“I’m Ashamed to Take You to the Company Banquet,” Denys Didn’t Even Look Up from His Phone – “There …

“Im too embarrassed to bring you to the dinner,” Henry muttered, eyes glued to his phone. “Therell be people there. Decent people.”

Margaret stood by the fridge, a carton of milk in her hands. Twelve years of marriage, two children. And now he was ashamed.

“Ill wear the black dress. The one you bought me.”

“Its not the dress,” he finally looked up. “Its you. Youve let yourself go. Your hair, your face just the whole of you. Simon will be there with his wife. Shes a stylist. And youwell, you can see for yourself.”

“Then I shant go.”

“Good. Ill tell them youre ill. No one will question it.”

He headed for the shower, leaving Margaret in the kitchen. Their children slept in the next roomJames, ten, and Emma, eight. The mortgage, the bills, school meetings. Shed faded into the fabric of this small house while her husband began to shrink away from her.

“Has he completely lost it?” Clara, her friend and hairdresser, stared as if Margaret had just delivered news of the apocalypse.

“Too embarrassed to take his wife to a work do? And who does he think he is?”

“Hes the warehouse manager. Had a promotion, thats all.”

“And now youre not good enough for him?” Clara poured boiling water into the teapot, sharp movements betraying her anger. “Listen to me. Do you remember what you did before you had the kids?”

“I was a teacher.”

“Not that. You used to make jewellery. Beaded pieces. I still have the blue-stone necklace you made. Everyone always asks me where I found it.”

Margaret remembered now, threading beads together in the evenings while Henry used to watch her with real interest.

“That was long ago.”

“Was, but you can do it again,” Clara leaned in, determined. “So, whens this dinner?”

“Saturday.”

“Perfect. Youre coming to mine tomorrow. Ill do your hair and makeup. Well call Aliceshe has plenty of dresses. You sort out the jewellery.”

“But Clara, he said”

“Stuff what he said. Youre going. And hell be the one quaking in his shoes.”

Alice arrived with a plum-coloured gown, long and elegant with bare shoulders. They spent an hour trying it on, pinning here and there until it fit.

“Youll need special jewellery for this shade,” Alice circled her. “Silver wont do. Nor gold.”

Margaret reached for an old wooden box. At the bottom, wrapped in soft cloth, was a matching seta necklace and earrings.

Blue aventurine, handmade. She’d crafted it eight years before for a special event that never came.

“My word, its exquisite,” Alice gasped. “You made this?”

“I did.”

Clara styled her hairloose, subtle wavesand did her makeup: understated, but defined. Margaret slipped on the dress and fastened the jewels. The stones felt cool and substantial at her throat.

“Go have a look,” Alice nudged her towards the mirror.

Margaret stepped forward. Staring back was not the woman who had scraped floors and simmered soups for over a decade. She saw herself. The woman she used to be.

The restaurant was set on the riverside. The hall hummed with chatter, tailored suits, evening gowns, music floating all around. Margaret entered late, deliberately. The conversations lulled for a beat.

Henry stood at the bar, grinning at someones joke. He saw her and his face flooded with discomfort. She passed him without a glance and took a seat at a far table, sitting up straight, hands calm in her lap.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

A man in his mid-forties, grey suit, keen eyes.

“Free.”

“Oliver. Im a partner of Simons, but in the bakery business. And you are?”

“Margaret. Wife of the warehouse manager.”

He glanced at her, then at the jewellery.

“Aventurine? Thats handmade, isnt it? My mother used to collect stones. Rare to see work like that.”

“I made it myself.”

“Really?” Oliver leaned in, inspecting the detail. “Thats remarkable. Do you sell your pieces?”

“No. I look after my home.”

“Odd. With hands like those, most people wouldnt waste themselves on housework.”

He hardly left her side all evening. They spoke of stones and creating, about the way routine could make people forget who they were.

Oliver invited her to dance, fetched sparkling wine, made her laugh. Margaret noticed Henrys eyes tracking them from across the room, his expression darkening with every turn.

When the dinner ended, Oliver walked her to her car.

“Margaret, if you ever feel like making jewellery againring me,” he offered a business card. “I know people whod treasure this work.”

She took it and nodded.

At home, Henry lasted less than five minutes.

“What on earth were you playing at? Spent the entire night with that Oliver! Everyone saw, Margaret! Everyone saw my wife throwing herself at another man!”

“I didnt throw myself at anyone. I talked.”

“Talked! You danced with him three times. Three! Simon asked what was going on. I was mortified!”

“Youre always mortified,” Margaret slipped off her shoes and set them by the door. “Ashamed to bring me along, ashamed when people look at me. Is there anything youre not ashamed of?”

“Shut up. You think a dress makes you someone? Youre nothing. Just a housewife. Living off me, spending my money, getting above yourself.”

Once, shed have cried. Closed herself away and wept against the wall. But something within her had shiftedor perhaps, finally fallen into place.

“Weak men fear strong wives,” she said quietly, almost gently. “Youre insecure, Henry. Youre terrified Ill see just how small you are.”

“Get out.”

“Im filing for divorce.”

He stared at her in stunned silence. No anger, just confusion.

“And where will you go with two children? You cant live off beads.”

“Ill manage.”

The next morning, Margaret rang the number on the card.

Oliver didnt push. Their meetings took place in cafés, discussing the business. He mentioned a friend who owned a boutique for artisan crafts, how handmade pieces commanded attention these days, how people had grown weary of mass production.

“Youre gifted, Margaret. Talent and taste arent often found together.”

She began working into the nightsaventurine, jasper, carnelian. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings. Oliver collected her finished sets, took them to the gallery. Every week hed phone: sold out, more orders coming in.

“Does Henry know?”

“He doesnt speak to me at all now.”

“And the divorce?”

“Found a solicitor. Weve started the papers.”

Oliver helped quietly. No drama, no grand gestures. Just introduced her to contacts, helped her find a rented flat. When Margaret packed her suitcase, Henry stood in the doorway and laughed.

“Youll be back in a week. Crawling back.”

She zipped up her case and walked out, leaving no answer.

Six months went by. A two-bedroom flat on the edge of the city, children, work. The orders poured in. The gallery offered her an exhibition. Margaret set up a page online, posted photos. The followers grew day by day.

Oliver would visit, bring books for the children, call to check in. He never imposed, never forced. He was simply present.

“Mum, do you like him?” Emma asked once.

“I do.”

“We like him, too. He doesnt shout.”

A year passed. Over dinner, Oliver proposed. No bended knee, no roses, just simple words:

“Id like you all to be with me. The three of you.”

Margaret was ready.

Two years later, Henry walked through a shopping centre. After the sacking, he worked as a porterSimon had heard from a colleague what had happened and let him go after three months. Now a let room, debts, solitude.

He saw them outside a jewellers shop.

Margaret, coat pale against the early spring chill, hair perfectly arranged, that same aventurine sparkling at her throat. Oliver held her hand. James and Emma laughed, telling stories.

Henry paused by the window, watching them climb into a car. Watched as Oliver opened the door for Margaret. Watched her smile.

He caught his own reflection in the glassworn coat, grey face, empty eyes. He had lost his queen. And she had learnt to live without him.

That was his sentenceto realise, far too late, what hed had

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