“You know, we cant afford the seaside this year,” Tom said flatly, then dashed off on his work trip. Not even twenty-four hours later, I saw a photo of him on a beach wrapped around my own sister.
Let me take you back a little. That Sunday in our cramped little kitchen, Tom was pacing furiously, arms flailing every which way. He banged cupboard doors, rattled plates, filled a glass with water, then tipped it out again. He couldnt look at me. It was like having a tax inspector staring him down, I swear.
I sat, hunched over, gazing at my laptop a travel agents website still open. The screen twinkled with turquoise water, dazzling white sands, palm trees drooping like lazy cats over sun-baked bungalows. Not just a pretty screen it was my escape plan. My hope for the past three years, like a life raft tossed to a drowning woman.
“Lucy, come on! Youre no fool. An accountant, for goodness sake! You can do the math. The car loans eating up seven hundred quid a month. The mortgage is nearly a thousand. Mums cottage needs roof repairs thats another four hundred straight off every month, unless you want her sitting under a waterfall by autumn. What seaside? What bloody Maldives? Were stretched thin already. What do you want, to live on beans on toast till Christmas?”
Tom was off, nearly shouting, his mug rattling against the table. He wouldnt meet my eye.
I tried to steady myself, keep my voice level. “But Tom,” I said, “Ive been putting money aside. I brought lunches from home. I stayed late at the office, did payrolls for three firms just to save a bit extra. I have £3,000 tucked away in my savings account. Ive double-checked the numbers: its enough. The car can wait, as can your mums roof for a fortnight or so. We havent been on holiday in five years! Not since the mortgage, remember? Youre burnt out, always on edge. And Im two steps from a nervous breakdown. Dont we deserve a break? To remember were a couple and not just neighbours sharing bills?”
“Its not just the money, Lucy!” he snapped, nearly spilling his tea. “Works mayhem right now. Project deadlines. The boss is breathing down my neck. I cant just waltz off for a suntan Ill get the sack, and there goes your holiday and the mortgage too!”
“But only last week you said things were quiet”
“Theyre not now!” he barked, face red. “Client made a mess, were fixing it. End of discussion. No seaside this year. Well go up to Mums for May Day weekend, do a bit in the garden, barbecue, get some fresh air. Itll do you good.”
I whispered, “I dont want to go to your mums. I dont rest there I just cook and weed for your lot. I just want a week on the beach, to do nothing at all!”
“Yeah, well, we dont always get what we want, do we?” he shot back. “You only ever think about yourself! Well, lucky for you, Ive got a work trip to Manchester anyway. Urgent. Two weeks. Need funds for train tickets, hotel, expenses. Can I take a bit from your holiday stash?”
My heart thudded. “Why? Work pays for work trips,” I said quietly.
“Theyll reimburse it. Later. I need to cover it now. Hotels pricey four stars, have to eat out with the clients. You dont expect me to take a Pot Noodle, do you?”
I felt sick. “How much do you need?”
“Two thousand,” he grunted. Two thousand pounds. Most of my savings.
“Thats almost all Ive put aside, Tom. That was for us.”
“Ill pay you back as soon as work reimburses. Dont you trust your own husband?”
And he gave me such a wounded look, as if Id accused him of robbing an old lady.
He was right, wasnt he? Out there working, freezing and grafting for us, while I groused about sand and sunshine. So, with trembling fingers, I transferred him the money. Two grand, gone.
Wed been married ten years, Id always thought he was dependable. Abrupt, careful with money, yes but honest. He headed off, suitcase in hand, wearing the posh scent Id scrimped to buy him for Christmas.
“Dont miss me, Lulu!” he joked, tying his scarf. “Ill call when I can, but the signals rotten in Manchester, up near the new plant.”
“Remember your coat,” I said, but there was a pair of swimming trunks sticking out of his luggage.
“Why the trunks?” I asked. He hesitated. “Hotels got a heated pool and sauna. Helps after standing out in the cold all day.”
Seemed sensible. I shrugged. Off he went, wheeling my hopes and savings right out the door.
The flat was suddenly empty. Grey, stuffy London, its relentless drizzle seeping through my bones. I worked like a clockwork doll. Evenings, I reheated leftovers, watched reality TV vicariously living a brighter life.
I missed him. Pathetically so.
One night, desperate for a chat, I tried ringing my sister Emma.
Emma is my complete opposite. Shes all blonde confidence and London glamour, bouncing between parties, photo shoots, romance after romance. Shes five years younger but behaves like shes seventeen. Were not close just different lives. But shes my sister, I care for her, always helped with money when she was at uni, smoothed over her mishaps.
Her phone went to voicemail odd, since shes surgically attached to it. I checked her socials; last post was a week ago (same day Tom left).
Pink suitcase packed, caption: “Off on a dream trip! Clue: its hot! Secret project! #Holiday #Surprise #Adventure.”
Off somewhere, I guessed, maybe with some new bloke this time shes always flitting off.
Another week passed.
Tom rang occasionally. Said he was “busy, bad connection”. His voice was a bit too cheery, energy bubbling through the phone. And, strangely, there was a distant sound not office chatter or traffic, but a steady rushing noise.
Waves? There was background music, a lively Latin beat.
“Whats that noise?” I asked. “Where are you?”
“Oh, er musics just the radio in the car, heading to the project.”
“And that sound?”
“Its just windy, you know? Up north, biting winds! Ill call later, signals dropping.”
Click.
Friday night I couldnt sleep. My stomach twisted with dread. I mindlessly scrolled through Facebook, then ping! a notification. Emmas tagged me in a photo.
Heart pounding, I clicked.
Sun. Sky. Bright, ridiculous blue. Then the ocean, blindingly turquoise. The white-powder sand.
On a sunbed sat Emma, glowing tan, red bikini one of those nearly-up-to-your-eyebrow affairs huge sunglasses, a cocktail with a tiny umbrella. Laughing, radiant.
Next to her, arm around her waist, was a man with a hairy forearm and familiar Casio watch (my fifth anniversary gift), in the very swim shorts Id spotted earlier.
Tom.
My husband Tom. Supposedly in Manchester for two weeks in a hard hat.
He was grinning in a way hed not grinned at me in years the kind of smile you save for sunrises and sandwiches after a long hike. He looked at her like she was strawberries and cream.
Caption: “Happiness loves silence but I cant help sharing! My favourite man, my hero, thank you for a slice of paradise! #Maldives #Love #MyMan #Vacation #SisterOops”
And shed tagged me right on Toms face.
Oops, my foot.
I stared at my phone, the room spun. My dreams, my savings, their beach holiday. All for them. My sister and my husband.
I started shaking, hard, teeth clattering against my mug.
I ran to the loo and was sick.
When I surfaced, eyes red, I almost laughed. No wonder he didnt fancy me worn out, mortgage-strapped, stuck patching up his mums roof. Emma was fun. Emma was the party. And Id paid for the confetti.
But then, clarity: cold, fierce, absolute.
Theyre out there, sipping cocktails on my money, mocking me. He forgot one detail, though.
The car. That bloody Land Cruiser he worshipped his pride and joy was still legally mine. A year ago, Tom gave me full power of attorney to sort paperwork or, as hed said, sell in an “emergency”. Hed made it nice and official.
So, lipstick on, hair up, I grabbed the spare Land Cruiser keys and the lot of paperwork, and headed out to see Andy from uni, now working at the local Toyota dealer.
“Andy, I need this car gone today. Toms off to the Maldives. Some gambling debt. Hes desperate.” (Lies but who cares.)
“Crikey, Lucy, really? All right, itll be a bit under market since you need cash now £40,000 any good?”
“Ill take it.”
Money in hand, I went to the bank the next morning. I cleared the rest of the car loan. The leftover £32,000 I moved to my private account, in my maiden name (thank heavens I never changed it). Tom couldnt touch it.
Back at the flat, I ordered a removal van, boxed up all Toms stuff suits, fishing bits, PlayStation, even his favourite mug. It all went, with delivery direct to his mums in Surrey. Doesnt he love “fresh air”?
Then I got the locks changed, top-of-the-range. If he wanted to break in, he could try his luck with the local copper (who, incidentally, is my mate Mark downstairs).
And just to crown it I got into his email (his fools password was my birthday), found all his holiday bookings. Rang the resort and put on my best “fuming wife” voice:
“Hello, its Mrs. Lucy Dawes. Theres been credit card fraud. My husband and his companion are at your hotel on funds charged illegally. All payments are being reversed. I suggest you evict them before the police get involved. Please pass on a message: The partys over. Lucy.”
Within the hour, payment was blocked. My banks notification popped up. A little later, Tom and Emma both started ringing and texting non-stop.
Tom: “Lucy, whats going on?! Cards blocked! Theyre kicking us out! We dont have cash!”
Emma: “Lucy, honestly, its not what you think! Please, just lend us the boat fare to the airport, were stuck!”
Tom: “Andy called me did you sell my car?! Thats my car, Lucy!”
I sent back a single reply a screenshot of Emmas sunbed post.
Caption: “Happiness loves silence. Enjoy the quiet. The cars sold, moneys for family needs (namely my sanity). Your things are with your mum. Locks changed. See you in court. Cheerio, lovebirds.”
Tom came back three days later, sunburned, skint, having borrowed to the hilt off mates who (hilariously) thought he was working in Manchester.
He banged on my door, raging. “Let me in! I live here!”
“This is a mortgage flat and Ive filed to split it,” I called back through the new deadbolt. “Your shares the bank debt youre not setting foot in here.”
Mark the copper gave him a look: “Move along, Tom. Thats enough.”
Divorce was ugly. Tom tried to reclaim the car, but it was all legit power of attorney, debts cleared, the rest spent on family essentials (namely, my nerves).
As for Emma? I havent spoken to her since. Our parents pleaded. “Lucy, shes your sister! She made a mistake!”
“No. My sisters gone. Im not interested in this stranger.”
Emma dumped Tom the minute they hit Heathrow. Shes off with some older chap now, posting from Dubai. Good luck to her.
And me? I took my £2,000 holiday stash and the £32,000 from the car and treated myself.
Maldives. Next-door bungalow, but a better one, with a private pool.
On my own.
Im sat on a sunbed right now, sipping a Pina Colada, staring at the turquoise water. It really does heal you, being in the sun.
For the first time in a decade, Im breathing. Im free. Im not just comfortably off, Im finally, completely myself. And from now on, no man decides if Im worth a break or not.
Ive always been worth it.
