**Diary Entry – 31st May 2024**
“Hello, Masha,” the phone crackled with Sophie’s voice.
“Just got home from work. Is it urgent? Sorry, I’m exhausted—today was mad,” I replied, kicking off my shoes.
“Calling to remind you—my birthday’s tomorrow. Seven o’clock at The Griffin. No excuses. See you.” And just like that, Sophie hung up before I could protest.
“Who was that?” Mum hovered in the doorway, lips pursed.
“You heard everything,” I sighed. “Sophie’s invited me to her birthday.”
“Pity you didn’t buy that blue dress—would’ve been perfect.” Her tone was heavy with reproach.
“Completely slipped my mind. Haven’t even got a gift. Honestly, I’d rather skip it.”
“Skip it? She’s your only friend! You’ll push her away and end up alone. I’ll buy the gift—just go. You’re always buried in work. Nearly thirty, no family, no children—not even a proper relationship!”
“What’s that got to do with anything? I’m twenty-seven, not thirty.”
“Twenty-seven is already twenty-seven. Sophie’s never short of admirers. Might introduce you to someone.”
“Feels like you’re desperate to offload me.” I couldn’t hide the irritation.
“And what’s wrong with that? Your old classmates’ kids are finishing school soon—”
“Sophie’s not married either, despite her ‘admirers,’” I shot back.
“Oh, she’ll marry. You, though…”
“Here we go.” I rolled my eyes. This argument was old, tired, and going nowhere.
“Tell me, are you planning to die before I’m settled?” I snapped.
“I’m not planning to die, but time’s ticking. I’d like to meet my grandchildren.”
“For heaven’s sake, Mum, you’re fifty-three!”
“Exactly. Retirement’s coming, and no grandkids. So—you’re going tomorrow. Oh, the sausages are burning!” She vanished into the kitchen.
The next evening, I walked into The Griffin clutching a gift bag, wearing the cursed blue dress Mum had insisted on. My hair was curled loose—another of her ‘suggestions.’ I felt like Alice shoved into Wonderland, entirely out of place.
The restaurant hummed with chatter. A waiter glided over. “Do you have a reservation, or are you joining someone?”
“My friend’s birthday—Sophie Harris?” I sounded like an imposter.
He led me to the table. Sophie beamed, flanked by two men. Daniel Whitmore—banker’s son, vaguely familiar—and another bloke, awkward-looking. Of course. Sophie’s set me up.
“Finally!” Sophie hissed as I sat. “We ordered without you. You look lovely.”
I fought the urge to vanish. Apologised for being late, handed over the gift. She set it aside without a glance.
Daniel poured champagne. “Just a little,” I said. “I’ve got a night shift.”
“Our Masha’s a nurse,” Sophie announced, oozing false pride.
The meal passed in a blur. Sophie dragged Daniel to dance. When they returned, I made my escape.
“Oliver, walk Masha home,” Sophie commanded.
“No need—I live close!” I protested.
“I’ll walk you,” Oliver said stubbornly.
Outside, I turned sharply. “Really, don’t bother.”
“I will.”
We walked in silence. At my door, I stopped. “Goodnight.”
“I fly to Aberdeen in two days. Medical check, then back to sea.” He stared at the building. “Which floor’s yours?”
“Safe travels,” I said, slipping inside.
“Who was that?” Mum pounced as I entered.
“You saw.” I yanked off my heels.
“I just happened to glance out the window.”
“Of course you did.”
She trailed me. “So? Who was it?”
“One of Sophie’s rejects.”
Later, Sophie admitted she’d invited Oliver *for me*. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Summer melted into autumn. One November night, the ER brought in a bloke with a broken arm and concussion. Oliver.
The doctor chuckled. “Girl trouble?”
Oliver grimaced. “Came back from sea, found my girl engaged. Her fiancé didn’t take kindly to me.”
“Women can’t wait, eh?” Oliver muttered.
“Not when you’re gone six months,” I said. “Sailors have a wife in every port, don’t they?”
“Not in Aberdeen. Just… lonely.”
He clung to me during his stay. The night he was discharged, I stepped outside—he was there, holding roses.
“Fancy a film?”
“I’m dead on my feet.”
“Right.” He looked crushed.
“You don’t even remember me, do you? We met seven months ago.”
His face blanked. “We did?”
“At The Griffin. Sophie introduced us.”
He apologised, sheepish. I took the roses, left him in the cold.
Next morning, he was on my bench, shivering. “Film?”
“You’ll catch pneumonia!” I dragged him inside.
Mum fed him tea, pancakes, more tea. “What do you do?”
“He’s a sailor. Arctic trawlers.”
“Ships *sail*, not ‘go,’” Oliver corrected, indignant. “I studied maritime engineering—dropped out when Dad died. Army, then sea to support Mum and my sister.”
When he left, Mum rounded on me. “That’s a good man. Don’t mess it up.”
I didn’t. We dated—cinema, his wild sea tales. Then his cast came off. A month later, he left for Aberdeen.
Before he went, he gave me a tiny ring. “A sailor who’s waited for fears no storm.”
I counted days till his return. When he came back, he’d quit the sea. Got a job, bought a flat. Proposed.
At the wedding, Sophie sighed. “Lucky you. I missed my chance.”
“You’ll find someone,” I said.
Oliver grinned. “My first mate’s single. Solid bloke.”
Sophie smiled. “Pretty girls get dates. Steady ones get married.”
Some drift apart. Others—meant to be—find their way.
