She checks her husbands location, who claimed he was out for a catch, and finds him standing at the doors of the city maternity hospital.
I dont get why the workcompletion sheet shows a figure thirty thousand pounds lower than the quote, Olivia says in an icy tone, berating the foreman over the phone from the site shes overseeing. We approved the Italian tiles, item 712. What have you put in? A Chinese copy?
Olivia, whos going to sort that out? the foreman replies, trying to sound friendly. It looks identical, spot on! What a saving! Ill give you half the kickback and no one will ever know.
Ill find out, Olivia snaps. And I want the tiles swapped by lunchtime tomorrow, or well see each other in court. I guarantee youll lose this contract and your licence.
She hangs up without waiting for a reply, her hands trembling with anger. It always ends like this. She pours her soul into every project, spends sleepless nights mapping out every centimetre of a future interior, and then a handyman shows up trying to fleece her, treating her like a fool. A designer must have nerves of steel and a character to match both of which Olivia has in abundance. After twenty years in the trade she knows how to defend her projects and put arrogant contractors in their place.
She arrives home late, exhausted and furious. At the door, Stephen greets her with a cup of her favourite peppermint tea.
Another battle? he smiles softly, taking her heavy bag of samples. Come in, my valkyrie, dinners on the table.
Stephen is her complete opposite: calm, homeoriented, unambitious. He works as a design engineer for a quiet firm, earns a modest but steady salary, and seems perfectly happy in their snug little world. He is the peaceful island she retreats to after her daily wars.
They have been married for twentytwo years, raised a son who now studies in another city, and their life runs smoothly, without dramatic upheavals. Olivia builds her career, Stephen provides a reliable backbone. He always meets her with dinner, listens to her endless rants about the wrong shade of beige, and never blames her for disappearing at work for days. The perfect husband thats what all their friends say, and what she believes herself.
Lately, though, Stephen has become distant, thoughtful. Hes taken up a new hobby fishing. Every weekend he leaves with his mate Kevin for the lakes.
Steve, is fishing really a thing in November? Olivia asks.
Whats the fuss? he shrugs. The fish are biting now. A bit of quiet, a bit of thinking. You could use a break too.
Olivia doesnt argue. She lets him go; a man needs his space. She packs his thermos with hot tea, wraps his sandwiches, and sends him off with a light heart.
That Saturday he departs early. After finishing an urgent job, Olivia decides to treat herself. She heads to a salon, then to a large supermarket for groceries, wandering the aisles and mentally planning the weeks meals. She wants to call Stephen to ask if he needs anything for his return. She dials his number. Long rings. Silence again.
Usually he answers. A flicker of worry rises. What if somethings happened? A flat tyre, a stuck car? She remembers the familylocator app they installed half a year ago to keep tabs on their universityage son. She rarely uses it, thinking it invasive, but now
She opens the app. Three dots appear: hers, her sons at his hall, and Stephens. Her heart jumps. His dot isnt out of town or by a lake; its in the city, in a residential area. She zooms in. The point stops at a specific building on Blossom Street, number 7. She types the address into a search engine. The screen flashes City Maternity Hospital, Ward 5.
Glitch, she thinks first. A stupid app error. Maybe Kevins friend recently became a granddad and they stopped by to congratulate? But why the fishing lie?
She tries again; his phone is switched off. Panic turns to a cold, sticky dread. She drops the trolley of groceries in the middle of the aisle. A woman scolds her, but Olivia cant hear. She bolts from the store, jumps into her car, her hands shaking so badly she cant find the keyhole right away.
All the way she repeats to herself like a mantra, Its a mistake. Just a mistake. She conjures a hundred logical explanations a broken car, a rendezvous to pick up Kevins son, anything but the horrible truth.
She pulls up opposite the maternity hospital, a plain yellowbrick building with people on the steps holding flowers and balloons. Happy fathers, grandparents, and nurses. Olivia sits in the car, too scared to get out, fearing what she might see that would shatter the perfectly arranged world she has built.
And then she sees.
From the hospital doors walks Stephen, not in a fishing jacket but in the crisp white shirt she ironed for him last night. Beside him is a young woman, about twentyfive, with a tired but joyful face. In Stephens hand is a white envelope tied with a blue satin ribbon.
An elderly lady, presumably the womans mother, rushes over, embraces Stephen, chattering excitedly. He smiles the same bright, slightly bewildered grin he wore twentytwo years ago when he first brought home baby Harry from the hospital.
Olivia watches the scene through her windshield, and the world around her dissolves. No cars, no people, no city only that picture: her husband, another woman, and a newborn child. And her, the duped, betrayed fool, sitting in a car she bought with her own money.
She doesnt get out. She doesnt start a scene. Her steelhardened character, forged in battles with foremen and clients, tells her another path. No screaming. Act, coldly, methodically, ruthlessly.
She reverses and drives home to their flat, the one she has always called her fortress. Inside, everything bears her touch, bought with her earnings, and every corner whispers his name. She walks to the bookcase where his collection of model sailing ships sits, picks up the largest frigate, and hurls it across the floor. The ship shatters into countless splinters, and a wave of relief washes over her.
She moves into action, as precise as drafting a bill of quantities. First, she calls her solicitor.
Archie Lawson, good morning. I need an urgent divorce filing and property division.
Then she logs onto her banks website, transfers every penny from their joint savings into her own account, using the password their wedding date. Ironic, she thinks. She also moves the remainder of her salary into the same account, leaving exactly £10 in the joint account for sandwiches for the fisherman.
Next, she packs Stephens belongings crumpled shirts, fishing boots, those silly model ships into large garbage bags. She books a removal van and sends everything to the address she knows best: his mothers house.
When the flat finally feels empty and echoey, she collapses onto the sofa and lets the tears flow. Not from hurt, but from fury at herself at her own blindness, at the trust she placed in a man she thought she knew. How could someone so sharp at work be so foolish at home? How did she miss the lie?
That evening Stephen calls, his voice shaky and panicked.
Olivia, I dont get it I got home and my stuffs gone. The accounts are empty. What happened? Were we robbed?
We werent robbed, Stephen, she replies, voice as cold as steel. Its just a redesign. Ive stripped the interior.
What do you mean stripped? Where are my things? Wheres the money?!
Your things 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. Hope the fish were biting.
A dead silence settles over the line.
Olivia Ill explain everything! Its not what you think!
I dont need explanations. I need nothing from you. My solicitor will contact you tomorrow about the divorce. Dont look for me, and forget this number.
She hangs up, blocks his number, and walks to the kitchen. She pulls out a pad of drafting paper, her favourite pencils, and begins to draw. She sketches the blueprint of her new life, without him, without lies, without compromises. It will be her best, most honest project yet, painted not in almost the same shades but in the only true colour the hue of her freedom.
Betrayal by someone close always hurts, but sometimes it becomes the point from which a genuine new life starts. What would you have done in Olivias place? Would you have listened to explanations or acted just as decisively? Share your thoughts.
