That evening split Emily’s life into *before* and *after*.
“Look, Em, I’ve met someone else. We just… fit. It’s proper romance, not like us—once in a blue moon, if that,” declared James, sliding off his wedding ring.
He said it with a sneer, as if the fault were hers alone. Emily listened silently—no begging, no tears, no attempt to hold him back. She let him go.
“We won’t split anything. The flat’s in my name, the car too. And the dog—definitely not. Even if we got him after we married, he’s mine.” She said it calmly later.
“Couldn’t care less about the mutt. But the car and flat? I’d take half.”
“You’d have to’ve paid for them first,” Emily cut in. “But since you didn’t—no hard feelings.”
James tried to argue but left empty-handed. She stayed—with Winston the spaniel, and a quiet resolve for revenge.
The betrayal cut deep. “Don’t think I’ll ever trust anyone again,” she confided in her best mate, Sarah.
“Honestly, how’d you let him walk away so easy? Should’ve made him suffer.”
“How?”
“Dragged it out, then dumped *him*.”
Emily just shrugged. “Revenge is a dish best served cold. Wait—he’ll come crawling back.”
“Why d’you say that?”
“Seven years together, and this Jessica’s just some gym fling. Fifteen years younger, too. He’ll realise his mistake soon enough.”
She was right.
Three months later, James reappeared.
“You home? I’m nearby—need to pop in.”
“Why?”
“Left my favourite umbrella. Autumn’s here, I’ll need it.”
“Fine, take it.”
She let him rifle through closets, pretending to look for forgotten things. Watched him squirm. He was *aching* for excuses to return.
When every last nail was accounted for, he found a new one:
“Em, I’m coming over. Wait up.”
“Forgot something else?” She rubbed her hands, smug—just like Sarah predicted.
“Haven’t seen Winston in ages. Miss the little bloke. Bet he misses me too.”
“Winston? Miss *you*? Dogs—and women—don’t wait for traitors.”
“Still dropping by. Jessica’s locked me out—gone to some fitness retreat. Need a place till tomorrow.”
“Try a hotel.”
“But… can I at least come for dinner?”
“Fine,” she relented.
James arrived, ravenous. “Your roast and mash… I’d sell my soul for it! Jessica’s meals? Tasteless. Always on some diet. Asked for chips once—she *screamed*. Called me fat!”
Emily laughed. Pathetic. Those three “blissful” months had drained him, adding a decade to his face.
“Eat. You need the weight,” she said, slipping Winston a slab of beef. James eyed it bitterly—the dog ate better than he did now.
“Time to go,” Emily said as he lounged before the telly, as if nothing had changed.
“Give us a break! Best night I’ve had in ages. Proper cosy.”
“I’ve got plans that don’t involve you.”
“What?!” He squinted. His loyal Emily—finding someone else?
“Date,” she said, watching his face twist.
“Who?”
“None of your business. Clear out. We’ll need the sofa.”
James left, gutted. He’d hoped for nostalgia—her warmth, the works. On his way out, he muttered,
“Liar. No one’s coming.”
“Oh?”
“Any real bloke would’ve fixed that drip. No man lets his woman live like this.”
“My men come for *pleasure*, not plumbing. Go fix Jessica’s taps. Bet they’re worse—that leak started *with you*, and you never lifted a finger.”
“Not my skill. But I’ve got others.”
“Won’t hold a candle to my new chap,” she said, slamming the door.
Peering through the peephole, she relished his stunned face. He shuffled off.
Days later, he called.
“What now?”
“Miss you. All those years… habit, I guess.”
At first, his misery amused her. But soon, his neediness grated. The hatred—even the thirst for revenge—fizzled out.
“How do I shake him off?” she asked Sarah.
“Now’s your time. Strike.”
“Honestly? He’s punished himself. Miserable with Jessica, and I’d rather *die* than take him back.”
“Then ghost him. Lock the door, block his number.”
Emily tried. But James only dug in harder—calls from unknown numbers, flowers at work, lurking outside.
“James, *stop*. I’ve moved on,” she pleaded, stunned. Six months ago, she’d never have believed this.
Now she walked Winston across town to avoid him.
“Stay with me,” Sarah offered.
“And the flat?”
“Rent it. A colleague’s hunting for a short let. Perfectionist type—you know, taps tightened *just so*.”
They laughed, and Emily finally fixed the kitchen tap—lest she scare off the tenant.
The doorbell rang. She flinched—*James again?* But it was a stranger.
“Hello, plumbing call?”
“Come in.”
Michael was young, capable, *handsome*. The tap was sorted in minutes.
“Mind checking the bathroom? And this wobbly shelf…”
Two hours later, the flat was flawless.
“You’re a lifesaver, Mike.”
As she paid him, the bell rang. James—*like he smelled her*.
“Bloke trouble? Don’t fret—this uniform’s armour,” Michael joked.
“Actually… I *want* him to think—” She flushed. James knocked louder.
“My ex. Can’t shake him. Sorry, this is unprofessional.”
“Seen worse,” Michael grinned.
“Know any… *other* ways to scare him off?”
“Need more than a tap fixed? I’m game.” He winked, pulling on his jacket.
She locked up, but James—lurking outside—spotted the handsome stranger leaving.
“Bad news,” Sarah said later. “My mate found another flat.”
“No worries. Couldn’t bring Winston anyway—your son’s allergies.”
“Right. Plan B, then.”
“I’ve got a lead… tall, handy,” Emily smirked. “Bathroom shelf collapsed today. Might need another call-out.”
Sarah demanded details. Emily promised a full report later.
Michael didn’t seem surprised by her call.
“Be there tonight.”
He arrived out of uniform—jeans, t-shirt, *flowers*.
“These…?”
“For you. Not for the sink—for the soul.”
“Thanks. Then this is for you.” She handed him a plate. “Beef stew. From the heart.”
They chatted easily—until James called again.
“*Em!* Where’ve you been?!”
“Busy living.”
“Doing what? Work and telly? Stop lying! I’m coming over—need those old curtains. Rented a place nearby, completely bare.”
“Not happening, James. I’ve got company. Feeding him stew.” She blushed, avoiding Michael’s gaze.
Silence. Then Michael played along:
“Let him come.”
James heard. “*Fine*. I’ll see for myself.”
Emily slumped. “I’m *exhausted*. Blocked him, warned the concierge, told security at work—he’s a *tank*.”
“We’ll sort it.”
“Your rate for this?”
“Stew’s payment enough.”
Michael was as good an actor as a plumber.
James barged in, finding Emily giggling as Michael—flour-dusted—stood at the stove.
“Veggie pasties,” she beamed. “Potato and mushroom.”
“Who’s *this*?” James eyed him coldly.
“Mike. The fiancé. You must be the pest.” He rolled up his sleeves—biceps flexing.
“I… you’re…” James paled. “*Her?* She’s past it—”
“Yet here *you* are.” Michael grabbed a wrench. “See you near her again? This goes *there*.”
James grabbed the curtains and fled.
Michael stayed. They *did* make pasties—potato and mushroom.
“Often rescue women from exes?” Emily asked as he left.
“Yours was a first. Usually, they want… *other* fixes.” He laughed.
“Married?”
“Nope.”
“Take these pasties. Thank you.”
“Tell you what—I’d rather come back to eat them. If that’s alright.”
“Very alright.” She smiled—Winston wagging at his new friend.
As she watchedA year later, as she laughed in their sunlit kitchen—Michael fixing the kettle while Winston dozed at their feet—Emily realised some beginnings only come after the right endings.
