Undertaking Love

Chapter Thirty-Three




‘Em, dinner.’

Emily leaned her forehead against the newly decorated nursery window and sighed. The last thing on her mind was food. Tom was killing her with his kindness, and after months of soul searching, she’d finally reached her decision. Finally faced up to the decision her heart had made on the banks of the river Severn. Dan’s toothbrush may not be on their bathroom shelf, and there may only be two settings at their dinner table, but he was here nonetheless, a cuckoo in their home and their marriage.

She needed to tell Tom.

The power should be in his hands, not hers. Besides, she couldn’t bear the weight of her secret any longer. Tom deserved the truth, and the choice.

She placed an apologetic hand over the baby as it aimed a furious kick at her ribs, almost warning ‘don’t you dare’. She couldn’t blame the baby for wanting to hang onto Tom; she wanted to herself, desperately.

But not like this.

Not without honesty.



Tom stirred the risotto on the stove and threw in an extra splash of stock to get the consistency spot on.

‘Come on, Em, it’s almost on the table!’ he called out again as he pulled on Emily’s pink oven gloves to take the plates from the oven.

Emily appeared in the doorway. Every day her bump seemed to grow more evident. She slid onto the dining chair with an anxious glance at Tom as he placed her dinner down in front of her.

He plonked down in his chair and watched her test his efforts as he picked up his fork.

‘Is it okay?’

She nodded with a quick, grateful smile, although the way she pushed it around her plate with her fork suggested otherwise. It was his turn to cook, and he’d scoured the supermarkets on his way home from work for wild mushrooms to make Emily’s favourite comfort dinner.

‘It’s heavenly, Tom. What’s the occasion?’

Tom shrugged. ‘Can’t I treat my wife without a hidden agenda?’

He could have bitten out his own tongue as the clouds rolled across her eyes.

Any mention of hidden secrets made her jumpy these days, and having read her ‘Dear John,’ letter, he could see why.

Yet he hadn’t mentioned a word about it to Emily.

He had no need to.

Her letter had only confirmed what he knew. It had forced him to face the unpalatable truth. He’d pushed her away, and his careless neglect had driven her to places she should never have needed to go.

Her infidelity didn’t change a thing. He could only thank his lucky stars that, in the end, she’d chosen him.

‘I don’t deserve you, Tom.’

Emily placed her fork down next to her barely touched dinner.

‘Don’t be stupid, Em. I’m the lucky one.’

He reached for the water jug and filled their glasses. He hadn’t drunk in the house for months out of solidarity.

‘Come on. Eat your dinner before it gets cold.’

Emily tried a little more, lacklustre and troubled. Her fork clattered down again a few seconds later.

‘Tom. I can’t do this.’ Her voice wavered. ‘We need to talk. ‘

Shit. Back up Emily, please back up. I don’t want to do this.

‘Just eat your dinner. Em, I went halfway to Italy for those mushrooms.’

He joked to lighten her mood, his stomach full of foreboding.

‘That’s just it, Tom. You’re so kind, and lovely, and thoughtful, and me … I’m …’

Her fingers shook around the stem of her glass as she floundered for words to describe herself.

‘Don’t do this, Emily.’

The bleak defeat in her eyes terrified him.

‘Tom …’

He pushed his chair back. A scream of wood against stone.

‘Don’t say another word, Emily. Just wait one minute, okay?’

He took the stairs two at a time, high on adrenalin and fear.

Twenty seconds later he was back in the kitchen, the green letter in his hand.

Emily’s face crumpled as he held it up for her to see, a magician flourishing his cards to his audience.

He crossed to the cooker and lit the nearest gas ring.

She stood, trembled, but he held up a warning hand to still her and shook his head.

The flames caught the corner of the note, licked up the page towards his fingers until he couldn’t hold it any longer. He dropped it into the sink and turned the tap on full, then scooped out the mush of paper and hurled it on the floor.

Stamped on it.

Again. And again. And again.

He was unaware of the tears on his face until Emily’s tentative fingers touched his cheek. He was unaware of his own roar of anguish until he registered her gentle shush.

‘It’s gone,’ he said, finally. ‘It’s history.’

She nodded, her hand still on his cheek.

‘There’s nothing to gain by raking over the coals.’ He covered her hand with his own larger one. ‘We’re still standing. It’s all that matters.’

He laid his other hand on her belly. ‘You, me, and the baby.’

He was careful not to say our baby.