Not Quite Like the Movies, But Close
Emily adored romantic films and dreamed of a life that mirrored the screen—full of passion and happy endings. But dreams remained dreams, while reality dragged on in dull monotony in a tiny village tucked away in the Yorkshire Dales.
She married Jack, convinced it was love. But Jack, flighty and restless since his youth, never changed. He brought her to his old family home, and three years later, announced:
“I’m off to London. Do as you please. This place stifles me—my soul craves freedom.”
“Jack, what are you on about? We’re fine as we are,” Emily stammered, bewildered.
“You might be fine. I’m not.”
With that, he walked out, taking his passport and a frayed rucksack of belongings. The village buzzed with gossip, neighbours whispering:
“Jack’s left Emily, gone chasing city life. Probably found some other lass there.”
Emily said nothing. She didn’t cry, didn’t complain, just stayed in Jack’s house. Nowhere else to go—her parents’ home was cramped with her sister’s family, no room left. She had no children of her own.
“Guess God decided Jack wasn’t father material,” she mused, watching the neighbour’s kids play.
Every evening, chores done, Emily settled in front of the telly. She lost herself in dramas, where lives were upended by grand passion. She felt it all, then tossed and turned, unable to sleep.
Each morning began the same—feed the pig, the hens, the little calf, Toby. She never let him graze with the herd, tying him by the vegetable patch instead.
“Emily!” a neighbour shouted. “Toby’s got loose, tearing about the lane!”
“Where?” She dashed out the gate. The calf was butting the neighbour’s fence, testing his new horns.
“Toby, Toby,” she coaxed, holding out bread. He shook his head. “Blast you!” she snapped. Toby startled, bolting and scattering the neighbour’s geese.
She might have chased him forever if not for Thomas, the mechanic. He caught the rope deftly, tugged Toby to the fence, and tied him fast. Emily watched his strong arms, muscles shifting under his worn shirt. Suddenly, she wanted those arms around her, holding her tight.
She brushed the thought away—
“What’s got into me? Acting like a lovestruck girl.”
She flushed. Thomas was just an old schoolmate, always grinning, always joking. He lived with Nora, a sturdy woman next door. No use fancying him.
“Never felt this way before,” she thought, looking away.
She’d divorced Jack the moment he left. Other men had courted her, even proposed, but none stirred her heart. She lived alone, unloved.
Thomas wiped his hands on the grass. Emily blurted:
“Come inside, wash up.”
He followed silently. She felt his gaze on her back.
She noticed him looking at her differently and wondered—
“What’s he playing at?”
He washed, dried his hands, gave her one last lingering look, then left.
After that, something shifted between them. When Thomas passed by, Emily flushed. He started cutting through her yard—never had before. Emily woke early to weed the garden in the cool morning air—or so she told herself. Really, she was waiting for him. Their eyes would meet, his burning with something raw—admiration, longing.
She scolded herself, wary of Nora:
“If she finds out, the whole village will know.”
But Thomas kept coming, his gaze hot. Emily answered with soft glances, half-smiles. It felt like one of her telly dramas—no ending in sight.
One day, sweeping the yard, she heard—
“Hello, Em.”
She turned. There stood Jack, smirking as ever, stubble on his chin, blue eyes squinting.
“Back, then. Expecting a welcome?”
“What, London didn’t suit you?”
Her heart stayed cold. The love was gone—if it ever existed. The door in her soul had slammed shut when he’d left for his “grand life,” abandoning her.
Jack moved back into his house. Emily had nowhere else, so she let him stay. At night, she barricaded her bedroom door with the wardrobe. Jack took the other side of the house, barely there, always off with his mates.
Thomas grew sullen. But one day, spotting Emily climbing out the window, something in him sparked—
“So, she’s not taken him back.”
Next morning, Emily stumbled upon makeshift steps under her window—two planks nailed together.
“Who did this?” she murmured. “Not Jack—he hasn’t the time.”
Thomas had built it in the night, so she wouldn’t struggle. He and Nora weren’t married, just lived together years. No kids, but he’d raised her daughter from a past fling. Nora had walked into his life after a pub crawl and never left, bringing the girl along.
Winter came. Jack ran out of money, tired of mooching, and fled back to London. Emily sighed in relief. Then Thomas faced his own storm—Nora fell ill. The sturdy woman withered fast. Her mother took the girl, Thomas tended her, but Nora was hospitalised. She never came home.
The whole village mourned.
“Big woman, but soft-hearted. Never a cross word,” old Martha sighed.
Thomas was alone now. Some mornings, Emily caught him shovelling snow by her house, glancing at her window.
Come spring, she returned from work to find her door ajar. A heavyset woman sat at her table, sipping tea from her mug, spooning her jam.
“Surprise?” Jack’s voice rang out. “Me and Brenda are moving in. My house, my rules.” He was punishing her refusal. “My future wife. Pack your things and go, if our happiness hurts you.”
Brenda cackled. Emily decided to leave at dawn. Again, she shoved the wardrobe against the door.
“Lord, why?” she whispered. “Could ask Aunt Clara—she’s alone…”
Morning came. As she hauled her bags out, Thomas appeared. Without a word, he took them, carried everything to his place. Emily stayed silent. Jack and Brenda exchanged smirks.
“What’s this, then? Lovebirds?” Jack sneered. “Look at Tom hauling your rubbish.”
Thomas took Emily’s hand, led her away.
“Passions flared while I was gone,” Jack muttered. Brenda jabbed him, and he shut up.
Inside Thomas’s house, Emily burst into tears—relief, joy. He swept her up, and the ceiling spun as they clung to each other, dizzy with happiness.
They married quickly, a baby on the way. Jack watched from his yard, but Emily didn’t care. Behind her stood Thomas—her shelter, her safe harbour.
