**The Suitor**
After dinner, Emily tucked her legs under her on the sofa and picked up her book. She had just lost herself in the heroine’s adventures when her mum walked in, holding her buzzing phone. The screen displayed a beaming photo of Sophie Wilson.
Reluctantly, Emily set the book aside and answered, throwing her mother a pointed look. At last, her mum took the hint and stepped out—though Emily had no doubt she’d linger by the door, eavesdropping.
For five minutes, she and Sophie chatted about nothing in particular. Then Sophie sprang the invitation: her birthday celebration, scheduled for Saturday at her family’s cottage.
“Wasn’t your birthday last month?” Emily frowned.
“What does it matter? I’ll celebrate it every day if I fancy. It’s just an excuse to see everyone.”
“Or we could meet without an excuse,” Emily countered.
“No, there has to be intrigue, anticipation. My bloke’s mate is visiting from Germany. He doesn’t know it’s not my real birthday. If he thinks it’s a proper occasion, he won’t bow out. Lizzie—remember her?—went absolutely bonkers when she heard he was coming. He’s some big shot in film, a director or something. Lizzie’s desperate to act. Clings to him like a limpet, honestly. Drives me spare.”
“Ah. So where do I fit in?”
“It’s a party, Em. You’re part of the fun.” Sophie’s tone sharpened with impatience.
“Background filler, then?” Emily sighed. “Why the cottage? There’s still snow on the ground.”
“Don’t be daft. So he can’t bolt,” Sophie giggled, pleased with herself. “Come on, it’ll be a laugh. Barbecue, drinks. We’ve still got the Christmas tree up—never got round to taking it down. And with all the snow, it’s not like we could’ve driven back anyway. Please? For me?” Emily could practically see her jutting out her lower lip.
“Fine,” she relented.
She agreed only because Saturday was four days away. Plenty of time for something—illness, a crisis, anything—to cancel the trip.
The moment Emily hung up, her mum reappeared.
“Where’s she dragging you off to?”
“You heard, Mum,” Emily smirked.
Unfazed, her mother pressed on. “Good. You’re always cooped up here. Nearly forty and still single. I’ll never see grandchildren at this rate.”
“Potential husbands aren’t daffodils, Mum. They don’t sprout in cottage gardens,” Emily joked. “I’m thirty-two. Eight whole years till forty. And children should come from love, not your grandbaby cravings…”
Her mum pursed her lips, waved a dismissive hand, and left—only to return seconds later, planting herself in front of Emily again.
“Always with your nose in a book. Living other people’s lives while yours passes you by. Books won’t land you a husband. Time’s ticking—”
“You heard me say I’m going. I’ll bring back grandchildren,” Emily teased.
Her mum shook her head, wounded.
“Sorry.” Emily leapt up and hugged her.
On Friday, Sophie called again, reminding her to dress smartly—”can’t let the foreign guest think we’re riffraff”—and that she and her husband would pick her up at seven sharp.
“So early?” Emily groaned.
“Road trip, heating the cottage, prepping… It’ll be dusk before we’re done.”
At six a.m., her alarm blared. Emily blinked, struggling to recall why she’d set it so early on a weekend. Then her mum bustled in, announcing breakfast was ready.
Memory crashed back—the cottage, the party. Emily groaned. So much for a quiet weekend. She trudged to the shower. An hour later, she stepped outside to find Sophie’s husband’s car already idling by the curb. Sliding into the back seat, Emily mumbled a greeting.
“Cheer up. Nap if you want,” Sophie granted magnanimously.
The whole drive, Sophie chirped away. “How does her bloke stand it?” Emily wondered before dozing off.
The cottage village was picturesque and empty. Untouched snow blanketed the gardens, save for tyre tracks crisscrossing the lanes. They weren’t the only ones braving the cold.
Inside, a towering artificial Christmas tree stood in the corner. For a fleeting moment, Emily felt whisked back two months to New Year’s. Sophie’s husband, Jack, stoked the wood burner, filling the air with smoky, piney nostalgia.
Before the fire caught properly, two more cars pulled up. Through the window, Emily watched familiar faces spill out—including Lizzie, who bounded through the snow like an overexcited puppy, her laughter echoing loud enough to alert the whole village.
From the other car emerged a tall stranger in glasses.
“That’s the director? Doesn’t look the part,” Emily murmured.
“How many directors have you met?” Sophie shot back.
As the group approached, Sophie nudged her away from the window. “Enough gawking.” She flitted off to greet them while Emily retreated to the kitchen, unpacking groceries.
“Your mate—really a director?” she asked Jack.
Before he could answer, the cottage erupted in noise—stomping, shouts, and Lizzie’s shrill giggles dominating all. The stranger, Paul, carried bags to the kitchen, shook hands with Jack, and nodded at Emily, his gaze lingering.
“Need a hand?”
The kitchen swiftly overcrowded. The fire crackled cheerfully; the room buzzed. Emily decided coming hadn’t been a mistake.
After sandwiches and tea, the men headed outside to set up the barbecue while the women chopped salads and boiled potatoes. Toasts were raised, gifts given (Sophie accepted them without a shred of embarrassment), then dancing began. Lizzie glued herself to Paul, who drank little and stayed sober. When she slipped away, he asked Emily to dance.
“You’re really from Germany? How long have you lived there?” she asked.
Paul tried answering, but the music drowned him out. Lizzie returned, cranked up a frenetic tune, and nearly toppled the tree in her solo performance. Glittering baubles shattered. Amid the cleanup chaos, Emily snatched her coat, shoved on her boots, and slipped outside.
Dusk had deepened into ink-black night, the sky ablaze with stars invisible in the city.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Paul’s voice came from behind.
“They’re clearer here. Closer.”
“Don’t you have stars in Germany?”
“Never had time to look. Missed this.”
“Ever think of moving back?”
“At first, constantly. Then… you adjust. Pros and cons.”
“What are you working on now? Any new films?”
“There you are!” Jack appeared in the doorway. “Coming? You’ll miss the fun.”
“Be right there,” Paul answered for them both.
“Not your scene either, huh?” he said once the door closed.
“Too much noise. Wish I could leave.”
“Why not? I’ve got the car. Fancy a lift? Your place?”
“And my things? Sophie’ll kill me.”
“Ring her later. Say I stole you. Well?”
“Seriously?” She searched his face for mockery. “Let’s go.”
The engine’s growl went unnoticed—or ignored—inside. Emily leaned back, dozing until the city lights woke her.
“Sorry. Did I snore?” She smoothed her flattened hair.
“Where to?”
She gave directions, but he cut her off: “I remember the city.”
“Whose car is this?”
“Rented. Feel naked without wheels.”
At her doorstep, he asked for her number.
“I’ll call tomorrow. You’re… different from your friends.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he drove off.
Back inside, her mum fretted. “What happened? You said tomorrow!”
“Too crowded. You know I hate sleeping elsewhere.”
Next morning, Sophie rang, screeching: “Played the wallflower, then nicked my guest!”
Emily tried explaining, but Sophie ranted until the call died.
Paul didn’t ring the next day. Or the next. “Why ask for my number? Should’ve stayed with his Gretchens. Who’d pick me over Lizzie? Thirty-two—sounds better than ‘pushing forty.’” She forced him from her mind.
Wednesday brought sleet, shifting between snow and rain. March was fickle. Head bowed against the weather, Emily turned toward her building when a car honked nearby. She ignored it.
“Emily.”
She spun. Paul.
“Waited for you. Let’s talk in the car.”
After a pause, she slid into the passenger seat.
“I owe you an explanation—”
“Owe me nothing.”
“I’m no director. IT bloke. Did some effects for a film once, and Sophie ran with it.”
“Why not say so? Lizzie dreams of acting.”
“Didn’t get the chance. Then it felt too late.”
“Two years later, as Emily rocked their newborn son in the cottage garden—now their permanent home—while Paul grilled burgers and her mum fussed over the roses, she silently thanked the universe for snowstorms, mistaken identities, and impulsive decisions that led to this ordinary, perfect happiness.”
