Olivia had a habit of doublechecking GPS coordinates, especially when her husband claimed he was out fishing. She traced his signal and, to her astonishment, it stopped right outside the doors of St. Marys Maternity Ward, number5.
I dont get why the invoice is thirty thousand pounds less than the estimate, Olivia said in an icecold tone, shouting at the site foreman over the phone from yet another job site. We agreed on Italian tiles, catalogue712. What have you put in? A Chinese knockoff?
Olivia, whos going to sort that out? the foreman replied, trying to sound eager. They look identical, one for one! What a saving! Ill even give you half the rebate; nobody will notice!
Ill notice, Olivia snapped. And thats enough. I want the tiles replaced by lunch tomorrow, or well be meeting in court. And trust me, youll lose more than this contract; youll lose your licence.
She hung up without waiting for a reply, her hands trembling with fury. It was always the same: you pour your heart into a project, pull allnighters sketching every centimetre of a future interior, and then some handyman tries to rip you off, assuming youre a fool. A designer needs nerves of steel and a steelhard characterOlivia had both in abundance after twenty years of battling contractors and clients.
She drove home late, exhausted and irate. At the front door, Simon was waiting with a steaming mug of her favourite peppermint tea.
Another battle? he said with a gentle smile, taking her heavy sample bag. Come in, my valiant lady, dinners on the table.
Simon was the polar opposite of Olivia: calm, homebodied, unambitious. He worked as a design engineer for a modest firm, earning a modest but steady salary, and seemed genuinely happy in their cosy little world. He was the quiet island she retreated to after each daily skirmish.
Theyd been married twentytwo years, raised a son who now studied in another city, and lived a steady, uneventful life. Olivia built her career; Simon provided a reliable rearguard. He always met her with a homecooked meal, listened to endless rants about the wrong shade of taupe, and never blamed her for disappearing at work for days. The perfect husband, or so everyone thoughtincluding Olivia herself.
Lately, though, hed grown distant, preoccupied. Hed taken up a new hobbyfishing. Every weekend he whisked off with his mate Kevin to the lakes.
Simon, isnt November a bit grim for fishing? Olivia asked, bewildered.
Whats wrong with it? he shrugged. The fish are biting now. A bit of peace and quiet, some thinking. You could use a break too.
Olivia didnt argue. He needed his space. She packed his thermos with hot tea, wrapped sandwiches, and sent him off with a light heart.
That Saturday he left at dawn. Olivia, having finished an urgent job, decided to treat herself. She popped into the salon, then swung by a big Tesco for groceries, wandering the aisles and mentally planning the weeks menu. She thought of calling Simon to ask if he needed anything on his return. She dialled his number. Long rings. Silence.
Usually he answered straight away. A flicker of worry sparked inside her. Had something gone wrong? A flat tyre? The car stuck? She remembered the familytracker app theyd installed half a year earlier to keep tabs on their universityage son. Shed rarely used it, deeming it intrusive, but now
She opened the app. Three dots appeared: hers, their sons in his hall of residence, and Simons. Her heart jabbed. His dot wasnt out in the countryside, not by a lake. It was in the city, in a residential area. She zoomed in. The pin sat on a specific building on Flower Street, number7. She typed the address into a search engine. The screen flashed a result that made her brain refuse to believe it: St. Marys Maternity Ward, No5.
Must be a glitch, she thought. Bad app, a typo, anything. Kevins friend recently became a granddad; maybe they stopped by to congratulate? But why the fishing lie?
She tried calling again; the line was dead. Panic turned to a cold, sticky dread. She tossed her trolley of groceries into the middle of the aisle. A shop assistant snapped at her, but Olivia barely heard. She bolted out, fumbled with her car keys, and finally managed to start the engine.
All the way there she repeated a mantra: Its a mistake. Just a mistake. She conjured a hundred logical explanationsperhaps a mechanic broke down nearby, perhaps Kevins son needed a lift. Anything but the worst scenario that swirled in her imagination.
She parked opposite the maternity ward, a typical yellowbrick building with a porch crowded by people clutching flowers and balloons. Happy dads, grandmothers, grandfathers. Olivia sat in her car, unwilling to step out. She feared what she might see, what could shatter the perfectly curated world shed built, as precise as any interior plan.
And then she saw him. Simon emerged from the ward, not in a fishing jacket but in the crisp white shirt Olivia had ironed for him the night before. He wasnt alone. A young woman, about twentyfive, with a tiredbutglowing face, walked beside him, cradling a swaddled baby. Simon clutched a white envelope tied with a skyblue ribbon.
A frail older ladypresumably the girls motherrushed over, hugging Simon and whispering joyfully. He smiled the kind of smile Olivia hadnt seen in years, the bewildered, happy grin he used when he first brought home baby Dim (their sons nickname) twentytwo years ago.
Olivia watched from behind the windshield; the world melted away. No cars, no people, no London. Just this tableauher husband, a stranger, and a strangers child, while she sat in her own car, bought with her own money.
She didnt get out. She didnt cause a scene. Her steelhard character, forged in battles with foremen and clients, whispered a different tactic: dont shout, act. Coldly, methodically, mercilessly.
She turned the car around and drove home to their flat, the sanctuary shed considered her fortress. Inside, everything bore her fingerprintfurniture shed chosen, décor shed paid for. Everywhere she saw reminders of him. She stalked over to the bookshelf where his prized model shipscollected since childhoodstood on display. She seized the largest, a sleek frigate, and flung it to the floor. It shattered into a thousand splinters, and relief flooded her.
She set to work, just as she would when drafting a quotation. First, she called her solicitor.
Arthur Blythe, good afternoon. I need an immediate divorce proceeding and a full asset split.
Then she fired up her laptop, logged into her bank, and transferred every penny from their joint savings to her own account. The password was their wedding datehow poetic. She also moved the remainder of her salary into the same account, leaving exactly £10 in the joint account for the fishermans sandwich.
Next, she packed Simons belongingscrumpled shirts, fishing boots, those ridiculous model shipsinto large garbage bags, called a removal van, and sent everything to the address of his mothers house.
When the flat was emptied and echoed hollow, she sank onto the sofa and finally let the tears flow. Not from hurt, but from anger at herselfat her own blindness, at trusting a man who turned out to be a fool. How could someone so sharp at work be such a dupe at home?
That evening Simon called, his voice shaky.
Olivia, I dont get it I got home and everythings gone. The accounts are empty. What happened? Did we get robbed?
We werent robbed, Simon, she replied, voice as cool as steel. Its just a redesign. I tidied up the interior, removed all the unnecessary bits.
What unnecessary? Wheres my stuff? Wheres the money?!
Your stuff is with your mother. And the money consider it child support for your newborn. I happened to be at the fifth maternity ward todaywhat a touching scene, congratulations. Hope the fishing went well.
A dead silence hung in the line for a few seconds.
Olivia Ill explain! Its not what you think!
I dont need your explanations. I need nothing from you. My solicitor will be in touch tomorrow about the divorce. Dont look for me, and delete this number.
She hung up, blocked his number, and drifted into the kitchen. From a cabinet she pulled out a pad of drawing paper, her favourite coloured pencils, and began to sketch. She was drafting the blueprint of her new lifeno him, no lies, no compromises. The colour palette would no longer be almost the same, but the exact shade of freedom.
Betrayal from someone close is always painful, but sometimes its the catalyst that launches a genuine new chapter. What would you have done in Olivias shoes? Would you have listened to his explanations, or acted as decisively as she did? Feel free to share your thoughts.
