The 50 Year Old Mistress
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Angela Blake strode into her office from a staff meeting and stopped short at seeing a man waiting in her office. He wore no jacket, a haphazardly hung tie, white shirt and dark trousers. It was apparent the corporate setting wasn’t his normal venue.
“What are you doing in my office?” Her tone a mix of polite curiosity and authority. She moved briskly into the medium sized space, and checked to make sure her computer hadn’t been tampered with before spearing him with her gaze. He pulled a manila envelope from behind him and handed it to her. After offering a slight bow, he turned, left her office and pulled the door shut.
“Now what?” she murmured. Things were getting tight in her office, new and younger college graduates gunned for her job, slowed promotions. Even with her solid track record, she knew she needed to stay on her game. Pulling out the papers, she saw the name of a familiar attorney. She sat and read the first page twice.
“Robert wants a divorce?” No, that couldn’t be right. Her hand shook as she picked up the phone and dialed his cell. A disconnected recording answered. Blinking rapidly, she shook off the obvious implications. Heart racing, she held her head in the palm of her hand. They’d only been married four and a half years, sure things were strained between them lately, but everyone had problems. That’s why they invented marriage counseling. Stomach queasy, she called his job and discovered he hadn’t worked there in two weeks. He’d retired from his job and hadn’t told her. Worse, she hadn’t noticed.
“Amanda,” she called her assistant. “I’m feeling nauseous and going to head home early.” She stuffed the papers into her bag, trembling and praying she could make it home to straighten out this mess before it mushroomed.
Hanging up, she stood quickly and held onto her desk as waves of wooziness assailed her. After a moment, she headed for the elevator. Placing on her sunglasses, she stared at an old memo on the ride to the garage, avoiding everyone’s gaze. Her heart thumped loud around her throat. Why would Robert file for divorce without talking to her? Whatever their problems, they could work it out. The drive home was a blur. Wiping tears from her face, she streaked her make-up. What the hell went wrong? At home, she parked in their two bay garage, noticing the other side was empty. Fear pooled in her stomach as she disarmed the alarm and walked into the kitchen. So far, everything appeared to be in its rightful place. The living room with its neutral colors and large red sofa they’d chosen together sat prominently in front of the fireplace. All of their pictures still graced the wall and mantel.
With slow trepidation, she made her way to their master suite. If he’d left, she’d discover it there. Never had a short walk seemed so long. Opening the door, she glanced at the made bed. Robert was a neat freak and kept the house spotless. He’d scoffed when she offered to have a cleaning company come in once a week to give him a break.
Fist clenched, she stepped to his closet, inhaled and opened the door. Her stomach dropped and she fell to the floor, horrified. Everything of his was gone. For minutes, she stared at his empty closet wondering when? They’d talked briefly this morning. How? Finally, it dawned on her, he moved today or at least finished today. While she’d sat in meetings, listening to boring statistics, and fretting about her career, he’d been here packing his things. He intended to cut her out of his life. After all this time, he pulled a Houdini.
“A*****e,” she whispered slumped against the closet door. She wiped the tear from her face. Standing, she wiped her hands against her skirt and searched the room, hoping he had the decency to leave some type of explanation. Moving around the room, she searched all his drawers and a few of hers. There was nothing.