**The Fiancé**
After dinner, Emily tucked her legs under her on the sofa and picked up her book. Just as she lost herself in the heroine’s adventures, her mum walked in, clutching a buzzing phone. On the screen, grinning from ear to ear, was Sophie Wilkins.
Emily reluctantly set the book aside and answered, shooting her mum a pointed look. Finally catching the hint, her mum left—though Emily had no doubt she’d be eavesdropping outside the door.
For five minutes, she and Sophie chatted about nothing in particular. Then Sophie announced she was inviting her to a birthday celebration at the countryside cottage that Saturday.
“Your birthday was a month ago. Wasn’t it?” Emily frowned.
“What’s the difference? I’ll take any excuse for a party. It’s just a chance for us all to catch up.”
“Why not just meet up without the pretence?” Emily countered.
“No, there’s got to be intrigue—anticipation! A mate of my Henry’s is visiting from Germany. He doesn’t know it’s not really my birthday, but he’ll feel obliged to come since it’s a ‘special occasion.’ Lizzie—remember her?—went absolutely mental when she heard he was coming. He’s some film bloke, director or something. And Lizzie’s dead set on acting. Won’t leave him alone about it. Proper nightmare.”
“Right, so why do you need *me* there?”
“Because it’s my *birthday*,” Sophie huffed, irritation creeping in.
“Ah, for numbers? And why the cottage? There’s still snow on the ground.”
“Don’t be daft. So he can’t bolt,” Sophie cackled, pleased with herself. “So? You in? We’ll have a laugh, fire up the barbie. The Christmas tree’s still up—never got round to taking it down after New Year’s. And the snow’s too thick for a quick trip anyway. Come on, do it for me?” Sophie’s voice dipped into a whine, and Emily could picture her pouting.
“Alright,” Emily sighed.
She agreed mostly because Saturday was four days away—plenty of time for something to derail the plan. A sudden flu, a cancelled train, anything.
As soon as she hung up, her mum reappeared.
“Where’s she dragging you off to now?”
“You heard her,” Emily smirked.
Her mum didn’t even flinch. “Good. You’re always cooped up here. Nearly forty and still single. I’ll be in my grave before I see grandchildren.”
“Mum, eligible men aren’t daffodils—they don’t sprout in cottages,” Emily joked. “I’m thirty-two. That’s a solid eight years before forty. And kids should come from love, not your desperation for grandbabies—”
Her mum pursed her lips, waved her off, and left—only to return seconds later, planting herself in front of Emily again.
“Always buried in books. Living other people’s lives while yours passes you by. Books won’t land you a husband. Time’s slipping—”
“You heard me, I’m going. Maybe I’ll bring back a souvenir grandkid,” Emily teased.
Her mum shook her head, wounded.
“Sorry, Mum.” Emily hopped up and hugged her.
On Friday, Sophie rang again, reminding her to dress smart—”can’t let the foreign guest think we’re common”—and that she and Henry would pick her up at seven sharp.
“Why so early?” Emily groaned.
“The drive, heating the cottage, prepping… We’ll be lucky to finish by evening.”
Her alarm blared at six. For a moment, Emily couldn’t remember why she’d set it so early on a weekend. Then her mum bustled in, announcing breakfast was ready.
The cottage. The fake birthday. Emily groaned into her pillow. So much for a quiet Saturday. She trudged to the shower. An hour later, Henry’s car idled outside. Emily slid into the backseat with a grunted greeting.
“Cheer up. Nap if you want,” Sophie said magnanimously.
Sophie prattled the whole way. *How does Henry stand it?* Emily wondered, then drifted off.
The village was pristine and empty. Untouched snow blanketed the gardens, tyre tracks darkening the lanes between houses. So they weren’t the only ones braving the cold.
Inside, a massive artificial Christmas tree stood in the corner. For a second, Emily felt like they’d time-traveled back to December. Henry got the fireplace going, the scent of woodsmoke and resin wrapping around her like childhood.
Before the fire even caught, two more cars pulled up. Emily and Sophie watched from the window as their friends piled out—including Lizzie, bouncing like an excitable puppy—and a tall stranger in glasses.
“That’s the director? Doesn’t look the part,” Emily muttered.
“How many directors have you met?” Sophie shot back.
The group trudged through the snow, Lizzie’s laughter echoing loud enough to wake the whole village.
“Enough gawking,” Sophie said, peeling away from the window to greet them.
Emily retreated to the kitchen, unpacking groceries.
“Your mate’s really a director?” she asked Henry.
Before he could answer, the cottage erupted with noise—stomping, chatter, and Lizzie’s shrill giggles as she made a beeline for the tree. The director carried bags into the kitchen, shook Henry’s hand, and nodded at Emily, lingering a moment.
“Need a hand?” he asked.
The kitchen cramped with bodies, laughter competing with the crackling fire. For the first time, Emily was glad she’d come.
After sandwiches and tea, the men headed out to set up the barbecue while the women chopped salad and boiled potatoes.
Toasts and birthday cheers followed. Sophie basked in the gifts, utterly shameless. Then came dancing. Lizzie glued herself to the director—Paul—who barely drank and stayed sober while the rest slurred. When Lizzie slipped out, Paul asked Emily to dance.
“You’re really from Germany? How long have you lived there?” she asked.
Paul tried to answer, but the music drowned him out. Eventually, Emily gave up. Lizzie returned, switched to a faster song, and nearly toppled the tree in her frenzy. A few ornaments shattered, sending everyone scrambling.
Amid the chaos, Emily grabbed her coat, jammed her feet into boots, and slipped outside.
Darkness had settled. She tilted her face up, the freezing air sharp in her lungs, and gasped. Stars—proper ones, not the faint city imitations—blazed overhead.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Paul’s voice came from behind.
Emily didn’t turn.
“Haven’t seen skies like this in years.”
“None in Germany?”
“Plenty. Just never looked up.” His voice softened. “These feel closer. Like home.”
“Do you miss England?”
“At first, desperately. Then… you adjust. Pros and cons, like anywhere.”
“What are you working on now? Your next film?”
“There you are.” Henry appeared in the doorway. “Come on, you’re missing the fun.”
“Be right there,” Paul called.
When the door shut, he added, “You’re not enjoying this either, are you?”
“Too much noise exhausts me.” Emily shivered. “Wish I could escape.”
“Why not? I’ve got the car. Want me to take you home?”
“Really?”
“Really. No strings.”
Sophie would howl. But the thought of another hour here…
“Let’s go,” Emily said abruptly, marching to the gate before she could second-guess.
The engine’s purr went unnoticed inside. By the time anyone realised, they’d be too tipsy to chase.
Emily leaned back, eyes closing despite herself. She woke as they reached the city outskirts.
“Sorry. Did I snore?” She smoothed her flattened hair.
“Where to?”
Emily gave directions, then hesitated. “How’d you get the car?”
“Rented it. Feels wrong without wheels.”
At her doorstep, Paul asked for her number.
“I’ll call tomorrow,” he promised. “You’re… different from your friends.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he drove off.
“You’re back *now*?” Her mum fretted when Emily walked in.
“Cottage was cramped. You know I hate sleeping elsewhere.”
Next morning, Sophie rang, screeching.
“Playing the wallflower, then swiping my guest?”
Emily opened her mouth—*he drove me!*—but Sophie ranted until the line went dead.
Paul didn’t call. Not the next day, or the next three. *Shouldn’t have given my number. Plenty of Gretchens back home. Who’d pick a thirty-something over someone like Lizzie?* She tried to forget him.
Wednesday brought sleet that morphed into rain—typical March whimsy. Emily trudged home, head down against the weather. A car honked as she reached her building. She ignored it.
“Emily.”
She turned. Paul.
“Hello.” He stepped out”Let’s go inside—I brought flowers this time.”
