**Diary Entry – The Suitor**
After dinner, Emily curled up on the sofa with a book. Just as she lost herself in the heroine’s adventures, her mother walked in, clutching a buzzing phone. Lighting up the screen was a grinning photo of Lucy Barrington.
With a sigh, Emily set the book aside and answered, shooting her mother a pointed look. Finally taking the hint, her mum left—though Emily had no doubt she’d linger by the door, eavesdropping.
For five minutes, she and Lucy chatted about nothing. Then Lucy announced, *”I’m throwing a birthday party at the cottage this Saturday!”*
*”Your birthday was a month ago,”* Emily frowned.
*”Who cares? I’ll celebrate whenever I fancy. It’s just an excuse to get everyone together.”*
*”Why not just meet without a pretence?”*
*”Because it needs intrigue, anticipation! My Henry’s friend is visiting from Germany. He doesn’t know when my birthday is. If he thinks there’s a special occasion, he won’t refuse—whereas a casual meet-up? He might bail. And Daisy, you remember her? She squealed like a stuck pig when she heard he’s coming. Supposedly he’s some big-shot filmmaker. Daisy’s desperate to act, clinging to him like a limpet. Bloody exhausting.”*
*”So why invite me?”*
*”It’s my birthday!*” Lucy snapped, irritation creeping in.
*”Filler guest, then?”* Emily guessed. *”And why the cottage? There’s still snow on the ground.”*
*”Don’t be daft. So he can’t slip away!*” Lucy cackled. *”Come on, it’ll be a laugh—barbecue, mulled wine. We never took down the Christmas tree after New Year’s anyway. Pretty please?”* Emily could practically see her pouting.
*”Fine,”* she relented.
She agreed only because Saturday was days away. Anything could happen by then—she or Lucy might fall ill, or the whole thing could be called off.
The moment she hung up, her mum barged in.
*”Where’s she dragging you now?”*
*”You heard everything,”* Emily smirked.
Unfazed, her mother pressed on. *”Good. You’re always cooped up here. Nearly forty and still single. I’ll die before I see grandchildren.”*
*”Mum, suitors aren’t daffodils—they don’t sprout in cottage gardens,”* Emily joked. *”I’m thirty-two. Eight whole years till forty. And children should come from love, not your desperation for grandkids…”*
Her mum pursed her lips, waved a dismissive hand, and stormed out—only to return seconds later. *”You live through books while your own life passes you by. Novels won’t land you a husband. Time’s slipping—”*
*”You heard me—I’m going. I’ll bring back grandchildren,”* Emily teased again.
Her mother shook her head, wounded. *”Sorry, Mum.”* Emily hugged her tightly.
On Friday, Lucy rang again, reminding her to dress smartly—*”Can’t embarrass ourselves in front of a foreign guest!”*—and to be ready by seven sharp.
*”Why so early?”* Emily groaned.
*”The drive, heating the cottage, prep… We’ll be rushed as it is.”*
At six a.m., her alarm blared. Bleary-eyed, she couldn’t recall why she’d set it. Then her mum marched in, announcing breakfast. The cottage. The “birthday.” Emily groaned. Goodbye, peaceful weekend.
By the time she stepped outside an hour later, Lucy’s husband’s car was already idling. Emily slumped into the back seat with a grunted greeting.
*”Cheer up. Sleep if you want,”* Lucy permitted magnanimously.
The entire drive, Lucy chirped away. *”How does Henry tolerate her?”* Emily wondered before dozing off.
The cottage village was picturesque and quiet. Fresh snow blanketed the gardens, tyre tracks the only blemish. They weren’t the only ones braving the cold.
Inside, a towering artificial Christmas tree stood—for a moment, Emily felt hurled back to December. Henry lit the wood burner, the scent of pine and nostalgia filling the air.
Before the fire caught properly, two more cars arrived. Emily and Lucy watched from the window as their friends tumbled out—including Daisy, giggling and flouncing like a spring lamb, her laughter echoing through the silent lanes.
*”That’s the filmmaker?”* Emily squinted at the bespectacled stranger. *”Doesn’t look the part.”*
*”How many filmmakers have you met?”* Lucy retorted.
Inside, chaos erupted. Daisy zeroed in on the tree, nearly toppling it. The stranger—Paul—carried bags to the kitchen, nodding at Emily, his gaze lingering.
*”Need help?”* he asked.
Soon, the kitchen was crammed, laughter clashing with the crackling fire, and Emily decided coming hadn’t been a mistake.
After sandwiches and tea, the men braved the cold to set up the barbecue while the women prepped salads and potatoes. Toasts were made, Lucy basked in gifts, and dancing ensued. Daisy draped herself over Paul, who stayed sober. When Daisy vanished, he asked Emily to dance.
*”You’re really from Germany? How long?”* she shouted over the music.
Paul tried answering, but the noise drowned him out. Daisy returned, swapped the music, and nearly wrecked the tree. Amid the scramble for fallen baubles, Emily grabbed her coat and slipped outside.
The night sky blazed with stars—nothing like the city’s murk.
*”Stunning, isn’t it?”* Paul’s voice came from behind.
*”Haven’t seen skies like this in years,”* she admitted.
*”No stars in Germany?”*
*”Never had time to look. These feel closer.”*
*”Miss England?”*
*”Wanted to return at first. Got used to it. Pros and cons.”*
*”What’re you working on now? Any new films?”*
Just then, Henry appeared. *”There you are! You’re missing the fun.”*
*”We’ll be right in,”* Paul replied smoothly. Once Henry left, he turned to Emily. *”You don’t seem to be enjoying this either.”*
*”Noise exhausts me,”* she admitted, shivering. *”Wish I could escape.”*
*”Why not? I’ve got the car. Fancy a ride home?”*
*”Just like that? My things—Lucy’ll kill me.”*
*”Call her later. Say I kidnapped you.”*
*”You’re serious?”* She searched his face. *”Let’s go.”*
The engine noise went unnoticed. Emily dozed off, waking as they entered the city.
*”Did I snore?”* she mumbled, fixing her hair.
Paul drove her home, took her number, and promised to call. *”You’re nothing like your friends.”*
Lucy’s furious call came the next morning—*”Playing the wallflower, then stealing my guest!”*—before she hung up mid-rant.
Paul didn’t call. By Wednesday, Emily gave up. *”Probably went back to his German sweethearts. What did I expect? I’m past thirty, not some fresh-faced Daisy.”*
Slushy snow melted into rain as Emily trudged home. A car honked—she ignored it.
*”Emily,”* Paul called.
Inside the car, he exhaled. *”I owe you an explanation.”*
*”You owe me nothing.”*
*”I’m not a filmmaker. I’m in IT—did some VFX work once, and Lucy spun it into this fantasy. Daisy’s dreams… I should’ve corrected her.”*
*”Then why didn’t you?”*
*”By the time I realised, it was too late.”*
He apologised for the delayed call—his phone was stolen—and for Lucy’s tantrum. *”I like you. You’re real. Sharp. No pretence.”*
*”Odd compliment. ‘Sharp’ means ‘ugly’ now?”*
*”I’m rubbish at this. I leave soon, so I’ll cut to it: come with me.”*
*”I barely know you.”*
*”We’ll fix that. Video calls. Visa paperwork. Bring your mum.”*
*”Is this a proposal?”* she teased. *”Let’s ask Mum.”*
*”Now? I’ve no flowers—”*
*”Kidding,”* she said, stepping into the rain.
He followed. *”I’m serious. Let’s go.”*
Inside, her mum fussed over Paul, feeding him pie.
*”He’s asked me to move to Germany,”* Emily blurted.
*”I’ve proposed,”* PaulMum’s eyes welled with tears as she squeezed Paul’s hand and whispered, *”Just promise you’ll bring my girl—and my future grandchildren—home for Christmas.”*
