We cant afford the seaside this year, my husband said, before heading off on his business trip. And just one day later, I saw a picture of himon a beach, with his arm around my sister.
Margaret, please, be reasonable! You’re a smart woman, youre an accountant! Do the math. The numbers are plain as day. The car loan eats up eight hundred quid a month. The mortgageover a grand. Then theres Mums cottageanother five hundred every month just for repairs; the roofs leaking, it needs fixing, or the whole place will rot. What holiday? We cant do the Maldives! Unless youre planning on eating beans on toast for a year?
Oliver was pacing round our tiny kitchen, waving his arms, opening and slamming cupboards, rattling the crockery, pouring himself a glass of water then tipping it down the sink. He wouldnt meet my eyelike an HMRC agent had just materialised at our table.
I slumped into my seat, staring at the open tab from the travel agent on my laptop. The screen shimmered with turquoise water, bright white sand, palm trees arching over beach huts. It wasnt just a picture. It was The Dream. The dream that had kept me going the past three years. Something to reach for.
Ollie, I said softly, just managing to keep my voice steady. Ive been savingdeliberately. I havent touched my bonus. Ive been taking sandwiches to work. Picking up extra projects, balancing accounts for three different companies at night while you slept. Ive got nine thousand pounds in a separate account. Its enough. Ive checked everything twice. The car can wait. Your mums cottage wont collapse in a fortnight, the tiles are still solid for now. We need a break. Properly. We havent been on holiday for five years, not since we took out the mortgage. Youre irritable all the time, shouting about nothing. Im on the verge of a breakdownIve got a constant twitch in my eye. We need time together, remember were a married couple, not just housemates paying off bills.
Its not only about money! he barked out, the mug in his hand rattling against the saucer. Theres a crisis at work. Projects piling up. The main contractors breathing down my neck. My boss isnt going to just let me off to sunbathe while the deadlines are burning. If I get sacked, you can wave bye-bye to your dream trip!
But you said only last week things were quiet I tried.
Things changed! he snapped, face darkening. The client piled on more demands. Redesigns, changes, everything. Margaret, thats the end of it. No seaside, not this year. Well go to your mums cottage for the Bank Holidayhelp weed the allotment, fix up the greenhouse, whip up a barbecue. A breath of fresh air, the countryside. Whats wrong with that?
I dont want to go to your mums, I whispered, feeling tears scalding beneath my eyelids. I dont get a restI work twice as hard there: weeding, digging, cooking for your whole extended family. I just want the seaside. I want to lie around and do nothing for once.
Tough! Its not all about what you want! he thundered, his fist hitting the table. Selfish! Ive got a last-minute work trip, anyway. Manchester. Two weeks. Site visits, board meetings. So stay home, and stop harping on. And by the wayI need some of your savings for travel and upfront costs.
Why? I blinked. Your company should cover all that.
The company reimburses afterwards, based on receipts, he explained, rolling his eyes. Right now, I need to front the money. Accommodation in a four-star hotel, entertaining the clients Cant exactly show up eating a Pot Noodle, not in front of the managing director. I have to represent!
How much? I said, voice hollow.
Six thousand, he replied.
Six thousand? Thats two-thirds of my holiday fund, Oliver!
Ill pay it back. With expenses. In two weeks, youll get it all back, plus bonuses. Dont you trust your own husband?
The guilt in his eyes made me hesitate.
Hes working, in the north, for us. And Im here nagging about sand and palm trees.
I transferred him the money. Six thousand pounds. My fingers trembled as I pressed send.
Ive trusted him for ten years. Hes always been steadfast, even if a bit blunt and thrifty at timeshes never let me down in a big way.
He left the next morning.
I packed his suitcase.
Dont get too lonely, Maggie! he called cheerily, slipping on his overcoat, smelling of some expensive aftershave Id bought him for Christmas. Ill ring you, but the norths signal is dreadful. Construction sites, middle of nowhereyou know how it is. If Im out of touch, dont worry.
Look after yourself, I said, wrapping his scarf around his neck. Dress warmly, there might still be snow up there.
Naturally. Ive packed thermals.
And why do you need swimming trunks and shorts? I frowned, noticing them tucked into the suitcase.
He paused, just for a second, then shrugged.
Theres a pool at the hotel. And a sauna. Good for relaxing after a long day.
It made sense, I supposed.
And off he went. Taking my savingsand my last hopes of a proper break.
The door closed. The flat fell silent.
I was alone. In this stifling London street, where spring only appears on the calendar. Outside, its just a grey drizzle.
I went to work, robotically. Came home, reheated leftovers, watched endless shows about beautiful lives.
The loneliness stung unbearably.
So I phoned my sister, Lucy.
Lucy is my complete opposite. Im dark-haired, steady, homebody, accountant; shes a bombshell blonde, a model, always somewhere glamorous, flitting from party to party. Five years younger than me, she carries on like shes seventeen.
We werent that close (too different), but family is family. Id always looked out for her, helped her through money woes at uni, bailed her out of mishaps.
I dialled her number.
The number you have called is unavailable.
Weird. Lucy is always glued to her phone. She posts a story every five minutesLook at my salad, In a cab, Just bought lipstick.
I checked her social media. Her last post was a week agothe day Oliver left.
A snap of a pink, sparkly suitcase. Caption: About to jet off on my dream trip! Guess where? Its hot! Secret mission! #Trip #Dream #Secret
Clearly shed gone off somewhere. Off on some adventure.
A week passed.
Olivers calls were rareevery couple of days, always busy, in a meeting, terrible reception.
He sounded different. Lighter, almost excited, not worn-out at all. And in the backgroundstrange sounds. Not the noise of an office, nor the howl of Manchester wind, but a soft, steady rushing Like surf?
And musicfaint, rhythmic, with a Latin twist.
Olly, whats that music? Where are you?
Huh? Radio in the car, thats all! On the way to a site, driver likes his music.
And the rushing sound?
Wind, love. Up here its gale force, blows your head off! Right. Phones cutting outbye!
Beep-beep-beep.
That Friday night, I couldnt sleep. Something gnawed at my heart.
I sat in the kitchen, nursing cold tea, endlessly scrolling timelines in a banned app (over the VPN, naturally).
Photo after photo of food, pets, peoples kids Utterly dull.
Suddenly
A little alert popped up, then vanished.
Lucy Smith tagged you in a photo.
My heart thudded. Lucy? She surfaced?
I clicked the notification.
The photo loaded slowly.
Firstbrilliant blue. Sky.
Thenturquoise. Sea.
Thenwhite sand.
And thenpeople.
It was a beach. The exact one Id seen on the travel site. The Maldives. I recognised the tell-tale curve of the palm, the pier in the background. The Paradise Island resortI knew it by heart.
And there in the foreground, in a striped deckchair, lay Lucy. Swathed in a fiery red bikini (so tiny it barely covered her), enormous sunglasses, cocktail in hand. Glowing, utterly sunkissed, radiantly happy.
Beside her
Beside her, his hairy arm wrapped round her waist, sat a man I knew only too well.
Wearing those same palm-print shorts.
Oliver.
My husband.
Who is currently freezing in Manchester, wading through site mud, securing a deal for the company.
His smile was wider than Id seen in years. Real, dazzling, in love. He looked at her like a cat eyes cream.
The caption? Happiness loves silence but I cant help sharing! My beloved made my fairy-tale come true! My hero! Thanks for paradise! #Maldives #Love #MyMan #Vacation #SisterSorryNotSorry.
And shed tagged meon his face.
Accidentally? Not a chance.
On purpose. Her way of saying: I won. Im younger. Better. Prettier. While you pay the tab for our luxury.
I stared at the screen as the room darkened. My world spun.
My husband.
And my sister.
On my money.
The £6,000 Id spent three wearisome years scraping together, going without every little treat.
Theyd nicked my dream. Theyd stolen my life.
You dont deserve a holiday, stay at home.
Selfish.
No money.
Olivers words rang in my head, mockingly. Hed lied to my face, while already picturing smearing sun cream on Lucys back.
I started shaking. At first little tremors, then proper shivers; my teeth chattered on the tea mug.
I made it to the bathroom and was violently ill.
When I rose, rinsing in cold water, the woman staring back from the mirror was ashen-faced, red-eyed, the lines around her mouth etched deepa worn-out woman.
Not pretty, young Lucy, bouncing about, not caring about mortgages or broken cottages. Why would he pick me, after all?
Why not? With Lucy every day was a party; I was just the one footing the bill.
I returned to the computer. My hands were unsteady, but my mind was suddenly calm. Cold, clear.
I took screenshots. More. Saved the photos.
Recorded my screen, scrolling through Lucys account (there were stories: them popping bubbles in business class, their room decorated with towel swans, Oliver carrying her into the sea).
Then I logged into online banking.
Checked the accounts.
The car loan (his precious Land Rover) is in my name. Theres £20K left to pay. He transferred me funds monthly, but its my debt.
The mortgagejoint, technically, but hes main applicant.
Bank card Id sent £6K to? Balance: zero. The sum had gone to Blue Horizon Holidays Ltd.
I sat in the dark, sobbing into a towel so the neighbours wouldnt hear.
Something inside me died. That naive, kind Margaret who believed in love and family was gone.
Some other woman was born. Angry, hard, calculating.
The next morning I woke up changed.
No more tears. Only icy, blinding rage. And a single urgeto destroy.
So, theyre sipping cocktails on my money in paradise? Laughing at me?
Fine.
Ill show you paradise. Ill show you the real Manchester wintereven in the tropics.
Oliver forgot one small, vital detail.
The general Power of Attorney for the car.
He sorted it for me last year, before a long trip, in case you need to renew the insurance, get it serviced, maybe sell it off if cash gets tight. Three years duration. Including the right to sell.
That Land Rover is his pride and joy. His toy. He treats it better than me.
I got dressedtrousers, heels, red lipstick (Lucys trick, for effect).
Gathered all paperwork: logbook, service docs, PoA, spare key (I kept a set at home).
And I drove to a dealership I knewthe trade-in lot where my uni mate, Dave, works.
Dave, mate, I need to sell the Defender. Fast.
He whistled low when I wheeled her in. Mags! Thats one hell of a vehicle. Ollie in on this? Hed die for this car.
Ollie I tried to sound nonchalant. Hes on a last-minute trip. Needs the cash. Theres been a gambling debt. Hes desperate. (No point telling half-truths.)
Daves eyes widened.
Right. Well handle it quick. Got the docs?
All here. Full rights.
Trade-in pricell be a fair bit below market, you get that. We need a margin.
I dont care. Cash. Today.
£35,000 we can do.
Fine.
Two hours later I marched out with a heavy envelope of cash.
Revenge weighed nicely in my handbag.
Next stopthe bank. Paid the car loan£8,000. Cleared. Got confirmation.
The rest£27,000went into my own private account, opened in my maiden name (thank God I never gave it up), to which Oliver had no access.
Then home again.
I ordered a small van.
Packed everything of Olivers. Down to his pants.
All his posh suits. The spinning rods he collects (worth a fortune). The games console. The laptop. His favourite mug.
All in boxes.
The courier asked, Where to?
Essex, Ashford Road, Oakview Cottagein Olivers mothers name.
Let his mum deal with him now. He wanted fresh air, after all.
Then I called a locksmith.
Change the locks, please. The best youve got. And add an alarm.
Had a break in? the locksmith asked, sympathetic.
You could say thatIve had rats.
But that wasnt all. I knew his email password (my birthday, of all things).
I logged in. Found the holiday bookinge-tickets, hotel voucher.
I called the resort.
Good afternoon, this is Mrs Margaret Taylor. I need to speak to the manager, pleaseits urgent.
The manager was put through.
I spoke clearly, calmly: Theres been a major error. My husband, Mr Oliver Taylor, is staying with you (bungalow 105) with another woman. He paid using a stolen company card. Im the head accountant, and Ive frozen the transaction and reported the matter to Interpol. The funds will be withdrawn within the hour, so I suggest you evict them immediately to avoid issues with the authorities.
I could hear the panic on the other end. Maam, this is very serious! We will check at once!
Good. And please pass on a message. Free rides over. Margaret.
Within an hour, I got an alert from his bank app (which Id never disconnected from). Attempted charge of $2,000 declined (the hotel trying to claim payment).
Shortly afterwards
Calls. Oliver.
I didnt answer.
Calls. Lucy.
Ignored.
Messages flooded in.
Oliver: Mags! Whats happening? Cards blocked! Theyre throwing us out! Weve no cash! What did you do?
Oliver: Pick up, you cow! Were sat on the beach with our cases, its thirty-five degrees, Lucys in tears!
Lucy: Margaret, dont be cross! Its not what it looks like. We just ran into each other! We didnt sleep together! Dont shame us, please! Send some money so we can get a boat to the airport! Well die out here!
Oliver: What do you mean you sold my car? Dave rang me! You flogged the Land Rover?! Bloody hell, thats my pride and joy! Ill kill you when I get back!
I laughed until I could barely breathe.
Ran into each other? In the same exclusive bungalow?
I sent them one photothe screen grab from Lucys story.
And the message: Happiness loves silence. Enjoy the quiet. Hope you like walking back to Manchester, since the cars soldmoney used for family needs (my mental health). Your things are at your mothers. The locks are changed. Divorce papers filed. Adios, folks.
Three days later, Oliver came back.
He had to borrow money from mates (who, having heard his stories about Manchester, were stunned by the truth) to buy flights home. The hotel staff had kept him in the lobby until a friend sent him cryptocurrency. He arrived sunburnt and broke.
He tried banging down the door.
Open up! This is my house! Ill drag you to court!
Its a joint mortgage, and Ive sued for division, I replied through the door. Your portion is just a bank debt. Youre not living here. Ive got a court order. (Not entirely true, but our local bobby, Mike, my neighbour, was next door with his truncheon.)
Go home, Ollie, said Mike. Dont start. Or youll spend the weekend in a cell.
He swore, kicked the door, and left.
The divorce was very public, very messy.
Oliver tried to challenge the car sale. Claimed Id stolen his property.
But the judge looked over the paperwork.
Power of attorney, signed and in date? Correct. Authority to sell? Correct. Proceeds used to pay the car loan (£8,000)? Yes. And the rest?
Spent on household expenses, I said innocently. Food, bills and medicationfor the mental breakdown I suffered from the stress.
He couldnt prove otherwise. No receipts.
As for my sisterI never spoke to her again.
Mum and Dad were shocked, trying to reconcile us.
Margaret! Shes just Lucy. Young, foolish! She didnt mean harm. Oliver seduced her! Forgive her! Theyve split, shes miserable.
I dont have a sister, I replied simply. The one I had is gone. This woman means nothing to me.
Lucy dumped Oliver the instant they were home. I dont date men with no job, no car, no flat. She was already posing from Dubai with a new sugar daddy. Thats her look-out.
As for me
I took the six grand he failed to spend plus the rest from the car.
And I booked a trip for myself.
The Maldives. The very same resort, next door to their bungalowwith a private pool.
Alone.
Now, Im sitting in a sunlounger. Drinking a Pina Colada. Watching the turquoise waves.
It really does heal you.
I breathe freely.
Im free. Im well off enough (twenty-seven grand is a nice cushion). And never again will I let any man decide if Ive earned a break.
I know Ive earned it all.
