**Diary Entry**
What brilliant news! I rushed home, eager to share it with Tom. Not just good news—fantastic news. It called for a celebration. On the way, I stopped at the shop and picked up a bottle of wine. I’d cook dinner, we’d drink, and—oh, the possibilities danced in my mind.
“Tom, I’m home!” I called as I stepped into our tiny flat. No need to shout—the click of the latch echoed through every corner—but joy bubbled up inside me, impossible to contain.
Tom shuffled out reluctantly.
“I’ve got such news! I’ll whip up dinner quick, we’ll sit down and celebrate. Look, I even bought wine.” I pulled the bottle from the bag, oblivious to the strained look on his face. “Take it to the kitchen, yeah? I’ll just change.” I breezed past him, slipping behind the wardrobe door like a screen, swapping my work clothes for the short robe he liked. I smoothed my hair, shut the wardrobe.
Tom sat glued to the telly, sound off, staring right through it. I hovered by his side.
“What’s wrong? Is it your mum again?” I asked carefully.
Silence. I sat beside him, covering his hand with mine.
“Whatever it is, we’ll manage. I got—” Before I could finish, he jerked his hand away and stood abruptly. “Right. Tell me later. I’ll start dinner.”
As I fried potatoes, the mystery gnawed at me. No use pressing him—he’d talk when ready. My excitement fizzled. Maybe the wine was a mistake. But how was I to know?
We’d married a year and a half ago. Tom already worked for a big construction firm, while I finished my degree. We lived on his salary in this tiny flat, just enough to scrape by.
He sent part of his wages to his mum—she lived in another town, always poorly, medicines swallowing most of it. Once I graduated and landed a job, we even saved a little, though at this rate, we’d never afford a proper home.
Late at night, we’d dream of starting our own firm—Tom designing houses, me perfecting the interiors. But we needed experience, recommendations. Then we’d buy that big house, start a family…
Right now, though, I was stuck with dull little projects, barely a chance to shine. Still, I worked fast, eager, despite the meagre pay. I believed my big break would come. And with it, everything—the house I’d decorate myself, the car, the furniture…
Earlier today, my boss called me in. A proper project—refurbishing a flat for a wealthy woman’s son as a wedding gift. The wedding’s in a month. I was freed from all other work, just focus on this. Even a bonus for speed.
I knew I could do it. Ideas swirled in my head—I’d make it perfect, like my own. I went straight to see the place. The woman who met me dripped elegance, expensive perfume clinging to her. Money practically radiated off her. She showed me the flat, outlined her wishes, insisted on sparing no expense.
We agreed I’d draft the layout, material choices, then she’d hire labourers. If she liked my designs, work would start immediately.
So of course I raced home to tell Tom. But the wine stayed unopened. I stashed it in the fridge. After a silent dinner, I buried myself in work, sketching till my eyes blurred. Only when Tom sat beside me did I pause.
“Need to talk,” he muttered.
“Go on.” I turned to him.
“Lost my job,” he forced out, eyes down.
“What? How?”
“Company took on a big new project. Stress, impossible deadlines… the boss had me by the throat, demanding it done yesterday. Ended up miscalculating. They started building before I spotted it. Tried to fix it—got sacked instead.”
“We’ll manage. I was trying to tell you—”
“Not all.” He jumped up, pacing like a caged beast. “I owe them money. Contract stipulates—”
“How much?” My voice dropped.
“Too much. Can’t cover it. I’ll take a loan, but… can’t send Mum anything now.”
“A loan? The interest’ll bury us! We’ll borrow from friends—”
“Don’t be daft, Em. What friends? You only have mates when life’s smooth. Ask for cash—watch ’em vanish.” His voice rose, frayed.
“You already tried?” I guessed. “But my friends—I’ll ask—”
“Give it a shot. Turns out I’ve got none.” He stormed off.
I rang Sophie first—old school friend, married some wealthy bloke, big house, holidays abroad.
“Emily! Fancy hearing from you!” she trilled. I cut to the chase.
“Soph, I need help. Could we meet?—Oh, you’re away? Well, I need money—” Silence. I almost hung up.
“God, it’s awful—it’s his money, not mine. He keeps me on an allowance, won’t even cover my mum’s care home. Wouldn’t ask, honestly.” Her voice dripped regret.
Rich people—money in fist, grip unyielding. Next, I tried Lizzie—seamstress, saving for a flat. Surely she’d lend it, repayable in a month.
“Lizzie? No, nothing to sew. Listen, I need to ask—”
“Oh, Em! Just got my flat! Empty still, but— Anyway, you must come!”
Right. Well. I’d ask colleagues tomorrow. Or—loan it was.
I finalised my sketches, even drafted a rough budget. Rang the client, Isabella.
“Already? Splendid. Come now—I’m showing builders round,” she said.
She studied my drawings.
“Marvellous work.”
“Custom furniture’s not an option—timing’s too tight. But with clever lighting, mirrors—” I handed her more sheets.
“Yes. Perfect. We’ll pick furnishings together. Start whenever—ring if issues arise.” She made for the door. I swallowed my nerves.
“Wait—could we talk?”
“Quickly—salon appointment.”
I laid it bare—Tom’s sacking, the debt.
“Could you pay me upfront? The design’s done, you’re pleased. I’ll oversee everything, flawless work—”
Her pause wasn’t refusal, at least.
Clients pay the firm, but sometimes slip designers extra.
“Right,” she said finally. “I’ll give you the sum. Got a cottage needing a refresh—do that privately, payment straight to you.”
“Of course—just need to see it—” Relief flooded me. No repayment. “Thank you, I’ll—”
“Don’t disappoint me.”
“Never.”
Next evening, I burst in. “Tom!”
He didn’t move, newspaper in hand.
“Job hunting?”
“Nothing decent.”
“Found the money.”
“Where?”
“Earned it, silly. That project—wedding flat. And a cottage. She’s paying tomorrow. No repayment. Happy?”
“Em, you’re brilliant!” He swept me up, spinning me. “Saved my skin.”
He settled the debt, got another job. Came home exhausted, ate, crashed. I worked late, eyes burning. Dinner? Pasta, eggs—quick, easy.
Finally, the cottage was done. Some repairs—Tom helped. Isabella approved.
“Transformed! Doubted you at first—my mistake. Word’ll spread—clients’ll queue.”
I flushed, pleased.
She handed me an envelope.
“Too much—you’ve paid!” I stepped back.
“Take it. You went beyond—even fixed that wobbly stair.”
“Tom helped.”
“Bonus, then.”
I peeked inside later—generous. Saved for the house, then.
At the crossing, I tapped my foot—ready to celebrate. Green light. But I froze.
A white Mercedes idled opposite. Tom at the wheel—unmistakable, that shirt I’d painted myself, copying a designer tag. No other like it.
A blonde beside him. Laughing, turning to her. He never saw me.
The car sped off. I stumbled home, numb. Didn’t cook. Sat in the dark.
Key turned. Light flicked on.
“Thought you were out.”
“Just thinking. Late again.”
“Work’s mad. Anything to eat?” He looked smug, rested.
“Blonde not feed you?”
“What blonde?”
“Saw you. That shirt’s one of a kind. Boss’s daughter?”
“Yeah—asked me to drive her. Nice motor—we’ll get one—”
“No driver? And she’s lovely. Marry her—skip saving, eh? Tell her I’m just a flatmate, feelings long dead—”
“What if I did?” His eyes flashed. “I’m grateful you helped. But you lied too. Who gaveShe picked up the phone, dialed Isabella’s number, and asked if there were any more cottages needing a redesign—her future, she decided, would be built on her own terms, not his betrayal.
