**Blackmail**
The Christmas break had barely ended when another celebration loomed—Father’s birthday. Another gift to think about. A milestone year, so it had to be something special. But what?
Not one to waste time, the youngest daughter, Lydia, went straight to Mum for advice.
“How about a new telly?”
“Goodness, no! Don’t even think it. What would we do with the old one? It’s barely been touched. Stop fussing and save your money. We’ve got everything we need. You youngsters need the cash more than we do.”
So much for Mum’s help.
The sisters agreed to meet and brainstorm. Splitting the cost of something grand—something their parents wouldn’t splurge on themselves—was the obvious choice. Now, if only they could decide *what*.
Oliver, Lucy’s husband (Lucy being the eldest sister), suggested pooling funds for a holiday somewhere warm. “They haven’t been to the seaside in fifteen years.”
“They won’t go,” Lucy cut in. “Dad’ll demand we return the tickets. Remember how he moaned when he found out we’d booked Turkey? He and Mum swear the best holidays are at the cottage. They’ve been planning their garden since New Year’s. Let’s not take that from them. Think of something else.”
“What if we bought them furniture? Or had their flat refurbished? We could do it while they’re at the cottage this summer,” Lydia offered.
“How’s that supposed to work?” Lucy scoffed. “‘Happy birthday, Dad, we’re renovating your home—while you’re away!’ Can you imagine? No, it needs to be a proper gift, something tangible.”
Lydia repeated Mum’s thoughts on the matter.
“I tried too,” Lucy sighed. “Same answer. They insist they don’t need anything. Maybe we shouldn’t overthink it? Just get something predictable?”
“I suppose,” Lydia grimaced.
They bickered for ages but got nowhere.
“Right, let’s drop it. Each family buys their own gift,” Paul, Lydia’s husband, concluded.
Shopping wasn’t his forte. For special occasions, he stuck to jewellery or perfume, depending on importance. Lydia knew she’d be the one hunting for Dad’s present.
Three weeks until the big day. Nearly every evening, she ducked into shops, scouting options before debriefing Paul. He was a terrible sounding board, mindlessly agreeing just to avoid involvement. How was she meant to choose? Her head ached from the indecision. She’d spotted a few possibilities but kept searching.
Then, in a tiny shop, she saw it—a wall clock. Almost identical to the one they’d had years ago, just smaller. That clock had been passed down from Grandad, and Dad treasured it.
Lydia remembered how its loud ticking, even worse on the hour, had grated on her and Lucy. They’d hidden the key to stop him winding it. Dad claimed life felt stagnant without it. So he’d gone to a flea market, found a replacement key—the lock was ancient—and soon the relentless ticking and chiming resumed.
Lucy had snapped and broken it. Dad had mourned, demanding to know which daughter was responsible. They’d blamed its age—probably pre-war, if not older.
After a repair, it started losing time and stopped chiming, just wheezing instead. Worse than ever. Eventually, it gave up entirely, but Dad refused to take it down. A memory, he’d said. Harmless. So it stayed for years, a silent accusation.
Then, post-renovation, they’d convinced him not to rehang it. The old thing clashed with the modern decor. Dad took it to the cottage, where it later fell and shattered.
Lydia grilled the shopkeeper. The clock kept perfect time, he assured her, but didn’t chime. Perfect. She was sold. Not Grandad’s, but close enough. Dad would love that she remembered.
It was pricey and heavy. She’d fetch Paul tomorrow with the car.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be here,” the shopkeeper said. “Hardly anyone buys these now. Out of fashion. Or they want the chime for nostalgia.”
Lydia left, triumphant. Finally, the perfect gift. She deserved a treat—she was starving. A café nearby caught her eye. Inside, scanning for a table, she froze. There was Oliver. With Lucy.
At first, she was too pleased to question why they’d be so far from work or home. Then Lucy turned—
No. Not Lucy. A stranger. But the resemblance was uncanny—same dark, thick curls (though shorter), same fitted jumper, loose trousers, even the string of pearls. The woman’s eyes were grey, not Lucy’s deep brown, but everything else—
Lydia had always envied her sister’s looks. Her own fair skin burned easily, her cheeks flushing bright whenever she lied.
But that was *definitely* Oliver beside her.
Before he spotted her, Lydia ducked behind a nearby diner, peeking around him. The way they held hands, smiled—this wasn’t just a friendly chat.
How convenient, picking a mistress who resembles your wife. Did he dress the mistress like Lucy, or vice versa? Likely bought them identical perfumes too.
She wasn’t even surprised. She’d always expected this from Oliver.
“Er, am I in your way? Should I move?” her unintentional shield asked loudly.
“Shh!” Lydia hissed. “My brother-in-law’s over there with another woman. Stay still. I need a photo.”
The man froze as she fished out her phone. Perfect timing—the woman stood just as Oliver turned, his face clear. One shot, unmistakable. The woman passed by—off to the loo, probably. Lydia waited until she returned before slipping out.
Oliver was handsome, witty, confident—everything Paul wasn’t. That was why Lydia had never liked him. Too polished.
The bus stop gave her a clear view of the café. Fifteen chilly minutes later, they emerged. Oliver opened his car door for the woman—who *was* Lucy’s double—then glanced around. Lydia cursed not having her phone ready.
The bus arrived. She boarded absently, only realising too late it wasn’t headed home. But it *did* go toward Lucy’s. Fate, then.
Lucy was thrilled.
“Perfect timing! Oliver’s due any minute. Stay for dinner?”
“I was nearby, thought I’d pop in. Did you get Dad’s gift?” Lydia asked, flushing.
Lucy pulled out her phone, showing photos of a bicycle. “His old one’s falling apart—probably Grandad’s, too. He can use this at the cottage. It’s in the garage for now.”
“Brilliant,” Lydia lied.
Oliver arrived, eyeing her. “Lydia! What brings you here?”
“Just visiting,” she mumbled.
Dinner was agony under Oliver’s watchful gaze. She excused herself early.
“I’ll walk you out,” Oliver offered, following her. In the hallway, he gripped her arm.
“You were following me,” he whispered fiercely.
“No idea what you mean—”
“What’s the whispering?” Lucy called.
“Forgot an errand!” Lydia blurted, red-faced.
Oliver barely let go before she fled.
On the bus, his text arrived: *Meet me tomorrow, 5 p.m., same café.*
She agreed. She knew why. He’d beg her silence. She hadn’t decided yet—she’d never been a snitch, even as a kid.
Next day, Oliver played innocent before cutting to the chase.
“Just a friend. Nothing to tell Lucy. Unless *you* want to explain why you were there?”
“Fine,” Lydia conceded.
“Wait.” He stood, brushing crumbs from her lip, his thumb lingering. “We understand each other?”
At home, her phone buzzed—a photo, Oliver’s thumb at her lips. His message: *Send this to Paul. Who’ll he believe?*
She bought the clock the next day.
At Dad’s party, Oliver winked. She bit back a retort.
Dad adored the bicycle. The clock moved him to tears.
All evening, Lydia avoided Oliver. But he cornered her.
“Tell Lucy, and Paul gets the photo. Got it?”
“You b—”
“Lucy loves me. Paul won’t forgive *you*. Understood?”
In the taxi, Paul squeezed her shoulder. “Dad cried over your gift. You’re wonderful.”
“Just tired,” she murmured.
Why *had* she taken that photo? She’d never have told Lucy, who adored Oliver. And the photo proved nothing—two people in a café. Oliver would spin it. Now *her* marriage was at risk.
She should’ve left the café.
Now Oliver held all the cards. Unless—
She’d tell Paul first. Explain everything. He’d believe her. He *had* to.
Tomorrow. She’d find the words tomorrow.
