Pamela’s knuckles whitened as she held the receiver. “He what?” Her lips paled as she listened to how her husband had suffered a fatal heart attack. How typical of Edward to wreck her plans.

She terminated the call, calculating the doctor would judge her too upset to continue. She’d buy a smart trouser suit for the funeral; black always brought out the pale-green flintiness of her eyes. She smiled, breathed more easily at the prospect of her newly-gained freedom. No more bickering! No more imprisonments in the under-stairs cupboard. She’d sell the flat. Buy a cottage in the country.

#

The doorbell rang. The estate agent looked familiar. And fit! She patted her hair as he checked his clipboard.
Mrs Green?” he asked. Looking up, he stammered, wide-eyed. “P-Pamela?” He remained open-mouthed a moment before speaking again. “How are you?” He advanced an arm as though to touch her, checked himself and leaned against the door frame.
“Dennis Noakes! Well I’ll be… You went into estate agency?”
“And you! You married …” He checked the clipboard. “Oh!” Embarrassment clouded his good looks.

“Widowed,” she confirmed. “Edward passed away a few weeks ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, looking anything but. “My wife passed away last year. Left me devastated. If there’s anything I can do…” His eyes travelled up and down her slender frame.
They chatted about old times over coffee. Marvelled about the events that had brought their relationship to an end – temporarily, they thought at the time. Then life happened: she went to uni, met Edward. He’d met Julie after an internship in America. Such a coincidence they should meet again!

She showed him around the house. He knew of a buyer looking for just such a property, and of a cottage she might be interested in. Oh, and would she like dinner? He knew how low she must be feeling.

#

They slipped so easily into the companionship they’d enjoyed all those years before. Dennis secured a deal on the house which brought her more than she’d expected. The cottage he’d mentioned had a chocolate-box coziness, with new thatch and a well-stocked garden, neither too large nor too small. And then there was the lovely path leading down to the sea via tranquil countryside lanes.

“It’s beautiful!” she said, returning to the kitchen for a second look.
“Plenty of storage space, too!” In estate-agent mode, he opened the under-stairs cupboard.
She stopped dead in her tracks, wide-eyed, suppressing a shudder as she recalled the turning of the lock, the pleading.

“The owners are keen to transact,” he said, and the moment passed. “Give me the word, and I’ll negotiate the best possible terms.”

Pamela smiled. The kitchen, small but sensibly-appointed, with views of foxgloves, camellia and the nearby herb garden, clinched it. She nodded. “Yes, please. I’d like that very much.”

#

Dennis helped with the move, and visited most weekends. At last, Pamela appreciated the term ‘friends with benefits’, living exactly as she chose, meeting Dennis whenever the rural isolation prompted her to invite him from the city, or when  physical needs demanded his attentions. She settled into an easy routine of countryside walks, reading, gardening, inviting Dennis to spend the weekend.

Winter gave way to the first snowdrops. They sat with post-prandial brandies in her tiny lounge, watching the dancing flames through the glass door of the woodburner. She leaned into his warmth. His arm draped her shoulder.

“You know, we could make this permanent,” he said.

Pamela’s breath hitched. Her heart thudded. The cottage fell monstrously quiet, as ifcrouching in anticipation of her response. “Oh! I think we’re fine as we are,” she blurted, trying to keep her voice on an even keel. “Best of both worlds,” she added.

He didn’t pursue the matter. Not for months. During that time, she supposed her anxieties about commitment were eased by his laid-back manner, the small attentions he provided, the meals he cooked and the handy ways he had about the cottage.

When, after Christmas lunch and rather too much wine, he playfully fell to one knee, she thought him about to deliver her favourite ministration. Instead, he clasped his hands, gazed up into her eyes with boyish fervour, and said, “Pamela. You know I never stopped loving you. I’m asking you formally to become … To become my wife.”
Tipsy as she was, she avoided a direct answer, but couldn’t help laughing at his expression. She bent, ruffled his short, thinning hair. “I think we’d better wait until we’re both sober before we discuss that.” Clasping his head between her hands, she added, “But while you’re there …”

#

Pamela waited at the kitchen table for her Boxing Day breakfast. “I so love your company,” she said, as he attended to the percolator. “It would be too easy say ‘yes’, but can you give me a little more time? Edward—my husband—” Her voice broke. A film of tears formed in her eyes.
“Of course, my love.” Dennis, the picture of concern, and only slightly ridiculous in his pink apron, placed a coffee before her and kissed her head. He looked her in the eye with alarming earnestness. “I hope I haven’t upset you?”

“I’ve never spoken about my marriage to Edward,” she replied. “And I shan’t. Not in detail . But …” She wiped a tear, sipped her coffee. “Edward wasn’t always … as easy-going as he seemed. I’m a little wary of commitment.” She forced a smile.

Dennis, the soul of discretion, never pressed for details. His visits continued, whenever, and for however long, Pamela required.

Pamela, delighting in his unwavering consideration, found she missed him during the week and slowly reached a decision. His dedication, adoration, and general air of submissiveness had won her over. But she would have a lock fitted to the door of the under-stairs cupboard if ever those qualities slipped.