“I gave you to her myself, with my own hands. And she didn’t hesitate to take you.”
“Laurie, hi. What was so urgent you couldn’t say it over the phone?” Emma asked, slipping off her blazer as she stepped into the flat.
“Not a phone conversation. Come to the kitchen,” Lauren said, flicking off the hallway light and following her friend.
“Now I’m intrigued. Spill.” Emma sat at the table, folding her hands like a polite schoolgirl waiting for an explanation.
Lauren set an opened bottle of red wine and two glasses on the table.
“Wow? This serious?” Emma raised her eyebrows. “Alright, I’m all ears.”
Lauren poured the wine, took a seat opposite her, and lifted her glass with a dramatic flourish. “To relaxation and mutual understanding.” She took a sip.
Emma mirrored the gesture but didn’t drink, waiting for Lauren to continue.
“I’m done for. Head over heels—completely lost my mind. Living in a daze, dreaming of him. I go to bed counting the hours till morning. Never thought it could feel like this. I loved Peter, sure, but not like this.” Lauren downed the rest of her wine in one go.
“So you called me just to share the news? Sympathy card?” Emma set her glass down and stood.
“Sit.” Lauren yanked her arm, pulling her back into the chair.
“What about Peter?” Emma slumped down.
“What *about* Peter? We’ve been together seven years. Everything’s fine. Then I met Oliver, and now I’m ruined.” Lauren sighed. “Judging me? Ever loved someone like this? No? Then don’t.” Her tone sharpened. “I called you to talk about Peter.”
“Think I’ll have that drink now.” Emma took a few gulps, nodding approvingly at the taste.
“You fancied my husband. Think I didn’t notice how you looked at him?” Lauren tapped her nails impatiently against the tabletop.
She was skirting the real issue, unsure how to bring it up.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Emma snorted.
Lauren shrugged. “Not jealous, if that’s what you’re thinking. Actually, it’s better this way. I’ve decided to leave Peter, but I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth. I feel sorry for him.”
“Felt sorry enough to cheat, but not to be honest? Doesn’t add up.” Emma took another sip.
“You wouldn’t understand. He’s a good man. I shout, snap at him, wear him down, and he just takes it. Doesn’t say a word. Probably suspects already. Doesn’t deserve this. Get it?”
“No. Explain,” Emma pressed.
Lauren refilled her glass. “I could just say I don’t love him anymore, that I’m leaving. He’d let me go. But what happens to him then? Men take breakups hard. His confidence will shatter. Might start drinking, give up, or worse. I can’t do that to him. Understand now?”
“And where do I come in?”
Lauren rolled her eyes at her friend’s slow uptake. “You like him. Might even love him, unrequited as it is.” She studied Emma, who averted her gaze. “I’d feel better knowing he was with you, not some random—”
“Wait—so you want me to look after Peter while you roll around with your lover? You’re mad. He’s not some hand-me-down! ‘Had my fun, now here, you take him’?” Emma drained her glass, wincing as she wiped her mouth.
“Thanks for the compliment. Didn’t realize I was better than some tart. No, listen—find someone else to pawn your husband off on. Have you even asked *him* if he wants me?” Emma twisted the empty glass stem nervously between her fingers.
“That depends on you.” Lauren leaned across the table.
“You’ve lost it. Seriously, get help.” Emma’s face flushed with indignation.
“No cure for love, unfortunately. And yeah, I’ve lost my head—fair point.” Lauren’s tone was dismissive.
“What if things don’t work out with this guy? Then what? You’ll want Peter back? ‘Thanks for babysitting, now return my husband’?” Emma’s irritation grew.
“I can’t think that far ahead. All I know is I’ll die without him.” Lauren slumped back in her chair, clearly unhappy with the turn in conversation.
Emma stayed silent. What was there to say? They drank. The idea was absurd, yet… why *shouldn’t* Peter end up with her? She *did* care about him.
“Help me. Just be there for him. Distract him. Take him to bed if you want. Need instructions?” Lauren’s gaze was distant, unfocused.
“This is insane. Sitting here, drinking, and a wife offers her friend her husband? Too many dramas on telly? Reminds me of *Anna Karenina*—how’d that end again? ‘If I can’t have you, no one can’—gunshot, curtain. How’d you even come up with this?”
“Lower your voice.” Lauren pressed fingers to her temples. “Just a suggestion. Don’t want to? Fine. Let him drink himself to ruin.” She lifted her glass, shutting her eyes as she drank.
Emma watched, mesmerized—the pulse in Lauren’s throat, the way she swallowed. She couldn’t look away.
“I just want him happy, like I am. If we can’t be happy together, at least separately. I want him in safe hands. *Your* hands.” Lauren set the empty glass down with finality.
“What’s the debate, girls? Hope it’s not about me?” Peter’s voice cut in.
Both turned. He stood in the kitchen doorway, amused.
“Finally. Coat off, hands washed—dinner’s ready. We were just discussing a film,” Lauren said breezily, rising to light the stove as if nothing were amiss.
Peter returned from the bathroom. “No glass for me?” He took Lauren’s seat.
“Later. Can you drive Emma home? It’s late.” Lauren shot Emma a meaningful look.
“I’ll call a cab,” Emma said quickly, missing the hint.
“No need. I’ll take you,” Peter said, fork already in hand as Lauren served him.
“Come on, need to talk.” Lauren jerked her head toward the hallway.
Alone, she grabbed Emma’s arm, pulling her close to whisper harshly: “It’s up to you now. When he drops you off, don’t waste it. Invite him in. Say something’s broken, ask him to check—figure it out. Don’t freeze. If *he* strays first, my betrayal won’t seem so monstrous.”
Emma gaped.
“You want me to help you cheat? Lie to Peter? I won’t.”
“Fine. Stay noble.” Lauren shoved her away.
***
The car ride was quiet, streets empty at this hour.
“Sorry for the detour instead of you relaxing,” Emma finally said.
“Don’t worry. Time enough for that. Why the drinking? Laurie’s been off lately—snapping, laughing hysterically, crying over nothing. She tell you anything?” He glanced at her.
“Just girl talk.”
“Bad liar. And I’m not blind or deaf.”
Emma fidgeted. “Listen, would it be awful to ask you to check my leaky kitchen tap? Worried I’ll flood the flat below.”
“Now?” He paused. “Alright, I’ll look.”
Inside, he knelt under the sink. “Bone dry.”
“Really? Had a dish catching drips last night.” Her face burned. *Nice one, Laurie.*
“Got any tools?”
She returned with a small toolbox. “Leftover from Dad.”
“Perfect.” He rummaged through it while Emma retreated, cursing Lauren. Fifteen minutes later, he reappeared.
“Need a new tap. Washers are shot, and it’s ancient.”
She knew. Had called a plumber months ago.
“Right. I’ll buy one tomorrow, bring my tools, fix it properly.”
“Cuppa?” Emma jumped up, relieved he hadn’t caught her lie.
“Better not. Late already.”
They stood close, a hairsbreadth apart. *Why’d she marry him?* Emma thought. *I’d never betray him.* Her heart raced. *Does he feel nothing?*
Peter noticed her trembling, the fight in her eyes. *She’s sweet. Funny. Nervous. That look… Was Laurie right?*
Something pulled them together. They stepped forward at once, lips meeting—then sprang apart like they’d been burned.
“You, uh… offered tea?” Peter rasped.
Emma fled to the kitchen, kettle trembling in her hands. She laid out cups, sugar, felt his gaze like a touch. Remembered the pies, pulled them out. Peter watched, then took one.
“Bakery?” He bit in, groaned approval.
“Made them myself,” she said, insulted.
HeHe reached for another, and as their fingers brushed, they both knew nothing would ever be the same again.
