—Emma, love, are you nearly ready? Emily and James will be here any minute, said Simon impatiently, poking his head into the bedroom.
—Just a tick, came Emma’s reply, her back still turned as she leaned toward the wardrobe mirror. She swiped on a last dab of lipstick, shook her head to tousle her perfectly styled hair, smoothed the neckline of her dress, and only then turned to face him.
—There. Ready, she said with a smile.
—Blimey, you’re gorgeous, Simon murmured, pulling her into his arms.
—Careful—lipstick, Emma warned, tilting her head back to avoid smudging his shirt but still giving him a tender, slightly mischievous look.
—Em… Simon began, his voice suddenly thick, but the doorbell cut him off. He sighed, releasing her. —Right then.
Emma gave herself one last glance in the mirror, adjusted her dress, and followed Simon to the door.
In the hallway, James was already laughing loudly, clutching a massive bouquet of roses. Beside him stood Emily, her arms wrapped around a gift bag.
—Where’s the birthday girl? Not even greeting her guests? James boomed, rustling the bouquet’s wrapping. His eyes landed on Emma, and he stepped forward. —There she is! Em, you’re radiant as ever. Simon, watch out—I might just steal her. Em, give us a kiss.
He planted a loud smack on her cheek before handing over the flowers. —Now, let me wish you—
—Ah, save the speeches for the table, mate, Simon interrupted.
—Simon, grab the slippers, I’ll put these in water, Emma said, whisking the bouquet toward the kitchen.
The flat instantly felt louder, warmer. James rubbed his hands together, eyeing the spread in the middle of the room.
—Em, you’re a bloody magician. This feast is fit for a king. I might drown in my own drool, he moaned theatrically.
—You’ll manage, Emma said, returning with the roses now arranged in a vase. She placed them on the side table by the window.
—Prat, Emily muttered under her breath, rolling her striking hazel eyes.
Emma rested a calming hand on her shoulder—just as the doorbell rang again.
—This is Laura, and this is my sister Emma, Max introduced, handing Emma another bouquet.
—Lovely to meet you, Emma said warmly. Laura barely nodded. —Sorry, we’re out of spare slippers.
—No worries, she can have mine, Max said.
Emma shot her brother a look that clearly said, What on earth do you two have in common?
—Invite everyone to the table, sis, Max said, blissfully oblivious.
As they settled in, Simon poured whisky for the men and wine for the women. Laura sat stiffly, aloof, barely touching the salad Max nudged toward her.
Bloody hell, she’s glacial. Max has had girlfriends before, but at least they had a pulse… Emma’s thoughts were interrupted by Simon raising his glass for a toast, his eyes soft on her.
The room quieted. Glasses clinked, cutlery scraped against plates.
Emma glanced around. James was devouring his food, loudly complimenting her cooking while shooting furtive looks at Emily, who stared fixedly at her plate. Laura chewed slowly, ignoring everyone. Max whispered something to her, and Simon kept everyone’s glasses topped up. His expression said, See? Nothing to worry about.
When the guests had eaten their fill, Simon fetched his guitar. After a few tuning notes, he launched into “You’re Still the One,” his voice warm and smooth.
Emma swayed slightly, then joined in. They harmonised beautifully. After the song, silence lingered briefly before requests started flying.
Simon strummed the opening chords of “Wonderwall,” Emma’s favourite, when Emily suddenly stood and slipped into the kitchen.
—Brilliant, Simon. That deserves another drink, James declared as the song ended.
—I’ll get the roast, Emma whispered to Simon before following Emily.
She found her by the open window, cigarette trembling between her fingers.
—What’s wrong? Emma asked, joining her, watching as ash dusted the sill. Emily brushed at it vainly.
—You used to love when Simon sang. Why’d you leave?
—Still do, Emily said, glancing back at the door.
From the other room, a tipsy rendition of “Sweet Caroline” erupted, James’s voice loudest of all.
—Can you do me a favour? Emily asked abruptly.
—How much?
—Not money. She took a deep drag.
—Then what? Did you and James row?
—Em. Emily flicked her cigarette out the window. —I’ve fallen for someone. Lost my head completely.
—Em… What about James?
—What’s James got to do with it? she snapped, then lowered her voice. —What’s James got to do with it?
—You’ve got a family. A son.
—It’s been rubbish between us for ages.
—Does he suspect?
—Probably.
Emma waited.
—New doctor at the surgery. Just transferred from up north. Saw him and—that was it. I’ve been swapping shifts just to be near him. Think I’m terrible?
—Bit of a shock. What now?
—I can’t breathe without him. If it weren’t for our son… We met at Mum’s while she was away. But she’s back now. No place left.
Emma bit her lip.
—You and Simon are out all day, no kids. I’ve no one else to ask.
—Bit cruel to remind me, don’t you think?
—Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.
—You want to use our flat?
—Yes. Just a few hours. Please.
Emma thought of James, how he’d pined for Emily, how he’d worshipped her.
—He’s married, isn’t he?
—So? We’re in love. I can’t help it. When I see him, everything else vanishes. My heart pounds so loud, I’m sure everyone hears.
—No, Emma said sharply. —Ask for anything else, but not our flat.
Simon poked his head in. —Ladies, the roast— Oh. His eyes darted between them before he retreated.
—What are you doing? James is a good man. Think of your son.
—He’ll understand when he’s older.
—This won’t end well.
—Fine. Emily’s voice was hollow.
They returned to silence. Later, as plates were cleared, James drunkenly stared at Emily, who avoided his gaze.
—We should go. Need to fetch our son, Emily announced abruptly.
After awkward goodbyes, Emma and Simon tidied up.
—What were you two whispering about? he asked.
—They had a row. She was venting. Emma sighed. —I’m knackered.
Simon kissed her forehead. —You’re even prettier like this.
That night, Emma told him everything. He praised her for refusing, saying it wasn’t their mess to fix.
The phone woke them hours later.
—James and Emily never picked up their son. Their phones are off. What if they’ve crashed? Emma fretted.
Simon’s phone rang. —He’s at the station. Hit Emily. Called an ambulance himself.
They learned later: in the taxi, they’d argued. She’d tried to drop him home first. He’d dozed off, woken to find her with the cabbie. He’d lashed out—Emily had stumbled, hit her head.
Two years for manslaughter. After the funeral, they took in their son.
James emerged from prison quiet, hollow. When he visited, now a monk named Theophan, he spoke softly.
—I pray for you all. For Emily. She’s in my dreams. We talk.
On the drive home, Emma whispered, —D’you think he’s lost it?
—No. Just sees things differently now. Simon hesitated. —He said we’d have a child.
Simon didn’t argue. Emma glowed with hope. He didn’t believe James—but he believed Theophan.
