We cant afford a trip to the sea this year, said my husband and shot off on a business trip. The next day, I saw his photograph from a beach arm in arm with my sister.
Mary, come on now! Youve got a good head on your shoulders youre an accountant! Just add things up. You know the numbers. The loan for the car eats up nine hundred pounds a month. The mortgage? Thirteen hundred. The repairs at Mums cottage theres another six hundred every month that roofs dripping, needs replacing, or the poor place will rot. Theres no way we can manage a holiday by the sea. Forget the Maldives, or anywhere like it. What, shall we live on beans on toast for the rest of the year?
Owen paced our cramped kitchen, flapping his hands, rattling the crockery, opening and closing cupboards aimlessly, running tap water just to tip it away. He avoided my eyes completely as if I were a tax officer, not his wife.
I sat hunched at our little table, staring at the open window of a travel agent on my laptop turquoise sea, white sand, palms curving over bungalows. It wasnt just an advert. It was THE Dream. My dream for three years, the only thing that kept me going.
Owen, I said quietly, trying to keep my voice steady, Ive been putting money aside on purpose. I didnt touch my bonus. I took packed lunches every day. I did the books for three different small companies at night while you slept. I have nearly £9,000 in a savings account. I checked its enough. The car can wait, your mums cottage will be fine for two weeks that roofs not going anywhere soon. We need a break. We havent had a proper holiday in five years, not since the mortgage. Youre stressed out all the time, snapping at little things. Im on the verge of a breakdown my eye actually twitches! We need time together to remember that were a couple, not just housemates jointly paying debts.
Its not just about money! he barked, making the mug he was holding clatter against the saucer. Work is chaos! Were on a deadline. Main contractors kicking off. My boss won’t let me vanish for two weeks on the beach! I could lose my job, and then wherell your holiday be? Where will our mortgage go?
But you said last week things had gone quiet the project was handed over?
Things changed! he cut in, his face red. The clients made a load of new changes! Redesigns! Thats that, Mary. No seaside this year. Well go to Mums cottage for May Day, help with the vegetable patch, touch up the greenhouse, have a bbq. Fresh air and countryside whats wrong with that?
I dont want to go to your mums, I whispered, hot tears scorching my cheeks. I never get to relax there. Its all weeding and digging and cooking for your whole extended family. I just want to do nothing.
You always want something! he banged his fist on the table. Selfish! Its always I want this, I want that. Well, I have a business trip coming up. To Aberdeen. Offshore inspections. Two weeks. Bosss orders. So stay here and stop going on about it. And Ill need some of your Maldives money for flights and hotels.
Why? I managed, stunned. Work should be paying for it.
They reimburse later. Cover it now yourself its expensive, four star hotels, business dinners. Im not eating pot noodles with the managing director, am I? Its work, Mary.
How much?
Six grand. At least. Pounds.
Six grand? Owen, thats two-thirds of my savings! Thats my holiday money!
Ill pay you back! The company always pays back you know the rules. Trust your husband!
His hurt and indignation stung.
Hes working, in the cold, for us. And here I am moaning.
I sent the money. £6,000. My hands were shaking.
I trusted him. Wed been together ten years. Hed always been my rock. A little sharp sometimes, a little frugal but steady. Hed never let me down before.
He left the next day.
I packed his suitcase for him.
Dont get lonely, Molly! he grinned, spritzing himself in aftershave Id gotten him for Christmas. Ill call, but you know what Aberdeens like patchy signal on the rigs. If you cant reach me, dont panic.
Make sure you wrap up, I said, adjusting his scarf, could snow even in Scotland in spring.
Of course. Ive got thermal gear.
Why the swimming shorts then? I asked, spotting them stuffed into his case.
He hesitated, then, Oh, the hotels got a pool and a sauna. Good for winding down with the lads.
Fair enough. I nodded.
So he left, rolling my money and my dreams out the door.
The door closed, and our flat went quiet. Outside, the rain battered the window. Spring was only visible on a calendar.
I went to work like clockwork. Came home alone, reheated soup, watched posh TV dramas.
The loneliness ached.
I decided to call my sister, Lucy.
Shes my polar opposite: outgoing, blonde, a model type, flitting between shoots, parties, lovers. Five years younger and acting seventeen. We didnt have much in common, but she was my little sister. Id helped her with money at uni, bailed her out more than once.
I dialled her number.
The person you are calling is unavailable.
Odd. Lucy was always online, never without her phone. Her Instagram stories were a running stream of Look at my salad / Im in an Uber / New lipstick!
Her social media: last post a week ago day after Owen left. A snap of a bright pink suitcase: Off for my dream trip! Guess where? Clue: its hot! Secret mission! #Holiday #Secret.
Clearly, off somewhere. Maybe another boyfriends taken her to Dubai.
A week passed.
Owen phoned rarely, every other day. Busy, signals rubbish.
He sounded weird upbeat. Not tired at all. And behind him a sound. Soft, rhythmic.
Waves?
And music. Not Scottish pipes or offshore drilling, but something distant Latin, almost.
Owen, whats that music? Where are you?
Ah? Oh, its the radio driver likes a bit of world music.
Those waves?
Wind! I told you Scotland! Gales that could take you off your feet! Later, Mary, signals dropping!
Beep.
On Friday I couldnt sleep. Anxiety gnawed at me.
I sipped cold tea, aimlessly scrolling Facebook food pics, kittens, kids. Boring.
Suddenly: a notification.
Lucy Smith tagged you in a photo.
My heart skipped. Lucy? Shes alive?
I tapped the bell.
The photo loaded slowly sky first: an eye-shattering blue. Then turquoise sea. White sand appears. And then
People.
It was a beach. The beach Id been dreaming of; the exact palm tree Id stared at, that jetty far off. Paradise Island Hotel. Id memorised every photo!
And right at the front, Lucy stretched out in a designer red bikini, vast sunglasses, cocktail, radiant with a golden tan.
Next to her
Next to her, with his distinctive hairy arm and those Casio watches Id bought for our fifth anniversary, was a man.
Wearing those palm-tree shorts.
Owen.
My husband Owen.
Apparently in Aberdeen, on an oil rig, saving British Gas.
He grinned at her in a way hed not looked at me for years with adoration, almost.
The caption read: Happiness loves silence but I have to share! My hero gave me a fairytale! My tiger! Thank you for paradise! #Maldives #SisterSorryNotSorry.
And shed tagged me. Right on Owens face.
By accident? No. Purposefullyto twist the knife. I won. Im better. Im younger. Im prettier. And you you paid.
I stared so long, my eyes blurred.
My husband.
And my sister.
On my money, the six grand Id saved, forgoing even tights on cold mornings.
They stole my dream. Stole my life.
You cant afford a holiday sit at home. Selfish. No money.
Owens voice echoing now just mockery.
I started shaking. At first small tremors, soon violently my teeth chattered.
I just made it to the loo before being sick.
I splashed icy water on my face. In the mirror, a worn woman stared back grey-skinned, with red eyes and lines round her mouth.
Of course. Why would he want this? The mortgage, the worries, the endless chores. Lucy was fun; Lucy was a party.
And guess who paid. Me.
I went back to the computer. My hands trembled but my head cleared iced with rage.
Screenshot. Another. I saved all of Lucys stories, too: champagne in business class, towel swans in the hotel, Owen carrying her into the sea.
Then online banking.
The car loan (£25,000), his pride and joy, was in my name. Hed always paid but the contract mine.
The mortgage was joint, but I was the backup name.
The £6,000 had gone straight to a travel agent.
I cried that night, muffled in a tea towel so the neighbours wouldnt hear.
Something inside me cracked. The Mary who believed in home and love died, replaced by something sharp cold as steel.
I woke up a new person.
No more tears, only black, cold hate.
They could have their paradise on my money. Id show them hell on earth.
Owen forgot one thing. One tiny detail.
Hed signed a general power of attorney for the car to me last year going away for work, in case you need to renew tax, or sell it, or whatever. Three years, full powers.
That car, a black Land Rover Discovery, was his baby. His pride and joy. He polished it like an altar.
I put on my best suit, stilettos, and (on brand) red lipstick.
I took the logbook, papers, deed, spare keys.
I drove to a dealership where my university friend Tom worked.
Tom, I need to sell the Discovery. Quick sale.
Blimey, Mary! Yours? Whats happened? Is Owen alright? He adores this car.
Hes in the Maldives. Emergency! He needs cash debt problems. (May as well lie big).
Tom looked startled but nodded.
If you want quick cash, itll be less than market. We have to make a margin.
Fine. Today. Cash.
£50,000. Market would be £70k.
Done.
Two hours later, I left with a thick envelope. Fifty grand in twenty pound notes heavy and vindicating.
Off to the bank: cleared the car loan (£12,000 owed), got confirmation.
The rest £38,000 I transferred into my private account, under my maiden name (not changed on marriage, thank God). Owen had no access.
Home.
Called a man-and-van.
Packed all of Owens things. Every last sock.
His bespoke suits, his hobby gear, his PlayStation, his mug.
I stuffed the boxes.
Where to? the courier asked.
Devon, Ashwater Lane, Ivy Cottage. For Mrs. Edith Fletcher (his mother).
Let his mum have him back.
Then called a locksmith.
Emergency lock change, please. Top grade. Alarm system too.
Break-in? the locksmith asked sympathetically.
Tried, yes. Vermin, you know.
That wasnt the finale, though. The grand flourish.
I knew Owens email password (our anniversary, of course). Up popped e-tickets, hotel booking at Paradise Island Resort.
Called the hotel.
Good afternoon, this is Mrs. Mary Fletcher. Could I speak to the manager on duty?
Manager, soon enough.
Theres a serious error. My husband, Mr Owen Fletcher, and a woman are staying (bungalow 105). He paid using a misappropriated business card Im the company accountant and have frozen the transaction, reported to the police. I suggest you remove them before there are legal repercussions.
Silencethen a startled, Oh madam, well check right away!
You do that. And do tell him: Its over. From Mary.
Soon after, my banking app pinged: Attempt to charge £2,000 declined.
A few minutes later my phone buzzed and buzzed. Owen.
I didnt answer.
Lucy.
I ignored her.
Messages poured in.
Owen: Whats going on?! My cards blocked. Were thrown out! They want cash, Ive none!
Owen: Pick up, you cow! Were on the beach with suitcases, its 40°C, Lucys sobbing!
Lucy: Mary, please! Its not what you think. We just bumped into each other! We didnt sleep together! Dont shame us! Send money, were stuck! Well die here!
Owen: What do you mean, car sold?! Tom called you flogged it? Youre insane! Its my bloody car! Ill kill you!
I laughed. Deep, almost hysterical, tears rolling down my face.
I sent them a single picture Lucys post.
Silence is golden. Enjoy the quiet. Walk back to Aberdeen. Car sold, money used for family needs (my emotional damage). All your stuffs at your mums. Locks replaced. Divorce proceedings begun. Cheerio.
Owen came back three days later.
He had to beg friends for money (all of whom had believed the Aberdeen story they were gobsmacked). The hotel kept them in the lobby for a day, until someone wired him crypto.
He turned up, sunburnt and furious, outside my flat.
Let me in! This is my home! Ill take you to court!
This is a shared mortgage, and its in dispute, I said through the new door. Your share is the bank debt. Youre not living here. Ive got an injunction. (That was actually a fib but my neighbour, old Bill from the police, was standing behind me, truncheon at the ready.)
Move along, Owen, said Bill. Or youll spend the night in the cells.
He kicked at the door, swore, and fled.
The divorce was loud and bitter.
Owen tried to challenge the car sale. He ranted in the hearing about theft.
The judge checked the paperwork:
Properly notarised power of attorney? Yes. Still in effect? Yes. Right to sell? Yes. Money paid off the car loan? Yes. And the rest?
Family expenses, I said sweetly. Food, utilities and medication. I was hospitalised with a breakdown from the shock.
He couldnt prove otherwise. No receipts.
I dont speak to Lucy now.
My parents tried to persuade me:
Mary, its only Lucy! Shes young, foolish. Owen seduced her! Forgive her! Shes suffering.
I have no sister, I replied. That persons dead to me.
Lucy, incidentally, dumped Owen the moment they landed. Broke men with no car and no flat arent my type. Shes found another daddy and posts Dubai selfies daily. Good luck to her.
And me?
I took the £6,000 (kept the other £38,000 from the car).
And I bought my dream.
A trip to the Maldives. The same hotel, the next bungalow over (more expensive with a pool).
Alone.
Im writing this now on a sunlounger, sipping a piña colada, glancing over that turquoise water.
It really is healing.
Im breathing freely for the first time in years.
I am free. I am, frankly, rich. And Ill never again let a man decide if I deserve a holiday.
I deserve everything.
