I woke up in a kitchen that smelled of tea and rainslick pavement, the walls humming with the low thrum of a distant London underground. While folding the laundry, my fingers brushed against a stiff piece of paper in the pocket of Jamess navy blazer. I pulled it out, unfolded it, and found a creamcoloured envelope. Inside lay two airline tickets to the Maldives. The departure date was two weeks away; the return, ten days later. Business class. One ticket bore the name James Smythe, my husbands. The other read Mabel Smythe.
My heart hiccupped. Mabel? There was no Mabel Smythe in my family tree. I sank onto the edge of the bed, the tickets trembling in my clasp. Twentyfive years of marriage and suddenly a strangers name whispered from the paper.
Could it be a mistake? A typo? I thought, but the second name was printed cleanly, without a single errant letter. Not Clara Smythe, but Mabel.
I slipped the tickets back into the envelope, tucked it into the blazers pocket, and felt a cold shiver crawl up my spine. James would be home from work in an hour; I needed to steady my thoughts.
I drifted to the kitchen, poured a mug of tea, and perched by the window. In all our years together wed weathered countless squabbles, silent evenings, and the occasional chill of boredom. Infidelity? The word never dared cross my mind. James had always seemed solid, reliable, the sort of man who never abandoned a promise. We had met on a crowded coach heading for BenNevis, both of us eager for adventure, and later trekked the Lake District, the Yorkshire Dales, and the Scottish Highlands. After we married, travel became rarerwork, bills, the ordinary grind.
The last holiday wed shared was three years ago, a twoweek escape to Cornwall, where James had promised a foreign trip for the next summer. Life, however, kept us busy: first my urgent project, then his overtime. Now he seemed poised to jet off to the Maldivesalone.
I dialed Helen, an old friend from university.
Hey, Helen, can you talk? My voice quivered like a loose thread.
Clara? Whats wrong? Helens tone was instant concern.
I found two tickets in Jamess jacket. One for him, one for a Mabel Smythe.
There was a pause, then a careful question.
Could it be a work trip? A mistake?
A work trip to the Maldives? I laughed bitterly. And why would the other name also be Smythe?
Youre right, its odd, Helen agreed. What are you going to do?
I dont know, I sighed. Maybe wait for him to explain?
What if he doesnt? she replied softly. Youve spent twentyfive years with him, but people do change, especially men at a certain age.
James isnt like that, I protested, though doubt already flickered inside.
Everyone says that until reality knocks, Helen said, sighing. Why not just ask him straight away? Show the tickets, demand an answer.
What if he lies?
Youve lived with him long enough to spot a lie, havent you?
I stared at the steam rising from my tea, the memory of Jamess latenight meetings, his new sharp shirts, the expensive cologne, the trendy haircut hed never had before. All these changes seemed to swirl like fog around a lighthouse.
I forced myself upright and headed for Jamess study. He rarely let anyone rummage through his things; we respected each others privacy. The room was immaculate, his love of order evident in the perfectly aligned books. I sat at his desk, entered his email with the passwordour wedding dateand scanned his inbox. Nothing suspicious: work messages, newsletters, a note from an old schoolmate.
Then I opened his browser history. A series of searches stared back at me: Best couples resorts Maldives, Romantic Maldives getaways, What to pack for Maldives, and finally, Gift for beloved woman in Maldives. Beloved woman. Not wife.
I closed the browser, turned off the computer, and felt tears prick my eyes, though I swallowed them hard. I could not let James see me crumble.
When James finally walked in, the coat hanging from the peg, he kissed my cheek as if nothing had shifted.
Hey love, whats for dinner? he asked, inhaling the scent of the kitchen.
Mushroom casserole, I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. Your favourite.
Great, Im starving, he grinned, heading for the sink.
We ate, talking about the weather, the news, weekend plans. I slipped a question about upcoming trips into the stream of conversation.
Any business trips soon? I asked, pouring tea.
Nothing set yet, he shrugged. Why?
Just thinking maybe we could go somewhere together. We havent been away in ages.
He stared at me, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face.
Yes, its been a long time. We should figure something out, he said.
A tight knot formed in my chest. He was lying, I thought, right there in his eyes.
What about the Maldives? I asked, trying to sound casual. Would you like to go?
He winced slightly, a barely perceptible tremor.
The Maldives? he chuckled nervously. Why the Maldives?
Just an example, I shrugged. People say its beautiful.
He looked away. Probably too pricey, and far away.
Whos Mabel? I blurted, my voice cracking.
Which Mabel? he asked, confusion creasing his brow.
Mabel Smythe. Do you know her?
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Clara, whats happening?
I stood, fetched the blazer from the coat rack, pulled the envelope from its pocket, and laid the tickets on the table.
I found these while doing the laundry. Explain, please.
James stared at the paper as if seeing it for the first time, then met my gaze.
This isnt what you think, he began.
What do I think, James? I whispered. That youre flying to the Maldives with another woman, that twentyfive years mean nothing to you?
No, thats not it! He rose abruptly, his chair scraping the floor. Its completely different!
How? I demanded, tears finally spilling over. Who is she? Why are you lying?
He stepped toward me, tried to hug, but I stepped back.
Dont. Just tell me the truth.
He sighed heavily. Alright. The truth is I booked these tickets a month ago for us. Theyre for our silver wedding.
I looked at the screen of his laptop, where an email from a travel agency confirmed two tickets for James and Clara Smythe, plus a reservation at a boutique resort.
But why does the ticket say Mabel?
He scrolled down the message. Read this: Dear Mr. Smythe, an error occurred during ticket issuance. Your spouses name was entered incorrectly. We apologise. New tickets will be issued within three working days. The email arrived this morning. I didnt get a chance to tell you.
My voice trembled. So these tickets are for us?
Yes, for us! James clasped my hands. I wanted to surprise you for our silver anniversary. Ive been saving, planning, choosing the perfect resort.
Why didnt you say anything? And where did Mabel come from?
I wanted it to be a surprise, he admitted, a guilty smile tugging at his lips. The name mixup is a system glitch. They must have swapped my wifes details with another booking.
I stared at him, trying to untangle the surreal knot of my imagination. Had I imagined the whole thing? Had my doubts spun a phantom?
Im sorry, I said softly. I must have looked foolish.
No, I understand, he brushed my cheek. It must have looked terrible. I never imagined youd think I could
I dont know, I confessed. Youve changed latelynew shirts, a fresh haircut, staying late at work. I wondered if something was different.
I was working extra projects to fund this trip, he said. I wanted to look my best for you, for the Maldives, for the celebration.
Shame flushed my cheeks. I pulled him into an embrace, the heat of his body a grounding reality.
Forgive me, I murmured. I let my mind run away.
You havent ruined anything, he whispered, holding me tight. The surprise may have stumbled, but well still go together. You want the Maldives, dont you?
With you, anywhere, I replied, smile breaking through tears.
That night sleep eluded me. Jamess steady breathing filled the room as I stared at the ceiling, pondering how a single doubt could crumble what had been built brick by brick over decades. One misprint, one fleeting suspicion, and the whole world seemed to wobble like a house of cards.
In the morning, while James was at work, I called the travel agency. A woman named Sarah confirmed the booking error and assured me fresh tickets would be delivered by courier that day.
Do you know where the name Mabel came from? I asked.
Its just a glitch in the system when traffic is high, she explained. We had a promotion on Maldives trips that day, and data overlapped. Nothing more.
Relief washed over me, light as sunrise cutting through morning fog.
That evening James returned to a table set with candles, a bottle of champagne perched in an ice bucket.
What are we celebrating? he asked, puzzled.
Us, I said simply. And the upcoming Maldives adventure.
He smiled, producing the envelope from his pocket.
Here are the new ticketsdefinitely in your name this time.
I opened them and saw two tickets: James Smythe and Clara Smythe.
Thank you, I said, eyes meeting his. For everything.
And thank you for believing in me, he replied, his voice steady. For twentyfive years, and for the next twentyfive.
We clinked glasses. Outside, the London sky darkened with snow, laying a white blanket over the city, while inside the room glowed warm and intimate. I felt that, somehow, we were luckyour happiness as fragile as frost, yet held together by the thin thread of trust.
Two weeks later we boarded a plane that rose above the clouds. As the aircraft climbed, James squeezed my hand.
I was afraid youd refuse, he admitted. You never like surprises.
I love you, I said simply. Everything else is just background.
He smiled, and we watched the horizon through the window, an endless sky mirroring the boundless love that had survived a dreamlike night of doubt.
Back home, in Jamess desk drawer, lay another envelope containing a diamond ringa gift for the silver anniversary, meant to be presented on a sunset beach. He had planned it all, convinced that this time the surprise would finally land.
The Maldives became one of the happiest chapters of our story. But that, dear reader, is a tale for another dream.
