Diary Entry
What a brilliant bit of news!
I rushed home in such a hurry today—couldn’t wait to tell my husband. Not just good news, mind you—brilliant. This deserved a proper celebration. I stopped by the shop on the way and picked up a bottle of wine. I’d whip up dinner, we’d share a glass… I was already dreaming of it.
“Henry, I’m home!” I called out as I stepped into our tiny flat. Not that shouting was necessary—the place was so small you could hear the key turn from any corner. But I was bursting with excitement and couldn’t help myself.
Henry trudged in from the living room, looking more tired than usual.
“I’ve got the most amazing news! I’ll make dinner quick, and we’ll celebrate—I even bought wine. Look.” I pulled the bottle from the bag, oblivious to the tense look he gave me. “Put it in the kitchen, yeah? I’ll just get changed.” I breezed past him to the wardrobe, ducked behind the door like it was a screen, and slipped into a short silky robe he always liked. Smoothed my hair. Shut the wardrobe.
Henry sat motionless in front of the telly, the sound off, staring right through the screen. I sat beside him.
“What’s happened? Is your mum poorly again?” I asked carefully.
No answer. I covered his hand with mine.
“Whatever it is, we’ll sort it. I got—” Before I could finish, he yanked his hand away and stood up sharply. “Alright, tell me later,” I mumbled. “I’ll start dinner.”
As I fried the potatoes, my excitement drained away, replaced by a gnawing dread. Asking him outright wouldn’t help. The wine suddenly felt like a bad idea—but how was I supposed to know?
We’d been married for a year and a half. Henry already worked at a big construction firm when I was finishing my degree. We lived off his salary in this shoebox flat, but it was enough.
Part of his wages always went to his mum—she lived up in Manchester, always unwell. Medicine wasn’t cheap. When I finally graduated and got my own job, we even managed to start saving for a proper house—though at this rate, we’d be pensioners by the time we could afford one.
We used to lie awake at night, dreaming of starting our own business. Henry would design houses, and I’d handle the interiors. But first, we needed experience. No one would trust a pair of nobodies fresh out of uni. We’d need references, recommendations. Then we’d buy that big house. Have kids.
But in the meantime, I was stuck with dreary little projects—nothing that let me show what I could really do. Still, I threw myself into every job, even if it was dull. I believed—really believed—that one day, someone would finally notice me, hand me something worthwhile. And then we’d have it all—the house, the car, the life we’d imagined.
And today, that finally happened.
My boss pulled me aside, said he was putting me on a proper project—a luxury flat overhaul, a wedding gift from some posh woman to her son. One month to finish. No distractions. Extra pay for speed.
I was sure I could do it. Ideas were pouring out of me. I raced to see the place straight after—met the client, a Mrs. Evelyn Whitmore, draped in designer labels and smelling of expensive perfume. She showed me around, made it clear money wasn’t an issue. I sketched a plan, suggested materials—she loved it. Said if she approved my final draft, we’d start right away.
And I couldn’t wait to tell Henry.
But the wine stayed unopened. Dinner was a silent affair. After, I buried myself in my laptop, drafting the project, pouring everything into it. Only when Henry sat down next to me did I look up.
“Need to talk,” he muttered.
“Go on.” I turned to face him.
“Got sacked today.” He wouldn’t look at me.
“What? Why?”
“They piled on the work—new contracts, deadlines tighter than anything. The boss was on my case constantly. I slipped up, missed an error in the plans. By the time I spotted it, they’d already broken ground. Tried to fix it—too late. They fired me.”
“We’ll manage. Listen, I was trying to tell you—”
“There’s more.” He sprang up, pacing like a wild thing. “I’ve got to repay them. It’s in the contract.”
“How much?” My voice was small.
“More than we’ve got. I’ll take a loan. But I can’t send Mum anything now.”
“A loan? With interest? No—we’ll borrow from someone—”
“Don’t be daft,” he snapped. “Who’ve we got? Friends vanish the second you ask for money.”
“Did you ask someone?” I guessed. “I’ve got mates, I could—”
“Try, then. Found out today I’ve got none.” He stalked off to the kitchen.
I sat there, stunned. Who could help us? Then I thought—Stella. My old school friend. Last time I saw her, she was bragging about marrying some wealthy bloke, living in a massive house in Chelsea, jetting off four times a year.
She picked up straight away.
“Stella? It’s me, Sophie—well, Sophie Bennett now—” She remembered me, sounded chuffed. But when I asked—when I finally got the words out—silence.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last. “It’s not my money. He gives me an allowance—barely enough for myself, let alone…”
I hung up.
Next, I tried Emily—a seamstress with well-off clients. Surely she had savings…
“Emily? It’s Sophie. I need to talk—”
Busy. Always busy.
Turned out she’d just bought a flat. Empty, but still.
“I’ll ask at work tomorrow,” I told myself. “Worst case, we’ll take the loan.”
The next morning, I finished the draft, even roughed out a cost estimate. Called Mrs. Whitmore.
“Already? Lovely. Come by—I’ve got the builders here.”
She scrutinised my sketches, nodded. “Impressive.”
“We won’t have time for custom furniture, but here’s what I’d suggest instead—mirrors, lighting, drapes to open up the space…” I handed her more sheets.
“Perfect. Let’s get started.” She turned to leave.
“Mrs. Whitmore—” I blurted. “Could I… ask a favour?”
She checked her watch. “Make it quick.”
So I did. Told her about Henry, the debt. “Could you… pay me upfront? I swear I’ll oversee everything myself. Won’t let you down.”
She considered it. Then—
“Fine. But I’ve a country house that needs doing up—you’ll handle that too. Off the books.”
“Yes! Thank you—”
She waved me off. “Be here tomorrow. I’ll bring the money.”
“Henry, I’m home!” I sang as I walked in.
He didn’t move from the sofa, newspaper in hand.
“Job hunting?”
“Nothing decent.”
“Well, I got the money.”
“Where?”
“Earned it. That project I mentioned—it’s a wedding flat. And a country house. The client paid upfront. She’s bringing the money tomorrow.”
He was on his feet in an instant, spinning me round. “You’re a bloody saint!”
He paid off the firm, found another job. Came home exhausted every night, wolfed down whatever I’d scrambled together, then straight to bed. I worked till my eyes burned, surviving on coffee and determination.
The country house was a triumph—so much so that when I finished, Mrs. Whitmore pressed an envelope into my hand.
“You’ve outdone yourself.”
I peeked inside later—far more than expected. I’d tuck it away for the house deposit.
On the way home, I was practically floating. At a crossing, I paused, foot tapping impatiently. I’d make a proper meal tonight. We’d finally crack open that wine—toast our fresh start.
The light turned green, but I froze. A white Lexus was idling opposite—and Henry was at the wheel. No mistake. He was wearing his favourite shirt—the one I’d painted myself, copying a designer logo onto the pocket. Beside him, a blonde. Laughing. Leaning in.
I stood there long after they’d sped off.
At home, I didn’t cook. Didn’t turn on the lights. Just waited.
“Thought you were out,” he said, flicking the switch.
“Just thinking. Late again?”
“Work’s mad. Anything to eat?”
“Blonde not feed you?”
His face went slack. “What?”
“Saw you. In theShe watched him pack in silence, then poured herself another glass, knowing that tomorrow—somehow—she’d start again.
