Oliver sat staring at his phone for a long time. He’d been putting this off for ages. Finally, taking a deep breath, he pressed the call button. One ring, then another… “No, I can’t do this,” he scolded himself for his cowardice, about to hang up—when suddenly, Mark’s voice crackled through the receiver:
“Hey, you old devil! Where’ve you been hiding?”
“Hey. Just been swamped with work…”
“Everything alright? Need any help?” His friend’s concern was immediate.
“No, all good. How’s life your end?”
“Can’t complain. Though our Lucy’s been a right handful. Fell head over heels, would you believe? One minute she’s sobbing, the next she’s dancing. Either glued to the house or out till all hours. And the kicker? Not a word about who it is. Speaking of—you ever tie the knot?”
Oliver swallowed hard, like standing at the edge of a high dive. Here it was—the slippery question.
“No. But I’m planning to,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse.
“Blimey, someone finally caught the confirmed bachelor? About time, mate. Don’t you dare skip us at the wedding. I’ll never forgive you.”
“Course not. Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Coming down to see us anytime?”
Oliver had braced for this. No turning back now.
“Actually… I’m already here. Been awhile.”
“What? You sly fox! Where’ve you been holed up? Jenny’ll have your head. When you dropping by?”
“Hold up, slow down,” Oliver laughed. “Give a man a chance to answer. I’ll pop round soon.”
He’d arrived six months ago. No need for Mark to know that just yet. Flats to buy, furniture to sort, job to secure—and his dad’s been poorly. But mostly, he’d stayed away to avoid stirring the pot with Lucy.
“None of that ‘soon’ rubbish. You hear me? I know your tricks. Come over now,” Mark insisted, already buzzing.
“Too late tonight. Tomorrow,” Oliver promised.
“Right. Tomorrow, then. I’ll let Jenny know.”
Step one done. If only Mark knew the bombshell he was about to drop, he wouldn’t be so chuffed. Lucy could hold her head high—it was Oliver acting like some nervous lad scared to meet his girlfriend’s parents. “Lucy’s a star, keeping mum. Christ, I held her as a newborn. And now I want to marry her.”
But let’s rewind…
***
They’d been mates since uni—Mark, Oliver, and Jenny. Both blokes fell for the same clever, stunning girl. Plenty fancied her, but none stood a chance against the pair. They rowed over her, neither willing to back down. If Jenny guessed at their rivalry, she never let on, treating them equally—never playing games, never milking their devotion.
It nearly came to blows. Eventually, they agreed: if she picked one—or neither—they’d step aside. Still, each secretly hoped to win her over. Jenny gave nothing away, leaving them in limbo.
Then, in third year, she started favouring Oliver. His chest swelled with pride. Mark, gutted, vanished from campus to spare himself the agony.
Oliver bought a bottle of whisky and turned up at Mark’s. They drank and talked all night. By dawn, Oliver realised he didn’t love Jenny the way Mark did—who genuinely couldn’t live without her.
His solution? Pretend he’d moved on. Jenny, predictably, raged—accused him of betrayal, sobbed her heart out. Just as Oliver planned, she found solace with Mark.
And Mark loved her so fiercely that soon, Jenny’s feelings became real. Oliver ached with jealousy—love doesn’t vanish overnight—but he knew she’d be happier with Mark. He never regretted it. Neither of them ever guessed his role in their happy marriage.
They wed right after graduation. Oliver was Mark’s best man. Nine months later, Jenny had a daughter. Both men stood beaming in the hospital, flowers in hand. The midwife hesitated—which one was the dad?
Mark stepped forward, cradled his baby—then handed her to Oliver.
“Take her, mate. I’m shaking like a leaf,” he whispered.
Oliver peered into the pink-swaddled bundle: a tiny miracle with rosebud lips, a button nose, and velvet cheeks. His heart swelled so fiercely, his eyes pricked. “She could’ve been mine.”
Days later, Oliver left—first for Bristol, then up North. Visits home were rare. Lucy grew into Jenny’s double—from a scrawny kid with plaits to a graceful young woman. He envied his friends’ happiness, while his own love life stalled. Women came and went, but none sparked that forever feeling.
***
Lucy always held a special place in his heart. Maybe from that first moment in the hospital, his heart bursting at the sight of her. This visit, her grown-up beauty—so like Jenny’s—stunned him. No more childhood hugs or cheek kisses; just shy glances he chalked up to teenage awkwardness.
His holiday ended too soon. With his parents ageing, Oliver considered moving back. They said goodbye at home—he’d catch the early train to London, then a flight to Edinburgh.
The carriage was near-empty. Oliver shut his eyes, hoping to nap. Then he felt someone sit opposite—and stare. He opened his eyes.
Lucy.
“What are you doing here?” he blurted.
“Seeing you off.” Her voice was steady. “I know you don’t take me seriously, but I need to say it… I love you.”
Oliver reeled. “I love you too. Always have—like a daughter.”
She didn’t flinch. “Mum and Dad would’ve called by now if they knew. Get off at the next stop. I can’t miss my flight.”
“I knew you’d say that.” She shifted beside him, kissed him—properly. The train slowed. Without a glance back, she left. Oliver scanned the platform. Gone. Had he dreamed it?
But his lips still tingled.
She called as he queued to board, chattering nonsense. And it hit him: no woman had ever moved him like this.
Daily calls followed. If she didn’t ring, he’d fret. Her emails were poetry; his replies guarded—her parents might read them.
Sometimes she’d Skype, twirling in prom dresses, begging his opinion. So young. So breathtaking.
He’d beg her to forget him, lie about meeting someone. She’d go quiet—briefly—before resuming her campaign.
Then his dad fell ill. Oliver moved home, nursed him through heart surgery, bought a flat near his parents. He avoided places he might run into Lucy—until he did. And realised how badly he’d missed her.
They met in secret, chastely (though it nearly killed him). He made her promise: he’d tell her parents himself.
The moment came. Oliver brought expensive wine, roses for Jenny, violets for Lucy (her favourite). The reunion was warm—Mark paunchier, balder; Oliver still boyish (as Jenny noted).
Laughter, nostalgia. Lucy, quiet, sneaked adoring looks. Mark noticed.
“Outside. Now.”
On the landing, Mark demanded the truth. Oliver confessed, apologised, admitted fighting his feelings—and Lucy’s—for months.
“Want me to disappear? Just say the word.”
“This revenge for Jenny? Lucy pregnant?” Mark growled.
“Christ, Mark. I’d never—”
Lucy turned up at his flat that night, tearful. Her parents had exploded. He calmed her, drove her home—sober, thank God.
Next morning, Mark summoned him. “What choice do we have? She’ll rebel anyway. Marry her. But she finishes uni.”
Lucy squealed, hugging her dad.
They married quietly—just family. Their first dance had everyone weeping. That night, Oliver understood: he’d loved her since the hospital, that pink-ribboned bundle in his arms.
Then Jenny got sick. Mark was a shell. Oliver pulled every string, sold his car, drained his savings to send them to Germany.
Jenny recovered—for now. And Lucy? Another bombshell: pregnant.
“Mum, I need you,” she told Jenny, hugging her. Oliver knew the truth—Lucy was giving her mother a reason to fight.
Their son arrived. At the hospital, no one doubted the father—Oliver’s joy said it all.
Love. What do any of us really know about it?
