offers comfort. There was never any real friendship between Sams children and Georges.
May I call you again? Grateful listeners are rare, and you never cut me off. Thank you for hearing me.
Clara hung up the heated line, exhaled a breath of relief, forced a smile, and dialled Sam.
Mom? Whats wrong? he asked, wary.
Everythings fine, Sam! My heart feels light. Come over this weekend with the kids, Ill bake a cake, she replied, blowing a kiss through the receiver.
Six months later, Clara called her telephone therapist.
You know, I ran into an old schoolmate. Turns out hed been nearby all my life, too shy to approach. Hed never married. When he saw the upheaval in my life, he finally showed up. We got married.
Happiness has moved back into my little oneroom flat, and Im grateful for the confession, for the cleansing. I now know life always offers something in return.
