We passed the front lawn, manicured to within an inch of its life with a raised flower bed boasting healthy-looking plants and an enormous clump of pampas grass. “Swingers?” I asked myself as we climbed three circular steps to the front door. I rang the bell, and Elvis wagged his tail and gazed expectantly at the glass insert. Moments later, the door was opened by an older, shorter-haired version of the man I remembered from our wedding.

“Ollie?” I smiled and held Elvis back. “Hi.”

“Hello.” He looked puzzled, and then his face cleared. “Marnie, is that you? Oh, hi, wow, it’s been years. Is Jeff here?” He looked behind me, and the quizzical expression returned. Then he stepped back and gestured for me to enter. “Sorry, come in, come in. It’s a lovely surprise. Jeff didn’t say you had a dog; he’s a cracker. What’s he called?”

“Oh, er, thanks, Elvis.” Sherlock vanished and was replaced by a bumbling Dr Watson as I staggered inside, hanging onto an over-excited dog with both hands. “D’you mind if I unfasten his lead?”

“No, not at all, go ahead.” Ollie’s enthusiasm dimmed slightly as I unclipped the leash, and Elvis galloped off into the house's nether regions. Someone screamed. “That’s Cheryl. Come on through.”

He led me along a twisting corridor past a games room with a full-size billiard table, a lounge, an office, and a home gym. Then we arrived in a massive kitchen where floor tiles shone, appliances gleamed, and a coffee machine the size of a garden shed hissed and gurgled on a marble worktop. Elvis danced around a woman who turned when we approached, and I recognised Ollie’s wife.

“Marnie? Marnie Hope.” Cheryl came forward and hugged me, then ushered us all towards a conservatory attached to the back of the room. “It’s been so long, but you’ve hardly changed. Your dog’s a character. I’ll fetch coffee.”

I plonked down on a wicker settee, and Ollie sat on an identical one opposite, and we looked at each other. I was struck by two facts: firstly, Ollie and Cheryl seemed like decent people, and secondly, he thought Jeff was with me. Were they bluffing? I looked around. “Your house is lovely.”

No toys were strewn about, no crayons or books or discarded shoes. The back garden was as immaculate as the front. “Where are the twins?” I asked as Cheryl brought coffee and biscuits. “Oh, you might want to put those somewhere high. Elvis is a keen forager.”

She laughed and moved the plate. “Sorry, Marnie, did you say something about twins?”

“I asked where they were.” I sipped coffee as Cheryl sat beside Ollie. “Are they at school?”

Husband and wife exchanged blank looks.

“What twins?” Cheryl frowned.

“Your boys.” I felt the atmosphere change as I spoke. Elvis jumped onto the settee beside Cheryl, sat down, and all three stared at me like an interview panel where I knew I wouldn’t get the job. “Er, is something wrong?”

Ollie spoke. “We don’t have kids.” He and Cheryl looked at me like I’d regarded Nicola X when she started banging on about the CIA. “Why did you think we did?”

“My dear husband told me that, among other things.” I took a deep breath, and Sherlock Holmes returned. “When did you last see him?”

“I haven’t seen Jeff for over a year.” Ollie shook his head. “And he told you we have twins….”

“Has he phoned you recently?”

“No. Not for months; the last call was before Christmas, wasn’t it, Cheryl?”

His wife nodded. “Jeff phoned Ollie to catch up and wish us Merry Christmas. Why are you asking this?”

“Because he lied to me…and he’s left. There’s another woman.” I studied them both. “You really didn’t know about any of this?”

Cheryl made a face, and Ollie turned pink. Finally, he spoke:

“Marnie, we keep Jeff at arm’s length. I’ve known him since we were teenagers, and he can be a laugh, but…well, he tends to bring trouble.”

You’re telling me. My shoulders slumped, and I gripped my coffee cup tighter, hoping my hands wouldn’t start shaking. “This woman he’s been seeing turned up at the house, and she’s pregnant.”

Cheryl’s eyebrows rose, and Ollie gaped at me. “He’s had it reversed, then?”

Now it was my turn to stare. “Sorry?”

“The vasectomy. Has it been reversed? I heard that doesn’t work.”

I stared at them both. Cheryl and Ollie looked at each other. Elvis looked at Cheryl and then at the plate of biscuits she’d left on a nearby shelf. “What vasectomy?” I managed to say before my throat tightened and dried up. I slugged more coffee.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Ollie replied. “When Jeff and I were eighteen and at college, we used to bet on the horses, and one day we won an accumulator – it was a considerable amount of money – and Jeff decided he didn’t want kids. He was only just old enough, but he booked into a private clinic and had the snip.”

“He…what…are you sure?” This couldn’t be right. I studied Ollie’s face as he nodded.

“It’s true. I went along for moral support and stayed while Jeff had it done. They kept him overnight, and I drove him home the next day.”

“Ollie used his share of the money to start our business,” Cheryl said. “That was just after we met, and we’ve built it up together.”

“What business?” My head bounced from vasectomies to accounting, and didn’t Cheryl work in a primary school? Then I frowned at Ollie. “Hang on, did you say ‘college’? Weren’t you at Uni with Jeff? I thought you were both accountants.”

“Jeff never went to any university,” Ollie said. “We left school, couldn’t get jobs, then enrolled at the local tech and started a mechanics course. But Jeff dropped out. I finished the course, bought my own garage, and serviced buses. My uncle chipped in, and we started our own luxury coach service. We do tours in the UK and abroad, and we’re expanding our fleet to include limos.”

“We don’t know what Jeff did with the rest of his winnings,” Cheryl said. “Suddenly, he’d got a job doing accounts.” She glanced at her husband, then added, “Knowing Jeff, he probably faked a qualification.”

I stared into space. “Jeff made me feel bad about not having kids - like it must be my fault. And all the while, he had…he couldn’t….” I stared wildly at Cheryl and Ollie. “What else has he lied about?”

“I hate to say it,” Ollie said, “But it would be easier to ask what he’s been honest about.”

“We always wondered why you put up with Jeff,” Cheryl added. “I would have murdered him years ago.”

I wanted to leave. My chest hurt with the effort of holding back tears, and humiliation was creeping through my body like a dose of salts. Poor Marnie. What a sap. But I still needed information. “Where else would Jeff go?” I avoided eye contact with either of them and stared at the floor. “He’s got no family – but what about other friends?”

“I doubt he has many friends,” Ollie said. “But his parents are still around, although they disowned him years ago.”

I looked up. “They died when Jeff was twelve.”

“They run a hotel in Bournemouth.” Cheryl looked apologetic. “Irene and Bill...or is it Ben? One of the Flowerpot Men, anyway.”

Now my hands were shaking. Carefully, I laid my coffee cup on a side table and rose from the settee. “I have to go. Thanks for…thanks.”

Ollie and Cheryl stood, and Elvis took the opportunity to jump onto his hind legs and snatch a biscuit from the plate. Then he jumped to the floor and danced around me. Cheryl said, “Marnie, are you looking for Jeff because…I mean, you’re not…do you want him back?”

I fastened Elvis’s leash back on. “No. I want a divorce.” Then, blinking back tears, I stormed across the kitchen and strode down a corridor.

“Marnie,” Ollie called as he and Cheryl hurried after me. “Marnie, wait.” I ignored him and marched on - straight into a bedroom with a four-poster bed, faux tiger skin rug, and mirrors on the ceiling. I stopped short, and Elvis pounced on the fake tiger. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.” Ollie appeared behind me, gently took me by the arm, and led me out again. “It’s this way.”

As we passed the lounge, I realised Elvis had brought the rug with him, and there was a brief tussle while Ollie separated him from his new toy. Then we made it to the front door and, finally, outside.

“Thanks again.” I left Ollie and Cheryl on the top step, took Elvis to the Golf and shoved him inside. Then I got behind the wheel, started the engine and negotiated a shaky five-point turn. I smiled weakly, waved goodbye and careered down the street.

I don’t remember the journey home.

When I arrived at Lilac Cottage, I squashed the Golf behind an old blue Land Rover, took Elvis inside, paced through the house, opened the back door and followed my dog into the garden where I stood staring into space.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Tim Benedict from Lufton Tailors stood in Mr Simpkins’ garden, smiling. “How are you?”

“Crap.” I swallowed a sob and then blurted, “How would you feel if your husband of fourteen years lied to you from the first time you met?”

“Well, I’d question my sexuality for a start because last time I looked, I was straight.”

The sob resurfaced and turned into a wail. Elvis looked at me, whined and then bolted back into the kitchen. I stumbled in his wake, slammed the door behind me, collapsed at the table and bawled like a teething baby.

Five minutes later, the doorbell rang.

I continued sobbing.

It rang again.

“Oh, for God’s sake….” I rose and stomped along the hall, my dog dancing beside me. Then I opened the door, and Elvis leapt on Tim Benedict, slamming him into the porch wall.

“Oof.” Tim managed a smile. “I’m sorry, I’m a tactless idiot.” He held out a bunch of bedraggled flowers. “Peace offering?”

I took them. “Did you pick these from next door?”

“Yes. Please don’t tell Reg.”

I sniffed, became suddenly aware of my tear-stained face and puffy eyes, and could only hope I didn’t have snot running down my chin. “Thanks.”

I stepped back into the hall and closed the door. Then I returned to the kitchen, found a vase, filled it with water, and dumped the flowers inside.

The bell rang for the third time.

Growling under my breath, I returned to the front door and Tim standing where I’d left him. “Yes?”

He pointed to Elvis galloping around the lawn. “I can’t get past him to your gate, and I don’t fancy vaulting the wall.” He cleared his throat. “And I’m sorry, again.”

“No problem.” I called Elvis and, surprisingly, he came running. Tim flattened himself against the porch, and Elvis thundered past and into the house. “Well, thanks for the flowers.”

“See you soon, hopefully.” Tim edged away.

“Bye.” I closed the door and wandered back to the kitchen. A vision of Tim’s blue eyes floated into my head then was swiftly replaced by thoughts of Jeff, the fake accountant. His not-so-dead parents. The vasectomy. I sat the vase on the kitchen windowsill, took my phone and went upstairs to the spare room and the temperamental office chair.

Elvis joined me, chewing his squeaky chicken at my feet as I googled Bournemouth hotels. I did my best to ignore the tortured sounds and then spotted my address book, still open at Ollie and Cheryl’s entry. Once again, I felt something amiss and tried to grasp it, but the thought faded, and I flicked through the book, wondering if my mind was playing tricks.

“I’m going mad,” I told Elvis. Then I scrolled through the search results on the PC, added Bill, Ben and Irene Hope, and checked again.

“Bingo.” Google told me I was looking for Ben and Irene Hope at the Majestic. Another search revealed the hotel’s location on the seafront.

“Road trip again tomorrow, Elvis.” I powered down the computer and returned my address book to its home in the sideboard drawer. Then I fed my dog, forced down a slice of cheese on toast, had a bath and went to bed.