The Great Prank

**The Prank**

The small stage was surrounded by dancing guests, led by none other than the birthday boy himself—sixty-five-year-old William, Vladimir’s boss. “Oh, what a man…” the women sang along in a merry chorus to the lead singer of the little band.

Exhausted from the wine, the abundant food, and the relentless cheer, Emma and her husband, William, lingered at the wreck of a table. At the other end, two colleagues argued about something irrelevant while a third dozed, head slumped onto folded arms.

Emma leaned in close to William, whispering directly into his ear:

“Shall we slip out? Everyone’s had one too many—no one will notice. This noise is giving me a headache.” For effect, she pressed her fingertips to her temples.

William glanced around the room with a weary scowl.

“You’re right. Nothing left to do here. Let’s go,” he muttered.

They slipped out of the restaurant unnoticed.

“Ah, fresh air at last!” Emma inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the crisp night breeze.

“Taxi?” William asked.

“No, let’s walk. Stretch our legs.” She hooked her arm through his, and they ambled down the dimly lit streets.

“Won’t those heels kill you?” William asked.

“Then you’ll carry me—just like you did twenty years ago. Remember? I wore new shoes, and they rubbed my feet raw. We walked home from the cinema because we didn’t have a car, and the last bus had gone. You carried me all the way.” Emma sighed wistfully.

William squeezed her arm against his side, confirming he remembered.

“Oh, how young and in love we were. Twenty years—gone in a blink. Feels like just yesterday we got married, waiting for little Lucy, so happy…” Emma sighed again.

“Well, I’m up for a promotion soon—new opportunities, better pay. Lucy will be giving us a grandchild any day now. And in autumn, we’ll celebrate my retirement. We’re healthy. What more could we want?” William asked.

Emma didn’t answer—they’d reached home.

She showered first, scrubbing off the makeup, then emerged in a fluffy dressing gown, hair still damp. William’s mind involuntarily flickered to Angela—her smooth skin, toned body, alluring eyes, that cascade of thick hair… *What do the years do to women? Would Angela look like Emma in twenty years? No, she never will. She’ll always be young to me—I’ll always be two decades older. If only she were here now…*

The memory burned so hot that he stepped into an ice-cold shower to cool off.

The next morning, he pulled out a freshly pressed shirt, faintly scented with fabric softener, and grabbed the matching tie from the hanger. Emma always paired them in advance. The smell of fresh coffee lured him to the kitchen.

“I’m heading to the cottage today. The apples must be falling—I’ll pick them, make compote, bake a pie,” Emma said, sliding a steaming cup toward him.

“Why not wait till Saturday? We could drive together,” William mumbled through a mouthful of toast.

“That’s three days away. The apples’ll spoil. Besides, I want to check on the place.”

“Suit yourself.” William drained his coffee and set the empty mug down.

“I’ll stay the night. Won’t make it back before dark, and I’ll miss the last bus. I’ve left dinner in the fridge,” Emma called after him as he left the kitchen.

He froze, turning back.

“You’re seriously staying overnight?”

“Yes. Why does that surprise you? Got plans I don’t know about?” She gave him a sad, knowing smile.

“No. Just… be careful.” He retreated to the hallway.
The door clicked shut behind him.

William slid into the car and turned the key. Before pulling away, he dialled Angela.

“Morning. Did I wake you, love? Listen—Emma’s off to the cottage tonight. Staying over. So we’ve got the whole evening to ourselves,” he cooed.

“Understood, darling,” Angela chirped back, followed by a theatrically loud kiss.

“Clever girl. See you tonight. Miss you already.” He pocketed his phone, cranked up the radio, and drove off.

Everything was falling into place. His mood soared. *Time to come clean to Emma. Angela’s been nagging—when will we make it official?*

After work, he stopped by the shop for a pricey bottle of wine and some fruit. Approaching the flat, he glanced up—no lights on. Emma had left. He took the stairs two at a time, heart protesting, breath ragged. *Blast, I’m not as young as I think. Should join a gym.*

In the entryway, he shed his coat, lugged the groceries to the kitchen—and froze in the doorway. A woman stood silhouetted against the window, back turned.

“You—you didn’t go?” William croaked, straining to mask his disappointment. *Need to warn Angela—she’ll be here any minute.* “Why the dark?”

“Surprise!” chimed a cheery voice—Angela’s.

William’s jaw dropped. He nearly fumbled the bag. Lights on—Angela stood there, hair pinned up exactly like Emma’s. No wonder he’d mistaken her in the shadows.

“Well? Did it work? You should’ve seen your face!” Angela cackled.

“Christ, nearly gave me a heart attack. Thought Emma hadn’t left. How—how are you here? Where’d you—?”

“Aren’t you pleased?” She wrapped her arms around him—and everything else vanished.

At sunrise, he stirred, checked the clock—time to lounge a bit. The other side of the bed was empty, but the clink of china and the scent of coffee drifted in. Grinning, he sprang up, naked, and headed for the shower.

He emerged, towelling his hair—then froze.

“Morning, darling,” sang Emma’s voice.

William choked, yanked the towel around his waist. *Emma?!*

“Bashful now? After twenty years, I’ve seen it all.” She smirked, turning back to the stove. “Get dressed. Breakfast’s ready.”

He fled to the bedroom—no trace of Angela. Had he dreamt her? Impossible. He threw on a fresh shirt, tie askew, mind racing. *How is Emma back so early?*

Back in the kitchen, he scanned the corner—where he’d left the empty wine bottle. Gone.

Emma poured coffee, set out toast. He took a gulp—then choked as a voice purred behind him:

“Up already, sweetheart?”

William coughed violently. Emma thumped his back.

*Hallucinating?* He dared not turn.

Angela glided in, sniffed the air. “How sweet of you to make coffee.” She grabbed a mug, poured herself some—while Emma acted as if she weren’t there.

“You’re awfully pale,” Angela noted.

“Are you ill?” Emma echoed.

“What the hell is happening?!” William shot up, chair screeching.

“He’s delirious, poor thing.” Angela patted Emma’s shoulder.

“Work calls, love,” Emma said, smiling first at him, then at Angela.

William gaped. “You—you set me up. When—how—?”

“Yesterday. After your call about Emma ‘leaving for the cottage,’ I came straight here. You moaned she was dull, frumpy, boring—so I had to see for myself. Turns out? Smart, gorgeous. No wonder you stalled.”

Emma had nearly thrown her out—until Angela proposed the prank. “Worked a treat, didn’t it?” The women exchanged grins.

“And now?” William’s voice was hollow.

“Normally, I’d ask: ‘Which of us do you choose?’ But…” Angela paused. “After meeting Emma? I’m bowing out.”

No, she didn’t need a taxi—his number was blocked. No calls, no texts. She’d rent her own flat. Wanted nothing from him. “You two sort yourselves out. If I were Emma? Well… her choice.” She set her cup down, swayed out.

“Ciao, lover!” The door slammed.

William flinched.

With Angela gone, Emma sagged into a chair.

“Em, I—”

“Not now. Just… go.” She turned to the window.

William trudged out, slid into the car. *Bloody hell. Played like a fiddle.* His shirt clung with cold sweat—trapped, like a mouse in a snap.

Angela? Young, fiery. But Emma… *Did I ever really know her?* He’d braced for screaming, shattered plates… Not this.

At work, he fumbled tasks. Colleagues whispered. Angela’s phone rang dead—blocked, as promised. Shame, but hardly the end of the world.

By evening, he mustered courage and called Emma.

“Listen—don’t hang up. We need to talk. I messed upAs he pulled into the driveway that evening, the lights were finally on, and the faint sound of laughter—Emma’s and a baby’s—drifted through the open window, offering him the tiniest glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t lost everything after all.

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The Great Prank