We cant afford the sea this year, my husband muttered, grabbing his suitcase and heading for a work trip. The next day, I stumbled upon a photo of him on a sun-drenched beach with his arms around my sister.
Emma, for heavens sake, stop this nonsense! he barked, pacing our cramped kitchen, opening and slamming cupboards, banging plates, pouring water into a glass and tipping it away again. He hardly spared me a glance, keeping his gaze on the peeling wallpaper as if I were an IRS auditor.
Youre an accountant! Look at the numbers! The car loan takes out six hundred pounds a month. Mortgage is eight. Mums cottage needs another four, the roofs about to cave in if we dont fix it. How on earth are we supposed to go abroad? Not just the Maldivesanywhere! Well be eating out of tins if we try.
I huddled over my laptop, the travel agents page open and enticing with its images of turquoise water and white sand fringed by palm trees. Not just a picturemy hope, the dream Id survived the last three years on, a life raft.
Ollie, I said quietly, trying not to let my voice crack. Ive been saving up for this. I didnt spend my bonus. I packed lunches from home. I did the books for three small businesses at night while you snored. Theres three thousand stashed away in my savings. Ive done the sums. The car will keep another month, and your mums cottage wont collapse in a fortnight. We need a holiday. We havent had a proper break in five years, not since the mortgage. Youre snappy, Im on the verge of losing itmy eye has a permanent twitch. We need to be together, remind ourselves were husband and wife, not glorified flatmates drowning in debt.
Its not just the money! he snapped, nearly smashing his cup into the saucer. Works a nightmare! The sites behind! Chief contractors fuming, and the boss wont sign off if I vanish to lie on a sun lounger! Id get the sack and then what? Goodbye Maldives, goodbye house!
But werent you just saying last week everything was sorted, work was quiet?
Its changed! The client changed their minds! Redesigns, Emma. No holiday this year. We’ll help Mum with the garden at the cottage for the Bank Holidays, fix the greenhouse, have a barbecue. Fresh air, countryside. Thats rest, isnt it?
I dont want to go to your mums, I whispered, tears stinging my eyes. Its not a break for me. I end up working another shiftpulling weeds, digging, cooking for your whole family. I want to do nothing. Just lie by the sea for once.
Doesnt matter what you want! He thumped the table. Selfish, thats what you are! Me me me! Ive got a work tripManchester, two weeks. Got to inspect sites. Boss is sending me. So stay home and behave, and give me some of your holiday money for the flights and hotel.
Why? I was startled. The company pays for work trips.
They pay later. I need the money nowfor the hotel, business dinners. I cant serve pot noodles to the directors, can I?
How much? My voice was flat, like something inside me broke.
Two grand. Thats it.
Two thousand? Ollie, thats two-thirds of my holiday fund. Thats my time, my effort!
Ill pay you back, I swear. The company reimburses everythingreceipts, per diems. Dont you trust your own husband? Your family?
He looked at me with such disappointment that guilt flooded my chest.
Hes working. For us. In the cold. And Im here whining about sun and sand.
So I transferred him the money. Two thousand pounds. Hands shaking as I pressed send.
Wed been together a decadehed always been the dependable one, even if a bit sharp and frugal. Hed never let me down. Not really.
The next day, he left.
I packed his bag. He zipped his coat, spritzed himself with the Dior Sauvage Id sacrificed Christmas shopping for.
Dont miss me too much, Em, he joked, breezing out the door. Ill try to ring, but the signals useless up in Manchester, all those bloody tower blocks.
Mind yourself, I fussed with his scarf. Remember, it snows there sometimes.
Of course, Ive got thermals.
Why the swim shorts? I asked, spotting them in his bags side pocket.
He hesitated. Oh, the hotels got a pool and sauna. Well relax after meetings, you know.
It made enough sense. I nodded.
And just like that, he was gone. With his big grey suitcaseand my money, and my holiday hopes.
The flat grew still.
I drifted through work, came home to empty silence. Dinner for one, TV flickering with stories of better lives.
Loneliness hurt.
So I rang my sisterLucy.
Lucy, my polar opposite. Shes glamorous, blonde, always off somewhere, snapping selfies with models and actors. Five years younger, but more like seventeen. We were never closeshe always lived in a different worldbut I looked out for her and helped her when she needed it.
I tried calling.
The number you dialled is temporarily unavailable.
Odd. Shes always online. Her Instagrams usually flooded with stories: Heres my salad, in a cab, new lipstick!
I scrolled through her page. Last posta week ago, the day Ollie left. A snap of a pink, glittery suitcase. Setting out on my dream trip! Guess where? Hint: its somewhere hot! #SecretMission #Holiday.
Probably being whisked off by her latest boyfriend.
A week passed.
Ollie barely rangsaid he was busy or the signal was patchy. But when he did, he sounded happy. Animated. And in the backgrounda gentle rhythmic noise, not quite office bustle or a Manchester gale.
Was that waves? And faintlyLatin music?
Ollie, whats with the music? Where are you?
What? Oh, Im in a car to the site. The driver likes this station!
And that sound?
The wind! I told youthe citys a wind tunnel! Bye, Em, losing signal!
Friday night, I couldnt sleep. Anxiety gnawed at me.
I made tea I didnt drink and scrolled through my feed.
Thenping.
Lucy Williams tagged you in a photo.
My heart stilled. Lucy?
I tapped.
It took a few moments for the image to load.
Bright blue sky. Turquoise sea. White sand.
And there they were. The hotel from the travel agents page. The exact palm, the jetty. The Eden ResortId memorised those photos.
In the foreground, Lucybathed in sunlight, in a tiny red bikini, huge sunglasses, a cocktail with an umbrella, glowing, perfect.
And next to her
An arm around her waist. Tanned, hairy, wearing a distinct Casio watchthe one I gave Ollie years ago. Beach shortsthose ridiculous ones with the palm trees.
My husband.
Ollie. Who was supposedly freezing up north, shivering over spreadsheets.
He grinneda wide, white, adoring smile I hadnt seen in years. Staring at Lucy like she was the only thing in the world.
The caption: Happiness loves silence, but I have to brag. My man, my hero, thank you for paradise! #EdenResort #Love #MyMan #Holiday #SisterSorryNotSorry. Shed tagged my face over Ollies on the photo.
By accident? Hardly.
Deliberately. To finish me off. To say: I won. Im younger, Im prettier. And youold, tired, bankrolling our fun.
My heart clanged. My husband. My sister.
On my moneythe savings Id scraped together for years by going without.
Theyd stolen my dream. My very life.
His words echoed in my mind: You dont deserve a break. Theres no money. Selfish.
Hed lied, eyes open, one hand in my pocket.
I started to shake, teeth chattering against my cup.
Then, violently, I was sick.
I washed my face with icy water. In the mirror, a hollow-eyed woman stared backgrey, baggy-eyed, older for worry.
Lucyyoung, vibrant, carefree. Of course hed choose her. She was easy, fun. I was a walking mortgage statement.
It was all I could do not to laugh, or scream.
But as I rinsed the bitterness from my mouth, clarity came. I grew cold, purposeful.
Next morning, I woke up different. No more tears. Only a black, icy resolve.
They could have their taste of paradise. But Id show them what an English winter really felt like.
Ollied forgotten one detail. The car.
Hed signed general power of attorney for the car to me last year before another urgent trip. For three years, with permission to sell.
His pride and joya black Land Cruiser. His trophy.
I dressed smart: suit, heels, red lipstick, the lot.
Took every documentdeed, logbook, keys.
Headed straight to the dealership, where an old uni-mate, Dan, worked.
Dan, I need to sell the Cruiser. Fast.
He frowned. You okay, Em? Does Ollie know?
Ollies in Maldives. Needed cash. Dodgy poker debt. I lied, and Dans eyes widened.
We can do four grand, cash, quick. Lower than market, but thats business.
Fine. Today.
Few hours later, I walked out with a fat envelopefour thousand pounds in cash.
I paid off the car loaneight hundred. The restthree thousand two hundredwent straight to a new savings account in my maiden name.
Then I called a van, packed Ollies clothes, suits, rods, PlayStation, laptop, even his favourite cupall into boxes.
The courier asked, Where to, love?
Millfield, Rose Cottage. Patricias househis mum.
I called a locksmith. Change the locks. I want the best deadbolt, and an alarm.
He gave me a look. Burglars?
Yeah. Rats more like.
Finally, a cherry on the cake.
I knew Ollies email passwordmy date of birth. He was never clever with details.
Found his Eden Resort e-ticket and booking.
I called the hotel, voice ice-cold and faultlessly polite.
Hello, this is Mrs. Emma Grant, head accountant for Mr. Oliver Grant, currently with you in bungalow 105. Hes used a company card without authorisation and Ive filed a fraud report with the bank and the police. Please remove them from your premises. The transaction will be reversed.
The manager was startled. Madam, well look into this!
Be quick about it. And tell him: The free ride is over. Emma.
An hour later, my banking app pingedunsuccessful attempt to charge two thousand pounds to Ollies card. Approval rejected.
Soon aftercalls. Ollie once. Lucy twice. Texts raining in.
Emma, whats going on? Cards arent working! Theyre kicking us out! Weve got no cash!
For Gods sake, pick up, you witch! Were on the beach with our bags. Lucys crying!
Emma, please! You got this all wrong! We just bumped into each other. We didntjust help us, please send money for the boat! Were stranded!
I heard you sold my car! Are you mad? That was my car! Ill sue you when Im back!
I laughed, truly laughedwild hysterical giggles that wouldnt stop.
I replied with the screenshot of their beachfront hug, and a note:
Happiness loves silence. Enjoy it. And enjoy your trek back from Manchester. The cars sold, cash used for my trauma. Your stuffs at your mums. Locks changed. Divorce filed. Ciao.
Ollie made it back three days later. Had to beg his mates (who were shocked about Manchester) for a loan home. He turned up red as a lobster, blistered, broke.
Hammering at the door.
Let me in! This is my house! Ill see you in court!
Its a joint mortgage, Ollie. But Im filing to split it. Your bit is just debt. Youre not living here. I spoke through the reinforced doormy uncle, Mike, a retired police officer, loitered just down the hall for good measure.
Best go, mate, said Uncle Mike. Else youll be spending the night in the cells.
He stormed off.
The divorce was ugly and loud.
He tried to contest the car sale. She stole my car! he howled at the judge.
But the judge looked at the paperwork. General power of attorneysale permitted. Debt paid. Remaining funds used for living costs and medicationthe claimant had a nervous breakdown.
He had no receipts to prove otherwise.
My relationship with Lucy was over. Done.
Mum was appalled, Dad clutching his chest. Emma, shes your sister! She didnt know what she was doing, Ollie led her astray! Forgive her!
I have no sister, I replied. Mine died. This woman is nothing to me.
Lucy left Ollie the day they landedshe needed someone more successful. Shes posting Dubai selfies now. Good riddance.
As for me? I took the two thousand Id keptplus the three grand from the car sale.
And I bought myself a ticket.
To the same resort. To the very next bungalowan upgrade, with a plunge pool.
On my own.
Now Im lounging on a deckchair, straw in a piña colada, staring out at healing blue water.
Breathing deep.
Im free. Im comfortable. And Ill never again let a man decide if Im worthy of a holiday.
I deserve it all.
