For Me…
Emily moved the droning iron back and forth across the ironing board. Sweat trickled down her temples, neck, and spine. The evening had cooled slightly, but the iron still radiated heat. She was nearly done when her mobile buzzed. The ringing stopped, only to start again—sharp, insistent.
She set the iron aside, walked to the table, and picked up the phone. The caller’s name made her pause.
“Sophie, is that really you? What’s happened?” Emily’s voice wavered.
“Who else? Listen, something came up—I’m coming down for work. Skipped the hotel. Can I stay at yours? Just two nights?”
“Of course. When?” Emily tensed, suddenly aware her fridge held only essentials. She barely cooked for herself anymore.
“Tomorrow. I know it’s last-minute, but plans changed. I’ll text the train details. Will you meet me?”
“I’ll be there,” Emily promised, though she winced—she’d already taken too much sick leave at work.
But Sophie reassured her, saying she’d arrive in the evening, stay two full days. Emily exhaled in relief.
“Don’t fuss over preparations, I know how you are. We’ll talk soon,” Sophie said before hanging up.
Emily finished the ironing, stacking the clothes neatly. She was glad to hear from Sophie, yet uneasy. *She’ll pry, dig into my life—just when I’ve made peace with being alone. Now I’ll have to figure out meals for her.* She glanced at the wall clock. *I can make the shop before closing. Tomorrow’s too tight. Bloody hell, she’s actually coming…*
She opened the fridge. She barely ate these days—chemo had stolen her appetite. Changing quickly, she headed out, thoughts drifting to their past.
They’d bonded instantly in Year 7, the day Sophie transferred mid-term with her mysterious, romantic name. They later attended the same university. In their third year, Sophie fell for an army cadet, married him, and moved to a distant base, switching to remote studies.
At first, they wrote letters, then called when mobiles became common. But life pulled them apart—birthdays, New Year’s greetings, nothing more. Careers, kids. Sophie had two sons now, a handful.
Emily married a year after graduation and got pregnant straightaway. The birth was brutal; no more children after. Her daughter grew up, married a medic before finishing uni, and moved to his hometown.
In the supermarket, Emily agonised over the untidy flat. *Who cares? It’s Sophie, not the Queen.* She debated inventing a story—husband away on business? Visiting their daughter? But Sophie would see right through her. *She’ll take one look and know he’s gone. Why hide it? Not the first wife traded for someone younger.*
She’d known long before he left. He’d swapped suits for jeans and jumpers, bought trainers, took up jogging—briefly.
While their daughter lived with them, they pretended. He “worked late,” only coming home to sleep. Emily dreaded his arrivals—well-fed, straight to bed. *Dining—and more—elsewhere.*
When their daughter left, pretence ended. She packed his clothes herself, folding them meticulously. Let the other woman see—his wife hadn’t neglected him. Let *him* know what he’d lost. Would the new woman match her? Men crave comfort as they age. Passion fades. Emily hoped he’d return. He didn’t.
Then… at a routine check-up, they found cancer. It eclipsed the heartache. No room for anger—just surgeries, chemo. Every scan felt like a death sentence. But the results held stable.
Sometimes, she ached to tell him. *Would he stay out of pity? Come home from her bed to mine? No. Pity isn’t love.*
So she lived alone. No new friends. Strolls in the park, nodding at the same retirees and young mothers.
“Lovely weather. Out for a walk?”
“Where’s your eldest? With Grandma?”
“Haven’t seen you in ages.”
That was it.
The next day, Emily rushed home from work to cook. Even mopped the floor before heading to the station. Exhausted, but no time to rest—Sophie’s train was due.
The delayed train crawled into the platform. Emily scanned the windows, searching. Finally, passengers spilled out. She stayed near the underpass stairs—easier to spot Sophie in the thinning crowd.
Then she saw her—fuller-faced, bewildered, but unmistakable. Sophie swivelled, hunting for her. Emily waved. Sophie noticed, pushed through the crowd, and they clung together, oblivious to jostling suitcases.
“Let’s go,” Emily said.
In the echoing underpass, they talked over each other—fears of missing one another, the same questions. The stuffy bus made Emily queasy. Sophie studied her, but Emily lacked the energy to pretend. The journey dragged.
At home, Emily collapsed onto the sofa. Sophie sat beside her.
“Rest. You’re dead on your feet. I warned you not to fuss. I’ll shower, then we’ll talk,” Sophie ordered. Grateful, Emily nodded.
Fresh from the shower, Sophie produced a wine bottle. They drank, ate, drank more. Emily confessed—the betrayal, the illness, the loneliness, the fear before each scan…
“Forgive me for not calling. How did you bear it?” Sophie hugged her; they cried together.
They slept past midnight. Emily lay awake, stirred by the rawness of shared pain—but lightness too, from being truly seen.
At dawn, Emily left for work, leaving Sophie a note and keys. Sophie called midday—errands, late return. That evening, they talked nonstop. Sophie shared her troubles—her eldest at Sandhurst, eager for deployment; the younger glued to screens, apathetic about uni…
“Twenty-six years together, and he does this—he’s not even young anymore,” Sophie sighed.
“Maybe I was already ill then—just didn’t know. Always tired, withdrawn. No wonder he looked elsewhere,” Emily admitted.
“Don’t excuse him! Couldn’t he *see* you weren’t yourself? Blinded by lust. Leaving you in your hour of need—” Sophie fumed.
“Drop it. The hurt’s faded.”
Sophie gave her a curious look.
“What does he do now? Where?” she pressed. Unsuspecting, Emily told her.
After work the next day, Emily hurried home. Sophie’s train left that night—so little time.
Sophie greeted her as soon as she stepped in. “Feeling alright?”
“Fine. Why?”
“Then put on something nice—we’re dining out.”
“Don’t fuss. Let’s stay in.”
“Too late. I’ve booked.”
Emily sighed. “Fine. A dress, but no makeup. No one to impress.”
“Wear the one that makes you feel confident. Will you manage?” Sophie’s voice softened.
“For you, yes.”
At the restaurant, Emily froze—David sat waiting. Diminished, greying, but unmistakable.
“You *planned* this?” She turned on Sophie. “All those questions—you went to him?” She moved to leave, but Sophie held her arm.
“For me, *please*. Hear him out.”
Emily hesitated, then approached. David stood, pulling out a chair.
“I ordered for us. You look tired,” he said.
“My fault. We talked till dawn,” Sophie interjected. “Pour the wine—stop hovering.”
David relaxed into his old self. Emily’s heart ached—how she’d missed him.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were ill?” David poured wine, taking water—he was driving.
“Would it have changed anything? Stayed out of pity, still running to her? I couldn’t bear that,” Emily said.
“Forgive me. I didn’t see it. Sophie told you?”
Emily shot Sophie a glare. Sophie shrugged.
“I regretted it almost immediately—realised she was a lifetime younger. Too late to start over.”
“Why didn’t you come back?” Emily’s voice was flat.
“Would you have forgiven me?”
“I waited.”
“I didn’t know… Thought you wouldn’t.”
A young woman passed—short sundress, platform boots, bleached hair.
“Remember us sunbathing in March?” Sophie mused. “Tanning contests, sky-high heels. Now they avoid the sun like vampires.”
“Fashion,” Emily said dully.
“Right—I’ll leave you to talk. Need to grab my things from your place,” Sophie announced.
“Now? I’ll come—”
“I’ve a car. I’ll take you home after,” David said, flagging the waiter for takeaway boxes.
*She pities me,* Emily realised.
Outside Emily’s flat, Sophie hopped out. “Be back in a tick—gifts for my boys. Their dad’ll help carry.”
At the station, goodbyes were brisk—the train was boarding.
“They stood in the moonlight by the river, his hands warm around her wrists, both knowing—this time, they wouldn’t let go.
