I still recall the day I checked my husband’s whereabouts on the familylocator app, the one we reluctantly installed after our son left for university, and found his signal blinking right outside the doors of the town’s maternity ward.
I don’t understand why the invoice for the completed works is £30,000 less than the estimate, I said to the foreman over the phone, my tone as icy as the winter wind. We agreed on Italian tiles, catalogue number sevenonetwo. What have you supplied? Chinese copies?
Mrs. Whitaker, who can tell? the foreman stammered, trying to sound eager. They look identical, you can’t even spot the difference! Think of the savings. Im offering you half a kickback; no one will ever know.
Ill be the one to know, I snapped. Thatll be enough. Have the tiles replaced by lunchtime tomorrow, or well meet in court. I assure you, youll lose not only this contract but also your licence.
I hung up before he could answer, my hands trembling with anger. It was always the same. I poured my heart into every line drawing, stayed up late, imagined each centimetre of the future interior, only to have a slicktalking tradesman try to cheat me, treating me as a fool. A designer needed nerves of steel and a spine of iron; I possessed both in abundance. After twentyseven years in the trade, I had learned to defend my projects and put the most brazen contractors in their place.
When I finally got home, exhausted and seething, my husband, James, was waiting on the doorstep with a steaming mug of my favourite peppermint tea.
Another battle? he said with a gentle smile, taking my heavy bag of material samples. Come in, my valiant lady, dinner is ready.
James was my opposite: calm, domestic, unambitious. He worked as a design engineer in a modest firm, earned a modest but steady salary, and seemed perfectly content in our snug little world. He was the quiet island I retreated to after each day’s skirmish.
We had been married for twentytwo years, raised a son who now studied in another city, and lived a steady, unremarkable life. I built my career; James provided a reliable rearguard. He always met me with a hot meal, listened to my endless lament about the wrong shade of beige, and never chided me for disappearing for days on the job. He was the ideal husband, or so our friends thought, and I believed it myself.
Lately, however, he had become distant, lost in his own thoughts. Hed taken up a new hobbyfishing. Every weekend he and his mate Colin would drive off to the lakes.
James, is fishing really a thing in November? I asked, bewildered.
Whats wrong with it? he shrugged. The fish bite now, and its peaceful. You could use a break too.
I didnt argue. He needed his space. I packed his thermos with hot tea, wrapped sandwiches, and sent him off with a light heart.
That Saturday he left at dawn. After finishing a rush job, I decided to treat myself. I went to the salon, then to the big supermarket on the High Street, wandering the aisles and planning the weeks meals. I thought to call James and ask if he needed anything for his return. I dialled his number. Long rings. Silence.
Usually he answered instantly. A prick of anxiety rose in me. Had something happened? A tyre burst? A slip on ice? I remembered the locator app wed set up half a year before, just in case we needed to keep tabs on our son. Wed never used it much, feeling it intrusive, but now
I opened the app. Three dots glimmered on the map: mine, my sons at his halls, and Jamess. My heart lurched. His dot wasnt out of town, nor by the lake. It was in the city, in a residential district. I zoomed in. The point hovered over a building on Flower Street, number 7. I typed the address into the search bar. The screen displayed what my mind refused to accept: York Maternity Hospital, Ward 5.
Somethings wrong, I thought. The app is faulty. A glitch, perhaps. Maybe Colins friend was visiting a new grandchild? But why the fishing lie?
I tried calling again. The line was dead. Panic hardened into a cold, clingy dread. I abandoned my shopping trolley in the middle of the aisle; a lady scolded me, but I barely heard her. I bolted to the car, my hands shaking so badly I struggled to insert the key into the ignition.
All the way there I repeated to myself like a mantra: Its a mistake. Its only a mistake. I conjured a hundred logical explanations a broken down car, a misdirected pickup, anything but the nightmare that loomed.
I parked opposite the maternity ward, its yellowbrick façade typical of the town. On the steps, families gathered with bouquets and balloons, smiling fathers, grandparents. I sat in the car, unable to move, fearing the sight that would shatter my carefully arranged world.
And then I saw him.
James emerged from the building, not in a fishermens jacket but in the crisp white shirt I had ironed for him the night before. Beside him walked a young woman, about twentyfive, her face tired yet radiant. In his hands was a white envelope tied with a blue satin ribbon.
A elderly lady, likely the woman’s mother, hurried over, embracing James and speaking joyously. He smiled the same bright, slightly bewildered smile hed worn twentytwo years ago when he first brought home our newborn, little Timothy.
Through the car window I watched the scene, and the world as I knew it fell away. No cars, no streets, no York only that tableau: my husband, another woman, and a child that was not mine. And me, the duped, betrayed fool, sitting in a car Id bought with my own savings.
I did not step out. I did not create a scene. My steelforged resolve, honed by battles with foremen and clients, whispered a different strategy: act, not scream.
I turned the car and drove back to our flat, the one I considered my fortress. Inside, everything bore my fingerprints: the furniture Id chosen, the curtains Id sewn, the tiny details that reminded me of James. I walked to the bookcase where his collection of model ships a hobby from his boyhood sat displayed. I grabbed the largest frigate and hurled it onto the floor. It shattered into splinters, and for the first time I felt a strange relief.
Methodically, as if drafting a new estimate, I began the next steps.
Arthur Lane, good afternoon. I need a solicitor urgently. Divorce proceedings and asset division, please.
Then I opened my laptop, logged onto the banks site, and transferred every penny from our joint savings to my own account. The password was the date of our wedding an ironic touch. I also moved the remainder of my salary into the same account, leaving exactly £1,000 on the joint accountfor sandwiches, I joked, for the fisherman.
I packed Jamess belongings: his crumpled shirts, his battered boots, his childish model ships, everything into large trash bags. I called a removal van and arranged for the lot to be delivered to his mothers address the only place I knew his things would end up.
When the flat stood empty and echoing, I sank onto the sofa and finally allowed the tears to flow. Not from hurt alone, but from a furious anger at my own blindness. How could a woman so sharp at work be so naïve at home? How had I missed the lie?
Later that evening, James called, his voice shaky and bewildered.
Olivia, I dont understand I got home and my things are gone. The accounts are empty. What happened? Were we robbed?
We werent robbed, James, I replied, my voice as steady as steel. Its just a redesign. Ive cleared out everything unnecessary.
What unnecessary? Where are my things? Wheres the money?
Your possessions are with your mother. As for the money consider it child support for your newborn. I happened to be at the fifth maternity ward today such a touching scene, congratulations. I trust the catch was good.
A heavy silence settled over the line.
Olivia Ill explain everything! Its not what you think!
I need no explanation. I need nothing from you. My solicitor will contact you tomorrow about the divorce. Do not seek me out, and forget this number.
I hung up and blocked his number, then walked to the kitchen, fetched a pack of drafting paper and my favourite pencils, and began to sketch. I was drafting the blueprint of my new life, one without lies, without compromises. The colour would not be almost the same but the truest shade of freedom.
Betrayal by someone close cuts deep, yet it can also mark the point where a genuine life begins. How would you have acted in my place? Would you have listened to explanations, or taken a similarly decisive step? Your thoughts matter.
