Think, Mate, Think
Oliver pulled up to the petrol pump, rolled down the window, and called out to the attendant, *”Fill it up with premium, cheers.”* Then he strolled into the station, hands in his pockets.
In the doorway, he nearly collided with a bloke fiddling with his phone. The man glanced at Oliver, then back at his screen. *”Greg?!”* Oliver almost blurted out but caught himself just in time. He stepped inside, watching his former mate through the glass door. Saw him climb into a sleek Mercedes. Oliver bolted to the till, swiped his card with shaky hands—couldn’t hide the adrenaline.
By the time he got back outside, the Mercedes was merging onto the motorway. No hesitation—Oliver jumped into his Ford and hit the gas. *”Well, well, well. Look who’s doing nicely for himself. Lucky marriage? We’ll see about that.”*
The Merc turned into a posh gated estate. Oliver coasted past as the car stopped at a grand driveway. He reversed slowly, careful to avoid the security camera. Through the iron gates, he spotted Greg parking by a garage. A young woman stepped onto the porch—Oliver squinted. *”No bloody way.”*
She descended the steps, embraced Greg, and they kissed. Arm in arm, they disappeared inside.
*”Married. Their house. What a twist. How’d that happen? Revenge? But Emily—quiet little Emily—landed on her feet! And Greg? Some mate. Could’ve been me in that house.”*
***
The club was heaving—music pounding, lights flashing over sweaty dancers. Oliver lounged at the bar, sipping a gin and tonic, eyeing a tall brunette in a tight red dress. *”Not bad,”* he thought, then turned away.
A familiar voice spun him around.
*”This is my mate, Oliver.”* Greg sauntered over, the red-dress beauty on his arm. *”Oliver, meet Jessica, my girlfriend.”*
Oliver gave her the once-over. Even better up close—big eyes, dimples, glossy hair cascading over her shoulders. *”Dream girl.”*
*”Like what you see?”* Greg smirked.
*”What’re you drinking?”* Oliver kept his eyes locked on Jessica.
*”I’m driving,”* she said. *”Fancy coming to mine? Quieter there. And I could use a proper drink.”*
*”Coming?”* Greg nudged Oliver.
Oliver downed his drink and stood.
Outside, the music faded.
*”Nice, eh?”* Greg patted the gleaming Audi. *”Her dad’s birthday gift.”* Like he’d had anything to do with it.
Oliver shot him a look. Greg winked. *”Just getting started.”*
*”How’d he pull this off?”* Oliver couldn’t believe it. Greg wasn’t even that fit. *”Kept this under wraps, the sly git.”*
*”Where’s Emily? Invited her too,”* Greg asked as they cruised through the city.
*”She’s not well. Morning sickness.”* Oliver’s mood soured at the mention.
*”Blimey! Keeping the wedding quiet, are we?”* Greg roared with laughter.
Oliver stayed silent.
The Audi stopped at a high-rise. The lift—mirrored, spacious—whisked them to the 16th floor.
*”This yours?”* Oliver gaped at the penthouse. *”Where’d you find her?”* he hissed.
*”Nearly ran me over,”* Greg chuckled.
Oliver kept the wine flowing until Greg was legless. Jessica tucked him into bed, then returned to find Oliver studying a painting.
*”My work,”* she said.
*”Fancy doing me?”*
*”Artists *paint*, Oliver. And yes—nude. Studio lighting, proper session. Write your number down.”*
At home, Emily was in tears.
*”You’ve been drinking?”*
*”Just a few with Greg.”*
*”Hungry?”*
*”Nah. Shower, then bed.”* He locked the bathroom door.
How had he messed up this badly? Emily was sweet, but the timing was all wrong. Jessica, though—that was the ticket. And her loaded dad? Perfect. He needed Emily gone. *But how?*
Under the shower, he pictured Jessica. Greg didn’t deserve her. *”But there’s Emily…”*
His mum had raised him scraping pennies. He wanted wealth—*now*. Jessica was the golden goose. Just had to ditch Emily.
***
Two days later, Jessica called. Her studio. Oliver arrived spruced up, cologne dripping.
*”Strip,”* she said.
*”Here?!”*
*”We’ve got two hours. Chop-chop.”*
He posed. She sketched. Twenty minutes in, he groaned. *”Can I move? My legs are killing me.”*
She sighed, went for coffee. Oliver peeked at the sketch—flattered himself. Then, naked, he crept up behind her…
***
Oliver returned home smug. Emily, curled on the sofa, sniffled.
*”You don’t love me anymore?”*
*”Here we go.”* He stood.
*”You’re never home!”*
*”Working my arse off! For the baby. For our wedding.”*
*”Wedding?”* Her tears stopped.
*”Course. Kid needs both parents.”*
She flung herself at him. He hid a grimace.
*”Why not visit your gran? Save rent. I’ll stay with Greg. Call you daily. Three months, I’ll fetch you.”*
*”Really?”*
Bingo. No drama.
He played the doting fiancé until her train left. No calls. New phone. Moved in with Jessica. Greg tried thumping him—failed.
Three months later, Oliver married Jessica. But reality bit. Her dad gave him a pittance. Fights started. One night, Oliver hit her.
Next day, her dad booted him out. *”Lawyers’ll handle the divorce. Cause trouble, and you’ll regret it.”*
Back to square one. But Oliver wasn’t done.
Young women? Boring. He targeted wealthy divorcées—*”accidentally”* stepped in front of their Bentleys. One even gave him a flat (one-bed, dodgy postcode).
***
Now, parked outside Greg and Emily’s house, Oliver fumed. *”How’d they end up together? Revenge? Or… love?”* He remembered their embrace. *”My kid, Greg’s name. I’ll fix this.”*
His phone rang.
*”Where *are* you, kitten? I’m lonely!”*
Oliver forced a grin. *”On my way, darling.”*
He chucked the phone. *”Kitten”* was his wife—old enough to be his mum. Kept him in cars, cash, but *”cheat, and you’re out on the street.”*
*”Screwed yourself, mate,”* he muttered, driving off. *”But she’s not getting younger. Just needs… the right push. Think, mate. Think.”*
*”Fortune favours the bold—and the cunning.”*
