A Tough Decision. The Return
“Go if you want,” said Oliver, placing his mug in the sink. His voice was flat, almost indifferent. “Just don’t expect my support. Not emotionally, not physically.”
“I’m not,” replied Emily quietly, avoiding his gaze.
“Don’t come back saying it was a waste of time.”
“I might. Or I might not. The point is not regretting never trying.”
And so she went.
Her connecting flight was delayed, and the next plane took off without her—no one cared she was late. Seven hours in a stuffy airport, a limp plastic sandwich, and a shoulder bag instead of her suitcase—her dress was still in the hold of another plane, halfway across the world.
The hotel told her the booking “didn’t go through.” The young man at reception explained it with a careless smile, as if it were nothing:
“Sorry, ma’am, we’re fully booked. I can give you a list of nearby motels.”
“Thanks,” Emily snapped. “Exactly what I needed—a list of life’s little failures.”
She sat in a café around the corner, sipped bad coffee, and scrolled through her contacts. Her thumb hovered over one name: Lucy Whitmore. A uni friend from their days in Manchester. They’d stayed in touch at first—the odd message, the odd like—then silence.
“Maybe it’s worth a shot?” she thought, typing a quick text.
Three minutes later, the reply came:
“Of course, come over! We’ve got a spare room. And don’t worry about the dress—I’ll sort you out. You’re probably slimmer now, so I’ll grab something with room. Where’ve you been all these years?”
By morning, they were driving through the outskirts of London. With every turn, Emily felt herself slipping further into a past that had long since died. Lucy had changed—polished, confident, but still kind, no trace of pretence. She gave her the address of the club, gave her a critical once-over, fixed her hair, sprayed it in place, handed her a brooch:
“You’re not walking in there as a ghost. You’re walking in as a woman who knows her worth. They’ve all got the same face, the same lips. But not all of them have a soul. Chin up, Emily.”
The party was painfully posh.
Marquees, manicured lawns, waiters with champagne, women in designer dresses—like they’d all been stamped from the same mould. It was expensive, overdone, and… completely alien. No familiar faces—just new ones. Tanned, tightened, smug.
Jamie was the first to approach. A little older, but still the same. He walked over, gave a guilty smile, hugged her, whispered:
“I’m glad you came. Sorry, I didn’t tell Isabelle. Wanted her to just… see you.”
Emily didn’t answer. She already understood.
Isabelle appeared shortly after. Not alone—with an entourage. Designer gown, flawless face, glassy stare.
“Emily? What a surprise,” she said with a grin that was more bared teeth than smile. “You’re… here?”
“I’m me. And here’s just a place,” Emily replied evenly. “Happy anniversary.”
“Thank you. I hope the trip wasn’t too exhausting?”
“A bit. But Lucy Whitmore helped. Funny how old ties hold firm, even after years.”
“Lucy? Oh… right. She bailed us out when we moved. They say she’s got good taste. That’s not her dress, is it?”
“It’s comfortable. And fits better than some memories.”
Isabelle faltered for a second.
“Well… I hope you enjoy the evening.”
“I already am. Thanks for having me.”
“I… didn’t invite you.”
“But you’re not kicking me out,” Emily said with a faint smile.
Later, when one of the guests suddenly collapsed, gasping for breath, the room erupted in panic.
“He’s choking!” shrieked a woman in a leopard-print gown. “Someone call an ambulance!”
“I’m a doctor,” Emily said calmly, already beside him. No hysterics, no fuss—just precise movements. A quick check, a pulse, a bag under his head, his collar loosened. She worked like she did this every day. Because she did.
The ambulance took fifteen minutes. In all that time, Isabelle and her friends didn’t come near.
The next morning, Emily woke in Lucy’s guest room. Her dress was neatly folded on the chair. A coffee and a note waited on the table:
“You did everything right. If you ever need to disappear in this city again—call. The room’s yours.”
At the airport, she felt light.
Not because it was over.
But because everything had finally fallen into place.
That friendship had died years ago. The funeral had just been delayed. Now it was done. No flowers. No tears. Just closure.
Oliver was waiting by the exit. His scruffy dog, Winston, nearly knocked her over with excitement.
“So? How’d it go?” he asked.
“Closed the chapter.”
“With a bang?”
“A little. But with my head high.”
“And?”
“I don’t feel the pull anymore.”
He took her bag.
She took his arm.
And they walked home.
