Gloria stood by the window, gazing at the garden below. An elderly woman from the neighbouring house played with her granddaughter on the swings. Mid-August, yet the whisper of autumn already lingered in the air. Soon, the rains would come, the wind would strip the yellowing leaves from the trees, and ahead lay the long stretch of winter—frostbitten mornings and slushy thaws. Gloria sighed.
She’d never feared winter before. It was just another season, marked by family—her husband, Nigel, their daughter, work, the usual bustle. A time for cosy evenings and waiting for spring. But now, the approaching cold felt like a mirror to her age, stirring a dull ache, a dread of loneliness creeping in.
She’d seen countless films about affairs, breakups, divorces. Always, she’d pitied the women left behind, certain it would never touch her. She and Nigel had a solid marriage. He wasn’t the type to stray—steady, reliable, not a flirt. Or so she’d thought.
They’d met by chance, or rather, they’d been set up. Her friend Lucy already had a boyfriend and planned to spend New Year’s Eve with him, but her mother wouldn’t allow it without a chaperone. So Lucy dragged Gloria along, and in turn, Lucy’s boyfriend brought Nigel—a reserved, quiet man Gloria hadn’t warmed to at first. After midnight, they’d left the lovebirds alone and wandered the frost-lined streets together.
By the time term started again, Lucy and her beau had split. But Gloria and Nigel? They’d only grown closer. A year later, he proposed. She refused—too young, still at university. Wait until after graduation, she’d urged. But Nigel wasn’t patient. By the time she finished her degree, he’d worn her down. They married modestly—just family and a handful of friends. Lucy was her bridesmaid.
Gloria’s mother had remarried and moved in with her new husband, leaving Gloria her flat. Life had fallen into place perfectly. They’d waited before starting a family, and when they finally tried, it took years. She’d nearly lost hope when, at last, it happened. A long, difficult labour—but their daughter arrived. A second child never did.
Their girl grew up, graduated, became a translator—fluent in French and Spanish—married a British man of Russian descent, and moved to rain-slicked London. She had a son Gloria only knew through pixelated screens and framed photographs.
They should’ve been content. Their daughter settled, both of them still healthy, still dreaming of retirement trips—finally visiting the UK, seeing the world. But dreams stay dreams.
Then Lucy came over. Twice divorced—first to a drinker, second to a man desperate for a child she couldn’t carry. She’d envied Gloria’s happiness, often sighing that she’d chosen wrong all those years ago; she should’ve picked Nigel.
When Lucy said she’d seen Nigel in a café with another woman, Gloria laughed.
“He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Didn’t even notice me at the next table. Look.” She held up her phone.
No mistake. There was Nigel, gripping the hand of a striking woman in her thirties, his face lit with adoration.
“See? I’m telling you as a friend. Nigel’s no different from the rest. And here you are, trusting him—”
The words carved into Gloria. She’d believed him solid as oak. She’d never felt fiery passion for him, but she’d loved him. They’d built a life. To learn he’d shattered it—Lucy left, and Gloria collapsed into sobs.
The moment Nigel walked in, she demanded answers. Normally, he’d say work ran late, helping someone move things to their cottage… She’d believed him, never pushed, always had dinner waiting.
“Working late? Or meeting your *colleague* at The Ivy? How was she? Pretty, about thirty? How long’s this been going on? Am I that dull?”
First, he denied it. Then he snarled that she didn’t trust him, that she’d been spying. And then—exhausted by the rare, ugly fight—he cracked.
“I don’t know how it happened. I thought it’d pass. Fell for her like an idiot. I’m sorry.”
Gloria didn’t know what to do. Stay, hope he’d come to his senses? Throw him out? She knew Nigel. If he’d lost his head, he meant it.
Now what? She could never trust him again. Forgiveness was impossible, even if he promised to end it. Yet Nigel just stood there, guilty and silent. No begging, no grand declarations of love.
Did he love this woman so much? Gloria’s legs buckled. Decades together—through joy, through sorrow—more joy than sorrow, until now. The floor seemed to sink beneath her, quicksand dragging her under. She couldn’t breathe.
“Glory, what’s wrong?” Nigel reached for her.
She shoved him back.
“Get out. Now.” She slammed the bathroom door, locked it.
“Glory, open up or I’ll break it down!” He rattled the handle.
“I won’t. I can’t look at you. Go! Or do you think I’ll throw myself off Tower Bridge over your cheating? Don’t flatter yourself. Leave with a clear conscience. Best of luck to you both!” She turned the taps on full, pressed her hands over her ears.
Nigel pounded, shouted. She didn’t open it. When she stepped out, he was gone.
Wrapped in a towel, Gloria drifted through the empty flat, room to room, unable to believe this was her life now.
She called her daughter. “When are you visiting? Could I come to you?”
“Mum, sorry—we fly to Marbella tomorrow. Everything all right? You never call out of the blue—”
“Fine. Just missed you,” Gloria lied around the lump in her throat.
She had to pull herself together. Women survived worse. It’d ease with time. But her heart ached like it might split.
It didn’t. Gloria smirked at the window. The grandmother and child had gone. Teenagers loitered on the swings. She flicked the bathroom light—bulbs fizzed, died.
No idea how to replace them. Nigel always did that. Last week, the kitchen cupboard handle came loose. Then the tap leaked. The hoover broke. Just months without him, and the flat was crumbling.
She googled *Handyman services*. Dozens of ads popped up. She picked a few, dialled. One didn’t answer. Another had a crying baby in the background. She hung up. A company quoted an obscene price. One number left. Hopeless, she tried.
A man answered.
“I need a handyman.”
“What needs doing?”
“Lightbulbs, a leaky tap, a broken handle… Oh, and the plant hook snapped,” she added hastily.
“When?”
“Whenever.”
“Address?”
She gave it. “Ten minutes,” he said.
Too late, she realised she hadn’t asked the cost.
Tidying, she noted more repairs. At least this service existed. When the bell rang, she hurried to the door.
A respectable man with a toolkit stood there.
“I’m the handyman.”
“Oh, come in. You don’t look—”
“Like a handyman?” He toed off his shoes.
“Keep them on.”
But he slipped them off—clean socks—and stepped inside.
“Show me the jobs, ma’am.”
She listed them, flustered under his amused gaze.
He worked calmly, deftly. Soon, everything was fixed.
“Tea?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
She rushed to the kitchen, kettle on, fumbling cups. He watched, making her self-conscious.
She served strong tea, pushed a dish of digestives toward him. He slurped loudly, drained it fast. She refilled. Now he sipped leisurely.
*Why’s he staring? Is he going to rob me?*
He rose, thanked her.
“How much?”
“Five hundred an hour. Took less.”
She handed him cash. He lingered, lacing his shoes painstakingly.
Finally, at the door, he said, “Keep my number. Call anytime.”
Gloria exhaled when he left. She checked the repairs—light bright, tap silent, hook sturdy. Small mercies. She saved his number: *Handyman*.
Next day—Sunday. She lazed in bed. Nowhere to be, no one to cook for.
The bell rang. A neighbour after sugar, she thought.
But it was him.
“Forget something?” She tightened her dressing gown.
“Just checking the repairs held.” He cleared his throat.
“They’re fine.” She blocked the door.
“Don’t take this the wrong way… Fancy the cinema?”
“The *cinema*?”
“They’ve got these plush seats now—legroom, the lot. Been ages since I went. Not fun alone. Unless you’reShe hesitated, then nodded, stepping into the sunlight with a quiet hope—perhaps, after all, it wasn’t too late for a new beginning.