**Diary Entry – A Twist of Fate**
I rushed home, bubbling with excitement. I couldn’t wait to tell my husband the incredible news. It wasn’t just good—it was life-changing. This called for a celebration. On the way, I stopped at the shop and picked up a bottle of wine. I’d cook dinner, we’d drink, we’d toast to our future…
“Oliver, I’m home!” I called out as I stepped into our tiny flat. There was no need to shout—the place was so small, the click of the lock echoed everywhere—but I couldn’t contain myself.
Oliver shuffled out of the living room, looking distracted.
“I’ve got the best news! Let me whip up dinner, and we’ll celebrate—look, I even bought wine!” I pulled the bottle from the bag, oblivious to the tension in his expression. “Take it to the kitchen, I’ll just change.” I breezed past him to the wardrobe, slipping behind the door like a makeshift changing screen. I threw on the short silk robe he loved, smoothed my hair, and shut the wardrobe.
Oliver sat motionless in front of the muted telly, staring blankly at the screen. I perched beside him.
“What’s wrong? Is your mum ill again?” I asked carefully.
He didn’t reply. I covered his hand with mine.
“Whatever it is, we’ll get through it. I—” Before I could finish, he pulled away sharply and stood up.
“Fine, tell me later. I’ll start dinner.”
Frying potatoes, I gnawed at the unknown. Prying wouldn’t help. My excitement had fizzled. The wine seemed like a terrible idea now. But how was I to know?
We’d married eighteen months ago. Oliver already had a steady job at a big construction firm, while I was finishing my degree. We scraped by on his salary, renting this shoebox flat.
Part of his wages went to his mum—she lived up north and was constantly unwell, burning through money on medication. Once I graduated and started working, we even managed to save a little, though at this rate, we’d never afford our own place.
Late at night, we’d dream of starting our own firm—Oliver designing homes, me handling interiors. But we needed experience, connections. Then we’d buy a proper house, have children…
For now, though, I was stuck with dull, uninspired projects that barely tapped into my creativity. I worked tirelessly, though the pay was meagre. I believed my big break would come. And then—our dream home, a car, real furniture…
That very day, my boss had called me in. A client—a wealthy woman—wanted me to overhaul a flat as a wedding gift for her son. One month to complete it. I’d be excused from other projects. Extra pay for speed.
My head spun with ideas. I’d make it perfect. I raced to view the place. The client, Isabella Harrington, was elegant, dripping with money. She showed me the flat, emphasised that cost wasn’t an issue.
We agreed I’d draft layouts and material proposals. If approved, she’d hire contractors. If she liked my vision, work would start immediately.
I’d rushed home to share the news—only to find Oliver in a black mood. The wine stayed unopened. After a silent dinner, I buried myself in work until Oliver finally sat beside me.
“Listen. I need to tell you something.”
“Go on.” I turned to him.
“I got sacked,” he muttered, avoiding my eyes.
“What? How?”
“Pressure, deadlines… I messed up the calculations. Didn’t catch it till construction started. They fired me on the spot.”
“We’ll manage. I wanted to tell you—”
“That’s not all.” He leapt up, pacing like a caged animal. “I have to pay them back. It’s in the contract.”
“How much?” My voice faltered.
“A fortune. We don’t have it. I’ll take a loan—but I can’t send Mum anything now.”
“A loan? With interest? We’ll borrow from friends—”
“Don’t be naive, Lottie. Friends vanish when you’re skint. Try asking for money—see who sticks around.”
“Did you ask someone?” I guessed. “I’ve got friends—”
“Go on, try. Turns out I’ve got none.” He stormed off.
I racked my brain. Who could help? I called Sophie, an old schoolmate who’d married well—big house, holidays abroad.
She answered quickly.
“Soph, it’s Lottie—well, Charlotte now—” She sounded delighted to hear from me. I cut to the chase. “I need help. Can we meet?”
“Oh, I’m abroad—”
“Then… I need money. Urgently.” Silence. I thought the line had cut—then she spoke, regret heavy in her voice.
“Love, I can’t. It’s my husband’s money, not mine. He barely lets me spend on myself—won’t even help my own mum. I’m sorry.”
Right. The rich have their own miseries.
Next, I tried Emily—a dressmaker with well-off clients. Surely she’d saved?
“Em? It’s Lottie. I need to talk—”
“God, I’m swamped—”
“Look, I need money.”
Turns out she’d just bought a flat. “Come to the housewarming!” she chirped.
Fine. Tomorrow, I’d ask colleagues. Or we’d take the loan.
The next morning, I finished the sketches, even drafted a budget. Called Isabella.
“Already? Splendid. Come over—I’m showing the place to contractors.”
She examined my work.
“Marvellous. I love it.”
“We’ll have to buy furnishings—no time for bespoke. Mirrors, lighting—it’ll open up the space—” I handed her more sketches.
“Perfect. Let’s begin. Call if anything comes up.” She turned to leave. I swallowed hard.
“Wait—can I talk to you?”
“Quickly. I’ve an appointment.”
No dancing around it. I explained Oliver’s sacking, the debt.
“Could you pay me upfront? The project’s done—you love it. I’ll oversee everything—I won’t let you down.”
She considered. Didn’t refuse outright—good.
“Alright. I’ll give you the sum. I’ve a country home needing refurbishing. Do that for me—paid privately, not through the firm.”
“Of course—I’ll visit—” Relief flooded me.
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m taking a risk. Don’t disappoint me.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
She turned back at the door. “Tomorrow, then. I’ll bring the money.”
“Oliver, I’m home!” I called cheerily that evening.
He didn’t move from the sofa, newspaper in hand.
“Job hunting?”
“Nothing decent.” He tossed it aside.
“I got the money.”
“Where?”
“Work. Tried to tell you yesterday—that’s why I bought the wine. I’ve landed two projects—a flat and a country house. Client paid upfront. She’s bringing the cash tomorrow. We’re saved!”
“Lottie, you’re bloody brilliant!” He scooped me up, spinning me around. “You’ve saved me.”
He repaid the firm. Found a new job. Came home exhausted, ate, slept. I worked nights, eyes burning. Dinner was pasta or eggs—quick, easy.
Finally, the country house was done. Isabella adored it.
“Transformed! Even fixed the creaky stairs—I never asked!” She pressed an envelope into my hands.
“Oh no—you’ve already—”
“Take it. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“My husband helped,” I admitted.
“Then share it. You’ve both earned it.”
Outside, I peeked inside—a hefty sum. Savings for our home. I floated toward ours, giddy. At a crossing, I tapped my foot impatiently. We’d uncork that wine tonight—celebrate our fresh start.
The light turned green—but I froze. A sleek white car idled opposite. Oliver was driving. That shirt—the one I’d customised last year with a designer’s emblem—was unmistakable.
Beside him, a stunning blonde. They chatted animatedly. He hadn’t spotted me.
The car sped off. I stood there, numb.
At home, I didn’t cook. Just waited in the dark. The lock clicked.
“Thought you were out. Why’s it pitch black?” He flicked the light on, startled to see me.
“Working late again?” I said flatly.
“Swamped. Anything to eat? Starving.”
He looked relaxed, happy.
“Blonde not feed you?”
“What?”
“I saw you. In that white car. That shirt’s one-of-a-kind.”
“Oh—boss’He stared at me, then sighed—”Fine, it’s true—I’m done pretending,” and walked out for good.
