Shadows of the Past and a New Path
Emma returned to her flat in Pinewood village after work. As she turned the key and stepped into the hallway, she froze. Next to her shoes and her husband’s trainers stood a pair of unfamiliar boots—polished, expensive, with a modest heel. She recognised them instantly: her sister-in-law Lydia’s. *Why is she here? James didn’t mention anything about her coming over*, Emma thought, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. She almost called out for him but hesitated, trusting the instinct whispering, *Wait*. Instead, she stayed silent, eavesdropping on the conversation drifting from the living room. What she heard made her heart drop like a stone.
“Avoiding happy hour again, Emma?” teased Oliver, catching up to her in the office car park. “Fancy a quick coffee? Your usual vanilla latte, maybe? Feels like we only ever wave hello and goodbye these days.”
“Sorry, Oliver, not today,” Emma forced a smile. “James promised to finish early so we can finally pick out kitchen furniture. Barely feels like our own place since we moved in after the renovation. And, well, he hasn’t been travelling much for work lately.”
“Always home on time, is he?” Oliver’s tone carried a hint of playful scepticism.
“Not always,” she sighed. “We need the extra cash, so he’s putting in the hours. Once we’ve furnished the place, maybe things’ll ease up.”
“Right,” Oliver smirked, wished her a nice evening, and strolled off in the opposite direction.
Luck was on Emma’s side—the bus arrived almost immediately, sparing her the usual wait. She settled by the window, lost in thought. Years ago, she’d nearly married Oliver. A stupid argument, the details long forgotten, had driven them apart. Then James appeared, and Emma, eager to prove to Oliver she’d moved on, rushed into marriage. *See? I don’t need you*, she’d thought at the time.
Oliver had tried to reconcile, apologised, swore he’d make her happy—but Emma was too swept up in James. She convinced herself she’d never loved Oliver, that their relationship had been a mistake. Eventually, she forgot about him—until he transferred to her branch from the London office. Oliver pretended it was a coincidence, but Emma suspected he’d pulled strings to be near her. Flattering, really, that he was still single and looked at her the same way. Deep down, she wished him happiness—but a tiny, ungenerous part of her envied his future wife. Oliver was the romantic type, the sort who’d plan candlelit dinners just because.
James was a good husband, but lately, work consumed him. He insisted it was for their future, for stability, yet their time together dwindled. They lived in his sister Lydia’s flat—she’d kindly offered it while her kids were young. Lydia and her husband never worried about money; they owned properties as investments for their children. Emma and James renovated the place to their taste, slowly furnishing it, though sometimes Emma regretted not renting elsewhere. The renovation had cost a fortune—enough for years of rent or a mortgage deposit. But James had been adamant when Lydia made the offer.
Stepping off the bus, Emma hurried home, the scent of coming rain in the air. She barely noticed the chill. How long had they lived here? A year? Eighteen months? Time blurred, but the flat never quite felt like theirs. They’d made it theirs, yet still, it felt like they were waiting—for what, she wasn’t sure.
Approaching the building, she realised she was dragging her feet, dreading whatever awaited her. The front door creaked as she slipped inside, the dim stairwell amplifying her unease with every step.
Inside the flat, she paused. Beside her shoes and James’s trainers stood Lydia’s designer boots. *What’s she doing here?* Emma couldn’t recall James mentioning a visit. She nearly announced her arrival but stopped, intuition humming. She listened.
“We’ve got these holiday vouchers,” Lydia was saying. “Hugh can’t get time off, so I thought you should take them. But here’s the thing—you’re not taking Emma. You’re taking Gemma.”
Emma’s breath caught. *Gemma?* James had once mentioned the name—Lydia had tried to set them up. Emma had brushed it off at the time. Now, her stomach twisted.
“Lydia, I don’t want Gemma,” James snapped. “How many times? I’m with Emma. Drop it.”
Relief flickered—just Lydia meddling again. Emma nearly stepped forward when Lydia’s voice turned sharp.
“Who are you fooling? I remember how mad you were for Gemma. You nearly married her before that silly row. Stop pretending—Emma isn’t right for you. Gemma’s different.”
Emma’s hands curled into fists. *Mad for her? Nearly married?* James had sworn Gemma meant nothing. Lydia’s next words cut deeper.
“So what?” James sounded irritated but uncertain. “That’s ancient history. I love Emma.”
“Love her?” Lydia scoffed. “Please. We both know you married Emma to make Gemma jealous after she left you. And when Gemma came crawling back, you doubled down out of spite.”
The floor tilted beneath Emma. *Out of spite?* Was their marriage just revenge? She’d rushed into it too, after Oliver—but she’d truly loved James. Had he ever loved her?
“It’s complicated,” James muttered. “I’m married now. I’ve got responsibilities.”
“What responsibilities?” Lydia snorted. “No kids, thank heavens. And don’t forget—this is my flat. With Emma, you’ll always be scraping by. Gemma’s got that gorgeous Notting Hill townhouse from her parents. And she still loves you.”
Emma leaned against the wall, tears pricking her eyes. How could Lydia say these things? Worse—James’s silence.
“Enough,” he finally said, but his voice lacked conviction. “A roof’s a roof. We’ll figure it out.”
“You’re just scared of change,” Lydia pressed. “Gemma was always the one. Admit it—you’ll never be happy with Emma.”
“And,” Lydia added slyly, “I can’t let you stay here forever. I’ve got plans. You’ll need to move soon.”
“Does Gemma know about this?” James asked suddenly.
“Of course! This was her idea—the holiday, everything. She’s sure you still love her.”
Silence. Emma’s head spun. Why wasn’t James objecting?
“What do I tell Emma?” he asked quietly.
“Say you’re helping me at the country house,” Lydia said breezily. “Then take Gemma to Majorca. Easy.”
Emma couldn’t listen anymore. She slipped out, wandering blindly until she found herself in a quiet café, rain streaking the windows. She ordered a cinnamon latte and stared at her reflection, Lydia’s words echoing. How could James have hidden this? Was their marriage a lie?
Hours passed, her coffee untouched. James hadn’t even called. *Probably packing for Gemma*, she thought bitterly. Her phone was dead.
Finally, she trudged back. The flat was eerily silent—no telly, no clattering pans. Suitcases stood in the hallway. James was packing. *Too late*, she thought.
“What are you doing?” she asked, though the answer seemed obvious.
“Emma, we’re leaving,” James said, surprising her. “Found a place. Temporary, but we’ll sort a mortgage. Where’ve you been? Your phone’s off.”
She blinked. All her prepared words vanished.
“Leaving?” she managed.
James sighed. “Had a row with Lydia. I’m done relying on her. We need our own place.”
Her tension eased—slightly. James sat her down, recounting Lydia’s scheme.
“I should’ve told you sooner,” he admitted. “Yes, I was with Gemma. And yes, I married you partly to prove a point. But Emma, that’s the past. You’re the one I love. I won’t lose you.”
Relief washed over her. The hurt lingered, but the truth was out.
“I’m sorry,” James said. “After you told me about Oliver, I didn’t want to complicate things. Then I was scared.”
Emma exhaled. “It’s okay. What’s done is done. You really found a flat?”
“Yeah. Ours. No more Lydia.” He smiled. “Ready to pack?”
She nodded, words failing her. For the first time in ages, hope flickered. Whatever lay ahead, they’d face it—together.
