**The Good News**
Clara hurried home, her heart racing with excitement. She had brilliant news for her husband—no, not just brilliant, *spectacular*. This called for a celebration. On her way, she ducked into a shop and grabbed a bottle of wine. She’d cook dinner, they’d drink, they’d toast… Clara couldn’t stop smiling.
*”Oliver, I’m home!”* she called out, stepping into their tiny flat. She didn’t need to shout—the place was so small the click of the latch echoed in every corner—but joy bubbled inside her, impossible to contain.
Oliver trudged into the hallway, his expression dull.
*”I have the most amazing news! I’ll cook dinner quick, and we’ll celebrate. Look—I even bought wine.”* She pulled the bottle from her bag, oblivious to the tension in his gaze. *”Put this in the kitchen, love. I’ll just change.”* She breezed past him to the wardrobe, hidden behind its flimsy door like a makeshift screen. She slipped into the silk robe he liked, smoothed her hair, and shut the wardrobe.
Oliver sat in front of the muted telly, staring right through it. Clara moved beside him.
*”What’s wrong? Is your mum poorly again?”* she asked gently.
Silence. She laid her hand over his.
*”Whatever it is, we’ll manage. I’ve got—”* Before she could finish, Oliver jerked his hand away and stood abruptly. *”Alright, tell me later. I’ll start dinner.”*
As she fried potatoes, uncertainty gnawed at her. Pressing him was pointless. Her joy had drained away. The wine had been a mistake. But how could she have known?
They’d married eighteen months ago. Oliver had already been working at a big construction firm, while Clara finished her degree. They’d scraped by on his salary, renting this cramped flat just to stay afloat.
He sent part of his wages to his mother in another town—she was often ill, medicines cost a fortune. When Clara graduated and got a job, they’d even started saving for a house, though at this rate they’d never afford it.
Late at night, they dreamed of their own business. Oliver would design homes, extensions, while Clara handled interiors—making spaces beautiful. But they needed experience. No one hired unknowns. They needed *reputations*. That’s when they’d buy a proper home, start a family…
For now, Clara was stuck with dull little projects, never given the chance to shine. She worked hard anyway, quick and precise, though the pay was meagre. She *believed*—someone would notice her, give her a real opportunity. Then they’d have it all: a home she’d decorate herself, a car, decent furniture…
And today, her boss had called her in. A high-profile job—refurbishing a flat for a wealthy woman’s son, a wedding gift. One month. Clara was freed from other tasks, paid extra for speed.
She *knew* she could do it. Ideas swirled in her head—she’d make it perfect. She’d already visited the flat, met the client: elegant, wrapped in designer clothes, radiating money. The woman, Lady Evelyn, showed her around, made demands, insisted *money was no object*.
They agreed Clara would draft layouts, materials, décor. If Lady Evelyn approved, workers would start at once.
She’d rushed home to share the news—but the wine remained unopened. After a silent dinner, Clara buried herself in work. The designs flowed until Oliver sat beside her.
*”Stop for a minute. I need to tell you something.”*
*”Go on,”* she said, turning to him.
*”I lost my job.”* The words scraped out of him.
*”What? How?”*
*”The firm took on a new project. Pressure, deadlines, chaos. The director had us breathing down our necks. I… made a mistake. Didn’t catch it till building started. They sacked me.”*
*”We’ll manage. I was going to tell you—”*
*”That’s not all,”* Oliver cut in, pacing like a caged animal. *”I owe them money. It’s in the contract—”*
*”How much?”* Her voice dropped.
*”Too much. We don’t have it. I’ll take a loan, but I can’t help Mum anymore.”*
*”A loan? With interest? No—we’ll borrow from friends—”*
*”Don’t be daft, Clara. What friends? Friends vanish when you’re skint. Ask for money, see who sticks around.”* His voice rose, raw.
*”You already asked someone?”* she guessed. *”But I’ve got mates. I’ll—”*
*”Go on, try. Turns out I’ve got none.”* He stalked to the kitchen.
Clara sat, thinking. She called her old school friend, Natalie—always bragging about her rich husband, their house in Chelsea, holidays abroad.
Natalie answered, cheerful at first—until Clara said she needed money. Silence. Then, haltingly: *”Sorry… it’s my husband’s money. He barely lets me buy clothes. Won’t even help my own mum.”*
Next, she rang Vicky, a seamstress saving for a flat.
*”Oh, I just bought one! Come round sometime—”*
No luck.
Next morning, Clara finished her plans, even a rough budget. She called Lady Evelyn.
*”Already? Excellent. Meet me there—I’m showing the flat to builders.”*
The woman studied Clara’s sketches. *”You’ve done well.”*
*”Custom furniture won’t be ready in time, so I suggest—”*
*”I agree. Start work. Call if there’s trouble.”* She turned to leave.
Clara gathered her courage. *”Wait—could I ask a favour?”*
Lady Evelyn frowned. *”Quickly.”*
Clara explained—Oliver’s debt, his job loss. *”Could you pay me now? I’ll make sure everything’s perfect—”*
A pause. Then: *”Alright. I’ll give you the sum. I’ve a cottage needing refurbishing—do that, and I’ll pay you directly. No firm involved.”*
*”Thank you! I won’t let you down.”*
*”Tomorrow, then.”*
That evening, Clara burst in. *”Oliver, I’m home!”*
He barely looked up from the paper. *”Job hunting?”*
*”No need. I’ve got the money.”*
*”How?”*
*”Earned it. That project I mentioned—someone’s paying upfront.”*
Oliver *moved*—swept her up, spinning her. *”Clara, you’re a gem! You’ve saved me.”*
He repaid the firm. Found new work. Came home exhausted, wolfed down pasta, slept. Clara worked late, eyes burning, but the cottage was soon done.
Lady Evelyn was thrilled. *”You’ve outdone yourself. I’ll recommend you to everyone.”* She handed Clara an envelope.
*”Oh no, you’ve paid already—”*
*”Take it. A bonus.”*
On her way home, Clara peeked inside—a *fortune*. She’d save it for their house. At the crossing, she waited, fidgeting. Green light—but she froze.
A white Mercedes idled opposite. Oliver at the wheel. No mistake—*her* gift, the shirt with the custom logo. Beside him, a blonde. Laughing. Smiling.
Clara stood rooted. The car sped off.
At home, she waited in darkness.
*”Thought you were out. Why’s it dark?”* Oliver flicked the switch, startled.
*”Just thinking. Late again?”*
*”Work’s mad. Got any food?”*
*”Blonde didn’t feed you?”*
*”What blonde?”*
*”I *saw* you.”*
His face twisted. *”Boss’s daughter. He asked me to drive her.”*
*”No chauffeur?”*
A beat. Then: *”Fine. So what if I like her? You lied too—who *really* gave you that money? Women don’t help women.”*
*”You’re disgusting.”*
*”Am I? She’s got money, connections. Promotions, a house, Mum’s surgery—you’d take it too.”*
*”Get out.”*
*”Gladly.”*
He packed fast. Left keys on the armrest.
Clara opened the wine. Drank without tasting.
Weeks later, she walked into a client’s flat—and froze. Oliver stood there.
Before leaving, she said: *”I could ruin this place. Charge a fortune, make it hideous. But I won’t. I never want to see you again.”*
She’She turned and walked away, knowing that every step forward was a step further from the past and closer to the future she would build on her own.
