They stood by the shop window as the gentle spring sunshine cast a soft glow on the sidewalk at the entrance to the mall. Marina adjusted her bag, trying to smile in a way that wouldn’t let Natalia see how completely drained she felt after this past year. Too much had come together all at once: Vika’s ninth grade, endless updates at work, noisy renovations from the neighbors upstairs, and her own evening silence. Meanwhile, Natalia looked back at her—light, cheerful, wearing a pale coat—watching her with eyes that truly seemed happy to see her.
“Marina, is that really you? I messaged you back in the winter, remember?”
“Sorry, Natasha. Life got hectic.”
“I was starting to think you were mad at me.”
“At you? That’s just silly.”
“So, are you guys going on vacation? You always take a trip at the end of June for your anniversary.”
“Looks like not this year.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t even have the energy to pick a destination, let alone pack a suitcase.”
“Marina, don’t bother choosing. Just tell me a country, your budget, and travel dates—I’ll handle the rest.”
“I’ll think about it, I promise.”
“Do think about it. Just don’t take until September, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
They stood there another ten minutes, trading quick updates: Natalia’s daughter got accepted into college, Vika had an algebra practice exam coming up, and both women felt that long-lost feeling that you could simply talk with someone. For the first time in a month, Marina smiled without forcing it. Natalia pressed a smooth business card into her palm, its edge decorated with a grapevine.
“Take it. Just in case.”
“Thanks, Natasha.”
“I really am reliable, you know.”
“I know.”
***
At home the air smelled of cutlets and something vanilla—Vika had probably baked herself another treat for breaks between studying. Marina set her shopping bag on the table and sank onto a stool, feeling the ache in her shoulders. Her husband Oleg scrolled through his phone without looking up. Vika was writing something, her lips moving silently.
“I ran into Natka today,” Marina said. “Remember her?”
“Is she the one who helped us pick out Cyprus?”
“That’s the one.”
“So, let’s go then.”
“Oleg, are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“I don’t have the energy to pack. Or to pick a place.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“You?”
“Me. Why do you look so surprised?”
“You’ve only bought a loaf of bread for me once in fifteen years—and that was from my shopping list.”
“Marina, I’m not completely hopeless.”
“Alright. Usual budget. Dates—the last week of June.”
“It’s settled.”
“And I want a hotel right on the beach, Oleg. Not like two years ago, when you picked the one with a ‘mountain view.’”
“I promise. Sea, sand, everything just the way you like it.”
Vika smirked, not lifting her eyes from her notebook:
“Dad, just don’t forget my notebooks first.”
“Already bought them, honey.”
“Who are you and what have you done with my dad?”
“Think of it as a revelation.”
Marina looked long and closely at her husband—as if searching for something hidden in his expression. She didn’t find it. And decided there was no point trying. A warm gratitude stirred beneath her exhaustion: maybe, just maybe, all three of them deserved a little peace at last.
***
The next day, Marina stopped by her mom’s place. Her mother poured tea, squinted at her, and silently slid over a dish of dried apricots.
“What’s with the peaceful look on your face?”
“Oleg decided to handle the vacation planning this time.”
“Really now. Details, please.”
“What details? He volunteered to organize everything himself—pick the hotel, handle all the arrangements.”
“After fifteen years?”
“Maybe the man’s finally grown up.”
“Maybe. Or maybe not.”
“Mom, don’t start.”
— I’m not starting anything, Marina. I’m just asking you to keep an eye on things. When men suddenly want to plan a surprise, they usually get caught themselves.
— I’ll slip him Natasha’s business card. Let him go through her to book it.
— Now that makes sense.
— But I won’t say it’s Natasha. I’ll just say I found it in my purse.
— Why are you being sneaky?
— I don’t want to hurt his feelings. He’s acting on impulse, on emotions. Let him think he found it himself.
— You’re just too kind, you know that?
— I’m just tired, that’s all.
That evening, Marina placed the business card next to her husband’s keys. By morning, the card was gone from the nightstand. Two days later, over dinner, Oleg casually said:
— By the way, Svetka recommended this travel agency. She knows someone there.
— Which Svetka?
— Kozlova. My colleague. I told you about her.
— Ah, her.
Something about that scratched at Marina’s ear—tiny, like a splinter—but she pushed the thought away. If it’s Svetka, it’s Svetka. The important thing is, Natasha is reliable.
***
Natalya’s office was quiet. Oleg walked in confidently, like a man who had everything under control. He sat down in the chair and put his elbows on the desk.
— Hello, Oleg Sergeevich.
— Hello. I’d like a tour for two, at the end of June.
— Perfect. Any particular destination in mind?
— Somewhere by the sea. But not right on the beach. And a simpler hotel, no more than three stars.
— That’s unusual. Maybe a four-star hotel on the shore instead?
— This year, I want to keep it modest.
— How about a city hotel fifteen minutes from the beach?
— That’s perfect.
— And what does your wife think?
Oleg hesitated for a second, ran his hand over his chin, and smiled—just a bit too quickly.
— Marina and I are divorced.
— Oh, I see.
— It was quiet, peaceful. No big scenes.
— I’m sorry to hear that.
— No need. I’m going with someone else.
— Then I’ll need a second passport.
— Here you go.
He handed over the passport—smooth, with the photo of an unfamiliar woman. Svetlana Viktorovna Kozlova. Natalya took the document slowly, placing it in front of her. Inside, something clicked—sharp and precise, like the snap of a suitcase being packed the wrong way.
— How will you be paying?
— By bank transfer. This evening.
— From whom should I expect it?
— From me. From my ex-wife’s card… we haven’t divided accounts yet.
— Understood.
— You just prepare everything, I’ll sign.
— Of course.
— And, Natalya, preferably no calls to my ex-wife. She’s been nervous since the divorce.
— Understood, Oleg Sergeevich.
She processed everything smoothly, without unnecessary words. When Oleg left, Natalya stared at the door for a long time, thinking about her own husband—how, a year ago, he’d gone to the sea with another woman just as calmly, just as businesslike. Also with her money. An hour later, a transfer arrived from Marina Alexandrovna Sergeeva. Over two hundred thousand. Natalya exhaled and picked up her phone.
***
— Marina, we need to meet.
— Is something wrong with the trip?
— Not over the phone.
— Natasha, you’re scaring me.
— I don’t want to scare you. I just want you to hear this in person.
They met at a café forty minutes later. Marina came straight from work, her coat only half buttoned, a paper cup with leftover tea in her hand. Without a word, Natalya slid a printout to her.
— What’s this?
— It’s the trip your husband booked.
— Well, he booked it.
— Look at the second name.
Marina looked. Then looked again. She glanced up.
— Svetlana Kozlova.
— Yes.
— She’s his colleague.
“This is passenger number two. Oleg told me you two got divorced.”
For several seconds, Marina was silent. Her face became blank, as if someone had carefully wiped away every expression.
“When did he tell you that?”
“Today at three.”
“And what time did I transfer the money?”
“At half past four.”
“So he’s taking her to the sea on my money.”
“According to the paperwork—yes.”
“And he told me tonight that the request was still being processed.”
“Marina, I didn’t know how to tell you. I waited twenty minutes before calling.”
“You did the right thing, Natasha. Thank you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You’ll see now.”
Marina didn’t cry, didn’t gasp, didn’t ask any questions. She put down her glass, straightened up, and spoke in a businesslike, dull tone—the kind used to handle office tasks.
“Natasha, can you cancel the request and send the money back to my card?”
“Right now. In ten minutes.”
“Do it.”
“Oleg will find out within the hour.”
“Let him find out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Natasha, I don’t want to drag this out anymore. Do it.”
Natasha nodded and started typing on the keyboard. Meanwhile, Marina dialed the concierge at her building.
“Artem, good evening. This is Sergeeva from apartment sixty. I need a favor. My husband will be coming by—please take his key to the apartment and don’t let him upstairs.”
“Understood, Marina Alexandrovna.”
“If he makes a scene, call me and I’ll explain over speakerphone.”
“Got it.”
The refund was processed. Marina finished her tea and called Oleg.
“Oleg, hi.”
“Marina, I’m in a meeting.”
“I know you’re not in a meeting. Is Svetka with you?”
“What?”
“Don’t hang up. Listen carefully. The request is canceled. The money is already coming back to my card. There will be no azure sea for you—nor for Svetlana Viktorovna.”
“Marina, this is some kind of…”
“This is not a misunderstanding. I gave you Natasha’s card myself. You grabbed it without looking and set up a vacation for your mistress—with my money.”
The line went completely silent. Then came a muffled, hurried voice:
“Marina, let’s talk at home. Like adults.”
“There’s nothing to discuss at home. Your bag will be with the concierge. Leave your key at the front desk.”
“You won’t even let me…”
“Finish your sentence.”
“Marina, just listen to me.”
“I’ve listened enough. That’s over.”
“You’re just emotional right now.”
“I’m perfectly clear-headed. That’s news to you, I see.”
“What will you tell Vika?”
“The truth. No details, but the truth. She’s in ninth grade, not third. I’ll say: Dad has a mistress and decided to leave us.”
“Marina…”
“And, Oleg. Let Svetlana know she can pick her own hotel. And pay for it herself.”
She placed her phone down next to her cup and looked at Natalia. Natalia sat across from her, hands wrapped around her mug, with a slight smile—the kind that people get when they see someone else’s victory as their own.
“Thank you, Natasha.”
“For what?”
“For not pitying me.”
“It’s not pity. It’s solidarity.”
“I know.”
“What now?”
“Now I’m going on vacation. For three: me, Vika, and mom. A little house by the lake, for two weeks.”
“Want me to find one?”
“Yes, please do. No more surprises, though.”
“No surprises, Marina. Just sea, sand, and quiet.”
“The sea can wait. This year, I want a lake.”
“Deal.”
They stepped out of the café. The evening was warm, people hurried by on their own errands, and Marina walked calmly—there were no tears, no dramatic scenes, none of that pounding emptiness that usually follows a blow. Inside, everything felt clear and simple: everything she needed to do, she’d accomplished in just half an hour. Meanwhile, at that very moment, Oleg was, for the first time in his life, on his own—no list she’d prepared, no hints, no map—trying to figure out how to explain to Svetlana Viktorovna that the romantic getaway just wasn’t going to happen. And it seemed he wasn’t doing all that well.