The New Year’s Surprise
Emily hurried home, barely noticing the icy pavement beneath her feet. How could she pay attention when her handbag held two plane tickets? A luxury hotel awaited them in Spain—their dream escape for New Year’s. No cooking, no stress, just azure pools and golden sands. A proper holiday, like something from a fairy tale.
But every year, something got in the way. First, saving for the house deposit left no spare cash. Then, lost in the whirl of daily life, they’d simply forgotten to book anything in time.
Now, their house was nearly paid off. It was time to think about starting a family. And if not now, a baby would delay their dream for years. So Emily had decided—this year, she’d surprise Robert.
Her mother-in-law would surely scold her for wasting money. “Who goes to the beach in winter?” she’d scoff. “And what about us? Why didn’t you ask first?” The usual complaints, the usual digs. The woman had never liked her, but so what? She wouldn’t actually kill her. And Robert’s face—his sheer joy—would be worth every sigh and eye roll.
If she’d consulted them, the shock would’ve been ruined. Worse, they might’ve vetoed the trip entirely. It never crossed her mind that Robert might hate surprises or have other plans. He’d always moaned about soggy Christmas dinners in front of the telly. He loved parties, laughter, life.
For weeks, the envelope had hidden in her desk at work. Tonight, she finally brought it home. Their flight left in two days.
Sliding the envelope beneath the tree where Robert couldn’t miss it, Emily changed and started dinner, ears pricked for the front door. Her glances at the clock grew more frequent.
By half eight, worry gnawed at her. The pan had gone cold. She called his mobile—again and again—but it was switched off. Pacing, she peered out the window, willing his car to appear. Dark thoughts swirled—each worse than the last. What if he’d crashed? What if—?
She shook them away. Probably just drinks with the lads. But why turn off his phone? Why not text?
Twice, she cracked the door open, half-expecting to find him slumped on the landing. Once, years ago, her dad’s mates had dropped him off drunk, too scared of Mum’s temper to ring the bell. Luckily, a neighbour found him.
No one stood outside now. No footsteps echoed. The tickets, their dream—all forgotten. Just let him be safe.
Sleep was impossible. She curled on the sofa, knees tucked, steeling herself for a long wait. Then—a sudden ringtone shattered the silence. She jolted, fumbling for her phone.
“Robert? Where are you? What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened,” purred a woman’s voice, sticky as syrup. Emily pulled the phone away, staring. Robert’s number. “He’s asleep. Like a baby.”
“Where? Who is this?” But she already knew.
A friend had warned her, laughing darkly. “My sister got her husband spa passes. Two months later, she finds out he’s been taking his mistress.”
The words echoed in Emily’s skull.
“Robert’s at my place. Alive and well. Don’t wait up.” The honeyed voice dripped malice. “We’ve been seeing each other six months. He felt too sorry for you to end it. Thought I’d help.” *Click.*
The phone slid from her grip. The screen went black—like her hopes, her joy, the future she’d imagined. Only pain remained.
Six years together. How could he? It couldn’t be real. Any second, he’d walk in, laugh it off as a joke.
She dialled again. Still off. She pictured the woman—blonde, smug, wrapped in his dressing gown—plucking his phone from his pocket. Plump lips, smirking.
*Six months.* Since summer. While she’d planned this trip. Which hurt more—his betrayal, or her wasted effort?
The tickets still sat under the tree. No tears came—just a storm of questions. What now? How did she move on? *Could* she?
She dozed fitfully, waking each time to the crushing truth.
A key turned. Light spilled under the door. Fabric rustled. Maybe it was a nightmare. Maybe—
His footsteps paused by the sofa.
“I’m awake,” she said flatly. “Late at work? Why was your phone off? What if something happened to me? To your parents?”
“Battery died,” he murmured.
She held up her phone, thrusting the call log at him. “You rang me at half twelve. Explain that. Or don’t. Your girlfriend already did. Since *July*. You were *sorry* for me.”
He stammered, but she talked over him, voice eerily calm.
“I had a surprise for you too. Under the tree. Two tickets. Remember how we dreamed of New Year’s by the sea?”
“Emily, I—”
“Don’t.” Her composure cracked. A tremor ran through her. “*Don’t.*”
He reached for her.
“Don’t touch me! *Go.* Just—*go!*” Her screams ricocheted off the walls. He grabbed her; she thrashed, then crumpled, sobbing.
When he left, she sat frozen. Finally, she yanked the envelope free—ready to shred it—but stopped. *December 30th.* The flight time. The destination.
A lifeline.
She’d go alone. The hotel had parties, noise, distraction. She’d sell the extra ticket.
She rang her mum. “Robert and I are off to Spain. Back next week.” Then she packed.
On the way to the airport, she almost turned back. Movement was easier than sitting in silence.
Even boarding felt unreal—until the plane broke through clouds, revealing sunlit coastline. *First, the beach*, she decided.
She was the only solo guest. At first, she thought the pale woman in a headscarf was alone too. “Post-chemo,” Emily guessed. But then a young man guided her gently away.
Days later, she found him by the shore.
“Where’s your mum?”
“Not well.”
Up close, he looked younger—Andrew, he said. His wife had left when his mother fell ill.
“This was her dream,” he admitted. “Doctor said the sea air might help.”
They walked most evenings while his mum rested. Emily left first, but they exchanged numbers.
Back home, the flat still smelled of him. His things were half-gone. *Still hoping*, she thought bitterly.
Her phone lit up—him, begging to talk.
“No. I’ll file for divorce.”
Months later, Andrew called. “Mum’s gone. I’ve thought of you every day.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m free. Marry me?”
“You barely know me.”
After the divorce, she scrubbed the flat raw—then stopped. *Why? I don’t want this life.*
Outside, spring bloomed wildly. She called Andrew.
“I thought you’d never ring,” he said.
“I’m free now. Just… give me time.”
She wasn’t ready. Not yet. But the past haunted her less. The future? That was still unwritten.
