I’ll Choose You…
From the very first day at university, two girls caught each other’s eye. Both pretty, with a certain resemblance. From then on, they were inseparable.
Lucy believed she deserved better than spending her whole life in a sleepy provincial town, like her parents. Her mother worked as a shop assistant, her father as a builder—and of course, he drank. After finishing school, she announced she was leaving for London to study.
Her parents sighed but didn’t argue. They reasoned that perhaps she’d have better luck than her older sister, who’d made a poor marriage and was now raising two children alone. They couldn’t send much money, but they promised to send vegetables from their garden and preserves whenever they could. A neighbour worked as a train conductor on the London route, so they’d arrange for things to be sent along.
Once in London, Lucy vowed never to return home. She befriended Emily precisely because Emily was a true Londoner—her father a doctor, her mother an accountant. A respectable, educated family.
Emily pitied Lucy, and Lucy exploited it. She’d complain that her boots were worn through and she couldn’t afford new ones—Emily would lend her a spare pair. Nothing to wear to a party? Emily would hand over a new dress; their figures were the same, after all. Lucy often stayed at her friend’s place, especially during exams. The dorm was no place to study.
Lucy loathed studying but forced herself through the books, though she’d much rather be out at clubs. It didn’t matter. Once she graduated and secured her place in London, she’d have her fun.
Emily, on the other hand, excelled effortlessly. Lucy envied her, though she hid it well. As fate would have it, both fell for the same boy—handsome, athletic. He’d come to London from a military town where his father served. Soon, the three were inseparable.
“James, how’s it work with them? Taking turns or sharing? Pass one over,” the lads would tease. Even lecturers joked, asking which girl he fancied.
James ignored the jabs. He preferred gentle, calm Emily but feared showing it, wary of seeming like he’d chosen her for her London roots.
During lectures, he’d “accidentally” brush his knee against hers, lean in as if to whisper. What escaped others, Lucy noticed instantly—the tension in their stiffened expressions. Resentment overwhelmed her. Not only was Emily born in London, raised in a cultured home, but now she’d won the best boy too.
Tired of hiding his feelings, James confessed his love to Emily and began distancing Lucy. The trio fell apart. Lucy refused to accept it. She wouldn’t lose Emily—nor would she surrender James.
And so, she plotted. Not head-on—that wouldn’t work. She needed them to quarrel and part ways, and soon. The third year was ending; exams loomed. What if they married before graduation?
“Break a leg, stay home—no, he’d just carry her everywhere. Better if she broke out in spots. I’ll buy her strawberries…” Lucy mused.
Fate, inexplicably, spared Emily. Lucy was the one who broke out in spots.
Just before exams, James’s mother fell seriously ill. He arranged to sit his exams in August and left for home. The rare London summer sun shone warmly—beach weather, not study weather. After the first exam, the girls walked through the city. Lucy stopped at a bridal boutique.
“Which dress would you pick for your wedding?” she asked.
“Dunno. Haven’t thought about it.”
“Don’t lie. Every girl dreams of a white dress. I’d want this one.” Lucy pointed to a full-skirted gown. “Suits me, don’t you think? Let’s try it on. They don’t charge for that.”
“Really? It’s boiling. Let’s get ice cream instead.” Emily tugged her away.
“Come on, just one! Pretend I’m the bride, you’re my maid of honour,” Lucy wheedled.
“Trying on a dress before a proposal is bad luck.”
“Old wives’ tales. You’ll shop ahead, not last-minute. Everyone does it.”
“Fine,” Emily relented.
The boutique was stifling, the saleswoman bored. Lucy played the bride-to-be, scrutinising gowns before choosing one. Emily admitted it suited her perfectly—ready for the registry, if only she had a groom.
“We’ve a stunning dress, but few can wear it. You’re slim—it’ll fit. I’ll give a discount,” the saleswoman told Emily.
“It’s my friend getting married, not me.”
“That can change. Just try it.”
Emerging from the changing room, Emily took Lucy’s breath away. The dress, devoid of lace or frills, clung elegantly—as if tailored for her.
“Needs a veil,” Lucy muttered.
“A tiara would suit better.”
“Fetch one,” Lucy snapped, masking her envy.
Everything suited Emily flawlessly. Lucy’s reflection now seemed garish, cheap. The saleswoman returned with a jewelled hairpin, securing it deftly.
“May I take your photo? It’s perfect.”
“Me too.” Lucy raised her phone. “Smile. Now turn around—look back. Good.”
“Enough.” Emily retreated to change.
Alone, Lucy hatched her plan. No effort needed. She flicked through the photos—Emily, radiant. “A bit more editing, then send to James: ‘You’re away, your girl’s marrying.’” In one shot, a man loitered outside—on his phone. The perfect groom, waiting. Lucy nearly cried out in triumph.
Back outside, Emily was impatient.
“I’ll buy this if I find nothing better,” Lucy told the saleswoman, maintaining the charade.
After exams, Lucy didn’t return home. Her elder sister now occupied her room with the kids. A quick call—she’d found work, wouldn’t be back. Her mother, relieved, said she’d stop sending money.
“Olga’s children need so much now.”
“Typical. Say I’ve a job, and the money dries up.”
“They’re struggling too.”
“She chose to have kids. Knew he’d leave.”
“I won’t leave you. Come home—Mum made borscht.”
A month later, Lucy sent James the photo.
He returned in August.
“Why so grim? Your mum worse?”
“No, she’s better. Congratulations, then?”
“For what?”
“Your wedding.”
“I’m not marrying anyone.”
“Then what’s this?” He showed the photo.
“A joke. Lucy dragged me there. James, I can explain—”
“Brilliant joke.” He walked away.
“Why’d you send that?” Emily confronted Lucy.
“You looked great—thought he’d propose.”
“Now he thinks I lied.”
James ignored her calls. Emily avoided Lucy. But Lucy didn’t care. Term was starting—money would come again. She’d survive without Emily. James would be hers.
In lectures, Emily sat apart, stealing glances at Lucy and James. Then his mother died, and Lucy clung to him, never leaving his side. Soon, they’d filed for marriage. Explanations became unnecessary.
James’s father was transferred to teach at Sandhurst, given a house. They married, switched to distance learning, and left.
Two years after graduation, Emily married her father’s friend’s son—her parents’ choice. She didn’t care. They didn’t love each other. No children came. He strayed; they divorced after seven years.
Years later, Emily returned to her grandfather’s abandoned cottage in the countryside, seeking solitude. The house, once grand, stood shrunken among new builds. The key turned easily—someone had oiled the lock. Dust and damp filled the air.
She fetched water from a neighbour—a bearded man tending the house next door. Over tea, she recognised him: James.
Between them lay the mended photo.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“My marriage failed. And you?”
He told her of his divorce, his return, his simple life as a caretaker.
“Why didn’t you come back to me?”
“You were married.”
“Not anymore.”
Night fell. At her door, she willed him to follow.
He did.
