Emily smoothed her dress over her hips in front of the mirror, dabbed on some rosy lipstick, then fluffed a stubborn curl. She took a step back and gave herself a critical once-over. “Not bad,” she murmured with a satisfied grin at her reflection.
Her husband, Tom, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“Blimey! Where’re you off to, all dolled up like that?”
“Work. Jealous, are we?” Emily batted her already wide, perfectly lined eyes.
“Course I am. How about I drive you? The Tube’ll wreck that outfit,” Tom offered eagerly.
“Sit tight. Where d’you think you’re going with that plaster cast?” Emily zipped up her quilted jacket, adjusted her scarf snug under her chin, and grabbed her handbag.
“I’m off.” But she paused at the door.
“Oh, almost forgot. I’ll be late. Lucy’s getting married. Sort of a girls’ night at the pub. Don’t wait up.”
“Hold on—maybe I should pick you up later?” Tom pushed off the doorframe.
“Don’t bother.” Emily blew him a mocking kiss and slipped out.
Tom wandered to the window, watching Emily hurry across the courtyard below.
“How many times have I told her to get her licence? She’d be driving to work instead of jostling on the bloody Central Line,” he muttered, as if she could hear him.
The pub was lively. Six women huddled around pushed-together tables, sipping cocktails and trading outrageous wedding disaster stories, laughing loud enough to drown out the music. Suddenly, a waiter appeared with a bottle of expensive wine and set it before Emily.
“Compliments of the gentleman at the bar. Shall I open it?”
Emily turned. The man—tall, unfairly handsome—nodded and smiled. Her heart skipped, then raced to match the bassline. Heat flooded her cheeks, and her smile vanished like Frosty in a heatwave.
She knew him. How could she forget? Paul had been the uni heartthrob, two years ahead. Every girl fancied him. Before summer exams, she’d failed a quiz. She’d sat sobbing on the library staircase, mascara rivers down her face. No quiz grade, no final exams.
“Why the tears? Flunked a test?”
She’d looked up to find Paul beside her. Paul! Talking to her! While she sat there, a snotty, smudged mess.
“Didn’t pass the quiz,” she’d sniffed.
“Big deal. You’re just wrecking your makeup.”
Emily gasped and fumbled for her compact. Paul handed her a tissue.
“Dimwit. Should’ve cried in front of the prof. Thought all girls knew how to guilt-trip. Go on, catch him before he leaves. Say you pulled an all-nighter, brain’s fried.”
“You reckon that’ll work?”
“Worth a shot. Go!” He’d nudged her up the steps.
When she’d skipped out later, quiz signed, Paul was waiting.
“Smiling suits you,” he’d said.
He walked her home, chatting the whole way. She heard none of it, dizzy with one thought. He’s with me! She preened under the envious glances from passersby.
They dated briefly after exams—cinema, beach walks. She knew his reputation, but her heart overruled her brain. Then he vanished. No address, no goodbye. She’d agonised, convinced herself he’d return… until the pregnancy test.
“First you’re floating, now you’re moping. You ill?” her mum had asked.
“Just a cold,” Emily lied, forcing a cough.
“See a doctor, then,” Mum sighed.
The private clinic confirmed it. “Mum’ll kill me… my degree… and he’s gone…” She’d wept in the sterile room.
The doctor took pity. Early enough, she’d said. Costs extra, though. Emily spun a tale to Mum—pricey meds, dodgy tests—scraped together the cash.
Two days of cramps like barbed wire twisting inside. She’d endured silently.
That September, she’d hurried to campus, desperate to see Paul. He strode past with a fresher, pretending not to know her. The girls whispered: Paul’s engaged, finally settling down. Emily bit her lip bloody to keep from crying.
In lectures, Tom slid beside her. Unremarkable, quiet. She knew he fancied her. No Adonis, just the bloke girls asked for notes.
“Cheer up. Fancy a film tonight?”
She’d shrugged. Better than crying over Paul. After the cinema, they wandered London. Tom rambled about some book. To her surprise, she’d laughed, forgetting Paul entirely.
With Tom, she could be herself—no pretending. Outside her flat, she’d blurted:
“Tom… d’you like me? Marry me.”
He’d gaped. “You serious? I’m mad about you. But not like this.” He’d walked away.
“Even the nice ones bolt,” she’d thought, self-esteem in the gutter.
Next day, their professor entered. Tom whispered to him, then faced the class:
“I’d like to propose to Emily. Publicly. Promise to love her forever.”
The room erupted. “Emily! Emily!” they chanted. Tom produced a ring, flowers materialised. Cheers, even a drunken “Kiss her!”
“Will you?” he asked over the noise.
“Yes,” she whispered, flushing.
Later, he explained: he’d wanted it memorable, not her desperate plea. The tale became uni legend, retold with embellishments for years.
Their marriage was steady, comfortable. No fireworks, just quiet trust. No babies came, but Tom never pressed.
Now, five years later, Paul sat across the pub. Age had only sharpened his looks. Emily compared him to Tom—her husband in his stretched-kneed joggers, sling, and softening middle. “Could stand to hit the gym,” she thought irritably. The girls ogled Paul, giggling over his wine.
He asked her to dance—absurd in the cramped pub. She stiffened under stares. Mercifully, the slow song ended. Paul offered a lift home.
Outside, snow glittered under streetlights like crushed diamonds. Paul’s flashy Mercedes purred to the kerb. He prattled about his divorce, kids, startup… and peppered her with compliments.
She had him stop at the far end of her street. Knew Tom would be watching. Paul’s ego was exhausting. “Puffed-up peacock,” she mused. “And I nearly melted. Pathetic.”
She thanked him, reached for the door.
“Your number?” He thumbed his phone ready.
Emily thought of Tom, of Paul’s vanishing act, and stepped out without a word. She walked away, listening to the idle engine. Knew he was watching.
Two hooded lads lunged from the shadows. One yanked her handbag. She clung on, shrieking:
“Help! Paul!”
Tires screeched. Paul’s car vanished.
Suddenly, the thief yelped, releasing her. His mate sprawled on the pavement. And there stood Tom—flip-flops, ratty T-shirt, waving what looked like a cricket bat.
“You alright?” he panted.
“Tom!” She buried her face in his chest, feeling him shiver.
“Inside, quick. You’ll catch your death.” The muggers had scarpered; so had Paul’s car.
Upstairs, she asked: “You were watching for me?”
“Having tea when I heard you shout. Came as I was.”
Guilt pinched. She’d called for Paul, who’d fled. Tom had charged out, broken arm and all. She studied him, really looked.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re my hero. I love you.”
“Right. No more solo outings. And for God’s sake, learn to drive.”
“As you wish, darling.” She beamed.
That night, she curled into him. His good arm held her close, and for the first time in ages, passion flared. Three weeks later, the test showed two lines.
Sunday morning, Tom emerged from the loo, holding the forgotten stick.
“Are we…?”
“Surprise,” she teased.
“Bloody brilliant.” He kissed her softly.
Emily marvelled: When did I fall for him? If not for Paul, I’d never have seen it—my brave, steady man. Putting up with my moods for years, charging into danger. And pretty boys like Paul? Nothing but trouble.
