**Exhale**
Yesterday, Emily turned 47. Two years ago, her life had fallen apart. Funny how such a clichéd phrase could perfectly describe what had happened to her.
Just a few days before her birthday, Emily found a dress. She called her mum and said she’d bought a blue one. Her mum insisted on seeing it right away. When Emily put it on, her mum was delighted. *”You look absolutely lovely in it. But, darling, it’s not just blue—it’s teal!”* What a generation. Probably because they’d grown up visiting dressmakers, discussing designs, picking fabrics—when every dress was an event.
So, the teal dress, now fully aware it wasn’t just *”some plain blue thing,”* waited for its grand debut.
For her birthday, Emily invited what few relatives and friends she had left. The restaurant had set up a table for them in a cosy little corner.
Her cousin, Natalie, gave a toast that lasted a good ten minutes. She reminisced about how, at sixteen, they’d got drunk and tried to hail a taxi, slurring *”We live by the church! The *church*! Head to the centre, then we’ll direct you!”* She joked they should all get properly sloshed now so no one remembered their own addresses. Her romantic notion was quickly ruined when someone pointed out they were all staying at the hotel adjoining the restaurant. *”No bloody romance left,”* Natalie laughed. Her husband chimed in: *”We’ve stopped climbing through windows to see our sweethearts—but only because we’ve got mosquito nets now. Otherwise, we’d still be at it. Especially me.”* *”Right, because you live in a bungalow,”* Emily teased. Everyone roared with laughter.
Next, Alex, her other cousin’s husband, raised his glass. He recalled their trip to Brighton years ago, where they’d initially won at the casino, then lost every last penny. As they stumbled out, Emily had grinned and said, *”What would you lot do without me? I tucked away twenty quid for drinks and snacks.”* They’d all staggered back to their hotel, then wandered along the pier singing *”Leaving on a Jet Plane.”* *”So let’s drink to the brilliant woman who saved us from sober starvation!”* Emily’s stepdad, Geoffrey, lamented that the restaurant didn’t have scales so they couldn’t drink *”to weighty matters”*—another old tradition. Soon, everyone was softly singing the same song, whispering like in that famous pub scene.
The evening was perfect. Her husband didn’t give a toast—but then again, he never did. He always joked he was more *”IT guy”* than *”orator.”*
The next morning, they all met for breakfast and a stroll through Hyde Park. By evening, everyone had gone home, leaving Emily alone with her husband.
Staring at the corner where his computer desk stood, he said they needed to talk. Suddenly, Emily felt a knot in her stomach. She’d felt off all day—not from drink, but an uneasy tremble inside. He told her he’d met someone and was leaving. He hadn’t wanted to ruin her birthday.
The next year was the *Year of C*—Change, Crying, Chaos, Champagne…
For her 46th birthday, Emily decided to swap letters. She woke up and walked along the shore. Even on her darkest days, she forced herself to take morning walks. The air was crisp—January, deserted. The solitude, or maybe the sea’s energy, lifted her, and she suddenly *knew* she was healing. She’d never believed in spiritual nonsense, but right then, she felt the weight leave her, physically.
Except—she still couldn’t exhale fully.
Emily decided the next year would be *Year of N*—New beginnings, New *her*. But *no retreat*!
That same day, she made a dating profile. Among the messages, one man stood out. They met. That was a year ago.
It was hard to believe how much her life had changed again. Could fate be written in palm lines? Did hers break and restart? *Right now.* Emily breathed in the morning air deeply—but still couldn’t exhale entirely.
She called her mum to say goodbye.
*”I told Alice you were travelling—she insists you stay with them,”* her mum said.
*”Lovely, I adore them. I was going straight to the Cotswolds, but I’ll stop with them in London first. It’s not far from there anyway—I’ll reach the Harpers by lunch.”*
The *Harpers*—Oliver and Olivia Harper—had been dubbed *”The O’s”* by friends for the three *O’s* in their names. They’d stayed *her* friends.
By evening, Emily arrived in London. Alice and Felix had laid out a spread and warned her not to fill up—they had a surprise. Twenty minutes later, the *surprise* walked in.
*”Emily, meet Victor. Our neighbour. Sadly, he’s moving to Edinburgh soon. But tonight, he’s treating us to sea bass—his secret recipe.”*
*”Pleasure,”* Victor said.
*”Likewise,”* Emily replied. She liked him instantly—so much it almost felt like a betrayal to Edward, the man she was meant to meet in Scotland tomorrow. Victor was around fifty—not classically handsome or athletic, but with a warm, clever smile.
*”Right, folks—who’s ready?”* Felix raised his glass.
Victor poured Emily a drink. *”Shall we skip formalities? We’re all young at heart.”*
*”Gladly,”* Emily smiled.
*”The youth are ready! Cheers!”*
They laughed, drank.
*”This is as good as Christmas dinner. Victor, I’m not big on fish, but this is divine. Felix, your potato salad is legendary—snowstorm or sunshine!”*
*”What snowstorm?”* Victor asked.
Felix grinned. *”Top up. You’re about to hear the family legend.”* Between bites, he launched in: *”Our first winter here. Thirty years ago. The news warned of the storm of the century—schools closed, panic buying. We prepped seriously: vodka, a trough of potato salad. By six, we were holed up at my parents’ with young Emily, drinking. Snow started—beautiful, thick. But no storm. We drank more. Finished the salad. Still no storm. Drank the vodka. Walked my parents home—ten centimetres of snow. Next morning, we realised—*that* was the storm.”*
They laughed, ate. Emily wished the night wouldn’t end. But an hour later, Felix dozed off. Exhausted from driving, Emily yawned. Victor noticed.
*”I’ll head off. Emily—a real pleasure. If you’re ever in Edinburgh, my door’s open. Felix, Alice—see you soon.”*
The moment he left, Alice clapped.
*”He *fancies* you! Don’t be shy—go see him in Edinburgh!”*
*”Alice! You know I met someone online. He visited me in Cornwall. Nothing happened, but he invited me to Scotland. We’ve talked for a year—know everything about each other. We’ve booked a mountain lodge. You expect me to cancel and chase the neighbour?”*
*”Fine. Stick to the plan. Sleep now. Fancy a walk in Hyde Park tomorrow?”*
*”No, I promised the Harpers I’d be there by lunch. Let’s sleep.”*
By one, Emily pulled into the Harpers’ drive.
Oliver greeted her. *”So glad you’re here. Leave your bag—let me pamper the pretty brunette while the blonde fries potatoes.”* They laughed. *”Hurry—poor Max is losing it.”*
Before the door opened, a golden Labrador barrelled into Emily. She sat, letting him lick her face, kissed his cold nose. *”You remember me! Guess what I brought you?”* She handed him a long-lasting chew, and Max bolted away.
*”Emily! Kitchen. Can’t leave the stove. We’ll catch up.”* They hugged. *”Wash up. We’ve set up Leo’s old room. Food in ten.”*
Upstairs, Emily texted her mum: *”At the Harpers’.”* Just then, a message came from *”The Scot”*—Edward. *”Had meetings in Oxford. Heading home. See you at the lodge tomorrow.”*
Downstairs, she mentioned it. *”I’m supposed to meet Edward tomorrow.”*
*”Invite him here! He’s practically nearby. Leave together in the morning.”*
Emily kissed Olivia’s cheek and called Edward. *”I’m in the Cotswolds. Fancy joining me? My friends don’t bite.”* *”We’re *lovely*,”* the Harpers chorused.
*”Great. Be there in an hour. What’s everyone drinking?”*
*”Anything flammable. See you.”*
They started with *”just one,”* then anotherBefore long, they’d lost count, and Max barked as headlights swept the drive—Edward had arrived.
