The Holiday.

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It was a beautiful view, Mary couldn’t deny that. Brian had said it was ‘quintessentially English’. She didn’t know the actual definition of quintessential but he was sure to be right.

He was reading at the door of the tent, his back obscuring the trees and rolling fields that he was instructing her to admire. Each one of his random acts of selfishness over the last thirty years had left a nick on her heart.

An unseen couple walked behind the tent; their silhouettes sharpened by the bright sunlight. Grown adults giggling like teenagers. Mary couldn’t remember the last time she and Brian had enjoyed each other’s company.

She instinctively touched her cheek as she thought about her surprise encounter with her old boss, Tom, in Morrissons the previous Friday. She’d laughed so hard as they drank a coffee in the supermarket café together, sharing familiar work stories, this time with added detail and indiscretion.

Tom had retired too. It was the time for adventure, he said, to enjoy their third age when they had enough money and energy to do all those things they’d been putting off. His momentum ignited a fire in her belly she thought had long burnt out.

When had Brian got so intense? He only read non-fiction now. He was fond of saying there was enough to worry about in the real world, without wasting time on made up stories. He was dismissive of her love of cosy crime and romance novels. Why couldn’t he see that it was a means of escape?

The warmth of the morning sun came in on a gentle breeze, caressing her face and ruffling her unbrushed hair. They had an empty day stretching ahead. Mary’s throat tightened at the idea of talking to no one but Brian for the next twelve hours.

Her mood might be better if their bed had been a soft mattress in a nearby hotel rather than a camping mat and sleeping bag, directly on top of what had felt like a stone circle at two o’clock this morning.

This was supposed to be Brian giving way. How little he knew her these days or even cared. She’d had in mind a flight to somewhere hot with a pool. Their next door neighbours had talked incessantly about their all-inclusive trip to Madeira. How could Mary have fooled herself so well again?

She looked down at her hands holding her book. They showed little signs of ageing, despite her sixtieth birthday being the reason for this trip. She might have another twenty-five good years in her yet, if she was lucky.

She just had to get through one more day as the pliable wife, before a reborn version of herself rose out of the ashes of her marriage and got on a plane to Morrocco with Tom.

ENDS

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