She crept downstairs and entered the living room to be confronted by darkness and the huddles shapes of familiar furniture. The cat, perplexed and drowsy, was the only one to acknowledge her. His granny spec eyes and white goatee hung in the gloom like some ghostly hippie. There was no sign of Bob. He hadn’t come home.

She went back to bed with a heavy heart.

There would be a perfectly reasonable excuse of course, his alibi watertight and unassailable. Challenging it would damn her in the eyes of the outside world. He would once more be the stoic husband and she the jealous, hysterical jailer. Cronies would shake their heads ruefully and buy him conciliatory drinks. Lonely women would feel he needed rescuing.

He was so very, very good at this.

She raised clawed hands to tangle in her hair and grimaced into the dark. Tears of frustration pricked the corners of her eyes. When they had had run their course she went to his bedside drawer, easing out the letter, carefully hidden by Bob, she’d discovered two days ago.

She read it once more, mulling over its contents.

Stella came to a decision.

She rose at seven thirty, to a grey, dull morning. The night’s previous turmoil was neatly folded and tucked away as she prepared for the day’s mundane rigours. Stella showered, dressed, and made breakfast. Bob had not returned. Predictably he would not arrive home until after work.

The baby in the flat below was crying again. The sound drilled through the thin walls. She wondered how she would have coped with a child that seemed to spend ninety per cent of it’s waking hours wailing. The question was academic. He had never wanted children, at least not with her.

Checking her watch she pulled on her coat and left the flat. Walking down hill her sensible shoes tapped the scoured pavement and a gang of crows jeered from a nearby tree.

Myth has it that the Devil, while passing up the Thames Estuary, stopped to take a dump. The splash back from this excretion formed the fabled town of SouthHarbour.

She gazed ruefully down at its harsh contours spread-eagled at the river’s curve like a clapped out whore. It was curse enough to have been born here, that she still remained after all these years was unforgivable. With the money they earned they should have moved somewhere nicer years ago. For all of his alpha male affectation Bob seemed strangely reluctant to improve his status. She guessed he enjoyed being a big fish in a little pond surrounded by cronies and fawnicators. She could think of no other reason.

A gentle breeze curled from the river and smoothed a stray lock of brunette hair as if to console her.

On the high street youths loitered aimlessly and Superdrug sported star shaped proclamations promising two for the price of one. She entered the civic offices and climbed the stairs to the personnel department. Huddled conversations were interrupted by polite “good mornings” as she passed. She nodded and smiled but carried on to her workstation. Stella had no close companions at work and few outside either. Any burgeoning friendships had been sabotaged over the years, either by seduction of the prettier ones or alienating the plain. Best friends could be problematic, they tended to offer advice and give a different perspective. Stella made a cup of tea and sat staring at the blank monitor before her. She fell to wondering about his latest interest.

One thing Stella could guess; she would be decent, not the type who was used to indulging in extra marital affairs. She would be lonely and vulnerable, probably a divorcee, possibly a widow. He would never avail himself of a hard-faced, tarty type. They competed by his rules and he disliked a level playing field.

She imagined the mental and ethical gymnastics the woman had gone through to justify her actions, no doubt aided by discreet asides from his friends.

He would play up to the role perfectly, virile and vulnerable, ernest yet passionate. Women lapped it up. Hadn’t she?

She didn’t hate them. They were as much his victims as she, but their purgatory would be short lived, six months at most before he dumped them and moved on. His rejection of them was an all-important part of the ritual. In all these years she suspected that only one had turned the tables. That was the night he’d come home early, drunk and raging, the one night he beat her.

That had been the only time there was blood. The rest of the marriage had been a white martyrdom.

The morning chugged on. Stella worked diligently occasionally glancing through the window at the bustling high street below. Beyond the town the horizon lay, frayed and indistinct, hinting at other worlds and different lives.

She took the letter from her bag and spread it flat on her desk. The letter he had kept hidden. Her gaze drifted over already memorized words.

She supposed the tragic thing was her own collusion in all this. Her naive willingness to accept blame and the endless attempts over the years to coax back the kind, loving man she’d unwittingly turned into a monster with her failings

She’d taken the criticisms on board, dieted, tried not to question or- God forbid - nag. None of it was ever good enough. Essentially she’d helped him stitch the net into which she’d become ensnared. By the time she’d realised the con it was too late. She was bitter, care-worn, dispossessed of hope and self-esteem.

Wasn’t she?

Then she'd discovered the letter. It had been a revelation, almost a liberation.

At the bottom was an email address. Without giving herself time to think she tapped out a brusque message and clicked send. Something within her had changed, and now everything needed to change. Things would be faced head on.

She picked up the phone and dialled out. ‘I know it’s short notice but can you fit me in for an appointment this afternoon?’

Some minutes later the monitor pinged. A message was waiting.

She emerged from the hairdressers into a silvery April afternoon. The dull tresses were gone, transformed into a sleek chestnut mane that warmed her pale skin and bobbed like a flame in the pale light. Beneath her coat the cornflower blue dress she’d blown half the shopping budget on clung sensuously and eulogised her curving figure. As she walked up the high street on heels that had blown the other half, Stella realised a casual glance from the windows of the personnel office would give the lie to her feigned sickness and cared not one jot.

She hurried on to her rendezvous, descending the steps towards the river. The promenade was peopled with dog walkers and fishermen casting out into its

choppy grey course. The afternoon warmed. Stella shed her coat like a tired old skin, as the noise and bustle from the town grew faint. Gulping in a lungful of brackish air she closed her eyes and allowed herself to indulge the heady fear, kept locked tight for most of the day.

For one moment she was a young girl again, pretty and glowing, traversing this same path, two pals clopping along on either side, accompanying her and offering encouragement in case she turned tail and fled.

She was on the way to her first date. The world was her very own oyster. At the end of the promenade he waited, turning as she approached. He was so young and so handsome.

Stella felt a small nostalgic rush and opened her eyes.

He was still there, waiting. 

A valiant sun managed to pierce the grey cloud with a platinum arrow. It was like an omen.

She regarded him critically as though with eyes anew. She took in the slight paunch, the grey receding hair, and the slight jowliness to the once youthful features. Amazing how attractive it was, he still was. It suited him so well.

He gave a small polite smile as she approached and she feared he hadn’t recognised her

Then he blinked and did a double take.

‘Stella…’ he breathed in amazement. His tidy smile blossomed into a grin. He looked her up and down. ‘Well, well…’

She laughed and they headed for the restaurant.

It was a magical afternoon. She bathed in this rediscovered interest. They made polite small talk as the world bustled past in its reassuring way. Yet beneath the normality she sensed tides surging restlessly and promising change. Stella excused herself and nipped to the loo. A young man glanced up and stayed looking, giving her a hard appreciative stare.

Maybe I’m not as past it as I’d imagined. She stood before the mirror in the ladies and tugged a brush through her shining hair.

But she glimpsed his uneasy, discomforted look on her return and felt trepidation.

‘What is it?’ She dreaded the answer but she had to know. ‘Do you regret coming?’

‘Good God, no,’ He shook his head. ‘It’s just the email…it was a bit of a surprise. I thought after all this time…’

She nodded with relief. ‘I found the letter...eventually.’

‘Ah!’ he sat back and bit his lip guiltily. ‘I know it was wrong of me. It must have been a shock.’

Stella smiled and shook her head. ‘There’s been a lot of water under the bridge. We needed to talk.’

‘Every thing in it was true.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Seeing you today made me realise how much.’ He reached out and enfolded her hand in his. It was big and warm and calloused and safe. He reached across the table and kissed her very gently on the lips. He tasted of cigarettes and hope.

‘I’m sorry I shouldn’t have done that.’

‘I’m not and yes you should.’

‘There wasn’t a day that went by when I didn’t think of you.’ He paused. ‘Of course there were other women but none of them ever lasted. It was always you.’

Oh Bob, Stella blinked back a grateful tear and continued to smile. What a balls up we made of things. She felt a miraculous, renewed faith in life like a starving mongrel that’s unearthed a long forgotten bone. A bone that was first love shaped.

‘I hated him for stealing you from me. I knew what a bastard he really was. That’s why I left.’

‘Well you’re not the only one knows now.’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘And you came back eventually.’

‘We have so much catching up to do.’ Tom’s face broke into a smile. It was a marvel that she could be the author of such overt happiness. ‘Do you have to rush back for anything?’ he asked.

She thought for a moment. Bob would be arriving home from work soon. As was the usual pattern after a nights tomcatting he’d be hungry and tired, expecting food and home comforts.

‘Not at all,’ Stella smiled and squeezed his hand.