A reader's story. Ten birthdays, ten bottles of the same perfume, and a tenth-anniversary confession over the good tablecloth about where they'd all gone.
Here's another story. We're loving your replies, so please keep sending them in.
Every birthday for ten years, I bought my wife the same perfume, from the same counter at Debenhams until it closed. I never had to ask what she wanted. It was the one thing I always got right.
On our tenth anniversary, with the good tablecloth out, she said she had something to tell me. Last time, it had been the boiler.
‘It's the perfume,’ she said. ‘I've never liked it. Not once.’
I asked where ten bottles had gone.
‘Janet.’
Her sister arrived at seven. As she hugged me at the door, I smelled ten birthdays at once. I'd always thought Janet smelled lovely. I'd even told her so, twice. She'd thanked me both times.
Later, I asked my wife why she'd never said anything.
‘You looked so pleased with yourself every year,’ she said. ‘I didn't need to like it. I liked that you never forgot. And it suits Janet. You've said so yourself.’
This year, I bought two. One was for Janet, because some things you don't stop. For the other, I took my wife to the shop and let her choose. She came out smelling warm and a little smoky, like the seat by the fire.
It took her ten minutes. It took me ten years.