Another Problem…
“Come on, Jules, please,” begged Emma.
“I don’t want to. I don’t know anyone there. Go alone or invite Sophie, Kate,” replied Jules. “Exams are coming up—I need to study.”
“Kate’s cramming, Sophie won’t go without her bloke Jake, and it’s awkward going alone—like I’m chasing after Liam.”
“Aren’t you, though?” Jules smirked.
“Oh, go on, Jules…” Emma clasped her hands pleadingly.
“Fine. But if you ditch me there, you’re dead,” Jules warned, peeling herself off the sofa.
One of the third-years had parents working abroad for a year, leaving their flat free. Every Saturday, they threw parties—older students, a few from other years, even recent graduates who swaggered about with their minimal experience, looking down on the freshers.
Emma had stumbled in by chance—dating a third-year who introduced her to the crowd. They’d split, but she’d taken a liking to Liam. Now she needed Jules to tag along, hoping to bump into him again. With term ending, campus was empty.
Jules pulled on skinny jeans and an oversized white shirt, half-tucked. On her slim frame, it looked effortlessly cool. She lined her eyes, shook out her hair, and turned to Emma, who was fidgeting by the door.
“What’re we waiting for?” Jules asked.
“God, you look amazing—proper mysterious, like,” Emma gushed.
“One rule: if Liam’s not there, we leave,” Jules stated.
“Deal,” Emma agreed easily.
A woman in jeans and a man’s shirt answered the door, cigarette dangling, wild curls framing her face. She squinted through smoke, nodded them inside without a word. Music hummed under chatter.
“Keep your shoes on—they don’t do that here,” Emma whispered as Jules reached for her trainers. She acted like a regular, though her nervous glances gave her away.
A table held picked-over snacks and cheap wine. A lad lounged between two girls on the sofa; two others argued over drinks. A couple swayed by the window—more shuffling than dancing in the cramped space. No one glanced their way. If they did, their eyes slid right off. Freshers. What was there to say?
They claimed a spot on the empty sofa. The doorbell rang—the same woman returned, trailed by two lads. The room erupted in greetings, handshakes, backslaps. Even the dancers broke off to flock over.
“That’s him!” Emma bolted up, weaving toward them. The lad she spoke to barely nodded, bored. But the other—taller, fitter, older—stared straight at Jules with sharp grey eyes. She dropped her gaze, cheeks warm.
“Alright? Bored?” He slid beside her. Up close, he looked even older. “Haven’t seen you before. Fancy a dance?”
His hand was broad, warm. They drifted to the window, swaying in the dim light. Soft music let them talk—what year, which halls, family nearby? More people trickled in. Jules half-wondered if the flat had secret rooms.
Then Emma reappeared, glum. “I’m off.”
“Me too,” Jules said, regretfully meeting her dance partner’s eye.
“I’ll walk you,” he offered. “Just gotta say ta.”
Outside, Emma fumed. “Prat,” she muttered about Liam.
Jules barely heard, mind still on the stranger—until he emerged, grinning.
“Right then: I’m Chris.”
“Chris *Southern*? Football captain? Knew I’d seen you!” Emma squealed.
“You follow football?” Chris raised a brow.
“Dated a superfan. Never missed a match.” She giggled. “Blimey—actual Chris Southern!”
She babbled the whole way home, Jules quiet beside her.
“That’s mine—Jules is next door. See you again?” Emma asked hopefully.
“Bye,” Jules said, turning away.
“Jules, wait!” Chris caught up. Emma huffed, stomping off.
The evening cooled the day’s heat. They lingered by her door, neither wanting to leave. Chris told her he wrote for a local paper, dreamed of TV. Small start, but—
“Watch this space,” he grinned. “So—teacher, yeah? Always loved kids?”
“What’s that mean?” Jules bristled.
“Just asking.” He laughed. “Give us your number.”
“You don’t have one?” She handed over her phone. He dialled his own—pocket ringing. Her stomach flipped. *He’d see her again.*
“Bloody hell, Jules,” Emma called that night. “Quiet one, eh? Snagged Chris Southern! Spill—proper date? Snog?”
“Went home. Exams,” Jules lied. *The number stayed secret.*
He called two days later—just as she’d given up. Summer stretched ahead. They rowed boats, drank coffee, met daily. Jules fell hard. His beat-up car took them countryside weekends—swimming, laughing…
Then rain trapped them indoors. “Mate’s place?” Chris suggested. She tensed when he unlocked the door.
“Where’s this mate? Bring girls here often?” She stepped back.
He caught her wrist. “Just tea. He’s abroad—I’m house-sitting.”
She stayed. *In love. If it happened, it happened.*
It did. Gentle, slow. After, they met there often.
Then: “Work trip,” Chris said. Vanished.
One grey day, Emma visited. “Miss him? Saw you two. Uh… he’s married, Jules.”
“Liar. Jealous.” Jules flushed.
“Swear down. Baby, too.”
Facts aligned—daytime meets, avoiding town, “busy writing” nights.
She texted: *”Knew you were married. Never want to see you again.”* Switched off her phone.
Then—worse. Pregnant. *First time, rushed.*
First year. *A baby? Mum’d kill her.* She raged—at him, herself. The clinic was humiliating. The doctor’s scorn. Private fee. Tests. Then—icy fear as the needle sank in. Darkness.
Woke to women chatting about kids. Home in hours.
Mum noticed nothing. “Pale,” she’d said.
Term resumed. Jules ached for Chris. *Maybe she’d forgive him—just come back.*
Then: bespectacled Neil Barnes slid into her lecture. Gangly, thick lenses magnifying his eyes. Top of the class—ignored by girls, Jules included.
“You’re seeing Chris Southern?” he whispered.
“Your point?”
“Sweet wife. Baby’s one.”
“Why tell me?”
“So you don’t waste hope. He’ll lie, string you along. Fights’ll start. Why’d he want hassle?” He leaned closer. “Fancy you. Noticed?”
She *had*. But—*Chris* versus this *nerd*? Love didn’t vanish overnight.
Then: Chris blocked her path one evening, stepping from his car.
“Jules—talk. I’m sorry. Can’t live without you. Didn’t tell you ’cause I was scared. Missed you so much—”
Desperation in his eyes. She nearly caved—but the hurt held. *Gone so long. No calls.*
“Yeah, I’m married. Doesn’t matter. Love *you*—”
“*It matters.* You’re not free. I can’t trust you.”
“You all just want weddings? Family’s *work*—nothing but problems. Didn’t want that between us.”
“*I’m* a problem?” Her throat tightened.
His last words killed it. She left, crying. Spotted his car again—dodged it. Next day, she asked Neil to walk her home. Made sure Chris saw the cheek kiss. *He never came back.*
Some days, she ached to call. Others—never again. To forget, she let Neil tag along. Turned out—he was brilliant. Saved her in seminars.
“Why not journalism? You’d ace it,” she asked once.
“Nah. Teaching’s my thing—not gossip-mongering.”
Mum adored him. “That boy’s going places. Headmaster, minimum.”
He proposed final year. Married after graduation. Kids loved him. He wrote education papers, then a textbook—took off. Ministry job offer? Jules nudged him. *Someone had to fix schools.*
She had a girl, stayed home. Sometimes—Chris flickered in her mind.
Then Emma burst in: “Saw Liam! Asked me out!” Beaming. “Oh—your Chris? Divorced, moved to London. Married some editor’s daughter. TV, maybe.”
Jules hid the sting. *Liar. “Family’s problems”—unless it helps your career.*
She watched news, half-dreading his face. Eventually, she stopped.
Back teaching later, she met his daughter—Daisy Southern. At parents’ evening, theShe smiled at Daisy’s mother, knowing some wounds heal quietly, and walked home to her own life—no regrets, just lessons learned.
