After celebrating her fiftieth birthday, Agatha decided to take a holiday in early May to tend to her countryside cottage without the usual weekend rush. Anthony insisted too.
“Of course we’ll move to the cottage,” he said. “You can take your time, and I’ll come after work and on weekends.”
“You’re right. We’re not going abroad this year, not after splashing out on the birthday dinner. And what a night it was—thank you, Anthony. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
When her leave began, she packed a few things—seedlings, some containers of homemade meals—and waited for her husband. Finally, he arrived.
“Ready when you are,” she said. “Load everything into the car, and we’ll have dinner when we get there.”
On the drive, Anthony dropped a bombshell.
“This cottage plan is great, but I won’t be much help. I’ve been sent on a last-minute business trip.”
“How long?”
“Two weeks. But I’ll come back the moment I can. The boss is sending me to Manchester.”
By fifty, Agatha had everything—a stable marriage, grown children, a London flat, a nice car, the cottage, a well-paid job. And Rita, her childhood best friend, always there to share everything. They’d gone to school together, university, even shared an office. Rita was vivacious, sharp, unlucky in love—always chasing excitement, always disappointed.
Once, right after school, she’d fallen pregnant by a classmate.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother had snapped. “We’re going to the clinic. You’re not throwing your life away.” It was hushed up, and Rita went on to university—but the procedure left her unable to have children.
She married twice. First to quiet, dependable Ian.
“Honestly, Rita, what more did you want?” Agatha had asked after the divorce. “He was kind, successful.”
“Bored me to tears,” Rita laughed. “Don’t worry, darling. My time will come.”
Next came Jake, a musician she met at a gig. He swept her off her feet—until the drinking, the cheating, the fist he raised. She left.
Agatha felt guilty for her own happiness, tried setting Rita up. But no man held her interest long.
At the cottage, Anthony helped unload before leaving early the next morning. Agatha scrubbed the place spotless, happy to spend her holiday in peace. By noon, she glanced out—no sign of their neighbour, Mary, though she usually appeared as soon as the snow melted.
Then, turning the corner toward the shed, she spotted a man in Mary’s garden—broad-shouldered, solid, working methodically.
“Afternoon,” she called. “Haven’t seen Mary—hope she’s alright? I’m Agatha, next door.”
“Bit under the weather,” the man said. “I’m Oliver, her brother. On leave, so I’m helping out. Pleasure to meet you.”
Agatha liked him instantly—not classically handsome, but warm, steady.
She visited Mary, who brightened at the sight of her. “Oliver’s a godsend,” Mary confided. “A colonel, but you’d think he was born with a spade in his hand.”
The days flew by. Oliver helped in both gardens. Anthony visited briefly but left again. One evening, over wine in the gazebo, Agatha suggested, “Let’s introduce Rita to Oliver.”
Mary hesitated. “He’s based in Edinburgh—would she really follow him?”
Agatha wasn’t sure.
Then Rita arrived unannounced, vibrant in designer sportswear. The cottage came alive—games of badminton, walks in the woods. Oliver joined sometimes, though mostly he worked.
Agatha noticed Rita’s efforts to charm him—duets by the fire, lingering glances. But Oliver stayed distant.
As her holiday ended, Agatha grew wistful. The night before leaving, she lingered with Oliver. Anthony and Rita had gone for a walk.
“I don’t want to go,” she admitted silently.
Back in London, Anthony left for a fishing trip. Then Agatha realised—she’d left important documents at the cottage.
Next morning, she took the bus. At the gate, Oliver intercepted her.
“Walk with me first,” he urged, oddly insistent.
But she spotted Anthony’s car. Pushed past.
Inside, she found them—Anthony and Rita, entwined in her bed.
Her legs buckled. She turned, whispered, “Lock the door,” and walked out.
Oliver guided her to Mary’s, handed her tea.
“You knew.”
“Didn’t want you hurt. They’ve been at it for months.”
Her hands shook. “I believed them.”
“Come with me,” Oliver said quietly. “I’ve loved you since the day we met. Marry me.”
Mary nodded. “He’s right for you. Anthony never was.”
Agatha exhaled—the weight lifting. “Yes.”
She left with Oliver. Now, in Edinburgh, she tends their home while he serves. Happy.
And Anthony?
Well. Some stones are better left unturned.
