Forget About Her, Mate
Early on a Sunday morning, the ringing shattered Andrew’s peaceful slumber. Half-asleep, he grabbed his phone and squinted at the dark screen—but then the doorbell chimed again. Bleary-eyed, he scrambled into clothes and yanked the door open. If someone’s banging on your door at dawn, it’s never just for a friendly chat.
“Alright, sleepyhead! Been hibernating long? Cat got your tongue? Not pleased to see your old mate?” On the doorstep stood Nick Moss, his university pal. “Mind if I come in?”
“Nick?! Blimey, what brings you here?” Andrew dragged him inside with a bear hug. “Could’ve warned me, you git. How’d you track me down?”
“Popped by your parents’. Your mum gave me the address. Also mentioned you’d divorced and bolted here. Just passing through—booked the layover to see you. Now, where’s the kettle?”
“Kitchen’s that way. I’ll freshen up. Put the kettle on, yeah?” Andrew yelled, vanishing into the bathroom.
By the time he returned, Nick had uncorked a bottle of red and was slicing cheddar.
“Hope you don’t mind me raiding the fridge. Blimey, it’s emptier than a pub on a Monday. Starving yourself? Lucky I’m here to save you from malnutrition,” Nick quipped, assembling sandwiches with surgical precision.
“Wine? At this hour?” Andrew spun the bottle to read the label.
“Who’s stopping us? Just a splash to grease the wheels of conversation.”
They clinked glasses, nibbled toasties and scrambled eggs, and let the memories flood back.
Nick had married young, right out of uni.
“Father-in-law retired, so I’m running the construction firm now. Go on, seethe with envy. Eldest just finished secondary school, little one’s in Year 7. Life’s sorted,” Nick bragged. “Heard about your mess, though. Never found your Emily, did you?”
“Still remember her nickname, eh? No. Never did.”
“Don’t tell me you’re living like a hermit.” Nick stuffed the last crust into his mouth.
“With my son. He’s at his mum’s for a birthday party. Phoned yesterday—back in a few days.”
Back then, the lads had begged Andrew not to marry Olivia. But he’d dug his heels in—because she reminded him of Emily, their “Emily of the Sea,” as they’d dubbed her. Her boy, Jack, had called Andrew “Dad” straight off. And Andrew had adored the lad. But the marriage fizzled fast.
Olivia remarried quicker than you could say “alimony.” Jack clashed with the new stepdad, often bolting to Andrew’s. Olivia accused her ex of poaching their son. Sick of the rows, Andrew moved to Brighton.
“Jack spent every summer with me. Olivia had a new baby—no time for him. After GCSEs, he moved in for good,” Andrew said.
“Proper telenovela, this. Makes EastEnders look tame.” Nick poured the dregs of the wine.
“Nah, it’s all settled now.” They drank.
“Still wish you’d found her. That love was something else.” Nick sighed.
Andrew stayed quiet. Lately, he’d hardly thought of Emily—but Nick’s visit had stirred the ghosts.
At the station, they vowed to stay in touch. Back home, Andrew dug out an old album and found Emily’s photo. He traced her face, helplessly dragged back to those golden days…
————
Nick had sweet-talked his dad into lending them his rusty hatchback, and three mates road-tripped south to Felix’s relatives. With uni weeks away, why not soak up the sun?
Devon was buzzing with peach and apple harvests. The lads picked fruit for cash—student budgets being what they are. At midday, when the sun turned vicious, they’d sprint into the chilly sea.
That’s where they spotted Emily. She sat on the shore, staring at the horizon.
“Emily of the Sea awaits her sailor,” Nick joked.
The name stuck. The others had steady girlfriends, but Andrew’s love life was a desert.
Nick and Felix whooped into the waves. Andrew approached the girl.
“Waiting for a ship with scarlet sails?” he teased.
She looked up. Her eyes held such sorrow, his grin died. She turned back to the water. Andrew sat beside her, hugging his knees. She barely seemed to notice.
“Hear that?” he asked, listening to the waves.
“The sea’s whispering,” she murmured.
Andrew blinked. She’d voiced his very thought. They sat in silence, listening. His mates waved from the water. Reluctantly, he stood, brushing sand off his shorts.
“Gotta go. Same time tomorrow?”
Her fleeting glance was answer enough. Yet next day, she was there. They talked. Her name—Emily—sounded like music. But when he probed, she stood and left. He followed, wordless, to her door.
Her mystery hooked him. That evening, he lobbed a pebble at her window. She emerged in shorts and a loose blouse, undone at the collar. Lovelier than ever. They walked the promenade. She was quiet; he babbled to mask his nerves.
The sunset painted the sky tangerine, softening her gaze. Andrew, smitten, snapped a photo—but she kept turning away. So he waded into the shallows and clicked the shutter. She didn’t dodge in time.
That became his only proof she wasn’t a mirage.
Each evening, they walked the shore. Once, he leaned in to kiss her. She didn’t pull back—but tensed so sharply, he retreated. Her enigma only deepened his obsession. Andrew tanned to leather, shed weight skipping meals to meet her. Some nights, he crept home past midnight, rose at dawn. His mates, noting his lovesick daze, stopped teasing.
Time was short. Andrew resolved to confess. That noon, his mates stayed back. He hurried to the shore—but she wasn’t there. He sprinted to her house. The gate was locked. Another pebble. A stern woman stormed out.
“Clear off, or I’m calling the police!”
“Please—where’s Emily?” Andrew begged.
“Gone home,” she snapped.
“Where’s home?”
“Where d’you think? Now scram.”
“Her address—please! I need it!”
“Forget her, lad. It’s for the best.” The door slammed.
He returned that night, pleading—but got nothing.
Next morning, they left. The jalopy might conk out—best allow time for repairs. Andrew barely spoke the whole drive. His mates insisted: if it’s fate, they’d meet again.
By term’s end, Andrew met Olivia. She reminded him of Emily—same delicate frame, though darker-haired. Already a single mum. His parents warned against the marriage, but he’d convinced himself: destiny…
————
Andrew cracked the kitchen window, lit a fag, watched the dawn blush the sky. “Hurry home, Jack,” he thought. No point sleeping now—work loomed.
At lunch, Jack rang: “Back early. Got a surprise for you tonight.”
“Your mum’s with you?”
“Nope. You’ll see. Don’t be late.”
Home that evening, Andrew found Jack chopping veggies. A cake box sat on the table.
“Blimey! Special occasion? How was the trip?” He clapped Jack’s shoulder.
“Fine. Sit—nearly done. Listen, Dad, about this—” The doorbell cut him off.
“Dad, meet my girlfriend, Lily. Lily, this is my dad, Andrew Lewis. Dad, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
In the doorway stood a slender, flustered girl. Andrew’s breath caught—for a heartbeat, it was Emily. He almost asked why Jack called her “Lily.” Then he saw the differences: straighter hair, less haunted eyes.
Over tea, Lily spotted the photo Andrew had left out.
“That’s my mum! We don’t have this one. Where’d you get it?” She gaped at him.
Jack peered over. “From his old album. Mate visited yesterday… Lily, is your mum called Emily? Where is she?” Andrew’s voice shook. “No—it can’t be. After all these years… How old are you, Lily?”
“Nineteen. Why?”
“Dad’s implying you could’ve been his daughter. But it’s fine—I’m not his blood. We’re not siblings.” Jack joked, masking the tension.
“Don’t be daft,” Andrew snapped. “Nothing happened with Emily. I just… need to know.”
“She died when I was three,” Lily whispered, setting the photo down.
Andrew collapsed onto the sofa. “How?”
“Dad—” Jack started.
“Wait,” Lily cut in, sitting beside Andrew. “Mum married young—well, got pregnant first. Doctors warned her: sheAndrew stared out the window as Jack and Lily left, the city lights blurring through his tears, realizing that while love had slipped through his fingers once, fate had woven their stories together in the end—just not the way he’d imagined.
