**Falling for the Cosy Woman, or, Well, Let Them Talk**
*»Youre leaving me for that country bumpkin?»* My wife was baffled.
*»Please dont call her that, Emily. Its decided, Victoria. Im sorry.»* I hurriedly packed my things.
*»I hope you come to your senses soon. This cant be real. Your colleagues, the neighbourstheyll laugh at you. What do you see in her? Some unpolished simpleton. What will we tell the children? That their cultured father ran off to some farmers wife?»* Victoria twisted a handkerchief in her hands.
*»The children? Thank goodness theyre grown. Sophies nearly ready to marry, and Charlies already gone his own slippery way. Were hardly role models. As for the neighbours, colleagues, random strangers I couldnt care less. Its my life. Im not the one peeking into anyones bedroom.»*
I tried to soften the blow, but it wasnt working. When a marriage falls apart, it hurts both sides. Victoria sat at the kitchen window, staring blankly. I didnt feel an ounce of pity. Just emptiness.
Victoria was my third wife. When I first saw her, my heart flutteredshe was stunning, polished, self-assured. I wasnt exactly a slouch myself back then. Knew I had charm to spare. Plenty of women to choose from. In my youth, Id fall in love and marry in a heartbeat. Then, disillusioned by routine, Id bolt. The children only came with Victoria.
I thought shed be my last harbour, my anchor. Alas A wife, like a melon, isnt fully known till youve lived with her. Over the years, love went from juicy and sweet to a shrivelled raisin. In public, we played the perfect coupleneighbours admired (or secretly scorned?) our picture-perfect family. Walking past the gossiping old ladies by the front gate, wed glide past like we were on the red carpet.
But behind closed doors? A different story.
First off, Victoria was no homemaker. The fridge was always empty, laundry piled up, dust bunnies held conferences in every corner. Yet her nails were always done, hair flawless, makeup fresh. She acted like the world owed her adoration. My wife merely *allowed* herself to be loved. A self-proclaimed superstar, her heart was locked up tighteven from the kids.
My mother lived with us. She bit her tongue at first, watching the chaos. Then, wisely, she stepped in. Gently, she taught Sophie and Charlie to cook, clean, and care for themselves. Victoria, fancying herself high society (why?), called them by their full namesSophia and Charlesnever a cuddle or a pet name. Naturally, the kids clung to their kind, fair gran instead.
Victoria forbade me from chatting with the neighbours*»pointless small talk»*. Shed barely mutter *»hello»* herself.
Early on, I noticed none of this. I just loved her, lived, savoured each day. Sophie was top of her class; Charlie scraped by with failing grades. Bafflingsame upbringing, polar opposites. No matter how we tried, Charlie refused to improve. By year ten, he resented Sophie for her diligence. Sometimes I had to pull them apart mid-fight.
This was the nineties.
After school, Charlie vanished into some shady crowd. Gone for three years. We filed missing reports, mourned, moved on. Gran would glance at Victoria and mutter, *»The apple doesnt fall far from the tree.»* Victoria would storm off to the bathroom, sobbing.
Then, out of the blue, Charlie returned. A wreckthin, scarred, haunted. He brought a wife just as rough. We took them in warily, afraid to cross him. He eyed us with suspicion, always tense, always silent.
Sophie left soon after. She *almost* married, but the bloke never proposed. Lived with some unstable chap instead. No kids. Shed visit, bruised but silent.
*»Dump him, love. Hell kill you one day. Rememberif you want misery, youll find it,»* Gran pleaded tearfully.
*»Its fine, Gran. Darren loves me. The bruises? Just a fall.»* Sophie was a far cry from the star pupil shed been.
And then there was me, old fool that I was, struck by love again. After shifts at the factory, I dreaded going homeVals temper, Victorias coldness, Grans *»Three wives, and what a mess youve made»* jabs.
At the canteen, there was Emily. Always cheerful, warm, unpretentious. Years of eating there, and Id never *really* noticed herrosy-cheeked, plump, with a laugh like a babbling brook. Everything was a joke with her. A ray of sunshine.
She was the opposite of Victoria. Hair in a messy bun, nails short and bare, just a swipe of lipstick. But Emily radiated warmth. Being near her was like drinking from a fresh spring. Her flat always smelled of pies. The fridge? Fullstew, roast, pudding. She fed half the neighbourhood.
I courted her properlyflowers, cinema, cafés.
Emily hesitated at first: *»Youre married, Clive. What will your kids think? I wont be the other woman.»*
I wavered, like any man afraid to take the plunge. Sometimes I stayed over. Victoria guessedbusybodies had filled her in. She raged, called Emily *»that grubby peasant»*, threatened self-harm.
Six months later, I moved out. Emily was overjoyed but firm: *»Show me divorce papers in a month, or Im done.»*
I did. We married later. No regrets. Sophie and Charlie visit now. Emily feeds them like royalty. Sophies left Darren; Charlies softened, even expecting a baby. Maybe hed had enough of lifes rough edges. Emily reconciled them: *»Youre family. Stick together, not drift like weeds.»*
Grans gone now.
Victoria? Aged, her spark long gone. She still turns away when we pass. We live two streets apart, but I never look back.
Judge me if you like. Its my life. Ill answer for my choices. No apologies.
