For the third Saturday in a row, Emma leaves for “work.” What I discover changes everything.
“Late again?” I try to sound calm, but my voice betrays me.
Emma freezes with her handbag halfway out the door. She turns slowly, as if buying time.
“Yeah, the projects a mess. The boss is losing it, everyones scrambling.”
“On a Saturday? Three weeks in a row?”
“Oh, come on, James. Work is work.”
She pecks my cheekquick, perfunctory, like a neighbour in a lift. She smells different. Not her usual perfume. Something sweet, milky. I frown.
“Em, can we talk?”
“Later, yeah? Everything later.”
The door slams. I stand in the hallway, fists clenched. Third Saturday. Third bloody Saturday she leaves at dawn and returns exhausted, distant, a stranger.
I cant take it anymore. I grab the car keys.
Emma steps out of the building, glancing around. I duck in the drivers seatthankfully parked behind a van. She flags a taxi. I start the engine.
We drive forever. Not to the officeI know that much. Somewhere on the outskirts, a tired suburban street. My heart hammers. Ill see. Ill finally know.
She gets out by a weathered block of flats. I park further down, trailing her. She disappears inside. I wait, counting floors. Third. Left window.
Nothing happens for half an hour. Then she reappears.
With a pram.
I nearly stumble. A baby? We dont have children. Weve talked about it, but not seriously. Not since these Saturdays started
The baby wails. Emma rocks the pram, murmuring. She looks lost, unsure. Then a girl sprints outSophie, Emmas younger sister. Flighty Sophie, twenty-five, already twice divorced.
“Em, youre a lifesaver! Ill be quick, two hours max!”
“Soph, you said one!”
“Please? Im desperate!”
Sophie dashes off, leaving Emma with the screaming infant. Helpless, she pushes the pram back and forth.
I retreat around the corner, leaning against the brick. Not an affair. A nephew. But why the secrecy? Why the lies?
I drive home, needing to beat her back. Needing to think.
Inside, I pace. I could just ask. “Emma, where were you?” But shed lie. Like Ive lied.
Because I have a secret too.
Charlotte. The receptionist from the next department. Nothing seriousjust chats after work, coffees, the occasional film. She laughs at my tech rants, listens like Emma used to. Before our lives became bills, chores, misplaced socks.
With Charlotte, its easy. She reminds me of the Emma I fell for seven years ago. Bright, carefree, hanging on every word about code and algorithms.
The key turns. I flinch, snatching the remote, flicking on the telly.
“Hey,” Emma pokes her head in. “Youve been home all day?”
“Yep. Couldnt be bothered going out.”
She heads to the kitchen. I hear water running, dishes clinking. I follow.
Shes at the sink, scrubbing a mug. Shoulders slumped, shadows under her eyes. A stain on her jeansbaby formula, maybe.
“Em.”
“What?”
“Youre exhausted.”
She turns, surprised.
“Yeah. I am.”
“Dinner out? That Italian place from our anniversary?”
“James, Im shattered. Lets just order pizza?”
I nod, watching her fumble for her phone, hands trembling.
“Em, whats going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Youre different. Have been for weeks.”
She freezes. The phone clatters onto the counter.
“Its work, James. Just work.”
“On Saturdays?”
“Yes! On Saturdays! Stop nagging!”
Her voice cracks. Shes close to tears. I pull her in. She stiffens, then collapses against me, face buried in my shoulder.
“Sorry. Im just so tired.”
She smells of baby powder and something sourspit-up, probably. I rub her back, feeling her heartbeat race.
“Em, if somethings wrong, tell me. Im not a stranger.”
She pulls away, wiping her eyes.
“Its fine. Really. Just a rough patch. Itll pass.”
The pizza arrives. We eat in silence. Emma showers. I stare at my cold slice, thinking.
I could say it. “Em, I saw you with a pram. Sophies kid?” But then Id admit I followed her. And shed ask, “Where were you on Friday nights?”
What would I say? That I sat in cafés with another woman? That I shared things with her I stopped sharing with my wife? That Ive wondered what if?
My phone buzzes. A text from Charlotte: “Monday? Ive got that film I mentioned.”
I delete it. No. Not happening. Enough.
Emma emerges in a towel robe, damp hair, flushed skin. She sits close.
“James, lets stay in tomorrow. Just us.”
“What about work?”
“To hell with work.”
I smile. When did she last say that?
“Okay. Just us.”
She takes my hand. Her fingers are cold, despite the shower.
“We lost something, didnt we?”
“What?”
“Us. We lost us.”
I squeeze her hand.
“Well find it.”
We wake late. Emma makes pancakesfirst time in a year. I brew coffee, chop fruit. We breakfast on the balcony, chilly but content.
“Remember Prague?” Emma says. “That tiny terrace?”
“Where you nearly dropped a cup on some blokes head?”
“I did not nearly drop it!”
We laugh. How long since we laughed together?
The day feels oddly sweet. Like newlyweds. We binge a series, tangled on the sofa. Cook togetherI chop, she sauces. No talk of work, money, plans. Just now.
That night, she falls asleep on my shoulder. I study her facesmooth, peaceful. The frown lines gone. She looks like the girl who spilled coffee on me seven years ago. “Oh God, sorry! Let me pay for dry cleaning! Oror buy you another coffee?”
I bought her one instead. Then another. Then dinner. Then a ring.
She murmurs in her sleep. I tuck the blanket around her.
On Monday, I find Charlotte.
“Hey! Thought you forgot about the film”
“Char, we need to talk.”
Her face falls. Smart girl. She knows.
“Your wife?”
“Yes. No. I meanI cant do this.”
“James, nothing even happened.”
“Exactly. And it wont. Im sorry.”
She nods, turning to her screen.
“Go. Just go.”
I leave. My chest feels heavy and light. Its right. Long overdue.
Emmas not home. A note on the fridge: “Back by seven. Dinner in the oven.”
I reheat it, set the table. She arrives on time but jumpy.
“James, I need to tell you something.”
I freeze. Here it comes.
“Sophie has a son. Four months old. The dad left when he found out. Shes broke, no job. Ive been helping. Watching him while she interviews. Or just breathes. Sorry I lied. Thought youd hate it.”
“Why would I hate it?”
“Well we want kids. And Im looking after someone elses. Ive even lent her money. My wages,” she adds hastily.
I stand, pull her close.
“Silly. Of course you help. Shes family.”
Emma sniffles into my chest.
“Im so tired of lying. Making up excuses.”
“No more lies.”
I think of Charlotte. My own deceit. But it wasnt the same. Just talk. Just
“James, do you have secrets?”
My heart skips.
“No. Well sometimes I wasnt at work. Id be at the pub with mates. Just drinks, banter. Home felt bleak.”
Not the full truth. But not a lie. Charlotte was there. Sometimes.
“Bleak,” Emma echoes. “Yeah. I get that.”
We cling in the kitchen. Then eat. Talk about the babyOliver, turns out. Sophies new job. Visiting properly soon.
“Hey,” I say suddenly. “Lets have one.”
Emma looks up.
“Seriously?”
“Deadly. No more waiting.”
“But weve been so distant.”
“Then well fix it. Em, I love you. The girl who spilled coffee. The aunt with a pram. All of you.”
She laughs through tears.
“Aunt! Youre such an uncle!”
“Uncle and aunt. Then mum and dad.”
That night
