“Where did you get my earrings?” asked the wife, spotting them in her friends holiday photos.
“Grace, come look at these photos Becky sent from her trip!” Victor called from the kitchen, stirring sugar into his tea. “Shes tanned like a biscuit!”
Grace wiped her hands on her apron and walked over, where her husband was scrolling through his phone, sipping his tea.
“Show me,” she said, sitting beside him and adjusting her dressing gown. “Where were theyTurkey?”
“Egypt, mate. Look, heres the beach, and this ones at a restaurant” Victor flicked through, commenting on each. “Oh, this ones lovelyon a tour.”
Grace studied the photos silently, nodding. Becky had always known how to present herself. Even back in school, shed been the life of the party. Theyd drifted apart after uni, then bumped into each other at the GPs office. Since then, theyd kept in touch, the odd call here and there.
“Oh, this ones nice,” Victor paused on a shot of Becky at a café table, smiling at the camera.
Grace glanced at the screenand her stomach dropped. Dangling from Beckys ears were tiny gold roses with pearls. The exact pair Victor had given her for their twentieth anniversary.
“Where did she get my earrings?” Grace asked quietly, eyes fixed on the phone.
“What?” Victor looked up, confused.
“The earrings. The rose ones with pearls. You gave me thoseremember?” Her voice shook.
Victor squinted at the photo. “Come off it, Grace. Theyre probably just similar. You can get those anywhere.”
“No. Not similar. The *same*.” She took the phone, zoomed in. “Lookright here, on the left rose, that tiny scratch. Remember? I caught it on the wardrobe door.”
Victor sipped his tea, silent. Grace felt her pulse thudding.
“Vic. Where are my earrings?”
“How should I know? Youre the one who keeps track of your jewellery,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze.
Grace stood and marched to their bedroom, straight to her vanity. She opened the jewellery box, rifled throughno earrings. Checked drawers, under the table, even the bathroom. Gone.
“Vic!” she called.
“What now?” he grumbled.
“Theyre not here. Theyre gone.”
“Maybe you lost them on holiday?”
“What holiday? Last summer we went to your mumsI didnt take them. And this year we havent gone *anywhere*.”
Victor walked out, turning on the telly in the living room.
“Dunno, Grace. Maybe you took them in for repair?”
“Why would I? They were practically new.” She crossed her arms in the doorway. “Vic. Look at me.”
He sighed, tearing his eyes from the screen.
“What?”
“Do you know where my earrings are?”
“No.” He turned back to the telly.
Grace returned to the kitchen, sat at the table, thoughts racing. The earrings were goneand now Becky had them. Coincidence? But they were uniqueshe remembered how carefully Victor had picked them at the jewellers.
She grabbed her phone, found Beckys number, fingers trembling as she typed:
*”Becky, love your holiday pics! Gorgeous tan. Whered you get those stunning earrings? The rose-and-pearl ones?”*
A reply came fast: *”Grace! Thanks! Gift from someone special. Wanted a pair like this for ages.”*
*”Where from? Might treat myself.”*
*”No ideadidnt pick em. Why? Thought your Vic was tight with gifts, haha!”*
Grace set her phone down. Her heartbeat was so loud she swore the neighbours could hear. She stood, walked to the window, tried to steady herself. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it *was* a coincidence.
“Grace, whats for dinner?” Victor called from the living room.
“Sort yourself out,” she said without turning.
“Whats got into you? Over a pair of earrings?”
“Over a pair of earrings,” she repeated. “Our twentieth anniversary gift.”
“So? Lost em, buy new ones.”
“Its not about the earrings, Vic.”
She turned. He sat in his armchair, flicking channels.
“Then what?”
“Theyre on Becky.”
“So? Whats it matter?”
“Victor. Did you give them to her?”
A long pause. The telly played some soap opera.
“Dont be daft.”
“Then howd she get them?”
“How should I know? Maybe she bought her own.”
Grace stepped in front of him.
“Look me in the eye and swear you didnt give Becky my earrings.”
He met her gazethen looked away.
“Grace, give it a rest. Turning nothing into a drama.”
“So you *did*.”
“I *didnt*.” His voice sharpened.
Grace sat on the sofa opposite.
“Vic. Twenty years. Ive always trusted you. If theres something going on, just say.”
“There *isnt*!” He shot up. “Youve lost the plot! Saw a photo and spun a whole tale.”
“Then why are you sweating?”
“Because youre *at me*! I work all day, come home to *this*.”
He stormed to the kitchen, slamming the door. Grace stayed put, staring blankly. Twenty years of marriage. Their daughter Lily married, living up north. Son Jack at uni, home on weekends.
She rememberedlast year, Vic started working late. Preening in the mirror. Bought a new shirt. Midlife crisis, shed thought.
Then he grew distant. Fewer hugs, less talk of the future. Shed blamed work stresshis high-pressure job at the construction firm.
Pots clattered in the kitchen. Vic washing his mug, banging the spoon.
Grace reopened Beckys photos, scrutinised each. Beach shots, restaurant meals, pyramids. And alwaysthose earrings.
She zoomed in. Becky looked radiant. Tanned, styled hair, fresh manicure. Holiday of a lifetime.
*”Whod you go with? Solo or mates?”* she texted.
No reply. Then: *”Wife a mate. Busy nowchat later?”*
Grace knewBecky was lying. Shed no close friends to holiday with. Shed moaned about it oncelonely since her divorce three years back. Worked as a receptionist at a private clinic, barely scraping by. So howd she afford Egypt?
“Grace, popping to the shed,” Vic called from the hall.
“Fine,” she said.
The front door slammed. Grace watched from the window as Vic crossed the yard, pulling fags from his pocket. Hed quit five years agobut lately, shed caught whiffs of smoke on his clothes.
She opened Beckys socials, scrolled through photos. Mostly holiday snaps, but otherscafés, theatre, countryside.
One photo caught her eye. A familiar jacketnavy blue, fur-lined hood. Just like Vics. But the woman wearing it wasnt Beckytall, slim, dark hair.
Grace squinted. Not his. Just similar. She closed the app, checked Vics wardrobe. His jacket hung therebut his light-blue shirt, the pricey one hed bought last month, was missing.
“Vic back?” a voice asked.
She turned. Jack stood in the doorway, rucksack in hand.
“Love! Dads in the shed. Hows uni?”
He hugged her. “Mumyou okay? Youre pale.”
“Just tired. Hows things?”
“Alright. But whats up at home? Dads been weird on the phone. Heard him yesterdayall hushed, calling someone love, miss you. Thought it was you, but you were at work.”
Grace sat on the bed. Jack joined her, squeezed her hand.
“Mum has Dad got someone?”
“I dont know, love. I dont know.”
“You suspected?”
“No. Well hes been distant.”
Jack hugged her. “Mum, talk to him. Properly.”
“He denies everything.”
“What tipped you off?”
Grace showed him Beckys photos, explained about the earrings. Jack studied them, frowning.
“Mum, sure theyre not just lookalikes?”
“Love, I wore them daily. I *know*.”
“Then well sort it. You cant live like this.”
The front door opened.
“Jack! Good to see you!” Vic boomed, hanging his coat.
“Dad. We need to talk. Family meeting.”
Vic washed his hands in the sink. “About?”
“Honesty,” Grace said.
“*More* earring nonsense?” he called. “Grace, drop it!”
“Its not just the earrings
