**Blackmail**
New Year’s celebrations had barely ended when another occasion loomed—Father’s birthday. Again, the question of a gift arose. It was his milestone birthday, so something special was in order. But what?
To save time, the younger daughter, Lydia, asked their mother directly for suggestions.
“Maybe a new telly?”
“Goodness, no! Don’t even think about it. What would we do with the current one? It’s practically new. Don’t waste your money—we have everything we need. You youngsters need yours more.”
So much for help from Mum.
The sisters arranged to meet and discuss the gift. Pooling their money for something grand—something their parents wouldn’t buy for themselves—seemed simplest. The challenge was deciding *what*.
Oliver, husband of Lucy, the elder sister, suggested clubbing together for a holiday somewhere warm. “They haven’t been to the seaside in fifteen years.”
“They’d never go,” Lucy cut in. “Dad would demand refunds or return the tickets himself. Remember how he grumbled when we booked a trip to Spain? He and Mum swear by their garden—dreaming about it since New Year’s. Let’s not take that joy from them. We need another idea.”
“What about furniture? Or redecorating their flat while they’re at the cottage this summer?” Lydia suggested.
“How would that even work?” Lucy scoffed. “‘Happy birthday, Dad—we’ll paint your living room while you’re away’? We’ll renovate eventually anyway. No, it has to be a real anniversary gift.”
Lydia repeated their mother’s sentiments.
“I tried pressing her too,” Lucy sighed. “Same result. Maybe we should skip extravagant ideas and stick to the predictable?”
“Fine,” Lydia wrinkled her nose.
After hours of debate, they got nowhere.
“Let’s not overcomplicate it. Each family buys their own gift,” concluded Paul, Lydia’s husband.
He loathed shopping—always opting for jewellery or perfume for Lydia, depending on the occasion. She realised the search for Dad’s gift fell to her.
Three weeks remained. Lydia scoured shops daily, reviewing options with Paul each evening. He proved a useless sounding board, agreeing to anything just to avoid involvement. She was at her wit’s end. She’d eyed a few items but remained uncertain.
Then, in a small boutique, she spotted a wall clock—smaller, but nearly identical to the one that had once hung in their home. It had belonged to Granddad, a cherished heirloom.
Lydia remembered how its loud ticking and grating chimes had driven her and Lucy mad. They’d even hidden the winding key, but Dad, convinced life stalled without it, found a replacement at a flea market—the lock was rudimentary.
The noise resumed until Lucy, in a fit of rage, broke it. Dad mourned for weeks, interrogating his daughters. They blamed age—perhaps it was even pre-war, surviving the revolution.
After repairs, it only wheezed and lagged, then stopped entirely. Still, Dad refused to remove it—a silent rebuke. Only after redecorating did they persuade him to move it to the cottage, where it eventually fell and shattered.
Lydia quizzed the shopkeeper. The clock kept perfect time but, mercifully, didn’t chime. Perfect. Though not Granddad’s, Dad would appreciate the sentimental nod.
Expensive and heavy, she arranged to return with Paul the next day, securing the shopkeeper’s promise to hold it.
“Don’t worry—it’ll wait. These aren’t in vogue anymore. People either avoid the chimes or seek them for nostalgia,” he assured.
Pleased, Lydia left. Finally, a worthy gift—one Dad would love. Celebrating, she spotted a café nearby and stepped in, scanning for a table.
Then she saw Oliver—with Lucy.
Too thrilled to question why they were miles from work or home, Lydia stepped forward. Lucy turned, their eyes meeting.
Lydia froze. Not Lucy—but astonishingly similar. Same sleek jumper, pearls, loose trousers. Same dark, wavy hair (though shorter). Lucy’s looks had always eclipsed Lydia’s fairer, finer features.
But the man beside her was unmistakably Oliver.
Their exchanged glances and clasped hands betrayed intimacy. *How convenient—a mistress mirroring his wife.* Did he style her after Lucy, or vice versa? Likely even bought them identical perfumes.
Lydia wasn’t surprised. She’d always suspected Oliver’s veneer of charm hid something.
“Am I in your way? Should I move?” asked the man she’d ducked behind.
“Hush!” Lydia hissed. “My husband’s with another woman. Stay put—I need a photo.”
Stunned, he obeyed. She snapped a shot just as the woman stood, Oliver’s face clear—their connection undeniable.
The woman passed, likely heading to the loo. Lydia waited for her return before slipping out, lest Oliver spot her.
Handsome, witty, confident—Oliver had never appealed to Lydia. Too polished. Now here he was, betraying Lucy.
Paul, duller but transparent, was whom she trusted.
At the bus stop, she watched the café. Fifteen freezing minutes later, the pair emerged. Oliver opened his car door for the woman, glancing around. Lydia cursed not having her phone ready.
As the car passed, the resemblance stunned her again. Boarding the bus—realising too late it wasn’t her route—she impulsively rode to Lucy’s.
Lucy greeted her warmly. “You’re just in time! Oliver’s due any minute. What a pleasant surprise!”
“Just nearby,” Lydia fibbed, flushing. “Did you get Dad’s gift?”
Lucy fetched her phone, showing photos of a new bicycle. “His old one’s wrecked—probably Granddad’s too. He’ll love this for the cottage. It’s at the neighbour’s garage now.”
“Brilliant!” Lydia said, kicking herself for not thinking of it. “I’m still deciding,” she lied.
“Deciding what?” Oliver appeared. “Lydia! To what do we owe this?”
“Just visiting,” she mumbled.
Over dinner, Oliver’s gaze unnerved her, and she excused herself early.
“I’ll walk you out,” he offered, cornering her in the hallway.
“You followed me,” he breathed, gripping her wrist.
“I don’t know what you—”
“What’s going on?” Lucy called.
“Forgot an errand,” Lydia blurted, scarlet.
“Oliver can drive you!”
“No—he’s tired. Bye!” She fled.
On the bus, Oliver’s text arrived: *Meet tomorrow, 5 p.m. Café.*
She agreed, knowing his agenda—pleading for silence. She hadn’t decided yet. Even as a child, she never tattled.
At the café, Oliver feigned normalcy before begging secrecy.
“You’ll tell Lucy? Will you mention *our* meeting? Worried she’ll suspect *us*?”
“Fine,” Lydia relented. She stood to leave.
“Wait.” He stepped close, brushing her lips with his thumb. “Crumbs.”
She recoiled.
“Understood?” he smirked.
At home, she gasped—Oliver had sent the incriminating photo, him “caressing” her lips. The caption: *If you talk, Paul gets this. Who’ll he believe?*
She bought the clock the next day.
At the party, Oliver winked. Lydia barely restrained herself from slapping him.
Dad adored the bike. Lydia and Paul presented the clock—rendering him emotional.
The evening passed joyfully, Lydia avoiding Oliver. Yet he cornered her.
“Tell Lucy, and Paul gets the photo. Got it?”
“You bas—”
“Lucy loves me. Paul won’t forgive *you*. Agreed?”
In the taxi, Paul nudged her. “You’re quiet. Everything alright? Dad teared up over the clock. You did well.”
“Just tired,” she murmured.
She didn’t know why she’d taken that photo. She’d never have told Lucy—who’d never believe her anyway. Now Oliver held her happiness hostage.
She’d end this. Tomorrow, she’d confess to Paul—before Oliver poisoned her life. He’d believe her. He *had* to.
