10November2025
Dear Diary,
She told me she was heading out on a work trip, yet I spotted my own car parked at the entrance of Eleanors flat in Camden.
Did you remember the charger and the stomach tablets? she asked, eyes flickering with that familiar mix of worry and humour. You know how the catering is on these tripsalways something youll regret later.
Of course I got them, I snapped back, trying to sound casual. Eleanor, youre treating me like a child. Im not heading to the North Pole; Im off to York for three days. Ill finish the report, attend a couple of meetings, then be back. The taxis been waiting for five minutes, the meter is ticking.
I fumbled with the zip on my travel bag, the metal catching the fabric, cursing under my breath, until the zip finally gave way. I looked rushed, as if I might miss the last train of my life. Eleanor stood in the hallway, her shoulder against the door frame, a faint sadness in her gaze. Ten years of marriageshed seen me leave for business countless times, and each departure tightened a knot in her chest.
Give me a ring when you get to the hotel, she said, smoothing the collar of my jacket. And watch the road; they warned about icy patches on the motorway.
Im on the train, darlingdid you forget? I chuckled. I left the car; the suspensions rattling, I dont want to risk it. Kiss, love. Say hello to Sophie for me if you see her.
I planted a quick kiss on her cheek, the scent of fresh cologne and mint gum lingering, grabbed my bag and slipped out, the lock clicking behind me, cutting off the warmth of home. Eleanor inhaled deeply, listening to my footsteps recede down the stairs as the lift groaned away.
Silence settled over the flatthe kind that falls when the loudest person in the house steps out. I padded into the kitchen, poured a cold coffee, and thought about the three days ahead. A chance to read that novel I never got around to, perhaps try a new face mask, maybe meet up with friends.
Speaking of friends, Eleanor reminded me of Sophie. Theyd been inseparable since schoolexams, first loves, my wedding, Sophie’s painful divorce two years ago. Sophie lived nearby, in a newly built complex with tidy gardens.
I glanced at the clock. It was noon on a rainy November Saturday. No plans on my agenda. Perhaps Id pop over to Sophie’s for a girls night while I was away? I reached for my phone, then set it down. Sophie had been complaining of migraines and work fatigue, saying she wanted to sleep in on the weekend. Better not disturb hermaybe just a walk to the nearby shopping centre, pick up something nice for myself, and see where the day led.
I dressed in sensible boots, the weather a damp November drizzle, and stepped outside. London hummed with its usual hustle. I caught a coach to the shopping centre, wandered through the stores, and bought a soft cashmere scarf the colour of dusty rose. My mood lifted.
Leaving the mall, I decided to cut across the courtyards of Sophies complex. Just a quick glance, I thought. If theres light in the windows, maybe Ill ring. If not, Ill head home.
The complexs gates were guarded, the flowerbeds immaculate even in November, the parking area filled with highend cars. I strolled slowly, admiring the vehiclesblack BMW, red Mini Cooper, silver Toyota Corolla. My pace slowed when I saw the silver Corolla, identical to mine. The tiny scratch on its rear bumper, the one Id nicked a month ago at the supermarket, sat in the same spot.
My heart thumped, then settled in my throat.
No, it cant be, I muttered. Corollas are common, thousands on the road. That scratch must be a coincidence.
I moved closer, the plate caught my eye: three sevens followed by VOR. Ian always joked that the number brought him luck in business.
V777VOR.
It was my car.
I froze, mind racing. Id told Eleanor I was taking the train, that the car was broken, that I was heading to York. And yet the car sat here, at Sophie’s entrance.
First thought: perhaps Id stopped by to drop something off? But Id left the house three hours earlier; in that time I could have made a dozen stops and still caught the train.
I approached the car, feeling the heat of the bonnetengine turned off only minutes ago, maybe half an hour. He wasnt at the station. He was here.
My hands trembled as I dialed Ians number. The line buzzed long, each tone a hammer in my ears.
Hello, Margaret? Ians voice sounded bright, but there was a faint static. Whats up?
Nothing, I tried to keep my voice steady. Just checking if youre on the train. Got settled?
Yes, yes! Were moving now. Signals poor, I might disappear for a while. The carriage is old and noisy, I was thinking of a quick nap. Dont worry about me, Ill call from the hotel tonight.
Old carriage? Sounds quiet to me, I replied, eyeing the dark windows of the Corolla.
Its just rattling wheels. Batterys low, Ill catch up later.
He hung up. I stood in the courtyard, phone clenched so hard my fingers turned white. Hed lied, blatantly.
I looked up at Sophies fifthfloor windows. Heavy curtains were drawn despite the daylight. Sophie usually loved natural light, claiming it energized her. Something was off.
A thread of trust that had held together ten years of marriage snapped, leaving a cold, ringing void and a surge of fury. I could turn and leave, change the locks, collect his things. But I needed answers, and I wanted Sophie to hear the truth too.
I walked to the intercom, but had no key. I dialled Sophies flat. The tone droned on; no one answered. A young mother with a stroller emerged from the entrance; I slipped past her and entered.
The lift creaked up to the fifth floor, slow as ever. I stared at my reflection: pale face, wide eyes, the dustyrose scarf now feeling like a noose.
I pressed the buzzer for flat54. Silence, then a faint shuffle.
Whos there? Sophies voice was wary.
Sophie, its me, Margaret, I called out, trying to sound casual. I was just passing by, thought Id pop inbrought a cake!
No cake, but the excuse mattered little.
A pause stretched. A whisper I could barely hear.
Margaret Im not dressed, Im feeling ill, maybe contagious.
Come on, Ive got your migraine medicine. Just a minute.
The lock clicked, the door opened a crack. Sophies dishevelled face peeked out, no makeup, a red blotch on her neck, a silk dressing gown hanging loosely.
Margaret, I look awful she began.
Open up, I snapped, voice hard. Or Ill keep ringing until the neighbours call the police.
She blinked, the chain of the door fell, and she stepped back.
I entered the hallway, the familiar scent of Ians cologne filling the air, mixed with coffee and something sweet.
Make yourself at home, Sophie muttered, adjusting her gown. Im not really ready for visitors.
I moved past her, not taking off my shoes, and headed toward the living room.
Whose boots are those? I asked, pointing at a pair of polished black mens shoes.
Just the plumber, she replied, paling.
The plumber who charges £15,000 for his boots? I chuckled dryly. Plumbers do well these days.
On the coffee table lay two halfempty glasses of wine, a bowl of fruit, and a mans shirt on the sofa.
Ian! I shouted. Come out! The plumbers report is due!
Silence, then Sophie began to sob.
Please, Margaret, dont well explain everything
I stalked to the bedroom door, slammed it shut.
Ill count to three. If he doesnt appear, Ill smash that vase and ruin this flat.
One.
Stop! He just came to help! Sophie pleaded, gripping my arm.
Help with what? Removing a gown?
The bedroom door swung open. Ian stood there in jeans, shirt off, looking as startled as a cat caught with its paw in the jam.
Margaret, youve got it all wrong, he began, the classic line of every cheater.
I stared at the man who shared my bed, my budget, my future plans, the very man who had just lied about a train and a noisy carriage.
Seriously? I asked calmly. How was I supposed to know? You said you were in York on a business trip, but here you are in a hologram? Or did an astral version of you visit my wifes friend?
He stepped forward, hands raised.
Lets talk somewhere else, not here. Ill get dressed, well go.
No, I cut him off. Well talk here. Sophie should hear too. Shes my best friend.
I sank into a chair, keeping my shoes on, the muddy soles staining Sophies light carpet, and said, Tell me, Ian, did this plumbing club start six months ago, the same time I was supporting you through your divorce?
Sophie, its been six months, she whispered, eyes red. I didnt mean for this it just happened.
The spark you felt, I said, means mine has burned out?
Ian lowered his head. I never meant to hurt you. I got confused. Sophie was easy, you were always serious, always planning.
I stood, fury cold and calculating. Im going to write to your mother, Margarets mother, who always praised Sophie as the perfect daughterinlaw.
I wont let you! Ian lunged.
I pulled out my phone, typed a message, and hit send.
Your mother now knows everything. You have an hour to collect your things from our flat. Leave the keys in the mailbox. If I see even one of your socks inside, Ill burn it in the living room.
Ian stammered, This is my flat too!
No, love. The flat was bought by my parents before we married. Youre just on the lease. Ill have it transferred through the courts. For now, out.
He pleaded, Where will I go? My mother will kill me, rent is too high
Stay here, I said, pointing at Sophies tidy lounge, wine, fruit, a spark. Live your plumber life. Just remember, Sophie doesnt like cooking, and youre on a diet. Love will digest everything, right?
Sophie burst into tears. He cant stay! My mothers arriving next week, shes oldfashioned.
Thats your problem, I replied, heading for the door. Deal with your mothers, diets, and sparks.
In the hallway I paused, looked at Ians boots, then his jacket. I slipped the jacket onto the floor, brushed my feet on it, and muttered, Accidents happen, just like your little spark.
I walked out, slamming the door behind me.
Down the stairs my knees trembled, adrenaline fading into a strange sense of release.
Outside, the silver Corolla still sat by Sophies driveway, a symbol of betrayal. I ran my house keys along its body, feeling the deep scar in the paint.
Remember the trip, I whispered.
The alarm blared, the cars siren shrieking across the courtyard. I didnt look back; I hurried to the bus stop, wrapping the dustyrose scarf tighter.
At home later I methodically packed Ians belongingsonly the essentialsinto trash bags, left them in the hallway, changed the lock with a spare set Id bought a year ago.
The phone rang nonstop that eveningIan, Sophie, my motherinlaw. I switched it to silent, poured a glass of the wine Id saved for a special night, and let the night settle.
An hour later I heard Ians drunken shout through the door, Give me my stuff! I have rights!
Everythings in the hallway! I yelled back. Take it and leave. The police have been called!
He barked, grabbed the bags, and fled.
The next morning the flat was empty, quiet, the familiar snore gone, no need to cook a breakfast for two. The void in my chest hurt, a hole the size of a decade, yet the air felt clearer.
I brewed a fresh coffee, stepped onto the balcony, watched London waking up. Life went on.
A week later I filed for divorce. The process was swift; there was little to split, no children. Ian tried to win me back, showing up at work with flowers, swearing it was a mistake. Sophie sent long apologies, saying shed lost both a friend and a lover. I read them, deleted them, and moved on.
Six months on, I earned a promotion, booked a twoweek seaside break at a proper hotel. At the airport, I spotted Ian, looking older, standing with a woman scolding him for forgetting tickets. I smiled, adjusted my sunglasses, and walked past toward my gate.
Now, as I sit here writing, I realise that honesty is the only foundation worth building on. Deception may give a fleeting thrill, but it leaves a trail of broken trust that cant be mended with excuses.
Lesson learned: never let the lure of an easy spark outweigh the steady flame of commitment.
