After celebrating her fiftieth birthday, Agatha decided to take leave at the start of May to leisurely tend to the cottage without the usual weekend rush. Anthony insisted too.
“Of course, we’ll move to the cottage together. You can take your time with the garden, and I’ll come down after work and on weekends.”
“You’re right. We’re not going abroad this year anyway, and we already splurged on the birthday dinner. It was lovely, Tony. Thank you—without you…” Agatha replied.
When her leave began, she packed some things for the cottage—seedlings, containers of homemade meals—and waited for her husband. Finally, he arrived.
“Ready! Load everything into the car. We’ll have dinner there—I’ve brought food.”
On the drive, Anthony suddenly admitted,
“It’s great we planned this, but I won’t be able to help much. I’ve been sent on an unexpected business trip.”
“How long, Tony?”
“Two weeks. But I’ll come back as soon as I can to help. The boss is sending me to a nearby city.”
By fifty, Agatha had everything needed for a comfortable life—a good husband, stable marriage, grown and independent children. A spacious London flat, a reliable car, a countryside cottage, a well-paying job.
And then there was Rita, her closest friend since childhood. They’d gone to the same school, the same university, and now worked in the same office. Rita was vivacious and bold, cycling through men but never settling down.
Her bad luck had started young—pregnant by a schoolmate at eighteen.
“Rita, we’re going to the clinic,” her mother had insisted upon discovering her condition, barely keeping her composure. “Get rid of it—you’re going to university, not tying yourself down.”
It was done discreetly, through connections. Rita enrolled, but the procedure left her unable to have children.
She’d married twice. The first, a quiet, intellectual man, bored her.
“Rita, I don’t get it—what’s wrong with Ian? He’s kind, stable, works hard for you!” Agatha would say.
“Ugh, he’s dull. Don’t worry, my luck will turn!”
Her second husband, a charming musician named Liam, swept her off her feet at a concert.
“Rita, you’re my muse—I sing only for you!”
But his wild lifestyle—endless parties, drinking, affairs—wore thin. When he hit her, she left.
Agatha, feeling guilty for her own happiness, tried setting Rita up, but no man held her interest. At fifty, she was single but unbothered—brief flings, nothing serious.
At the cottage, Anthony helped unload before leaving for his “business trip.” The next morning, Agatha cleaned thoroughly—she’d spend her whole leave here, enjoying the peace.
By afternoon, she spotted a stranger in neighbour Mary’s garden—broad-shouldered, sturdy, working diligently. She wandered over.
“Good afternoon! Is Mary unwell? I’m Agatha, next door.”
“Spot on. She’s resting—I’m Oliver, her younger brother. On leave, so helping out. Pleasure to meet you.”
Oliver, a retired officer, was efficient and kind. Agatha liked him—not classically handsome, but warm.
She visited Mary, bringing biscuits and tea.
“Oliver’s a godsend,” Mary said. “My back’s been awful—he’s done more in days than I could in weeks!”
The work went smoothly. Oliver even helped Agatha. Anthony visited weekends but barely lifted a finger—just shared drinks in the gazebo.
“Mary, why not introduce Rita to Oliver? He’s decent, stable—widowed, no baggage.”
Mary hesitated. She disliked Rita. “He’s stationed in Scotland—would she move that far?”
Days later, Rita arrived—then Anthony.
“Agatha, mind if I stay a fortnight? I’m on leave too.”
“Of course! I’ll introduce you to Oliver—he’s lovely,” Agatha said, unaware of Anthony’s tense glance.
Rita, glamorous in designer sportswear, flitted between cottages. Mary watched, tight-lipped.
Days were lively—gardening for Agatha and Mary, badminton and walks for Rita and Anthony. Evenings were wine and barbecues.
Agatha noticed Rita’s efforts—singing duets with Oliver, batting her lashes. But Oliver remained distant.
As her leave ended, Agatha grew wistful. She’d miss Oliver.
The night before leaving, they talked for hours. Rita and Anthony had gone for a walk.
“You’re quiet,” Oliver said.
Agatha realised—she didn’t want to leave. Or let Rita have him.
Back in London, Anthony announced a fishing trip and left. Then Agatha remembered—she’d left important documents at the cottage.
Taking the bus, she arrived to find Oliver waiting.
“Agatha! Fancy a walk to the lake?”
“I need my files—work starts soon.”
“No rush,” he stalled, but she spotted Anthony’s car.
Pushing past, she found them—in bed together.
Her legs buckled. She turned, whispering, “Lock the door next time,” and left.
Oliver guided her to Mary’s, handing her tea.
“You knew?”
“Of course. Rita confessed I wasn’t her type—asked me to cover for them.”
“And you said nothing?”
“Would you have believed me?” Oliver sighed. “I have two choices—let you cry on my shoulder, or punch your husband’s lights out.”
Mary spoke up. “Agatha, it’s obvious—you care for Oliver. And he’s adored you since day one.”
Oliver took her hand. “Come with me. I can’t imagine life without you.”
Her heart raced. Despite the betrayal, she felt—free.
“I’ll go. Far from this mess.”
Weeks later, they left. Now, in the Highlands, she’s happier than ever—Oliver still serves, while she tends their home.
Sometimes, love finds you where you least expect.
