Dear diary,
Last night Mark turned up at my flat at two in the morning, halfcoherent and reeking of whisky. Sorry to wake you, Harriet, he slurred, my wifes been killed in a crash can you let me in? Id barely spoken to him for a month; wed been at each others throats, but the sight of his grief pulled me in. I opened the door, even though the memory of our recent argument still lingered like a cold draft.
Tell me what happened, Mark. Dont hold back, I urged, feeling a sting of guilt. After all, wed been lovers, and I wondered if any part of me was responsible for his loss. He didnt answer. Instead he dragged me up to the bedroom. I didnt fight itI wanted to comfort him, to ease the pain, even if it meant swallowing my own bitterness. The night stretched on, a wild, sleepless blur.
In the morning I roused Mark from a disheveled sleep. He stared at me, blank, as if the nights events had never occurred. Harriet, why am I here? We were arguing yesterday, he muttered. I kept the reason for his visit to myself, guessing his drunken ramblings were nothing but nonsense. Then his phone buzzed with the name Betsy flashing on the screenhow he used to call his wife. He let the call go to voicemail, and his eyes flickered with a dawning realization.
Are you serious? I snapped. You just buried your wife yesterday and now youre here making jokes? Get out. I slammed the door behind him and never saw him again.
Ive lived alone since I was twenty, my parents passing one after the other. I never rushed into marriage; suitors came in swarms, cheap and generous alike, married and single alike. With Mark, though, I lasted longer than with any of them because I fell hard. I knew he had a family, yet I told myself he was an actorlying, fantasising, and still bringing me extravagant roses, extravagant gifts, wild nights, all while never forgetting his Betsy. I wouldnt have been surprised to learn he kept a string of mistresses; he was a charming rogue, a true Casanova.
While my friends settled down, had children, and built cosy lives, I was tangled with Mark, aware that I had no future with himhed never leave his wife. Our arguments grew more frequent and pointless, and finally his last stunt put the final nail in our shaky relationship. I was free again, searching for a new kind of happiness.
Soon I met Tom on the commuter train, heading home from his job in the city after a day in the fields. He was from a village near Leeds, honest and plainspoken, not a hint of a past marriage. We swapped numbers and, after a few weeks, started seeing each other. Tom and I were as different as night and day: he was frugal, a little rough around the edges, but I was willing to accept his flaws. He invited me to his family cottage, saying his mother wanted to meet me.
Mom wants to see you, he said.
I was already expecting a child, so the thought of a wedding felt imminentsilk veils, rehearsed vows, the whole lot. We arrived at the cottage; the table groaned under a spread of hearty country fare. I could hardly look at anything; my stomach turned. My impending motherinlaw gave me a sharp glance, then ordered Tom: Son, take the guest out onto the veranda, set her on the bench, and come back to the table. She seemed to have forgotten me entirely.
The next day Tom silently escorted me back to the train and returned to his mother, who evidently did not like me. I rushed the wedding plans, but before I could get home I was rushed to hospital: a miscarriage. The doctor, trying to soften the blow, said, Dont worry, love. If the babys not right, its better this way than a lifetime of heartache. I thought, Fine, Tom wasnt meant to be. I let go of him with a cold calm, no regrets.
One of my schoolmates, James, had once lingered at the back of my class, hoping for a chance. I kept him as a backup option, listening to his pleas, never fully committing. He eventually married a woman with a child, later fathering a son. Ten years on, he resurfaced, apologising profusely: Harriet, I rushed into marriage, I want a divorce. He babbled on about his unhappy wife, his mismatched temperaments. I nodded, offered a sympathetic smile, and pretended to comfort him. One day, beaming like a pancake in the sun, he shouted, Harriet, Ive just had another son! Congratulations! I could barely hold back tears as I told him, Congratulations, but you should leave now, forever. I spent that night weeping into my pillow.
My best friend, Lucy, seemed to have everythinghusband, daughter, a comfortable home. I envied her. Her husband, David, never appealed to me. We would chat over tea, laughing about nothing. One afternoon Lucy burst into tears: Harriet, Ive fallen in love! Hes married, has two kids. I tried to steer her away: Dont ruin anyones life, love. Youre already happy, you dont need a married man. She wept, pleading, I cant live without Dan, Ill leave everything for him! I felt helpless as she slipped away, never calling again.
Then, unexpectedly, David knocked on my door. Hi, Harriet. How are you? Still single? he asked. What brings you here? I replied, bewildered. Lucy left me, he sighed. We talked through the night, and the next morning we were in each others arms. We lived together for six months, and for a time I thought Id found contentment. Yet David never proposed; he left as abruptly as he had arrived, marrying a colleague much older than him who already had a teenage daughter. Its been twenty years now that theyre officially wed.
Lucy eventually married Dan, and they claim to be blissfully in love. I dont believe stolen happiness goes unpunished; two families suffered because of it. I havent seen my old school friends for more than two decades.
People often ask how Im faring. Ive tended to broken, wounded wings, giving what comfort I could, while the men drifted back to their wives. Time kept slipping away. As my grandmother used to say, Every girl has her season; when it passes, she fades. My season has come and gone. The carousel of my life has stopped; no more princes waiting at the window. I adopted a pedigree cat named Morris, just so there would be someone to care for, someone to talk to. Still single, childfree, my story didnt turn out the way I once imagined.
