Oh my god, so I *gave* him to her—with my own hands. And she didn’t even hesitate, just took him.
—Laura, hey. What’s so urgent you couldn’t tell me over the phone? —Emma asked as she walked into the flat, shrugging off her blazer.
—Not a phone conversation. Come through to the kitchen. —Laura switched off the hall light and followed her.
—Alright, you’ve got me curious. Spit it out. —Emma sat at the table, hands folded like a schoolgirl waiting for the lesson.
Laura placed an open bottle of red wine and two glasses on the table.
—Wow. *That* serious? Go on then, I’m all ears. —Emma raised a brow.
Laura poured the wine and sat across from her.
—To loosen up and get on the same page. —She raised her glass in a dramatic little toast and took a sip.
Emma lifted hers but didn’t drink, waiting.
—I’m done for. Completely smitten. Like, head-over-heels, can’t-think-straight gone. I barely sleep because I’m counting down till morning just to see him again. Never thought it could happen like this. I loved Paul, yeah, but not like *this*. And now… —Laura knocked back the rest of her wine in one go.
—Right. And you dragged me here just to share the good news? —Emma set her glass down and stood.
—Sit. —Laura yanked her wrist, forcing her back into the chair.
—And what about Paul? —Emma dropped into the seat, frowning.
—What *about* Paul? We’ve been together seven years. It’s fine. Stable. Then I met Oliver and—poof, I’m gone. —She exhaled sharply. —Judging me? Ever loved someone like this? No? Then don’t. —Laura’s tone turned sharp. —I called you here *for* Paul.
—Think I’ll have that drink now. —Emma took a few swallows, nodded approvingly at the glass.
—You fancied my husband. Don’t think I didn’t notice how you looked at him. —Laura tapped her nails on the tabletop.
She was stalling, circling the real issue.
—Don’t be ridiculous. —Emma scoffed.
Laura shrugged.
—Not jealous, don’t worry. Honestly? It’s better this way. I’ve decided to leave Paul, but I can’t stomach telling him. He doesn’t deserve it.
—You managed to cheat just fine, but *telling* him is where you draw the line? Bit backwards, don’t you think? —Emma sipped again.
—You don’t get it. He’s *good*. I shout, I snap, I’ve put him through hell—and he just *takes* it. Stays quiet. He *knows* and he stays quiet. He doesn’t deserve this. Understand?
—No. Explain. —Emma crossed her arms.
Laura refilled her glass.
—I could just say it. “I don’t love you, I’m leaving, sorry.” He’d let me go. But what happens to *him* after? Men don’t handle rejection well. Self-esteem plummets. He might drink himself stupid, or worse. I can’t do that to him. Now do you see?
—And where do *I* come in?
Laura rolled her eyes at the cluelessness.
—You *like* him. Maybe even love him, hopelessly. —She studied Emma, who looked away. —I’d sleep easier knowing he’s with you and not some random—
—Oh. *Oh.* So you want me to babysit Paul while you’re off shagging your new man? You’ve lost the plot. He’s not a *hand-me-down*. “Had my fun, now here, you take him”—what is wrong with you? —Emma drained her wine, grimaced, wiped her mouth.
—Cheers for the compliment. Didn’t realise I was better than some tart off the street. No, this is mad. Find someone else to palm your husband off on. Have you even *asked* him if he’d want me? —Emma spun the empty glass by its stem, restless.
—That part’s up to you. —Laura leaned in.
—You’ve *actually* lost it. Need therapy. —Emma’s cheeks flushed with indignation.
—No cure for love, sadly. Head’s gone, yeah. —Laura shrugged.
—And if this fling of yours crashes and burns? What then? Decide you want Paul back? “Thanks for looking after him, now hand him over”? —Emma’s voice rose.
—I can’t think that far ahead. All I know is I’ll die without Oliver. —Laura slumped back in her chair, frustrated by the turn of the conversation.
Emma stayed silent. What *could* she say? They drank. The whole idea was absurd. But then… why *shouldn’t* Paul end up with her? She *did* care.
—Help me. Just be there for him. Distract him. Take him to bed if you want. Need instructions? —Laura stared past her, vacant.
—This is *insane*. Sitting here drinking while a wife *offers* her husband to her best mate. What, binge-watching too much telly? Sounds like some cheap drama. How’d you even *think* of this?
—Keep your voice down. —Laura pressed fingers to her temples. —Just an idea. Say no, fine. Let him drown in a bottle, then. —She brought the glass to her lips, eyes closing.
Emma watched, transfixed—the way her throat moved, the pulse at her collarbone.
—I just want him happy. Like I am. If we can’t be happy together, at least let us be happy apart. I want him looked after. By *you*. —Laura set the empty glass down hard.
—What’s all this, then? Hope it’s not about me. Tut-tut, drinking without me. —Paul’s voice cut in.
Both women startled. He stood in the kitchen doorway, grinning.
—Finally. Coat off, wash up, dinner’s soon. We were just discussing a film, —Laura said breezily, rising to light the stove.
Paul returned from freshening up.
—Where’s my glass? —He took Laura’s seat.
—Later. You’ll drive Emma home, yeah? It’s late. —Laura shot Emma a pointed look.
—I’ll just call a cab, —Emma said quickly, missing the hint.
—Nah, I’ll take you. —Paul didn’t glance up from the plate of roast potatoes and beef Laura set before him.
—Come on, need a word. —Laura jerked her head toward the living room.
Alone, she gripped Emma’s arm, pulled her close, hissed in her ear:
—It’s on you now. When he drops you off, invite him in. Say the tap’s leaking, ask him to check—whatever. Make your move. If *he* strays first, my cheating won’t wreck him as bad.
Emma gaped.
—You want me to *enable* your affair? Lie to Paul? I won’t.
—Fine. Stay saintly, then. —Laura shoved her away.
***
The car ride was quiet, streets empty.
—Sorry for the detour. Could’ve been home relaxing, —Emma broke the silence.
—S’alright. Laura’s been off lately. Snappy one minute, crying the next. She tell you anything? —Paul glanced at her.
—Just girls’ talk.
—You’re a rubbish liar. And I’m not blind.
Emma fidgeted.
—Actually… would you mind checking my kitchen tap? It’s dripping. Don’t want to flood the flat below.
—Now? —Pause. —Yeah, alright.
At her door, they avoided eye contact in the lift.
—Right, show me, —Paul said, kicking off his shoes.
Emma led him to the sink.
—Drips under here. —She opened the cupboard.
Paul crouched, peered.
—Dry now.
—Really? Had a bowl under it last night. —Her face burned. *Bloody Laura.*
—Got any tools?
She returned with a small box.
—Dad’s old set.
—Perfect. —He rummaged.
Emma retreated, cursing Laura. Fifteen minutes later, Paul reappeared.
—Need a new tap. Washers are shot. I’ll buy one tomorrow, fix it after work.
—Tea? —Emma hopped up, relieved he hadn’t called her out.
—Nah, best get back.
They stood awkwardly. *Why’d she marry him?* Emma thought. *I’d never cheat.* Her heart hammered. *Does he even notice me?*
Paul saw her struggle. *She’s lovely. Funny. Nervous. Was Laura right?*As the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, Emma sat alone with her tea, staring at the untouched second cup—the one she’d poured out of habit, the one Paul would never drink again.
