Emily sighed and set down her wine glass with a dramatic clink. “Well, I suppose I handed you to her myself, didn’t I? And she didn’t even hesitate—just took you.”
“Sophie, hi. What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait for a phone call?” Charlotte asked, hanging her blazer by the door as she stepped into the flat.
“Not a phone conversation. Kitchen. Now.” Sophie flicked off the hallway light and trailed behind her.
“Colour me intrigued. Spill, then.” Charlotte dropped into a chair, folding her hands like an overeager schoolgirl waiting for gossip.
Sophie plonked a half-finished bottle of Merlot onto the table along with two glasses.
“Blimey, that serious? I’m all ears,” Charlotte said, eyeing the wine.
Sophie poured, took a seat opposite her friend, and raised her glass with theatrical flair. “For relaxation and mutual understanding.” She took a long sip.
Charlotte lifted hers but didn’t drink, waiting.
“I’m done for. Properly gone—head over heels, can’t think straight. It’s like living in a dream. Never thought it’d happen like this. I loved James, sure, but not like *this*.” Sophie drained her glass in one go.
“Sympathy duly noted. And this is why you dragged me over? To announce your new romance?” Charlotte set her glass down and made to stand.
“Sit.” Sophie yanked her back into the chair.
“And what about James?” Charlotte flopped down, incredulous.
“What *about* James? Seven years together, everything’s fine. Then I met Oliver, and—poof. Gone.” Sophie sighed. “Judging me? Ever loved someone like that? No? Then don’t.” Her tone sharpened. “Actually, I called you to talk about *James*.”
“Right. Best I drink, then.” Charlotte took a swig and nodded approvingly at the wine.
“You fancied my husband. Don’t think I didn’t notice how you looked at him.” Sophie tapped her nails on the tabletop, circling the real issue like a vulture.
“Don’t be absurd,” Charlotte snorted.
Sophie shrugged. “Not jealous, mind you. If anything, it’s better. I’ve decided to leave James, but I can’t bear to tell him. Hurts too much.”
“You didn’t mind hurting him when you cheated, but telling him’s a bridge too far? Makes no sense.” Charlotte took another sip.
“You don’t get it. He’s *good*. I yell, I snap, I’ve put him through the wringer—and he just takes it. Knows something’s off and stays quiet. Doesn’t deserve this. Understand?”
“Nope. Explain.”
Sophie refilled her glass. “I could just say, ‘Don’t love you, leaving, sorry.’ He’d let me go. But what then? Men crumble when they’re dumped. Self-esteem tanks. He might drink himself silly, give up, worse. I can’t do that to him. Clear now?”
“And I’m involved… how?”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “You *like* him. Might even love him hopelessly from afar.” She studied Charlotte, who looked away. “I’d rest easier knowing he’s with you and not some random—”
“Ohhh. I see. You want me to babysit James while you swan about with your fling? You’re mad. He’s not a handout—’Had my fun, here, you have him’?” Charlotte downed the rest of her wine, winced, and wiped her mouth.
“Cheers for the compliment. Didn’t realise I was better than some tart. No, this is barmy. Find someone else to palm your husband off on. Or—here’s a thought—ask *him* if he even *wants* me?” Charlotte twisted the empty glass stem between her fingers.
“That’s up to you.” Sophie leaned in.
“You’ve lost the plot. Properly needs therapy.” Charlotte flushed with indignation.
“No cure for love, sadly. And yes, I’ve lost my head. Accurate.” Sophie shrugged.
“And if your little fling fizzles? Then what? Decide you want James back? ‘Ta for the fun, now return my husband’?” Charlotte’s voice climbed.
“I can’t think that far ahead. All I know is I’ll *die* without Oliver.” Sophie slumped back, displeased with the turn of the conversation.
Charlotte stayed silent. What was there to say? They drank. The absurdity of Sophie’s scheme spun in Charlotte’s head. But then… why *shouldn’t* James end up with her? She *did* care.
“Help me. Just be there for him. Distract him. Take him to bed if you fancy—need instructions?” Sophie’s gaze drifted past her, detached.
“This is deranged. Sitting here, drinking, while a wife pimps out her husband to her mate. Watched too many soaps? Feels like an episode of *EastEnders*. Remember how *that* ends? ‘If I can’t have you, no one can’—bang, curtains. How’d you even *think* this up?”
“Keep your voice down.” Sophie pressed fingers to her temples. “Just a suggestion. Say no if you like. Let him drink himself into oblivion, then.” She lifted her glass, eyes fluttering shut.
Charlotte watched, mesmerised, as Sophie swallowed, the pulse in her throat fluttering. She couldn’t look away.
“I just want him happy. If we can’t be, then separately. Wanted him safe. In *your* hands.” Sophie set down her empty glass.
“Girls, what’s the row? Hope it’s not about me. Tut tut, drinking,” James’s voice rang out.
Both turned. He stood in the kitchen doorway, grinning.
“Finally. Coat off, hands washed, dinner’s on,” Sophie said breezily, rising to light the hob as if nothing had happened.
James returned from the loo. “No glass for me?” He took Sophie’s seat.
“Later. You’re driving Charlotte home. It’s late.” Sophie shot Charlotte a meaningful look.
“I’ll call a cab,” Charlotte said, oblivious.
“Nonsense. I’ll take you,” James said, already tucking into the shepherd’s pie Sophie set before him.
“Step outside. Need a word.” Sophie jerked her head toward the living room.
Alone, she gripped Charlotte’s arm and hissed in her ear, “It’s on you now. When he drops you off, *invite him in*. Say the taps are leaking, ask him to check—make something up. Then *don’t* muck it up. If *he* cheats first, my affair won’t gut him as badly.”
Charlotte gaped.
“You want me to *help* you cheat? Lie to James? Not happening.”
“Fine. Stay noble, then.” Sophie shoved her away.
***
The car hummed through London’s empty streets.
“Sorry for the detour. You could be feet up by now,” Charlotte said, breaking the silence.
“Don’t fuss. Plenty of time to relax. So why the drinkathon? Sophie’s been cagey lately. Snappy one minute, in giggles the next, then weeping over adverts. She *must* have told you something.” James glanced at her.
“Just girl talk. Gossip.”
“Right. You’re rubbish at lying. And I’m not blind.”
Charlotte fidgeted.
“Listen—massive favour. Could you check my kitchen tap? It’s dripping. Fretting I’ll flood the flat below.”
“Now?” A pause. “Yeah, alright.”
At her door, they rode the lift avoiding eye contact.
“Right, show me,” James said, toeing off his shoes.
“In here.” Charlotte led him to the sink. “Dripping underneath.” She opened the cupboard.
James crouched. “Bone dry.”
“Really? Had a bowl under it last night.” Her face burned. *Nice one, Sophie.*
“Got any tools?”
She returned with a small toolkit. “Dad’s old one.”
“Sorted.” He rummaged.
Charlotte retreated, mentally cursing Sophie. Fifteen minutes later, James reappeared.
“Needs a new tap. Washers are shot, and it’s ancient.”
“Right.” She’d known that. Six months of ignored plumbing.
“Tell you what. I’ll buy one tomorrow, bring my tools, fit it after work.”
“Cuppa?” She hopped up, relieved he hadn’t called her bluff.
“Nah, best get back.”
They stood a breath apart. *Why did she ever marry him?* Charlotte thought, heart hammering. *I’d never cheat. Does he feel nothing?*
James noted her trembling, the fight in her eyes. *She’s lovely. And funny. That look… Was Sophie right?*
Some unseen force pulled them. They stepped forward simultaneously, lips meeting—then sprang apart likeLera turned away from their doorstep, the click of her heels echoing down the empty corridor as she finally let the first tear fall.
