*The sun dipped low over the rolling hills of Cornwall as Emily adjusted the scarf around her neck, watching the man from a distance. His casual stride, the way he laughed—so familiar, yet so changed.*
“Look at him,” she thought, pressing her lips together. “If only he had a bit more ambition, worked for some high-flying firm in London… I might have fallen for him properly.”
Inside the pub, Jack stretched out his hand to his deputy and closest mate, Henry. “Right, you’re in charge while I’m gone. Any trouble, ring me. I’m not off to the moon—just Devon. You’ll cope.”
Henry clasped his hand firmly. “Don’t fret. By the way—still haven’t told me where you’re off to. Ibiza? Or sticking to the Canaries this year?”
“Didn’t I say? Just visiting Mum. Roof needs mending, fence wants fixing. Dad used to handle it all, but since he passed… well, things fall apart. Can’t even remember the last time I sat by the river with a fishing rod.”
“Never been fishing myself. Proper city bloke, me. Almost envy you,” Henry admitted with a sigh. “Tell me all about it when you’re back,” he called after Jack as he left.
The train ride was peaceful—just the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks. Jack leaned against the window, watching the patchwork countryside blur past. He’d grown up in a sleepy Devon village. His mother taught at the local school; his dad had been a builder. Boyhood summers were spent hauling bricks, learning the trade. His father had hoped he’d follow in his footsteps, but Jack had been drawn to engines, computers, the hum of something new.
“You’ll always have work here,” his dad had argued. “Village is growing. We’ll build you a proper house—settle down, start a family.”
“Too soon for all that,” Jack had brushed him off. “Got to stand on my own feet first.”
His mother had been the peacemaker. “Let him spread his wings. Bright lad like ours? He’ll make us proud.”
They’d scraped together what they could, sent him off to London with a hug and a warning. University by day, construction sites by night—until bit by bit, he’d built the life he wanted.
Now he had it all—or nearly. A Georgian townhouse in Chelsea, a sleek Jaguar parked in the drive, a consultancy raking in more than his parents ever dreamed. Only one thing was missing.
Emily.
Back in school, she’d been all giggles and freckles, dreaming of her own salon. They’d gone separate ways, chasing separate dreams, but he’d carried her memory like an old photograph—creased, but still clear.
Every visit home, he half-hoped to bump into her. But she was always just gone, like a figure slipping around the corner before he could catch up.
His parents lived simply—modest terraced house, budget groceries, no frills. They expected the same from him. The few times he’d mentioned his success, his father’s brow had furrowed.
“Breaking laws, are you? Is this what we raised you for? Better you were laying bricks honest than shaming us with ill-gotten flats in Mayfair.”
So Jack played the part. Borrowed a mate’s battered Vauxhall, left the Jag in the garage. Said he was just an engineer. His father would nod, proud of his London son.
This trip was no different. He’d taken the train, swapped his Savile Row suit for worn jeans and a faded shirt.
His mother wept when she saw him. “Jack! Didn’t expect you today—how long are you staying?”
“Till you kick me out,” he grinned, hugging her tight.
The village was tiny, perfect—all green fields and salt-tinged air. The kind of place time forgot. Jack spent days on the roof, fixing tiles, repainting the sagging fence.
“Should be resting, love,” his mother fretted, pulling another batch of scones from the oven.
“All done,” he assured her, eyeing the dress draped over her arm. “Off somewhere?”
“Just the shops.”
“I’ll go. Make a list.”
She gaped at his outfit—torn jeans, rolled sleeves, scuffed trainers. (Though the trainers were Italian leather, worth half a month’s wages. Some habits stuck.)
At the village store, whispers followed him. Women eyed him curiously—*Who’s that? Whose boy is he?*
Outside, leaning against his rusty bicycle, he noticed a gleaming red Mercedes. And then—the flat tyre. He let out a low whistle.
“Help would be nicer than whistling,” came a voice behind him.
Goosebumps pricked his skin. *That voice.*
He turned slowly.
The woman was elegance itself—sleek blonde bob, tailored dress, heels that probably cost more than his first car. But the laugh—still Emily’s.
“Jack?” Her eyes widened. “Look at you!”
“Could say the same.” He nodded at the Mercedes. “Yours?”
She flushed, pleased. “Right pain, that tyre. Roads here are still rubbish.”
In minutes, he had the spare on. She watched, arms folded, as he wiped grease from his hands.
“Let me drive you back,” she offered.
“Better not. Might ruin your leather seats.”
At the café later, over bitter coffee and tiny cakes, they traded stories. Her salon was thriving—celebrities, socialites, all under her scissors.
“Never a day off,” she sighed. “Hardly see Mum anymore.”
“I’m just a site manager,” Jack found himself saying. “Like Dad wanted.”
She stirred her coffee, avoiding his gaze.
*She’s too polished now,* he thought. *That nose—wasn’t it crooked before? Lovely, but… not her.*
*If only he had a proper career,* she mused silently. *Might’ve been something.*
An awkward silence settled.
“I should go,” Jack stood abruptly.
“Let me drive you—”
“Walk’ll do me good.”
Three days later, on the train back to London, Jack stared at the passing fields.
Meanwhile, in the salon, Emily snipped mechanically at a client’s hair.
“Well?” her assistant whispered. “Make an impression?”
“Hardly. Ran into my first love. Didn’t even ask for my number.” Emily sighed. “Told him all about the salon—probably thinks I’m too posh for a builder now.”
“Men,” her friend tutted. “Let him climb a few rungs first.”
At home, Jack’s housekeeper fussed over dinner.
“You’re early, Mr. Whitmore! I’ll open the wine.”
*Odd man,* she thought later, watching him swirl his Bordeaux. *All that money, dressing like a market trader.*
Glass in hand, Jack replayed Emily’s words. *Why did I lie? Next time, I’ll tell her.*
Across town, Emily’s scissors flashed. *Should’ve told him the truth. The salon’s barely breaking even. That car’s my cousin’s.*
Funny, how people hide behind the lives they wish they had—dressing down, talking up, building walls where there needn’t be any.
And so the train rolled on, carrying its cargo of might-have-beens.
