The Illusion of a Perfect Life
William woke to find his Eleanor standing by the bed, a tray balanced in her hands. Steam curled from a mug of strong coffee, and neat slices of cheddar and ham rested on delicate china plates.
“Good morning, my love,” she whispered, her voice like a melody spun from honey and promises.
“All this… for me?” William rubbed his eyes, half-convinced it was a trick of the light.
“Of course, darling,” Eleanor replied, her smile as warm as fresh-baked bread.
Half an hour later, the kitchen hummed with the scent of buttered toast and marmalade. As she left for work, Eleanor pressed a kiss to his stubbled cheek, her perfume lingering like a secret.
“Don’t forget—you’ve got lads’ night in the shed tonight,” she reminded him, smoothing his crumpled collar.
“Wait… I can actually go?” William blinked, unused to such freedom.
“Stay out as late as you like,” she said, and his heart stuttered at the sheer ease of it.
That evening, returning to their cottage in the village of Hartsbrook, William froze on the doorstep, certain he’d wandered into the wrong life.
Eleanor stood before him, a vision ripped from a society magazine. Her emerald gown shimmered, her hair cascaded in glossy waves, and her kohl-lined eyes held a mystery that made his throat tighten.
“You’re… bloody unreal,” he breathed, the faint tang of ale still on his lips.
Candlelight danced across crystal glasses, casting shadows over the feast she’d prepared. Eleanor crossed her legs, her fingertips brushing his knuckles with a smile so perfect it felt staged.
“No headache? No ranting about your boss?” William frowned, waiting for the punchline.
“Never better,” she purred, plucking a grape from the bowl and pressing it to his lips.
“Mental,” he muttered, chewing slowly. “This is the life.”
The next day, bumping into an old mate at the village green, William grinned like a lottery winner.
“How’s tricks?” the bloke asked, clapping his shoulder.
“Living the dream, mate. Absolute bloody dream.”
By Friday, Eleanor was packing his rucksack for the weekend fishing trip—wax-paper parcels of sausage rolls, flask of tea, all folded with military precision.
“You’re really fine with this?” William eyed her, waiting for the trap to spring.
“Go on, have a laugh with the boys,” she said, handing him a tartan scarf.
“What if I come back empty-handed?”
“Then I’ll pop to Tesco and fry up some cod,” she shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
He grabbed her wrists, sudden and earnest. “Tell me I’m not dreaming.”
Her laugh was silk and shadows. “Oh, darling. This is as real as it gets.”
At the lakeside, William boasted between swigs of bitter: “Lads, I’ve cracked it. Perfect wife, perfect life!”
Home again, he dumped his fish-stained gear in the hall and stumbled toward the shower. Silent as a ghost, Eleanor gathered his clothes, scrubbed the stink from his jeans. By the time he emerged, the table groaned with golden fish, crisp chips, a pint chilled just right.
“Now *this* is how you treat a man,” he thought, smug as a king.
Next morning, he stretched, anticipating the familiar sight: Eleanor bearing coffee, that sly smile. But the room yawned empty.
The kitchen was barren, no hint of breakfast. His duffel sat by the door. Eleanor emerged, crisp in her work blouse.
“Still faffing about? I’ve got to dash.”
“Why’s my bag here?” His stomach dropped like a stone.
“Game’s up, love. Your fairy tale’s over. Ta-ra.” Her tone could’ve frosted glass.
“Hold on!” He seized her arm. “We had a deal—if I liked the week, I stayed! It was *perfect*! We’re meant to be!”
“So I passed your ‘perfect wife’ exam, did I?” She wrenched free, lip curled.
“With *flair*!”
“Funny. I was testing you too.” Her eyes turned arctic. “Perfect means *both* happy. Not just you playing lord of the manor.”
“I’ll change! No more fishing, I’ll—I’ll buy you diamonds!”
“Too late, pet. Should’ve thought of that before.” She flicked a speck off her sleeve. “Don’t forget your bag.”
“At least feed me breakfast for old times’ sake…”
“Try the café.” The door slammed, leaving him gaping at the wood.
William stood there, grip white on the duffel strap. His perfect life had crumbled like a biscuit in tea, leaving nothing but crumbs and the ache of what he’d ruined.