**A Tough Decision. The Return**
“If you want to go, then go,” said Oliver, placing his mug in the sink. His voice was calm, almost indifferent. “Just don’t expect my support—not moral, not practical.”
“I’m not expecting it,” Emily replied quietly, avoiding his gaze.
“Don’t say you regret it later.”
“Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But I’d rather try than wonder.”
And so, she left.
Her connecting flight was delayed, and the next plane had already departed without her. Seven excruciating hours in a stuffy airport, a limp sandwich from a vending machine, and her dress still in the hold of a plane halfway across the world—all she had was the bag slung over her shoulder.
The hotel clerk told her the booking “hadn’t gone through.” He smiled apologetically, as if it were a minor inconvenience.
“Sorry, madam. We’re fully booked. I can give you a list of nearby inns.”
“Thanks,” Emily said dryly. “Exactly what I needed—another tally of life’s little disappointments.”
She sank into a café booth around the corner, ordered a coffee, and scrolled through her contacts. Her thumb paused on one name: Claire Whitmore. A university friend from their days in Manchester. Years of scattered messages, the occasional like… and then silence.
*Should I risk it?* she thought, sending a quick text.
The reply came in three minutes:
*“Of course, come over! We’ve got a spare room. And don’t worry about the dress—I’ll sort you out. Though you’ve likely slimmed down since uni! It’s been ages—where’ve you been hiding?”*
By morning, they were driving through the outskirts of London. With every turn, Emily felt the past pulling her deeper—one she thought long buried. Claire had changed—polished, confident, but still kind, without a trace of pretence.
She handed Emily the address of the venue, gave her a once-over, smoothed her hair, spritzed on hairspray, and pinned on a brooch.
“Walk in there not as a ghost of the past, but as a woman who knows her worth. They’ll all look the same—same faces, same lips. But not all of them have souls. Keep your chin up, Em.”
The party was lavish.
Marquees, manicured lawns, waiters with champagne flutes, women in designer gowns—all cut from the same cloth. Everything was expensive, ostentatious, and utterly alien. Emily recognized no familiar faces. Only new ones—tanned, taut, self-assured.
Thomas appeared first. A little older, but unmistakably himself. He approached, smiled sheepishly, hugged her, whispered—
“I’m glad you came. Sorry, I didn’t tell Isabelle. I wanted her to just… see you.”
Emily didn’t respond. She already understood.
Isabelle arrived moments later—not alone, but with an entourage in tow. Designer dress, flawless makeup, eyes like polished glass.
“Emily? What a surprise,” she said with a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re… here?”
“I’m still me. And this is just a place,” Emily replied evenly. “Happy anniversary.”
“Thank you. I hope the trip wasn’t too exhausting?”
“A bit. But Claire Whitmore sorted me out. Funny how old ties still hold, even after all these years.”
“Claire? Oh, yes… She helped us loads when we moved. Good taste, hasn’t she? That’s not her dress, is it?”
“It’s comfortable. Fits better than some memories.”
For a second, Isabelle faltered.
“Well… I hope you enjoy the evening.”
“I already am. Thanks for having me.”
“I… didn’t invite you.”
“But you’re not throwing me out.” Emily smiled faintly.
Later, when one guest collapsed into his chair, choking, the room erupted into panic.
“He can’t breathe!” a woman in a leopard-print gown shrieked. “Someone call an ambulance!”
“I’m a doctor,” Emily said calmly, already beside him. No hysteria, no fuss—just steady hands checking his pulse, loosening his collar, sliding her bag under his head. She moved as if she’d done this every day. Because she had.
The ambulance arrived in fifteen minutes. In all that time, neither Isabelle nor any of her circle came near.
By morning, Emily was waking in Claire’s guest room. The dress lay neatly folded on the chair. A coffee and a note waited on the table:
*“You did the right thing. If you ever need to disappear in this city again—just ring. The room’s yours.”*
At the airport, she felt light.
Not because it was over.
But because everything had finally fallen into place.
That friendship had died long ago. The funeral had just been delayed. Now it was done. No flowers. No tears. Just goodbye.
Oliver waited by arrivals. His scruffy terrier, Winston, nearly knocked her over with joy.
“So?” he asked. “How’d it go?”
“Closed the chapter.”
“With a bang?”
“A little. But clean.”
“And?”
“No regrets.”
He took her bag.
She took his arm.
And they walked home.
