“Hello, Marianne. How long has it been? Fifteen years? Maybe more?”
“Probably more. But you haven’t changed a bit.”
“You have. You’ve grown even lovelier.”
Valerie studied the face of her once dearest friend, hardly believing they’d actually run into each other—not just met, but bumped into each other at a children’s dance school where they’d both brought their daughters for a free trial lesson.
“Thank you, Val,” Marianne replied with a faint smile.
She wanted to return the compliment, but the right words eluded her. They’d run out years ago, the last time they’d spoken—a difficult, painful conversation Marianne still shuddered to recall.
“Which one’s yours?” Valerie asked. “A son or daughter?”
“A daughter,” Marianne said. “Veronica. She’s ten. And yours?”
“My girl’s nine, just turned. Did you have yours with Edward? Did you two ever marry?”
Marianne stared, startled. Did Valerie still believe she’d stolen her sweetheart and married him? After all this time, it seemed Val hadn’t changed at all.
“Let’s grab coffee downstairs. We can talk properly.”
Valerie hesitated, clearly uneasy about sitting with the woman she’d once seen as a rival. But after a moment, she nodded. So much time had passed—they’d both moved on. What was the point of holding onto old grudges?
“All right.”
They descended in silence, sneaking glances at each other. Both were curious about the other’s life, but neither dared bring up the past—not yet.
They chatted lightly, skirting real issues. Valerie mentioned she’d returned to their hometown two years ago—her mother had fallen ill, needing care, and her husband, Ian, had agreed to the move.
“It wasn’t easy,” she admitted, “but Ian’s wonderful. Kind, thoughtful. I’m so glad I met him.”
Marianne smiled. So Valerie had found happiness, a good man, a daughter. Did that mean she no longer resented her? But then, moments later, Valerie asked again:
“What about you? Did you marry Edward? Have his child? Are you happy with him?”
Marianne flinched. Why was life so complicated? They’d been friends since they were five, playing in the sandpit, inseparable through school—only for it all to end so stupidly. She’d assumed Valerie had realised the truth eventually, but instead, Val had spent years believing Marianne had built her happiness on her best friend’s misery.
“Val, do you really still think there was anything between me and Edward? We talked about it back then—I tried to explain. I thought you understood, that you were just too hurt to admit it.”
Valerie clenched her jaw, a habit Marianne remembered from childhood—whenever Val felt cornered or upset, she’d press her lips tight, looking just like a little girl again.
“I never gave you two a second thought,” Valerie said stiffly, but Marianne knew she was lying. “I’ve had my own life for years.”
“You’ve spent fifteen years thinking I married Edward, and now you’re pretending you never cared?”
Valerie smirked bitterly, gaze drifting away. Marianne studied her profile, searching for forgiveness, but saw none.
“I mean it,” Valerie repeated. “That last talk we had… I cut you both out. And your denials—I still didn’t believe you.”
*So she never forgave me*, Marianne thought sadly. Then she pulled out her phone, scrolling through pictures before handing it to Valerie.
“Look. That’s my husband, Victor. The same awkward Victor Somers who fancied me—the one you mocked for being boring.”
Valerie’s eyes widened as she flicked through the gallery, lips quirking in surprise. She zoomed in, studying every detail before finally looking up.
“You really married Somers? I thought you were joking back then. You have kids with him?”
“A daughter and a son. Andrew’s almost thirteen, Veronica’s ten. I’m happy with my husband, Val—just like you. There was never anything with Edward. He made it up to drive us apart, and to end things with you.”
Valerie’s lips thinned again, and Marianne bristled. How long would they dredge up the past? Their friendship might have lasted if not for Edward’s interference.
They’d met at five, neighbours in the same building, clashing over a doll before Marianne’s mum intervened. After a teary apology, Marianne handed over her prized Barbie—and from that day, they were inseparable.
Same nursery, same school, same university. Then, in their second year, Edward arrived—handsome, confident, and instantly catching Valerie’s eye.
“Mary, I’m in love!” she’d gushed a week later. “He’s incredible!”
Marianne had been thrilled—until Valerie’s jealousy surfaced. She’d scoffed at Marianne’s relationship with Victor, dismissing him as dull. And when Edward, sensing Marianne’s indifference, lied to Valerie—claiming Marianne had pursued him—their friendship shattered.
Valerie had stormed into Marianne’s flat, screaming betrayal, accusing her of stealing Edward’s affections.
“How could you?” she’d cried. “You knew I loved him! You knew we were together, and you still went after him!”
Marianne had barely processed the accusations before Valerie slapped her.
“I’m pregnant with his child,” Valerie hissed. “And he told me he doesn’t care—because of you! I hate you!”
Marianne had tried to explain, but Valerie left, vanishing to another city without another word. Edward, unsurprisingly, moved on within weeks.
Now, fifteen years later, they stood together again—both with families, both still haunted by the past.
“You never let me explain,” Marianne said quietly. “You never wanted to hear the truth. I knew Edward was worthless, but I kept quiet because I knew how much he meant to you.”
Valerie checked her watch, standing abruptly.
“Class is nearly over. Let’s fetch the girls.”
They walked back in silence, waiting outside the studio until their daughters bounded out.
“Are you still angry with me?” Valerie asked suddenly. “About the slap?”
Marianne shook her head.
“No. You were emotional, hormonal. I just wish we’d talked properly. Fifteen years of bitterness over a lie.”
Valerie turned, a faint smile playing on her lips.
“You know what I just realised?”
“What?”
“If not for Edward, I’d never have met Ian. Never had my daughter. Never had this life.”
Marianne smiled back as Veronica ran to her. Valerie’s daughter—a spitting image of her mother—did the same.
“What do you think about taking the girls to the park this weekend?” Valerie asked.
Marianne, surprised but pleased, agreed.
Their friendship would never be the same—too much time, too much hurt. But at least the weight of resentment was gone. And that was better than nothing.
