After celebrating her fiftieth birthday, Agatha decided to take a holiday at the start of May to properly sort things out at the cottage without the usual weekend rush. Anton had insisted on it too.
“Course we’ll head to the cottage together—you can potter about at your own pace, and I’ll come down after work and on weekends,” he said.
“You’re right, really. We’re not going abroad this year anyway, and we’ve already spent enough on the birthday do at that fancy restaurant. Though it *was* lovely, Anton—thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Agatha replied.
When her holiday finally rolled around, she packed some bits for the cottage—seedlings, a few essentials—and waited for her husband. When he arrived, she said, “Right, I’m ready. Load the car, and we’ll have dinner there—I’ve brought containers.”
On the drive, Anton suddenly dropped a bombshell.
“Look, the cottage idea’s brilliant, but I won’t be able to help much—boss is sending me on a last-minute work trip.”
“How long, love?”
“Two weeks. But I swear I’ll come back the second I can to lend a hand. Just a quick assignment in a nearby town.”
By fifty, Agatha had everything you’d expect from a comfortable life—a good husband, stable marriage, grown-up kids doing well for themselves. A proper home, a nice car, the cottage, a decent job with solid pay.
And then there was her best mate, Rita—they’d been thick as thieves since school, went to uni together, even worked in the same office for years. Rita was lively, always on the go, but when it came to men, luck never stuck around. Disappointment followed her like a shadow.
Things had gone wrong right after secondary school, when she’d accidentally got pregnant by a classmate.
“Rita, we’re going to the clinic,” her mum had insisted, barely keeping it together. “We’re sorting this—*now*. You’re off to uni, not tying yourself down.”
Her mum sorted it quietly, pulling strings so no one ever found out. Rita got her degree, but the procedure left her unable to have children later.
She’d been married twice. The first husband was steady, quiet—but that dull routine suffocated her. Gorgeous and full of life, she couldn’t resist straying a couple of times, then confessed like it was nothing. He filed for divorce.
“Rita, what’s *wrong* with you? Ian was lovely—smart, decent. Worked hard, but it was for *you*!” Agatha would say.
“Ugh, *so* boring. Don’t fret, love—my luck’ll turn.”
Her second husband was a charmer—Tim, some bloke from a band she’d fancied at a gig. He’d swept her off her feet with his singing, all, “You’re my muse, Rita—every song’s for you.”
At first, she loved his wild lifestyle—endless parties, booze, people everywhere. But then weekends came where he’d vanish without her, stumbling home drunk. She put up with it… until he raised a hand to her. That was it. She packed her things and left.
Agatha tried to comfort her. “You’re looking in the wrong places, Rita. You need someone steady, reliable—”
She even felt guilty for her own happiness, trying to set Rita up with decent blokes. But Rita got bored fast. So by fifty, she was single but never down—flings came and went, nothing lasting.
At the cottage, Anton helped unload, then left the next morning to prep for his trip. Agatha threw herself into cleaning—she’d be here a month, and she *loved* it. By lunch, she was done, peering out the window for any sign of Mary next door. Odd—Mary was usually out as soon as the frost lifted.
Heading round back to tidy the shed, she spotted a man in Mary’s garden—broad-shouldered, fit, working steadily without a glance around.
She wandered over. “Afternoon! Haven’t seen Mary—hope she’s alright? I’m Agatha, next door.”
“Ah, she’s poorly, resting up. I’m on leave, so thought I’d help. Ollie, Mary’s younger brother. Suppose we’ll be neighbours for a bit!”
Agatha liked him—not classically handsome, but a warm voice. Mid-fifties, maybe.
“I’ll pop in and see Mary—been too long,” she said, heading inside.
“Agatha! Was hoping you’d turn up,” Mary greeted her, accepting the biscuits and tea Agatha had brought.
“I’m here all month, actually. Anton’s away on business, but he’ll visit. Oh, and I met your brother—he’s lovely!”
Mary chuckled. “Lucky me, eh? Ollie’s a colonel, but you’d think he was born digging gardens. Back’s been killing me—perfect timing.”
The days flew by—Ollie helped both gardens, effortless and cheerful. Anton visited weekends but barely lifted a finger. They all shared wine in the evenings, chatting under the pergola.
Once, Agatha asked Mary, “What if I set Rita up with Ollie? He’s been single ages.”
Mary hesitated. “…Ollie’s posted up north, love. Would Rita *really* follow him?”
Agatha shrugged. “Dunno. But he’s steady—good husband material.”
Two weeks later, Rita rocked up unannounced. A day after, Anton arrived.
“Mind if I stay a fortnight? I’ve got leave too,” Rita asked.
“Course not! Actually, there’s someone I’d *love* you to meet—”
Anton’s ears pricked up. “*Who’s* this neighbour you’re so chummy with?”
“Ollie. He’s *proper* nice.”
Anton scoffed. “Nice? Bit *ordinary*, isn’t he?”
Agatha shot back, “He’s *real*. Dependable.”
Rita, all done up in designer sportswear, flitted between cottages, laughing, flirting. Only Mary seemed uneasy, biting her tongue.
Days blurred—gardening with Ollie and Mary, while Anton and Rita played badminton, wandered the woods, even picked mushrooms (*actual* work? Not a chance). Evenings were wine and barbecues, Rita sneaking glances at Ollie, serenading him with her guitar.
Agatha noticed—Ollie dodged any talk of Rita. Clearly, he wasn’t interested.
As her holiday wound down, Agatha realised—she didn’t *want* to leave. Or hand Ollie to Rita. But…
They packed up Saturday. Back to work in three days, chores waiting. Then Anton announced a fishing trip with mates and vanished.
That’s when Agatha remembered—she’d left her documents at the cottage. *Including* her passport.
“Bus it is, then,” she muttered, setting off early next morning.
Stepping off the bus, she spotted Ollie by Mary’s gate.
“Agatha!” He grinned, oddly blocking her view of her own cottage. “Knew I’d see you today. Fancy a walk to the lake first?”
“I *need* those papers—back to work soon.”
“Plenty of time—”
Then she saw it—Anton’s car. Ollie stiffened.
“Wait, Agatha—let them wake up first. They only got in last night.”
But she was already striding forward, pushing the unlocked door open—
Anton and Rita, tangled in *her* bed.
Legs buckling, she whispered, “*Lock the damn door*,” and walked out.
Ollie guided her to Mary’s, handed her tea.
“You *knew*.”
“Didn’t want you hurt. Anton wasn’t on any work trip—they’ve been at it for *ages*. Rita bragged about it, asked me to cover for them.”
“And you *said nothing*?”
“Would you have believed me?” Ollie sighed. “Two choices—cry on my shoulder, or I punch his lights out.”
Mary stayed silent.
Agatha shook her head. “Not tears. Just *rage*. All this *time*—”
Ollie took her hand. “Come with me. I’ve been alone too long… and these weeks, I can’t picture life without you. Maybe I’m daft, but—I think you feel it too.”
Her heart hammered. *Happy*, despite the betrayal.
Mary cut in. “Agatha, *think*. You’ve fancied him for ages—just couldn’t admit it. And Anton? He’s been bringing Rita here for *years*. I *loathe* her for it.”
Ollie squeezed her hand. “No rush. I’ll wait.”
Agatha exhaled. “No going back now. I’ll go with you—far from *this* mess.”
So she did. Now
