Elizabeth awoke late, her first thought being that she had overslept. Her daughter and grandson would be up soon, and breakfast wasn’t ready. Then she remembered—they had left the day before. She herself had seen them off at the train station. Elizabeth rose and shuffled wearily to the bathroom. Normally, she would plan her day, deciding what needed doing first and what could wait. But today, her mind was full of her daughter and grandson.
She missed them terribly. The last time they had visited was for her husband’s funeral two and a half years ago. In that time, young Thomas had shot up so much he nearly matched her height. If they waited another three years before returning, she might not even recognise him.
If only they lived closer, they could see each other more often. How many times had Elizabeth begged her daughter to come back? Divorced now—what kept her in that other town? Then again, she understood. Emily had grown used to independence, to managing her own affairs. She shouldn’t have moved away in the first place.
Elizabeth had disliked her son-in-law from the start. A man of few words—if you didn’t ask, he’d keep silent all day. Hard to tell what he was thinking, perhaps hiding something. A closed book, that one. All that time wasted, only to end in divorce. Elizabeth sighed.
Now they were trying to divide the flat. Better if her ex-son-in-law had simply paid Emily her share outright. They could have bought a small place here, Elizabeth moving into it while giving her own flat to Emily and Thomas. But the stubborn man had refused, his parents whispering in his ear. “If only Arthur hadn’t passed when he did. He’d have sorted this quickly.” Another sigh.
After washing, she studied her reflection. Emily was right—she’d let herself go. Lately, she’d stopped dyeing her hair, and the grey roots showed plainly. She looked aged, untidy. When Arthur was alive, she took care. Now? What was the point? Only the neighbours dropped by occasionally. The ringing phone pulled her from her thoughts.
Rushing to answer, she remembered—Emily and Thomas should have arrived home by now. It must be her daughter calling.
“Emily! How was the journey?… Thank goodness… I knew you’d be fine… I’ll try not to mope. But do think about moving back… No, I’m not pressuring you. Just saying—time passes, I’m not getting younger, and it would be easier for you with me here… Don’t shout—”
Her daughter was bristling, and Elizabeth had no desire for a row. Her mood was low enough already. She forced a cheerful note to end the call.
Making the bed, she continued the silent argument—or rather, monologue. “Always the same. She’ll do as she pleases. So many mistakes already. If only Arthur…” Another sigh. “Never mind. She’s grown—let her decide.”
After tea and her blood pressure pills, Elizabeth resolved not to delay—she’d go to the hairdresser’s at once. Perhaps it might lift her spirits. She’d thought herself accustomed to solitude after her husband’s death, yet now, with her guests gone, she barely held back tears.
At the salon, a young girl snipped so meticulously that Elizabeth nearly dozed off. But the result was splendid—a chic short cut with ashy tones to mask the roots. The transformation took years off her. She couldn’t stop admiring herself in the mirror. Long overdue. She vowed then to visit regularly.
Back home, she lingered before the mirror, pleased. In brighter spirits, she opened the laptop. Before New Year’s, she and Thomas had picked out a new one for him. Emily had scolded her for spending so much, but Thomas had been so thrilled he’d kissed her and gifted her his old laptop. He helped set up a social media account—she still remembered a bit herself. For her profile picture, they used a twenty-year-old photo. She ought to take a new one, but that could wait.
Scrolling through the news feed, she noticed an unread message. A man named Victor was delighted to have found her and asked for a reply.
She enlarged his photo but didn’t recognise him. A trick, she thought—spotting her younger, prettier picture and pretending to be an old acquaintance.
Around her age, a warm smile, teeth intact (Elizabeth, a former dentist, always noticed teeth first). She almost ignored it but finally asked how he knew her.
An hour later, they were deep in conversation. He was Victor Osborne, an old classmate. As proof, he sent a photo of their Year 11 form, circling them both.
At last, she remembered the quiet boy from school. Shamefully, she only recognised herself by the label. She hadn’t opened the album in years.
After that, they messaged daily. Then Sophie—another classmate—wrote. They’d shared a desk. Sophie’s profile picture was clearly touched up, harking back to youthful days.
Once, during a maths test, Sophie had begged Elizabeth to help solve a problem. Elizabeth had obliged, leaving her own unfinished. Sophie got top marks; Elizabeth barely passed. She never helped again. Sophie took offense, nursing a grudge. Their friendship crumbled.
Sophie had always been spiteful. Still, Elizabeth decided pettiness was pointless and replied. Her circle grew; loneliness faded. How had she ever lived without the internet? A month of messages flew by. Then Victor suggested meeting.
“All in the same city, yet we’ve not seen each other in decades. Let’s fix that. Ladies, name the time and place.”
Elizabeth hesitated. Imagining their wrinkled faces, she was glad she’d tidied herself up. She suggested a café—neutral ground, fewer people in the afternoon.
She considered a dress but—winter, chilly, and too fine for mere classmates. She opted for trousers and a smart jumper, a touch of makeup. Pleased, she headed out.
Nearing the café, her pulse quickened. What if her pressure spiked? Why had she agreed? Too late now. Steeling herself, she entered. A man waved from the back. Hesitant, she approached—where a blonde woman sat facing away. No mistaking Sophie Whitmore.
Year 11, she’d bleached her hair to match her surname, playing the blonde ever since. Plump but well-kept, Elizabeth noted aloud.
Then she looked at Victor. Hard to believe this distinguished, silver-templed man was the shy boy from school.
“You’ve not changed. I knew you at once. Sit.” He pulled out a chair beside him, tactfully letting Sophie scrutinise her instead.
True to form, Sophie returned the compliment—thinly. A woman’s silence when outshone, Elizabeth knew Sophie well.
“Ladies, how marvellous to see you. Both radiant. Shall we toast with wine?” Victor’s gaze flicked between them.
The waiter came. Over drinks, they confessed their solitude. Many classmates had passed, Victor revealed. By the end, Sophie was tipsy, clinging to Victor as they left.
“Call a cab—you can’t take her on the bus,” Elizabeth suggested.
“Why me? Why not you?”
“You expect me to escort her home?” Elizabeth snapped.
“We could drop her off, then I’ll walk you—”
A cab arrived. Sophie flopped inside, dragging at Victor’s sleeve, drunkenly declaring love. He freed himself, shut the door, and gave her address.
“You know where she lives?” Elizabeth asked, surprised.
“I do.” A pause. “She was my wife.”
“I never knew…”
Now Sophie’s coldness made sense—those yearning glances weren’t for an old crush but her ex-husband.
They walked—Elizabeth’s flat wasn’t far.
“Foolishly married two years after school, split a year later. She wed twice more, yet between husbands, she always circles back. But I fancied you back then.” He stopped.
“We’re here. Thank you for walking me,” Elizabeth said.
“Invite me up,” Victor blurted.
“And Sophie?” Elizabeth smirked. “We’ve had our coffee. Go home—better yet, take a cab.” She slipped inside.
Undressing in the dark, she peered through the window—the courtyard empty. What had she expected? That he’d loiter like a lovestruck boy? At their age, with creaky joints and dodgy hearts? She resolved to ignore his messages. No need for drama—or Sophie’s vengeance.
Days passed before curiosity won. Victor had apologised—the wine, his impulsiveness. He had fancied her at school. Sophie knew—hence the marriage. If Elizabeth wasn’t interested, he’d back off.
She sensed his hurt. So be it. What did she want with him? A foolish mess. She’d known meeting was a mistake. Perhaps Emily and Thomas would visit—she’d have no time for old classmates, let alone ex-wives. Let him untangle Sophie’s resentments himself.
Sophie, meanwhile, had sent a dozen barbed messages. Accusing Elizabeth of nursing that maths test grudge, of stealing Victor. “Not a chance—he’s mine!” So much venom. Elizabeth bitAfter reading Sophie’s bitter words, Elizabeth closed the laptop quietly, realizing that some chapters of the past were best left unopened, and she turned her thoughts instead to the joy of Emily and Thomas returning home soon.
