**Revenge, Timetabled**

“Do you really think I don’t know about your little visits to that… that *Alison*?” Lydia’s voice trembled with rage. “Do you think I’m blind?”

“Lydia, love, what on earth are you on about?” William attempted an expression of innocence, but it was about as convincing as a politician’s promise. “What Alison?”

“The one from your department! The one you call three times a day! The one you’ve been staying at work till ten for!”

Lydia stood in the middle of their cosy sitting room, gripping William’s phone like a detective clutching damning evidence. The screen glared back, displaying a lengthy call log, all to the same number.

“Darling, calm down,” William tried to step closer, but she recoiled. “We’re working on a project. She’s new—she needs guidance.”

“Oh, I’ll bet she does!” Lydia flung the phone onto the sofa. “Helping her, are you? Pity Nina from book club saw you with her at that posh bistro on Kensington High Street. Or was it the wine bar where you held hands?”

William paled. The jig, as they say, was up.

“Alright,” he sighed heavily. “Yes, we’ve been seeing each other. But it’s not what you think.”

“Isn’t it?” She folded her arms. “Business meetings over Chardonnay?”

“Lydia, I can explain—”

“There’s nothing *to* explain. Thirty years of marriage, and you decide to have a midlife fling with some girl half your age? How old is she? Twenty-five? Thirty?”

“Twenty-eight,” he muttered.

“Oh, *twenty-eight*!” Lydia let out a sharp, mirthless laugh. “Well then, that’s practically your contemporary!”

William hung his head. At fifty-five, he looked every bit the guilty schoolboy caught sneaking biscuits before tea.

“Lydia, I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen. It just…”

“It just *what*?” She stepped closer. “I got boring? Fancied something perkier? Thought you could still pull a young thing?”

“Don’t say that,” he met her eyes. “You know I love you.”

“*Love* me?” She gave a bitter smile. “Very original way of showing it. Cheating with a girl who could be your daughter.”

He opened his mouth, but Lydia was already heading for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To the kitchen. To make dinner for my *devoted* husband,” she tossed over her shoulder. “You must be starving after all those… *work meetings*.”

She left him standing there, drowning in shame. He knew she was right. Knew he’d been a cad. But some stubborn part of him still resisted admitting it fully.

In the kitchen, Lydia slammed cupboard doors, pulling out ingredients. Her hands shook with fury. Thirty years. Thirty years of laundry, meals, raising their children. Thirty years supporting *his* career while shelving her own. And *this* was her reward—an office fling with some junior.

“Lyds, let’s talk properly,” William hovered in the doorway.

“*Properly*?” She didn’t turn around. “Fine. How long has it been?”

“What, exactly?”

“Don’t play stupid. Your little affair.”

He hesitated.

“Three months,” he admitted.

“Three *months*,” she repeated, chopping an onion with unnecessary force. “Funny. I wondered why you suddenly worked so late. Why dinners at home dried up. Why weekends were suddenly packed with ‘urgent errands.’”

“It wasn’t planned. It just… happened.”

“*Happened*?” She spun around, knife in hand. “Tripped and landed in her bed, did you?”

William took a step back.

“You know I respect you.”

“Respect?” She set the knife down. “Respect is not lying to someone’s face. Not betraying them. Not stomping on their feelings for cheap thrills.”

He had nothing to say.

“I was thinking,” Lydia’s voice turned eerily calm, “you should eat alone tonight. I’ve lost my appetite.”

Locked in the bedroom, Lydia’s anger hardened into resolve. No tears. No screaming. She had a better plan.

She booted up the laptop and typed. A list took shape.

First item: *Find Alison’s address*.

A quick call to HR—posing as a PA needing details for “HR paperwork”—and she had it. Easy.

Second item: *Learn Alison’s routine*.

Lydia took leave from work and staked out Alison’s flat. Two days of surveillance revealed the girl’s precise schedule: out by 8 AM, lunch at 1 PM, home by 6. And *then*—meetings with William.

Meanwhile, William skulked around the house like a guilty Labrador. He tried talking; she gave monosyllables. When he started coming home late again, she knew where he was.

“Maybe we should talk,” he ventured one Saturday.

“About?” She didn’t look up from her tea.

“Us. What’s happening.”

“You’re shagging someone else. I know. Simple.”

He flinched. “We can’t carry on like this.”

“Why not? You seemed happy enough.”

“Lydia, please. Can’t we… work something out?”

“Work *what* out?”

“Maybe… a trial separation?”

She finally met his eyes. “Fine. If that’s what you want.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“Of course. *You* move out, though. The house is in my name—remember? Bought with the inheritance from Mum and Dad.”

William did remember.

A week later, he was in a cramped flat on the outskirts of London, free to see Alison openly—yet somehow, it all felt hollow.

Lydia, meanwhile, discovered Alison had a *fiancé*—Mark, an engineer in Manchester, oblivious to his bride-to-be’s antics. *Perfect*.

She snapped photos of William and Alison leaving a wine bar. Grainy, but clear enough.

Mark was due Friday. She sent him an anonymous message with the evidence.

*Meet at the wine bar, 7 PM. See for yourself.*

Friday night, Lydia watched from her car as Mark arrived, flowers in hand. Ten minutes later, William and Alison strolled up, laughing, clueless.

Mark’s face crumpled. The flowers hit the pavement.

She didn’t hear the words, but Alison’s tears said enough. William stood dumbstruck as Mark stormed off, Alison chasing after him.

Lydia drove home, satisfied. Phase one: complete.

William called that night, voice wrecked.

“Alison ended it. Her fiancé found out.”

“Oh dear,” Lydia feigned sympathy. “What will you do?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been an idiot.”

“Have you?”

“I lost her. And I’ve lost you.”

“You lost *me* when you cheated. You lost *her* when she realised you’re a married man.”

Silence. Then: “She knew I was married.”

“Ah! So she *chose* to wreck a marriage. Charming.”

He crumpled. “Lydia, can we fix this?”

She gazed out the window. “You didn’t cheat because you fell in love. You cheated because you thought you could get away with it.”

He had no rebuttal.

“Then… what do I do?”

“Move on. Just not with me.”

His face fell. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly. And you know what? I feel *free* for the first time in years.”

William left, a broken man. Lydia sat alone, content.

Revenge, executed perfectly—on schedule.

But the real victory? Freedom from a man who’d taken her for granted. And *that* was the best revenge of all.