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 move to the cottage together. You can potter about at your leisure, and I’ll come after work and on weekends.”
“You’re right. We’re not going to the seaside this year, and we’ve already spent enough on the birthday dinner. What a wonderful party it was, though, Anthony. Thank you—without you…” Agatha murmured.
When her holiday arrived, she packed a few things for the cottage—seedlings, some clothes—and waited for her husband. Finally, he arrived.
“Ready? Take everything to the car. We’ll have dinner there—I’ve brought containers.”
As they drove, Anthony suddenly said, “This was a good idea, but I won’t be able to help much. I’ve been sent on a business trip.”
“For long?”
“Two weeks. But I’ll come as soon as I can. The boss is sending me to a nearby town.”
By fifty, Agatha had everything one could want—a good husband, stability, grown and independent children. A large flat, a nice car, the cottage, a decent salary.
And always by her side was her dearest friend, Rita, with whom she shared everything. They’d been at school together, then university, and now worked in the same office. Rita was vibrant and quick-witted, cycling through men with ease, though luck in love eluded her. Disillusionment always caught up.
Once, just after school, Rita had fallen pregnant by a classmate.
“Rita, we’re going to the hospital,” her mother had insisted, nearly losing her mind before steadying herself. “We’ll take care of it quietly. You’re going to university—not tying yourself down.”
It was hushed up, arranged through connections. Rita went to university, but the aftermath meant no more children.
She married twice. The first, a quiet man, bored her. Bright and striking, she cheated, confessed, and he divorced her.
“Rita, I don’t understand. What’s wrong with Ian? Intelligent, hardworking—he did it all for you!” Agatha sighed.
“Oh, he was dull. Don’t worry, love—my time will come.”
Her second husband, a handsome singer named Timothy, swept her off her feet at a concert.
“Rita, you’re my muse—I sing only for you.”
She adored his whirlwind life—banquets, drink, admirers. Until weekends came when he left without her, returning drunk. Then he hit her. Rita packed her things and left.
Agatha consoled her. “You’re looking in the wrong places. You need someone steady.”
Agatha felt guilty for her own happiness, even introducing Rita to men. But they bored her. So, at fifty, Rita remained alone but cheerful, dabbling in fleeting romances.
At the cottage, Anthony and Agatha unpacked. The next morning, he left to prepare for his trip. Agatha cleaned thoroughly—she’d spend the whole holiday here. By lunch, she was done. Peering out, she didn’t see their neighbour, Margaret—though she knew she’d be back once the snow melted.
Then, heading to tidy the shed, she spotted a man in Margaret’s garden. Broad-shouldered, fit, working steadily. She crossed over.
“Good afternoon. I haven’t seen Margaret—is she unwell? I’m Agatha, your neighbour.”
“Afraid so. I’m on leave, helping my sister. Oliver, her younger brother. We’ll get along fine,” he laughed.
Agatha liked him—not classically handsome, but pleasant-voiced, around fifty.
“I’ll visit Margaret—it’s been a while.”
Inside, she set down biscuits and chocolates. “Hello, neighbour! What’s this illness?”
“Oh, Agatha! I thought you’d only come weekends.”
“The whole holiday, though Anthony’s away. But I met your brother.”
“Lucky me! Oliver’s a colonel but works like a farmer. Just in time—my back’s given out.”
Work next door was swift. Oliver helped Agatha too. Anthony visited Saturday night but left Sunday without lifting a finger. They shared wine in the gazebo, chatting.
“Agatha, I’ve got holiday after this trip,” he said brightly.
By his return, the cottage was immaculate—trees pruned, beds dug, seedlings planted—thanks to Oliver.
“Margaret, let’s introduce Rita to Oliver. He’s been alone so long,” Agatha suggested.
“Rita?” Margaret hesitated. She’d never liked her. “If you like. But he’s stationed in Scotland. Would she move for him?”
“I’ll ask her. He’s steady, a widower—safe.”
Two weeks later, Rita arrived. A day after, Anthony returned.
“Agatha, I’ll stay a fortnight—if that’s alright?”
“Of course! I want you to meet the neighbour—a lovely man.”
“What neighbour?” Anthony tensed.
“Oliver. He’s wonderful.”
“Hardly. Just ordinary.”
“Not ordinary—solid,” Agatha countered.
Rita, glamorous in a tracksuit, flitted between cottages, everyone in high spirits—except Margaret, who shook her head but stayed silent.
Days passed. Agatha, Margaret, and Oliver gardened. Anthony and Rita played badminton, strolled the woods, picked mushrooms—never dirtied their hands. Oliver joined sometimes but mostly helped his sister.
Evenings were wine and barbecues in the gazebo. Agatha noticed Rita vying for Oliver’s attention, even singing duets. She strained to be the centre of male eyes.
As Agatha’s holiday ended, she grew wistful. Oliver had two weeks left. They spoke often—even of Rita—but he dodged the subject. Clearly, Rita wouldn’t be his choice.
The night before leaving, Agatha talked long with Oliver. Rita and Anthony went walking—all three would leave tomorrow. Agatha caught herself dreading departure, reluctant to “give” Oliver to Rita. But…
Saturday, Anthony drove them home. Agatha returned to work in three days. The next day, Anthony left to fish with friends.
Then Agatha remembered—she’d left important documents at the cottage, including her passport. With Anthony gone, she took the bus.
At the cottage gates, Oliver met her.
“Agatha! I had a feeling I’d see you. Walk to the lake?” He blocked her view of the cottage.
“I need my documents—back to work soon.”
“Plenty of time,” he urged, oddly insistent.
Then she saw Anthony’s car. Oliver noticed too.
“Don’t rush. Let them wake up first.”
But Agatha pushed inside—the door unlocked. In bed, Anthony and Rita lay entwined.
Her legs buckled. She turned slowly. “Lock the door,” she said, and walked out.
Oliver guided her to Margaret’s, sat her down, poured tea.
“You tried to stop me. You knew?”
“Of course. You never noticed. No business trip—they’ve had fun without you. Rita confessed she didn’t fancy me. Asked me to cover for them.”
“And you stayed quiet?”
“Would you have believed me? I’ve two choices—be your shoulder or punch your husband’s lights out.”
Margaret stayed silent.
“I’m not crying—just furious.”
“Agatha, come with me. I’ve been alone so long… I’ve adored you since day one. These weeks—I can’t imagine life without you. You’re a gift. And I think… you feel it too.”
Agatha’s heart raced. Despite the betrayal, she was happy.
“Agatha,” Margaret cut in, “I’ve seen it. And I’ve seen your husband’s true colours. He’s brought Rita here before.”
“Don’t answer now,” Oliver said. “Think it over.”
“No going back. I’ll go with you—away from this nightmare. I won’t watch Rita gloat.” Agatha felt a weight lift. “I’m ready.”
Soon after, Agatha left with Oliver. Now, they live happily—he serves; she keeps their large home.
