After celebrating her fiftieth birthday, Agatha decided to take a holiday at the start of May to tend to the cottage without the usual weekend rush. Anthony had insisted.
“Of course we’ll go to the cottage. You can take your time with the gardening, and I’ll be there after work and on weekends.”
“You’re right. We’re not going abroad this year anyway, not after splashing out on the party at the restaurant. But it was lovely, wasn’t it, Tony? Thank you—I couldn’t have done it without you,” Agatha said.
When her leave began, she packed a few things—seedlings, some clothes—and waited for her husband. Finally, he arrived.
“I’m ready. Load the car, and we’ll have dinner there—I’ve brought some in containers.”
During the drive, Anthony dropped a surprise.
“This cottage plan was a good idea, but I won’t be able to help much. I’ve been sent on a last-minute business trip.”
“How long, Tony?”
“Two weeks. But I promise I’ll come and help as soon as I can. The boss is sending me to Manchester.”
At fifty, Agatha had everything one could want—a good husband, a stable marriage, grown children who were independent. A spacious flat, a nice car, the cottage, a decent job with a good salary.
And always by her side was her closest friend, Rita, with whom she shared everything. They’d been friends since school, attended the same university, and now worked in the same office. Rita was lively and quick-witted but unlucky in love, cycling through men with little success.
Her misfortunes had started right after school when she’d fallen pregnant by a classmate.
“Rita, we’re going to the hospital,” her mother had insisted, barely keeping her composure. “We’ll handle this quietly. You’re going to university, not tying yourself down.”
Her mother arranged it discreetly, through connections. Rita went to university, but the procedure left her unable to have children.
She married twice. Her first husband was steady and kind, but Rita found the quiet life stifling. Beautiful and vivacious, she cheated on him—twice—and even confessed. He filed for divorce.
“Rita, I don’t understand. What was wrong with Ian? He was intelligent, hardworking—he did it all for you!” Agatha would say.
“Oh, he bored me. Don’t worry, love—my luck will turn.”
Her second husband, a handsome musician named Tyler, had swept her off her feet at a concert.
“Rita, you’re my muse—I sing only for you,” he’d say.
At first, she adored his glamorous life—parties, booze, mingling with artists. But soon, he spent weekends away without her, returning drunk. When he raised a hand to her, Rita left. She grew despondent.
Agatha tried to comfort her.
“Rita, you’re looking in the wrong places. You need someone steady, dependable.”
Agatha even felt guilty for her own happiness, introducing Rita to decent men—but Rita quickly lost interest. By fifty, she was alone but still cheerful, with fleeting romances that never lasted.
At the cottage, Anthony helped unload before leaving the next morning for his trip. Agatha spent the day cleaning, pleased to have a whole month in the countryside. By lunch, she finished and peered out the window—no sign of their neighbour, Mary, though she knew Mary would be there once the snow melted.
Rounding the house to tidy the shed, she spotted a man in Mary’s garden—broad-shouldered, fit, working methodically. She approached through the gate.
“Good afternoon. I haven’t seen Mary—is she unwell? I’m Agatha, her neighbour.”
“Afraid so. She’s resting. I’m on leave and came to help. I’m Oliver , her younger brother. So, we’ll be neighbours for a while,” he said warmly.
Agatha liked him—not classically handsome, but pleasant-voiced, mid-fifties or so.
“I’ll visit Mary now—it’s been ages,” she said, heading inside.
“Hello, neighbour! What’s this, taken ill?” She set down a box of chocolates and biscuits.
“Oh, Agatha! I thought you’d only come weekends.”
“I’m here the whole month. Anthony’s away on business, but he’ll visit. I just met your brother—he’s a godsend!”
Mary smiled. “Oliver’s a colonel, but you’d think he was born to farm. Back’s been killing me—he arrived just in time.”
The neighbours worked efficiently together. Oliver even helped Agatha. Anthony visited Saturday evening but left Sunday without lifting a finger—just shared wine in the gazebo.
“Agatha, I’ve got leave after this trip,” he said cheerfully.
By the time he returned, the garden was immaculate—trees pruned, beds dug, seedlings planted.
“Mary, what if I introduce Rita to Oliver? He’s been single so long,” Agatha suggested.
Mary hesitated. “Rita? Well, if you like. But Oliver’s stationed in Scotland—would she really follow him?”
“I’ll ask her. He’s steady, honourable—a widower. She’d be safe with him.”
Two weeks later, Rita arrived unannounced. Anthony returned the next day.
“Agatha, mind if I stay a week or two? I’m on leave too.”
“Of course not! I want you to meet our neighbour—he’s lovely,” Agatha laughed. Anthony frowned.
“Which neighbour? You’ve been making friends without me?”
“Oliver. He’s wonderful.”
“Him? Just an ordinary bloke.”
“No—he’s dependable,” she countered.
Rita, polished and cheerful in a stylish tracksuit, flitted between cottages. The mood was light, though Mary sometimes shook her head—too polite to speak her mind.
Days were busy—Agatha, Mary, and Oliver gardened, while Anthony and Rita played badminton, walked in the woods, picked mushrooms. Evenings were spent with wine and barbecues. Agatha noticed Rita’s efforts to charm Oliver—singing duets, basking in male attention.
As her holiday neared its end, Agatha grew wistful. Oliver had two weeks left, and they’d talked about everything—except Rita. He dodged the subject, making it clear he wasn’t interested.
The night before departure, Agatha and Oliver talked late. Rita and Anthony had gone for a walk—all three were leaving. Agatha caught herself dreading the return, unwilling to let Oliver go. But…
Anthony drove them back Saturday. Agatha’s work resumed in three days, and chores awaited. The next day, he announced a fishing trip with friends and left. Then Agatha realised—she’d left important documents, even her passport, at the cottage.
“Blast. Now I’ll have to take the bus,” she grumbled, setting off next morning.
At the cottage gate, she met Oliver.
“Agatha! I had a feeling I’d see you. How unexpected. Fancy a walk to the lake?” He subtly blocked her view of her own cottage.
“I need my documents—back to work soon.”
“Plenty of time. No rush.”
Then she spotted Anthony’s car. Oliver noticed her stiffen.
“Don’t hurry. Let them wake up first.”
But Agatha was already striding to the house. The door was unlocked. Inside, Anthony and Rita lay tangled in bed.
Her legs buckled. She turned slowly.
“Lock the door,” she said, stepping outside as they stirred.
Oliver guided her to Mary’s, sitting her down with tea.
“You tried to stop me. You knew.”
“Didn’t want you hurt. Yes, I knew. No business trip—they’ve been carrying on in town. Rita told me, bragged even. Asked me to cover for them.”
“And you said nothing?”
“Would you have believed me? I can lend a shoulder if you need to cry. Or I can punch his lights out.” Mary stayed silent.
“I’m not crying. I’m furious—my husband, my best friend, lying to me for who knows how long.”
“Listen, Agatha. Come with me. I’ve been alone years… I’ve fancied you since day one. These weeks—I can’t imagine life without you. You’re a gift. And I think, deep down, you feel something too.”
Her heart raced. Despite the betrayal, she felt a strange happiness.
“Agatha, don’t overthink it,” Mary cut in. “I’ve seen how you two are. But you’re married—you couldn’t admit it. And I’ve long known what your husband’s like. He’s brought Rita here before.”
“Don’t answer now,” Oliver said. “Think it over. I’ll wait.”
Agatha exhaled. “No going back. I’ll go with you—far from this mess. I won’t watch Rita gloat.” It was like a
