The Blackmail
No sooner had the Christmas holidays ended than another celebration loomed—Father’s birthday. Another gift to agonise over. A milestone, no less. Something extraordinary was in order. But what?
To avoid wasting time, Lydia, the youngest daughter, cut straight to the chase and asked her mother.
“How about a new telly?”
“Good heavens, no! Don’t even think it. And what would we do with the old one? It’s practically brand new. Stop inventing problems and save your money. We have everything we need. You young ones should keep your pounds for yourselves.”
No help there, then.
The sisters met to brainstorm. Pooling their resources for something grand—something their parents would never splurge on themselves—seemed simplest. The trick was settling on what.
Oliver, husband to Lucy, the elder sister, suggested clubbing together for a holiday package somewhere warm. It had been fifteen years since their parents last saw the sea.
“They won’t go,” Lucy scoffed. “Father would demand the tickets refunded—or do it himself. Remember how he grumbled when we went to Spain? He and Mum swear the best holidays are at their cottage. From New Year’s, they’re already dreaming of their garden. Let’s not rob them of that joy. Think of something else.”
“Furniture, then? Or a home makeover while they’re away in summer?” Lydia offered.
“And how would that work, exactly?” Lucy shot back. “Oh, Dad, here’s a renovation—we’ll do it while you’re gone? Ridiculous. Besides, we’ll redecorate eventually anyway. No, it needs to be a proper birthday gift.”
Lydia relayed Mum’s take on presents.
“I tried that too,” Lucy sighed. “Same answer. They want nothing. Maybe we should scrap the grand gesture and stick to something safe?”
“Suppose so,” Lydia grimaced.
The debate wore on, yielding no solution.
“Fine, let’s not overcomplicate it. Each couple buys their own gift,” concluded Paul, Lydia’s husband.
A man allergic to shopping, he defaulted to jewellery or perfume for his wife, depending on the occasion’s significance. Lydia resigned herself to choosing alone.
Three weeks remained. She scoured shops daily, reporting findings to Paul each evening. A useless consultant, he rubber-stamped every idea to avoid involvement. How was she meant to decide? She’d nearly picked something but dithered, searching still.
Then, in a tucked-away antique shop, she saw them—a wall clock. Smaller than the one they’d had, but eerily similar. That old clock, inherited from Granddad, had been Father’s pride.
Lydia remembered its maddening ticks, the grating wheeze before each chime—like an old man clearing his throat.
She and Lucy had once hidden the key, desperate for silence. Father, convinced the house would die without it, sourced a replacement from a flea market—laughably easy, given the crude mechanism.
Back came the ticks, the chimes, the sleepless nights. Lucy finally smashed it. Father mourned for weeks, interrogating his daughters. They pled ignorance—age had claimed it. Pre-war, perhaps even older.
Repaired, it limped along, losing time, choking before each failed chime. Worse than ever. Then stillness. Still, Father left it hanging—a silent rebuke. Years later, post-renovation, they persuaded him to banish it to the cottage. There, it fell and shattered.
Lydia quizzed the shopkeeper. The clock kept perfect time, he swore, though it didn’t chime. Perfect. She burned to buy it—not Granddad’s, but close enough to matter.
Expensive. Heavy. She’d return tomorrow with Paul and the car. The shopkeeper promised to hold it.
“Don’t fret. These aren’t in vogue anymore. Folks either want silent modernity or chimes for nostalgia’s sake.”
Lydia left, elated. At last—the perfect gift. She deserved a treat, hungry and weary from the hunt. Nearby, a cosy café beckoned. Scanning for a seat, she froze.
There sat Oliver—with Lucy.
Her first thought was delight, no questions asked. Then Lucy turned, gaze skimming past her.
Not Lucy. The resemblance was uncanny—same clinging turtleneck, same loose trousers, same dark, curling hair (though perhaps shorter). The hair Lydia envied, her own being finer, fairer. Lucy’s eyes were deep brown; this woman’s, grey.
Lydia had always envied her sister’s beauty. Her own porcelain skin burned easily, cheeks betraying every lie.
But the man beside her? Undeniably Oliver.
Before he spotted her, Lydia ducked behind a stranger’s table, peering around him. Their exchanged smiles, Oliver’s hand squeezing hers—this was no casual acquaintance.
Clever, choosing a mistress who mirrored his wife. Had he styled her, or vice versa? Likely both women shared the same perfume, too—practical for secrecy.
Was she shocked? Hardly. She’d always expected this of Oliver.
“Miss, am I in your way? Should I move?” her human shield asked loudly.
“Hush!” she hissed. “My brother-in-law’s over there with another woman. Stay still—I need a photo.”
The man gaped as she fished out her phone. Perfect timing—the woman stood just as Oliver turned. Their faces, their intimacy, all captured.
She barely pocketed the phone before the woman passed, likely heading to the loo. Oliver might glance her way any moment. Lydia waited until the woman returned before slipping out.
Oliver was handsome, witty, confident—precisely why Lydia distrusted him. Too polished. And here he was, cozied up to another woman.
Paul, her own husband, paled in comparison—awkward in conversation, devoid of Oliver’s charm. But he was transparent. She loved that.
At the bus stop, she positioned herself to watch the café. Fifteen frigid minutes later, the pair emerged. Oliver opened his car’s passenger door, scanning the street as his companion slid in.
Lydia cursed not keeping her phone ready. As the car passed, the resemblance struck her anew. Her bus arrived; she boarded mechanically, only realising mid-journey it wouldn’t take her home. The next stop was near Lucy’s. Fate, then.
Lucy was thrilled.
“Brilliant timing! Oliver’s due any minute—stay for dinner!”
“Just passing by.” Lydia’s cheeks burned. “Found Dad’s present yet?”
“Done!” Lucy fetched her phone, displaying snaps of a sleek new bicycle. “His old one’s wrecked—Granddad’s, wasn’t it? Now he can pedal to the cottage. It’s in the garage for now.”
“Wow! Genius,” Lydia lied, kicking herself for not thinking of it. “I’m still stuck.”
“Stuck how?” Oliver appeared in the doorway. “Liddy! To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Missed you,” she mumbled.
Dinner was torture. Oliver’s sly glances scalded her. She lost her appetite, fleeing as soon as manners allowed.
“I’ll walk you out,” Oliver offered, following her to the hall.
There, he seized her wrist, yanking her close.
“Following me?” he breathed, eyes drilling into hers.
“No idea what you mean,” she lied, wrenching free.
“If you breathe a word to Lucy—”
“What’s the whispering?” Lucy appeared. Oliver dropped Lydia’s arm like a hot coal.
“Sorry—just remembered an errand,” Lydia blurted, scarlet.
“Oliver can drive you.”
“No need! He’s tired. It’s nearby. Bye!” She bolted.
On the bus, Oliver’s text arrived: Meet me tomorrow. 5 p.m. Same café.
She agreed, knowing exactly why. Pleading for silence. She hadn’t decided yet—even as a child, she’d never tattled.
Next day, Oliver played coy before circling his real agenda.
“Just a friend. Would you tell Lucy? Unless you want her thinking you fancy me?”
“Fine,” she caved. “I should go.”
“Wait.” He stood, closing the distance. “Crumb,” he murmured, thumb brushing her lip.
She flinched away.
“Glad we understand each other,” he smirked.
At home, her phone nearly slipped from her grasp. Oliver had sent a photo—his thumb at her lips, her face clear, his own obscured. “How?” she fumed. An accomplice, no doubt.
The message was clear: Stay quiet, or Paul gets this. “Who’ll he believe?”
She bought the clock next day.
At the party, Oliver winked. She clenched her fists, itching to slap his grin away.
Father beamed at his bicycle, wept over the clock. The evening glowed—happy parents, merry guests. Lydia avoided Oliver until he cornered her alone.
“Tell Lucy, and Paul gets the photo. Clear?”
“You bas—”
“Lucy loves me. Paul won’t forgive you. Deal?”
“You’re milesLydia finally mustered the courage to confess everything to Paul that very night, knowing that honesty, no matter the cost, was the only way to break free from Oliver’s twisted game.