A Tough Choice. The Return
“Go if you want to,” Oliver said, placing his mug in the sink. His voice was steady, almost indifferent. “Just don’t expect any support from me. Not emotionally, not physically.”
“I don’t,” Alice replied quietly, not looking at him.
“Then don’t complain later that it was a waste of time.”
“I might. Or I might not. The point is not to regret never trying.”
And so she left.
The connecting flight was delayed, and the next plane took off without her, oblivious to her delay. Seven hours of stifling boredom in the airport, a stale sandwich, and a shoulder bag instead of her suitcase—her dress still sat in the cargo hold of another continent.
At the hotel, they told her the booking “didn’t go through.” The young man at reception explained it with a smile, as if it were nothing serious.
“Apologies, madam, we’re fully booked. I can give you a list of nearby motels.”
“Thanks,” Alice muttered dryly. “Exactly what I needed—another tally of life’s failures.”
She sat in a café around the corner, ordered coffee, and scrolled through her contacts. Her thumb stopped on a name: Emily Broadwood. A university friend she’d studied with in Manchester. Then sparse messages, occasional likes… and silence.
“Might as well take the chance,” Alice thought, and sent a quick text.
The reply came in three minutes:
“Of course, come over! We’ve got a guest room. And we’ll sort out a dress, no problem. You’ve probably lost weight—I’ll grab one with room to spare. Where on earth have you been all these years?”
By morning, they were driving through the outskirts of London. With every turn, Alice felt the car pulling her deeper into a past long buried. Emily had changed—polished, assured, but still kind, not a hint of arrogance. She handed Alice the club’s address, gave her a once-over, fixed her hair, spritzed her with hairspray, and pinned on a brooch.
“You’re not some ghost from the past—you’re a woman who knows her worth. They’re all the same there, same faces, same lips. But not all of them have souls. Stand tall, Alice.”
The event was extravagant.
Marquees, manicured lawns, waiters with champagne, women in designer gowns—as if stamped from the same mould. It was lavish, overdone… and utterly foreign. She recognised no one. Only new faces—tan, tightened, smug.
Daniel was the first to approach. A little older but still the same. He hugged her, flashed a guilty smile, whispered:
“I’m glad you came. Sorry, I didn’t tell Isabella. I wanted her to just see you—”
Alice didn’t answer. She already understood.
Isabella arrived later, not alone but with an entourage. Designer dress, flawless face, gaze like polished glass.
“Alice? What a surprise,” she said with a grin that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re… here?”
“I’m still me. And this? Just a place,” Alice said evenly. “Happy anniversary.”
“Thank you. I hope the trip wasn’t too exhausting?”
“A little. Emily Broadwood helped. Funny how old ties hold, even after years.”
“Oh, Emily. She was a lifesaver when we moved. They say she’s got good taste. That’s not her dress, is it?”
“It’s comfortable. Fits better than some memories.”
Isabella faltered for a second.
“Well… hope you enjoy the evening.”
“I already am. Thanks for having me.”
“I… didn’t invite you.”
“But you’re not throwing me out either,” Alice said with a quiet half-smile.
Later, when a guest slumped in his chair and started turning blue, the room erupted in panic.
“He’s choking!” a woman in a leopard-print dress screamed. “Someone call an ambulance!”
“I’m a doctor,” Alice said calmly, already beside him. No drama, no fuss—just precision. Checked his pulse, propped his head, loosened his collar. She moved as if she did this daily. And she did.
The ambulance took fifteen minutes. In that time, neither Isabella nor her crowd came near.
The next morning, Alice woke in Emily’s guest room. Her dress was neatly folded, coffee waited on the table with a note:
“You did the right thing. If you ever need to disappear in this city again—call. 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 was just overdue. Now it was done. No flowers. No tears. Just closure.
Oliver waited at arrivals. His scruffy spaniel, Winston, nearly knocked her over with excitement.
“So, how’d it go?” he asked.
“Closed the chapter.”
“With a bang?”
“A little. But with dignity.”
“And?”
“I don’t miss it anymore.”
He took her bag.
She took his arm.
And they walked home.
