After dinner, Emily tucked her legs under herself on the sofa and picked up a book. Just as she lost herself in the adventures of the novel’s heroine, her mother walked in, clutching a buzzing phone. The screen flashed with an incoming call from her friend Charlotte Harrington.
Emily reluctantly set the book aside and answered, shooting her mother a pointed look. Finally catching the hint, her mother stepped out—though Emily had no doubt she’d linger by the door, ears pricked.
For five minutes, they chatted about nothing in particular. Then Charlotte announced she was inviting Emily to a belated birthday celebration that Saturday at their family’s countryside cottage.
“That was last month, wasn’t it?” Emily frowned.
“What’s the difference? I’ll celebrate whenever I like! It’s just an excuse to get everyone together.”
“We could meet up without an excuse,” Emily pointed out.
“No, no—there’s got to be anticipation, a bit of intrigue! Henry’s old mate from Germany is flying in. He doesn’t know my actual birthday, and he’d never agree to just *hang out*—he knows the fuss people make over him. But a birthday party? That’s serious. And Daisy—remember her?—she practically *screamed* when she heard he was coming. He’s some big-shot in film—director, producer, whatever. And Daisy’s *desperate* to act. Clings to him like glue. Absolutely unbearable.”
“Right. And where do I fit in?”
“Come *on*! It’s a party!” Charlotte’s tone sharpened with impatience.
“Ah. Filling out the numbers?” Emily smirked. “Why the cottage, though? There’s still snow on the ground.”
“Don’t be thick. So he *can’t* slip away,” Charlotte cackled, pleased with herself. “So, you in? We’ll have a laugh, barbecue some sausages. There’s even a Christmas tree still up—we never got round to taking it down after New Year’s. And with all the snow, we wouldn’t have made it back anyway. *Please*, Em? For me?” Emily could practically hear her friend’s exaggerated pout.
“Fine,” she sighed.
She agreed, reasoning that four days was plenty of time for *something* to happen—she might fall ill, Charlotte might cancel, or the whole thing could collapse under its own absurdity.
The moment Emily set the phone down, her mother reappeared.
“Where’s she dragging you off to?”
“You heard, Mum,” Emily smirked.
Her mother didn’t even blink.
“Good. You never go out. Nearly forty and not even a boyfriend. I’ll never see grandchildren at this rate.”
“Men aren’t daffodils, Mum. They don’t sprout in the country,” Emily joked. “I’m *thirty-two*. Eight *whole years* till forty. And children should come from love, not just because you’re broody for grandkids—”
Her mother pursed her lips, waved a dismissive hand, and stalked out—only to return seconds later, planting herself in front of Emily.
“All you do is *read*. Living through other people’s lives while yours passes you by. Books won’t marry you off. Time’s ticking—”
“You heard me—I’m going. I’ll bring back grandchildren from the cottage,” Emily teased.
Her mother shook her head in mock offence.
“Sorry, Mum.” Emily leaped up and hugged her.
On Friday, Charlotte rang again, reminding her to dress smartly—”Can’t embarrass ourselves in front of *foreign* *company*”—and said she and Henry would pick her up at seven sharp.
“*Seven*? That’s ridiculous!”
“Traffic, heating the cottage, setting up… We’ll barely finish by evening.”
At six the next morning, her alarm blared. Emily grappled with why she’d set it so early on a weekend—until her mother bustled in, announcing breakfast was ready.
Memory crashed back—the cottage, the “party.” Emily groaned. So much for a quiet weekend. She dragged herself to the shower. An hour later, as she stepped outside, Henry’s car was already idling by the kerb. She slid into the back seat with a grumbled greeting.
“Cheer up. Sleep if you want,” Charlotte said airily.
The entire drive, Charlotte chattered non-stop. *How does Henry stand it?* Emily wondered before dozing off.
The cottage village was picturesque and empty. Fresh snow blanketed the gardens; only tyre tracks marred the pristine roads. They weren’t the only ones braving the cold.
Inside, an enormous artificial Christmas tree stood in the corner. For a dizzying moment, Emily felt thrown back to December. Henry knelt by the wood burner, the scent of pine and smoke wrapping her in nostalgia.
Before the fire properly caught, two more cars pulled up. Through the window, Emily watched familiar faces spill out—including Daisy, bouncing like an overexcited puppy, floundering in snowdrifts and cackling loud enough to alert the entire village.
“*That’s* the director? Doesn’t look the part,” Emily muttered.
“How many directors *have* you met?” Charlotte shot back.
The group tramped inside. Daisy beelined for the tree, nearly toppling it in her enthusiasm. A few ornaments shattered, sending everyone scrambling.
Amid the chaos, Emily snatched her coat, shoved her feet into boots, and slipped outside. Dusk had fallen. Tilting her face up, she gasped—stars speckled the ink-black sky, impossibly bright compared to London’s haze.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice said behind her.
She knew it instantly.
“Haven’t seen stars like this in years.”
“None in Germany?”
“Plenty. Just never looked up.” His gaze lingered. “These feel closer. Like home.”
“Do you miss England?”
“First year, I nearly came back. You adjust.”
“What are you working on now? Another film?”
“There you are!” Henry called from the doorway. “You’ll miss the fun.”
“Be right in,” Paul answered for both of them.
“Not enjoying yourself either?” he asked once the door shut.
“Crowds exhaust me,” Emily admitted, shivering. “Wish I could just… leave.”
“Why not? I’ve got the car. Fancy a lift home?”
“What about my things? Charlotte will freak.”
“Call her later. Say I kidnapped you.” His eyes glinted. “Well?”
“Seriously?” She searched his face. “*Fine*. Let’s go.”
They slipped away unnoticed—too much noise inside, too much drink.
Emily dozed off almost immediately, waking only as they reached London.
“Sorry—did I snore?” She smoothed her crumpled hair.
“Where to?”
She gave directions, rattling off shortcuts until he cut in: “I remember the city.”
“Whose car is this?”
“Hired. Can’t function without wheels.”
At her doorstep, he asked for her number.
“I’ll call tomorrow,” he promised. “You’re different. Not like the others.”
Before she could ask *how*, he drove off.
“You’re back *already*?” Her mother fretted as she walked in.
“Too cramped. You know I hate sleeping elsewhere.”
Next morning, Charlotte screeched down the phone: “Playing shy, then *stealing* him—!”
Emily opened her mouth—*He drove me!*—but Charlotte ranted herself into a hang-up.
Paul didn’t call. Not next day, not in three. *Why ask for my number if—? Ugh. Back to your Gretchens, then. Plenty of younger girls out there. Who’d pick a thirty-two-year-old?* She willed herself to forget him.
Wednesday brought sleet, shifting between snow and rain—typical March. Head bowed against the weather, Emily turned towards her building when a car horn sounded. She ignored it.
“Emily.”
She spun. *Him.*
“You waited?”
“Had to explain—”
“You owe me nothing,” she said coldly.
“I’m *not* a director. IT bloke—freelanced on some film effects once, and Charlotte ran with it.”
“Why not say so? Daisy dreams of acting. Cruel trick.”
“Didn’t realise *how* serious it was till too late.” He exhaled. “And… I’m sorry I didn’t call. Phone got nicked. Had to replace it—lost your number. So I waited here.”
“Why?” Her pulse thudded.
“I *promised* I’d call. And Charlotte said awful things. I wanted to apologise. Emily—you’re real. Clever. No pretence.”
“‘Clever’ means ‘ugly,’ then?”
“Christ, no. I’m rubbish at this.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve got barely any time left here. So I’ll be blunt: Come with me.”
“You *barely* know me!”
“Then let’s fix that. Any… someone else?”
“Only Mum,” she mutteredAnd as she stood there, caught between the warmth of his words and the weight of her doubts, Emily realized that sometimes, the bravest thing wasn’t saying no—it was daring to say yes.
