Great news
Lorraine hurried home. She had good news for her husband—no, not just good, brilliant news. This called for a celebration. On the way, she stopped at the shop and bought a bottle of wine. She’d cook dinner, they’d have a drink… Lorraine daydreamed as she walked.
“Matthew, I’m home!” she called out as she stepped into their small flat. There was no need to shout—the click of the lock echoed through every corner of the cramped space. But joy overflowed in her, and she couldn’t contain it.
Matthew shuffled out to meet her, looking indifferent.
“I have such news! I’ll whip up dinner quick, and we’ll sit down and celebrate. I even bought wine—look!” Lorraine pulled the bottle from her bag, oblivious to her husband’s tense expression. “Take it to the kitchen, I’ll just change.” She brushed past him to the wardrobe, using the open door as a makeshift screen while she slipped into the short robe he liked. She smoothed her hair and shut the wardrobe.
Matthew sat in front of the telly, the sound off, staring blankly. Lorraine approached him.
“What’s wrong? Is your mum poorly again?” she asked gently.
He didn’t answer. She sat beside him, covering his hand with hers.
“Whatever it is, we’ll manage. I’ve got—” She didn’t finish. Matthew pulled his hand away and stood abruptly. “Alright, you’ll tell me later. I’ll start dinner.”
Frying potatoes, Lorraine ached with uncertainty. Pressing him was useless. Her earlier cheer had vanished. The wine had been a bad idea. But how was she to know?
They’d married eighteen months ago. Matthew already worked at a big construction firm, while Lorraine finished her dissertation. They lived on his salary, making do in their tiny flat.
Matthew sent part of his wages to his mother, who lived out of town and was often ill—medications weren’t cheap. When Lorraine graduated and found work, they even saved a little for a proper home, though at this rate, they’d never afford one.
Late at night, they dreamed of one day starting their own firm. Matthew would design houses, extensions; Lorraine would handle interiors. But they needed experience first. No one would trust an unknown company—they’d need references. Then they’d buy a proper house, have children…
For now, Lorraine was stuck with dull minor projects, never able to showcase her talent or initiative. She worked diligently anyway, though the pay was meagre. She knew one day she’d be noticed, trusted with something big—then they’d have it all: the home she’d decorate herself, a car, fine furniture…
Just that morning, her boss had called her in. A serious project—a wealthy woman wanted to gift her son a fully remodelled flat for his wedding. The deadline was tight. Lorraine was freed from other tasks, her focus solely on this. Extra pay for speed.
She knew she’d manage. Ideas swirled in her head—she’d design it as if it were her own. She’d already viewed the flat. The client, an elegant woman reeking of money, had shown her round, insisted on no expense spared.
They agreed Lorraine would draft layout plans, material choices, and décor ideas. If the client—Mrs. Isolde Montgomery—approved, work would start immediately.
Lorraine had rushed home to share the news. But the wine remained unopened. After a silent dinner, she sat at her computer. Work flowed until Matthew joined her.
“Listen. I’ve got to tell you something,” he began.
“Go on.” She turned to him.
“I’ve been sacked,” he forced out, avoiding her gaze.
“What? Why?”
“The firm’s swamped. They took on a new contract, deadlines were mad. The boss was on my back—had to rush. I miscalculated. They only caught it after breaking ground. Tried to fix it, but… they let me go.”
“It’s alright, we’ll manage. I was going to tell you—”
“There’s more.” Matthew shot up, pacing like a wounded animal. “I owe them money. It’s in the contract.”
“How much?” Her voice dropped.
“A lot. More than we’ve got. I’ll get a loan, but—I can’t send Mum anything now.”
“A loan? With interest? We’ll borrow—friends—”
“Don’t be daft, Lora. What friends? Friends vanish when you’re skint. Try asking for money—see who sticks around,” he snapped.
“You asked someone?” she guessed. “But I’ve got mates. I could—”
“Go on, try. Turns out I’ve got none.” He stormed to the kitchen.
Lorraine pondered where to find the money. She dialled an old school friend, Natasha, who’d married rich—big house, holidays abroad.
Natasha answered cheerfully but fell silent when Lorraine asked for help.
“Sorry. It’s not my money—it’s my husband’s. He doles out pocket change, invests the rest. He won’t help. Last month I asked to send Mum to a spa—he shouted that he won’t feed my ‘tribe.’ I’m sorry.”
Rich people had their own miseries.
Next, she tried Vicky, a seamstress saving for a flat. But Vicky had just bought one—no spare cash.
“Fine. I’ll ask colleagues. Worst case, we’ll take the loan,” Lorraine decided.
By morning, she’d finalised her sketches, even drafted a budget. She called Mrs. Montgomery.
“Already? Splendid. Come by—I’m showing the flat to builders. We’ll discuss together.”
The woman studied Lorraine’s work.
“You’ve done well. I’m impressed.”
“We’ll need ready-made furniture—no time for custom. Curtains, lighting, mirrors will make it feel larger…” Lorraine handed over more plans.
“Agreed. We’ll pick furnishings together. Start at once. Call if issues arise.” Isolde turned to leave. Lorraine gathered her courage.
“Wait—Mrs. Montgomery. May I speak to you?”
“Quickly. I’ve a salon appointment.”
Lorraine didn’t mince words. She explained Matthew’s sacking, the debt.
“Could you pay me now? The draft’s done—you’re pleased. I’ll oversee everything perfectly…”
For someone like Isolde, the sum was trivial.
After a pause, Isolde agreed.
“I’ll give you the money. I’ve a country house needing refurbishment. Do that for me—paid privately, not through your firm. My personal request.”
“Of course! I’ll visit the house…” Relief flooded Lorraine. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“I’m taking a risk. Don’t disappoint me.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Then I’ll bring the money tomorrow.”
“Matthew, I’m home!” Lorraine called brightly.
He sat on the sofa, scanning job ads.
“Any luck?”
“Nothing decent.” He tossed the paper aside.
“I’ve got the money.”
“Where?”
“Earned it. Tried to tell you yesterday—bought wine and all. I’ve landed my own project—a wedding gift flat. And a country house. The client’s paying upfront. She’s bringing the cash tomorrow. No repayments. Aren’t you glad?”
“Lora, you’re a gem!” Matthew scooped her up, spinning her. “You’ve saved me.”
He settled the debt, found new work. He came home exhausted, ate, and collapsed into bed. Lorraine worked late, eyes drooping over her screen. Dinner was pasta or eggs—quick, effortless.
At last, the country house was done. Some repairs had been needed—Matthew helped. Isolde was thrilled.
“Transformed! I doubted you at first, but I was wrong. You’ve even fixed the stairs—they used to creak. I’ll recommend you everywhere. You’ll be swamped!”
Lorraine glowed.
Isolde handed her an envelope.
“Oh no—you’ve paid already.” Lorraine tucked her hands behind her back.
“Take it. You’ve excelled—even fixed extras I didn’t ask for.”
“My husband helped,” Lorraine admitted. “He’s grateful too—you rescued us.”
“Call it a bonus.”
They parted, both pleased. Outside, Lorraine peeked inside the envelope. A tidy sum. She’d stash it for their home.
She nearly floated back, pausing at a traffic light, impatient. She’d cook something nice, they’d finally open that wine—a toast to their fresh start.
The light turned green, but Lorraine froze. Across the road idled a white luxury car. At the wheel—Matthew. No mistake. He wore the shirt she’d gifted him last year, the one she’d embroidered with a designer’s logo. Unique.
A pretty blonde sat beside him. They chatted animatedly, Matthew grinning, turning to her.She turned away, knowing some wounds never truly heal, but life always moves forward.
