For Me…
Emily absently ran the iron over the shirt, the heat of it stifling in the already warm flat. Sweat trickled down her temples and spine, even as the evening brought little relief. The phone rang—once, then again, insistent. She sighed, set the iron aside, and answered.
“Claire? Is that really you? What’s happened?” Emily’s voice was tense.
“It’s me. Who else? Listen, I’m coming to London—last-minute work trip. Skipped the hotel. Thought I’d stay with you. Two nights. That alright?”
“Of course! When do you get in?” Emily’s mind raced. The fridge was nearly empty; she’d been living on basics.
“Tomorrow. I know it’s short notice, but it just came up. I’ll text the train details. Meet me?”
“I’ll be there.” Emily hung up, already worrying about taking time off work—she’d had too many sick days as it was.
But Claire had sounded cheerful, promising two whole evenings together. Emily exhaled.
“Don’t go to any trouble. I know how you fuss,” Claire had laughed before ending the call.
Emily finished the ironing, stacking clothes neatly. She was glad Claire was coming, even if part of her dreaded the questions, the prying. She’d only just accepted things as they were—even the loneliness. Now, though, she had to think about meals. She checked the clock. “Just enough time to pop to Tesco before closing.”
The fridge was sparse. She barely cooked for herself these days, appetite ruined by the chemo. Sighing, she changed and left for the shop, thinking of Claire.
They’d been inseparable from the first day of secondary school, when Claire—new, mysterious, full of stories—joined their class. University together, then Claire fell hard for a cadet from Sandhurst, married him, and vanished into army life, transferring to an Open University course near his post.
Letters turned to calls, then dwindled to birthday cards. Lives diverged. Claire had two boys now, a whirlwind of school runs and scraped knees. Emily married a year after graduation, got pregnant immediately. The birth was brutal; no more children after. Her daughter grew up, married just before finishing medical school, and moved to her husband’s hometown in Scotland.
In the supermarket, Emily debated tidying the flat. “Who cares? It’s Claire, not the Queen.” She hesitated—should she lie about her husband’s “business trip”? No. Claire would see through it. “She’ll know the moment she steps in. Smell the absence.”
She’d known long before he left. The sudden shift to casual clothes—jeans, jumpers—only suits for meetings. The running shoes, the morning jogs (short-lived). While their daughter lived with them, they’d pretended. He “worked late,” slinking in to sleep. Emily dreaded his arrivals—full, satisfied, from meals and pleasures elsewhere.
When their daughter left, Emily handed him his suitcase, packed with pressed shirts. No scenes. Let the other woman see he’d been cared for. Let him know what he’d lost. Would she match it? Men crave comfort as they age. Passion fades. Emily hoped he’d return.
Then the diagnosis—breast cancer, caught on a routine scan. Surgeries, chemo. Each check-up was terror. Sometimes she ached to call him, to say, *Look what’s happened*. But pity wasn’t love.
She lived quietly. No new friends. Park walks, nodding at familiar faces—retirees, mums with prams.
“Lovely weather. Out for a stroll?”
“Where’s the little one? At Gran’s?”
“Haven’t seen you in ages!”
That was all.
The next evening, Emily rushed home to cook, even mopping the floor before heading to Euston. Exhausted, but no time to rest.
The train slowed, passengers streaming out. Emily scanned the windows. “What if I don’t recognise her?” She waited by the escalator, where the crowd thinned.
Then—Claire. Fuller-faced, bewildered but unmistakable. Their eyes met. A wave, a dash through the throng, a crushing hug.
“Let’s go,” Emily said.
In the Tube, they talked over each other—fears of missing one another, the same questions. The bus ride left Emily dizzy. Claire studied her but said nothing. At home, Emily collapsed on the sofa.
“Rest. I’ll shower. Then we’ll talk,” Claire ordered, and Emily was grateful.
Later, over wine, the truth spilled—the husband, the cancer, the loneliness, the scans that felt like verdicts.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there. How did you bear it?” Claire hugged her, tears mingling.
They talked past midnight. Emily lay awake, soothed by shared pain.
Next morning, she left Claire a note and keys. Claire called midday—errands, late return. That evening, more stories. Claire’s eldest at Sandhurst now, itching for deployment; the younger glued to screens.
“Twenty-six years, and he… How could he?” Claire sighed.
“Maybe I was already ill. Tired. He found someone fresher,” Emily admitted.
“Don’t excuse him! Didn’t he *see*? Leaving you like that—”
“It’s done.”
Claire’s gaze turned sly. “What’s his job? Where?” Unsuspecting, Emily told her.
After work, Emily hurried home. Claire left tonight. So little time.
“Feeling alright?” Claire asked as Emily entered.
“Fine. Why?”
“Good. Put on something nice. We’re going out.”
“Where?”
“A restaurant. Table’s booked.”
Emily hesitated. “The black dress. But no makeup.”
“Wear what makes you feel strong. Can you manage?” Claire’s voice softened.
“For you.”
At the restaurant, Emily froze. *David.* Thinner, greyer, eyes locked on hers.
“You planned this?” She turned to Claire. “That’s why you asked where he worked?” She nearly left, but Claire held her.
“For me. Just talk to him.”
David stood as they approached. “I ordered for us. You look tired.”
“Blame me. We talked all night,” Claire said brightly.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” David poured wine, water for himself—driving.
“Would it have changed anything? You’d have stayed out of guilt, still running to her. I couldn’t bear that.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Thank God Claire told me.”
Emily glared. Claire shrugged.
“I realised my mistake quickly. She was a child. Too late to start over.”
“Why didn’t you come back?” Emily’s voice was flat.
“Would you have forgiven me?”
“I waited.”
A girl passed—blonde, tanned legs, chunky boots.
“Remember when we sunbathed in March? Competing for the darkest tan?” Claire chuckled.
“Different times,” Emily murmured.
“Right, I’m off. You two talk.” Claire stood.
“Already?” Emily rose.
“I’ll drive her,” David said. “Leftovers are packed. No arguments.”
Back at the flat, Claire vanished inside, reappearing with a bag. “Gifts for the boys. They’ll manage.”
At Paddington, Claire hugged Emily. “Make it right. It’s not too late.” The train pulled away.
“Ready?” David asked.
“Where?”
“Home.”
“Yours or mine?”
He laughed. “Good question.”
The car glided through London’s outskirts, past warehouses, then cottages. Moonlight glinted on the Thames. David stopped.
“There’s more.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Remember dawn swims? You were shy without a swimsuit.”
“You turned away. I wanted you to kiss me.”
“I was afraid too.”
In the dark, he looked unchanged.
“Do you really want me back?”
“Do you really want to come?”
His hands circled her wrists. “I’ve had enough of freedom.”
People adapt to anything, even solitude. But who says it’s better? Dawn is sweeter with someone. Tea tastes richer. And holding each other—that’s warmth no bed can mimic alone.
