I Arrived at My Husband’s Office Unexpectedly and Instantly Discovered Why He’s Always Working Late

I arrived at my husbands office without warning, and at once I understood why he was always working late.

For twenty-three years, Ivy Somers brewed stews, pressed shirts, endured her mother-in-law and her favourite refrainYou know, when Michael was a boy, he ate porridge without any fuss. For twenty-three years, Ivy trusted that her husband merely stayed at work late because of genuine business. These things happen: quarterly accounts, meetings, some crisis or other. All perfectly plausible, never questioned.

But then something had shifted. Not all at once, no. At first, it was just that he didnt answer his phone. People are busy, after all. Then, dinner cooled for the third time in a row. Then, a new aftershave clung to himfresh, florala scent she hadnt chosen.

Ivy didnt make a scene. She wasnt the sort to burst out over trifles. She was the sort who stared at the ceiling in silence at 2am for three weeks straight, then finally rose, put on her coat, and left.

So, she went.

On the drive, she called her friend Linda, who said exactly what Ivy knew shed say:

Ivy, why are you going? What do you think youll see? Itll only make things worse for you.

It cant get much worse, Ivy replied and hung up.

Michaels office was on the third floor of a business centre with the laughable name Parnassus. Ivy knew the place; shed been twice beforeonce for a Christmas do three years ago and once to drop off his forgotten pass. The security guard back then had looked at her with the solemn respect reserved for the wife of a department head.

It was now seven in the evening. The car park was mostly deserted. Most windows were black.

Except one.

Ivy stopped beside her car and gazed upward. Third floor, furthest window on the rightthat was Michaels office. Light shone from it. Shadows moved across the glass.

Ivy stood still and watched.

Then, she found her phone and rang his number.

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

Behind the window, one slender shadow stretched towards the other.

Fourth ring. Fifth.

Your call has not been answered…

She put her phone away. She walked towards the building.

The security guard, Anthony, lifted his eyes from his phone and peered at her as if shed presented him with a warrant instead of an ID.

Who are you here for?

Somers. Michael Anthony. Third floor.

Are you on the list?

Ivy looked at him steadily and quietly, like someone regarding a wall that simply has to be knocked down.

Im his wife.

Anthony digested this, pressed something on his console, waited.

Hes not answering.

I know, said Ivy. But hes in.

A pause. Anthony seemed to weigh a manual in one hand, the bosss wife in the other. Wivesthey were never simple. Eventually, he drew his hand away from the turnstile.

Go ahead, please, Ivy said, something in her tone making it unquestionable.

The third floor was a long corridor lined with grey carpet and nondescript doors. Ivy thought: I shouldve called Linda again. Or not come at all. Or perhaps stopped for a coffee somewhere first, steadied herself, looked less wild.

But how could you look normal now?

Michaels office was at the end of the corridor, its door slightly ajara band of golden light framing the edge, voices tumbling faintly out.

She halted two paces away.

A womans laughter, light and airy, as if someone had just told her the most marvellous of jokes.

Then Michaels voice. Ivy listenedthirty seconds, a full minute. Her hands were cold, but her cheeks had flushed hot.

She nudged the door gently.

Michael sat on the edge of his desk, not behind it, posture casual and familiar, explaining something to a young woman who held several files. The womanabout thirty-eight, attractive, her hair pinned upglanced over.

Both looked towards Ivy in silence; a pause long enough for all things unspoken to settle in the room.

Ivy? said Michael. Loaded with surprise, a flicker of fear, and, worst of all, the faintest hint of irritationlike a man interrupted.

Evening, said Ivy.

The woman with the files stepped back, then again, and found some excuse to study the window.

You came without calling? Michael slipped off the desk and attempted a normal expression. It worked only halfway.

I called, Ivy said. You didnt answer.

I was busy, cant you see?

I can, Ivy said.

She saw plentythe undone collar of his shirt, two teacups on the desk, one smudged with lipstick, the woman awkwardly shifting her files from hand to hand.

This is Alice, my new project manager, Michael said, voice deliberate, explanatory, as if nothing at all needed hidingthe kind of voice you hear only when something needs to be hidden.

Pleased to meet you, Ivy replied.

Alice finally set the files down, managed a smile, a decent oneIvy didnt judge her much. Shed made no vows to Ivys Michael.

I should go, Alice murmured.

Yes, Ivy agreed. You should.

Alice left, politely.

Michael and Ivy remained. The room grew very quiet. Outside, the parking lights blinked above unfamiliar cars.

So why did you come? Michael said, not a question, but a challenge.

Ivy eyed the lipstick-stained cup, then her husband.

I wanted to understand, her tone unruffled, why you never pick up your phone.

I was busy, Ive explained.

You have.

Pause.

You neednt make a drama out of this, Ivy. Were working. Its business.

At seven in the evening?

Yes, at seven! These things happen! The projects on fireyou know how it is!

Michaels voice rose, forceful, as if volume might suffice for reason. Ivy knew this trick. Twenty-three years had taught her its every note.

She said nothing. Just watched him.

And something in Michael wilted. Perhaps, in the past, shed have wept by now, or apologised, or dashed out. This time she merely stood there, silent.

Lets go home, he said, more quietly. Well talk there.

All right. Ivy agreed.

She left the office first, walked down the corridor with its colourless carpet, her mind oddly empty, clear as window glasscold, sharp.

Shed seen all she needed. Now she just had to decide what to do.

They drove home in silence.

Michael watched the road. Ivy watched the citythe lights, the rainwashed tarmac, the golden windows of others. Behind each, another life. Another kitchen, another husband. Likely every woman in there had her own Alice. Or not yet. Or once did.

In the lift, fifth floor, Michael pressed the button. Ivy stood beside him, wondering: Once were inside, hell start explaining. Carefully, methodicallyoverwork, misunderstandings. He was always a good talker.

They entered. Michael switched on the hall light, hung up his coat, neatly as everan old irritation, which now grated for reasons she couldnt name.

Ivy, listen

Im listening.

She moved to the kitchen. Michael followed, hands in pockets, leaning back against the wall.

Ivy, nothing happened.

All right.

We really were working.

All right, Michael.

You dont believe me.

I dont.

He looked thrown. Perhaps he’d expected tears, yelling, smashing cupsthough Ivy never smashed crockery. But this calm I dont seemed to leave him at a loss.

Why not? he asked.

Because I saw your face when I walked in, she said. You looked at me like I was in the way.

Thats not true.

Michael. She turned towards him. Ive known you twenty-three years. I know the look when youre glad to see me. I didnt see it tonight.

He was silent.

Youre making it up, Ivy.

Maybe. She shrugged. But did I imagine the scent? That aftershave youve worn these past three months?

Its mine.

Youve never worn that brand. I always buy it. This ones different.

Michael opened his mouth.

Now, at last, he really seemed uneasy.

Ivy, I swear, its nothing serious.

Nothing serious. She repeated it slowly. But something, all the same.

I never said that!

You just did.

He pressed his face in his handsa gesture Ivy knew well: shame or regret. Usually, shame.

Ivy, he said softly, I dont know how to explain. Its just easier with her. Shes young, she looks at me differently. I know, it sounds idiotic.

It sounds honest, Ivy told him.

Nothing happened, nothing serious. Truly.

But it could have.

He said nothing. And that silence spoke the truth clear as day.

She nodded, ticking something off in her mind.

Understood, she said.

Ivy, dont jump to conclusions.

Michael. Her voice was level as a table. These arent hasty conclusions. These are three months in the making. While you wore anothers aftershave, dodged my calls, looked at me like I was furniture.

He didnt answer. Stared at the table.

Theres one thing I want to say, she went on, and I ask you to listenno protests, no explaining, just wait till Im finished. Then say what you like. All right?

Michael nodded.

Im not here to cause a scene. I wont shout or smash anything. But you need to understand: I wont go on pretending things are fine when theyre not. For twenty-three years, I let things slide, didnt ask, kept the peace. Thats done.

He looked up.

This isnt an ultimatum. Im just telling you the truth. You must decide what matters to you. Right now.

Michael was quiet for a long stretch. Then, in a low murmur:

Ivy. Ive been stupid.

Yes, she returned. But thats not an answer.

Ivy left for Lindas that same night.

She packed her bag quickly, no drama. Michael stood in the bedroom doorway, watching.

For long? he asked.

I dont know.

Ivy

Michael, she zipped her bag, you need time to think. So do I. Best if we both do that separately for now.

He didnt argue. Which, Ivy thought, said more than words ever could.

Linda opened the door, took in the bag, Ivys face, and didnt ask anything. Just put the kettle on. This was why Ivy had loved her for twenty years.

They sat up in the kitchen until two a.m. Linda listened, spoke now and againwords, not advice, just to keep silence from swallowing everything.

Michael rang on the third day. Not to justify himself, nothing grand. He simply said:

Ivy, I want you to come home. Ive realised something.

And whats that?

That Im a fool. But I keep saying that, and it loses weight. I want to prove it.

Ivy was quiet.

All right, she said.

She came home Friday evening. On the kitchen table was stew, beetroot overdone. Michael always overcooked it, fearing the alternative. Next to it, a bouquetstiff, awkward, as if bought in a hurry.

Ivy set down her bag. She glanced at the stew, then at the flowers.

I overcooked the beetroot, Michael admitted behind her.

I can see.

But its all right, overall.

Well see, she said.

And she went to wash her hands. Life is strange like that. Sometimes the beetroot is overdone, sometimes it isnt. The important thing is to know the difference, and not to keep silent for twenty-three years.