The phone call interrupted Josie’s dinner. She rarely cooked for herself. Mornings usually began with a cup of coffee, lunch was grabbed at a café near work, and evenings often ended with a glass of milk and biscuits. If hunger struck, she fried an egg. Weekends were reserved for visits to her parents, where her mother insisted on sending her home with stacks of Tupperware—refusing would have meant starting a war.
Josie was finishing her milk when the shrill ringtone of her mobile cut through the quiet. She’d been meaning to change it to something less grating, something that didn’t bore into her skull. An unknown number flashed on the screen, but the persistence of the caller suggested urgency. She answered.
“Hello. I wasn’t sure you’d pick up,” came a painfully familiar voice. Years had passed, yet she recognised it instantly. *Hang up*, her mind hissed.
“Please don’t. I need to talk to you,” the voice rushed on, as if reading her thoughts.
Silence stretched between them.
“I’ve got no one else to turn to. Only you can help. Give me your address—I’ll come over. Please, it’s important,” added Emily after a pause.
Something was wrong. Emily wouldn’t call unless it was serious. Once, they’d been inseparable. In another life.
“Fine. I’ll text it,” Josie said flatly before ending the call.
Her pulse thudded unevenly. Why now? Her fingers trembled as she typed out her address. Emily’s reply was instant: *Be there soon.*
Josie returned to the kitchen, washed her glass, and sat at the table.
Years of pushing memories away, convincing herself she’d moved on, forgotten. Yet this one call dredged everything up like a landslide.
***
Her mother adored the film *A School Waltz*. The era it belonged to had long crumbled, but the film endured, timeless. Josie was named after its heroine. People often remarked on it upon meeting her.
Unlike the actress who’d played the role, Josie wasn’t striking. Her hair was fair, her lashes pale, her eyes a small, dull grey. Her figure, too, left her self-conscious. “It’ll come,” her mother would reassure her.
Emily, though—Emily had curves. She carried herself with a confidence Josie envied. Boys’ gazes snagged on her and stayed glued.
Every summer, Josie was packed off to her grandmother’s cottage. The village had become little more than a holiday spot, with only four houses occupied year-round: her grandmother’s, old Mrs. Norris’s next door, and two elderly couples. Mrs. Norris’s grandson, Daniel, spent summers there. He and Josie had been childhood playmates.
Until one summer, everything changed. She arrived to find not the boy she’d known, but a tall, broad-shouldered teenager. Suddenly, she couldn’t throw herself at him like she used to. Daniel, though, grinned and dragged her to the river as if nothing were different.
They chatted the whole way, but when they reached the bank, she hesitated. Waiting until he’d waded in, she turned away, yanked off her sundress, and plunged into the water before he could see how little she’d filled out. It never had, despite her mother’s promises.
Come August, they’d part until the next year. It never occurred to them to swap addresses. As if by unspoken rule, their summer world didn’t mix with the real one.
The year before sixth form, Daniel didn’t come. Mrs. Norris said he’d gone south with his mother. Bored and lonely, Josie wrote to Emily, inviting her to visit. Emily jumped at it—she had no grandparents, no countryside escapes. One weekend, Josie’s parents brought her along.
Then, unexpectedly, Daniel returned. Taller, broader. Dark lashes framing hazel eyes—Josie envied them. Handsome. And she instantly regretted inviting Emily, who zeroed in on him the moment she saw him.
That night, Emily whispered, “Have you ever kissed him?”
“God, no. We’ve known each other forever,” Josie snapped.
She’d soon regret those words.
Suddenly, they were a trio. Josie felt like an intruder in her own summer. For the first time, she counted down to September.
Daniel faded from her thoughts. Her friendship with Emily survived, though university pulled them apart. Emily grew distant. Conversations turned stilted, rushed.
Then came the wedding invitation.
“What? First year? Isn’t that too soon? And your mum’s fine with it?” Josie pressed.
“Not like she could stop me,” Emily laughed. “Be my bridesmaid?”
The wedding was just before New Year’s. Josie’s breath left her when she saw Daniel on her doorstep. She wanted to bolt, vanish, die—anything to avoid watching them together. But she was the bridesmaid. She couldn’t run. And Emily—she could’ve warned her. Josie would’ve never come.
In every photo, Josie looked hollow. The only guest not smiling, she slipped out halfway through.
Emily never apologised. *You said you were just friends.* Calls dwindled after the baby came. Josie forced herself to forget them both.
Yet dating never stuck. Every man was measured against Daniel…
***
How many years had it been? Ten? Her mother mentioned Mrs. Norris had died, the cottage sold. And now, this call. Emily was coming. *Why did I agree? What do we even say to each other?*
When Josie opened the door, she barely recognised her. Could time do this? The vibrant Emily from her memories was gone. Gaunt, her once-lush curves withered, dark hollows under faded eyes.
“You look the same,” Emily said. Her voice was unchanged, though brittle. “Tea?”
Josie filled the kettle. Silence hung thick.
“You haven’t changed at all. I’m dying,” Emily stated, matter-of-fact. “They want to operate. I won’t survive it.”
“Cancer?” Josie whispered.
“Yeah. Thought I’d beat it. Look after my boy when I’m gone.”
“Em, don’t—”
“Stop. Alex is nine. Daniel can’t do it alone.”
“His parents?”
“His mum’s remarried. Mine—you know what she’s like. Please. I’ve got no one else.”
“But I—I don’t know kids, I can’t—”
The kettle screamed. Josie busied herself, hiding her tears.
“Is this place yours?” Emily asked.
“Yeah. Dad’s colleague sold it cheap when he moved abroad. Thought it’d help me ‘settle down’.”
Emily stood. “I knew you fancied him. You’ve every right to hate me. Just help. I’m checking in tomorrow. Don’t visit. They’ll call you when…” She moved to leave. Josie stared at her untouched tea.
“I’ll see you out.”
“Don’t pity me,” Emily warned, her glare icy.
The door clicked shut. Josie slumped at the table, disbelieving. Young, beautiful people didn’t just—die.
Weeks passed. No calls. Josie debated ringing the hospital, but Emily’s warning glare stopped her. *No news is good news.*
Then Daniel called. Emily had died. He gave his address.
The flat reeked of despair. Daniel sat motionless. Alex, glued to the telly.
“Emily asked… How can I help?”
“Take Alex till after the funeral,” Daniel muttered.
“I’m not going!” Alex shouted.
Josie insisted he say goodbye. Daniel stayed silent. Alex shot her a grateful look.
“Have you eaten?”
The fridge was empty. She fried potatoes, served pickles. Alex devoured it. Daniel pushed his plate away.
“You’ve got to keep it together. For him. You lost a wife—he lost his mum.”
Daniel groaned. “Why her? I loved her…”
Josie left her number, made Alex promise to call, then fled.
Morning brought a hungover Daniel. She dragged him under cold water, forced coffee into him. They arranged the funeral. Daniel was a ghost.
At the wake, Alex clung to her. She visited often, cooked, cleaned. Always found Daniel drunk. Eventually, she snapped.
“Is your grief worse than his? You lost a wife—he lost his mother. I’m done watching you rot. Maybe this’ll remind you you’re a father!”
Alex called that night. Daniel was drunk again.
Six months blurred. One day Alex mentioned a woman.
“She’s nasty. Josie, what if he marries her? I don’t want her. I want you.”
“Your dad and I are just friends,” she sighed.
Spring came. Over the bank holiday, she took Alex to the countryside. Her parents were there—barbecue lit. Their new neighbour, William—forties, steady, unremarkable—wandered over. Her father approved.
Later, she dropped Alex home. The flat stank. Daniel and his girlfriend sprawShe married William the following summer, and as the years passed, the wounds of the past finally healed among the quiet joys of their new life together.
