Betrayal with a Hint of Holiday
Emily and James were curled up on the sofa watching a drama when a sharp knock rattled the door. Exchanging a puzzled glance with her husband, Emily went to answer. There stood Claire—James’s sister, her face twisted with fury.
“How could you?!” she spat. “This is all your doing, Emily! I know you set this up! I’ll never forgive you!”
“Claire, what on earth are you talking about? What’s happened?”
“Don’t play dumb. You ruined our plans. Everything’s ruined!”
A month earlier, James had suggested a holiday:
“Darling, let’s get away. Next month—can you take time off?”
“Of course. Where shall we go?”
“How about Brighton?”
“Perfect. I’ve been meaning to.”
James already knew the dates, the hotel. He just needed Emily to suspect nothing. His mother had wanted to join, dragging along Claire and her two rowdy children—aged four and seven. Emily was none the wiser.
She’d endured such a holiday once before—two years ago. Back then, James had sworn he understood how wretched it had been and promised never to repeat it.
That time, they’d travelled with his mother. The revelation that Claire and the kids were coming had only struck Emily on the train. The holiday became a nightmare: whinging children, exhausted mother-in-law, and Claire napping endlessly. The burden fell entirely on Emily and James, while his mother and sister flitted about, insisting the “young ones could rest later.”
Emily had made it clear: never again.
This time, when James showed her the tickets and booking—everything was for two. Emily was delighted. A proper holiday, just them! How wrong she was.
When they arrived in Brighton and approached the hotel, Claire was already waiting at the entrance.
“What a coincidence!” she trilled. “Fancy seeing you here! We’ll spend the holiday together!”
Emily went cold. She turned to James:
“You knew? Why didn’t you say?”
“Mum really wanted us all together…”
“And me? Do I not matter?”
“Sorry…”
“Right. I’m taking my own holiday. Away from them.”
And so she did—her very own “holiday of revenge.” James’s phone vanished, later found stuffed in the children’s toy bag. She insisted it stay locked in the safe. Money? She had her own cards—she even “lent” him one. But control stayed with her.
At dawn, she dragged James to the beach while the others were still groggy from their tour. They returned spent and irritable, pockets lighter. The next day, the opposite. The whole holiday became a dance of separation—different excursions, different paths. By the end, James realised he was truly losing his wife.
The night before leaving, Claire stormed into their room, livid:
“You’ve ruined everything! We should’ve stayed home!”
“Why did you even come?” Emily replied coolly. “We came to relax, not mind your boys.”
“I couldn’t even buy souvenirs because of you! Spent everything on the kids!”
“We’ll get you a magnet. Don’t fret.”
“You planned this, didn’t you?!”
“And who planned the trip? Not me.”
At the station, they barely crossed paths. Different carriages, different expressions. James no longer doubted: next time, just the two of them. After all, that’s how they’d finally managed to relax.
“You know,” Emily smirked, “it was almost fun. Us one way, them the other. The real trick is knowing who your holiday’s really with.”
