Two melodies of one friendship
Ellie and Poppy have been friends for years. They live next door to each other and go to the same nursery. Their friendship feels as natural as the bench in the garden or the ancient apple tree at the end of the lane. They hide together under that tree when it rains, share the sweets Poppy always keeps in her pocket, and drift off to sleep in adjoining cribs during naptime, their dark and light hair tangled into a single messy knot.
Their families are different, like two distinct musical instruments, yet in the childhood orchestra their tunes somehow harmonise.
Ellie’s family is the proper one. Her father, David Clarke, works as an engineer at a car plant, and her mother, Margaret Clarke, teaches at a music school. Their flat always smells of vanilla from fresh scones and of polished oak floorboards. Order rules the house: books line the shelves, dinner arrives at the same time each evening, and weekend plans are discussed over a table covered with a crisp white cloth.
Margaret hopes Ellie will become a pianist, so from the age of six she sits her at a glossy black grand piano. The girl obediently runs scales while looking out the window at the carefree bustle of other children.
Poppys family is the creative chaos. Her mother, Claire, designs costumes for the local theatre, and their flat resembles a storage room for stage props. A cardboard knight in armour might lean in a corner, a vintage ballroom dress hangs from the back of a chair, and on the kitchen table, amid bolts of fabric and the smell of fried chips, sits a papiermâché head with eyebrows raised in surprise. Poppys father is absent, and Claire fills that invisible gap with love, work and a lighthearted, artistic disorganisation. There is no strict schedule, but there is always something interesting happening.
It is in Claires flat that Ellie first tastes a truly slightly mad life. The tidy girl in her pressed dress tries on crinolines and turbans, gets her hands messy with glue and paint, and, over tea with fragrant jam, listens to Claires backstage stories. For Ellie, Poppys house becomes a portal to a brighter, freer world.
For Poppy, Ellies house is an island of stability and comfort. She loves visiting when Margaret allows it, sitting at the immaculate table, eating perfect cheese scones, and feeling part of that predictable, reliable universe. David sometimes shows her simple coin tricks, and his calm, masculine energy offers her quiet reassurance. When Ellie sits at the piano, Poppy watches from a corner, mesmerised; the music feels not routine but magic.
The mothers regard each other with polite wariness. Margaret silently shakes her head at the perpetual creative clutter of Claires place when she drops by for a quick errand, feeling pleased that Ellie grows up in a disciplined atmosphere. Claire finds Margarets world a little dull, yet she is deeply grateful that Poppy always has a hot meal, a watchful eye and a tidy home.
Remarkably, the two worlds do not clash; they complement each other like yin and yang. When Poppy, in Year5, faces her first drama over a boy, she cries not on her mothers shoulder but on Ellies perfectly made bed, and Margaret, breaking all her rules, brings them cocoa with marshmallows on a tray. And when Ellie receives a four in maths and dreads going home, it is Claire who meets her in the stairwell with a bundle of fabric, feeds her pancakes and assures her that one grade is not a verdict, certainly not the end of the world.
Their friendship, woven from light and dark hair, proves stronger than it seemed. It is stitched not only from their own secrets and laughter but also from the scent of vanilla in one flat and theatre glue in the other, from two maternal loves that are different yet equally fierce, unwittingly building bridges over everyday differences and creating a single, richly colourful world for the girls.
Years slip by like pages torn from a calendar, arranging everything in its place. After school their paths diverge, but they do not breakrather they stretch like a resilient elastic band, ready to snap back at any moment.
The turning point arrives in the sixth form. Margaret is already scouting evening gowns for conservatoire concerts, but Ellie, ever obedient, suddenly pushes back.
I dont want to go to the conservatoire, she says one evening, staring past the piano.
A stunned silence fills the room.
But why? You have talent! Youve been at it all your life! Margarets voice trembles.
Ellie clutches her fists.
I dont want to live in a world of just scales and other peoples sonatas. I want to understand how the real world workshow money moves, how businesses run. That thats music too, Mum. Just a different kind.
Margaret feels desperate. To her it sounds like betrayalnot only of her dreams but of art itself.
It is Poppy, sitting that night in the kitchen with David, who finds the right words.
Mrs Clarke, she says softly, your Ellie isnt running away from music. Shes just looking for her own instrument.
Ellie enrols in the economics faculty in the capital. Her mathematical mind, nurtured by years of structured music, finds a home in complex formulas and financial models. She plunges into study, then work. Her days are booked minute by minute: courses, internships at a multinational firm, deadlines. She learns to speak the language of graphs and KPIs, and her wardrobe fills with expensive, perfectly tailored suits. She achieves everything she dreamed ofcareer, financial independence, status.
Yet in the evenings, returning to her sleek studio flat, she feels a hollow. Yes, this is her life, the one she chose. She likes it, sees the results, but something is missing.
Poppy stays in their hometown. She enrolls at an art college and, after graduating, opens a tiny workshop. There she creates wondersexclusive, bright clothing, reviving old, vintage pieces. Claire helps on every project, her decades of costume experience turning simple tasks into miniature works of art. They argue late into the night over a 1920s dress silhouette or the right lace for a vintage blouse, and in those moments Poppy feels especially lucky to have such a mother.
Their contact with Ellie reduces to occasional messenger messages and likes on photos. Ellie sees Poppys snapshots: her at work, a beautiful vintage dress on a mannequin, their cat napping in a basket of scraps. Amidst corporate trips and teambuilding events, those simple joys seem like a lost paradise.
Poppy watches her friends rapid rise with pride and a tinge of melancholy. My Ellie is conquering the world, she thinks, looking at a picture of Ellie against the skyscrapers of the financial district. In her workshop, scented with leather and paint, the air feels a little quieter.
Their lives go on, but the friendship, thought to be a thing of the past, suddenly resurfaces.
One day, while unpacking after a move, Ellie pulls an old photograph from the bottom of a suitcase. It shows the two of them, about seven years old, sitting under that same apple tree, arms around each other. Looking at those happy faces, a wave of loss crashes over her, her heart tightening as if she has lost a friend who once knew how to be joyous for no reason.
That night she writes not a short note but a long, heartfelt letter to Poppy. She talks not about successes but about how lonely the noisy city feels among millions, how her soul tires of numbers and charts, how she envies the simplicity and meaning that glimmers in every picture from Poppys workshop.
The reply arrives within fifteen minutes. Ellie, you fool, Poppy writes. I thought youd become so important that our creative mess no longer fits you. Ive missed you every day.
From then their new communication begins. They dont text every daytheir rhythms are still too differentbut video calls become a cleansing ritual. Ellie, sprawled on her Italianleather sofa, can listen for an hour as Poppy and Claire argue over the shade of beads for a theatrical headpiece. And Poppy, fascinated by Ellies complex professional challenges, offers plainspoken, intuitive advice that often proves surprisingly brilliant.
Eventually Ellie realises those calls are no longer enough. She wants to breathe the air of her hometown and hug her friend for real.
The decision comes suddenly, like a spring shower. Her boss offers a weeks leavethe first in three years. Youre burning out, he says gently, and Ellie has nothing to object to. Instead of flying to a seaside resort as colleagues suggest, she buys a train ticket home.
She doesnt tell her parents or Poppy. Something tender and warm pushes her to make the surprise.
The reunion with her parents is tearful and joyful. Margaret, forgetting her usual sternness, weeps while embracing her daughter, and David, silent but firm, squeezes her hand. Their cosy flat smells of vanilla again, just as in childhood, and for the first time in ages Ellie feels the weight in her chest start to melt.
That evening, over tea, she dials Poppy.
Hi, its Ellie. Im in town, she says.
A beat of silence passes, then a delighted shriek erupts.
Where are you?! Stay put, Im on my way!
Twenty minutes later, a breathless Poppy stands at the door. They stare for a moment, then rush into an embrace, like two sevenyearolds laughing and crying at once.
Ellie, is that really you? Poppy gasps, wiping tears with her sleeve. What a big bird youve become.
And youre exactly the same as ever, Ellie replies through laughter.
They sit in Margarets kitchen, and time seems to rewind. Only now, instead of cocoa with marshmallows, sparkling wine clinks in glasses, and instead of school lessons, their conversation drifts over adult lives. Yet the feeling of total understanding and lightness remains unchanged.
The next evening they walk to a café. While they talk, time slips by unnoticed.
At the next table sits a young man reading a book. His gaze keeps drifting back to their table, where occasional laughter bubbles up. When Poppy spills wine on herself and goes to the washroom, he cant resist and approaches Ellie.
Sorry to be forward, he says shyly, but I couldnt help noticing you literally glow when you talk. Its rare these days to see genuine, lively conversation.
Ellie, usually reserved with strangers, smiles and thinks, What would Poppy do now? She answers, We havent seen each other for ages. Were catching up.
Poppy returns, eyes the stranger and says, This is Max, introducing him. Hes fascinated by our friendship.
And rightly so, Poppy adds without a hint of embarrassment. Sit down, since youve already started chatting. Just a warningour talks can get odd. Weve just moved from avantgarde fashion cuts to the intricacies of corporate law.
Max turns out to be a local blogger who writes profiles of ordinary yet intriguing city folk. He is so moved by their storytwo friends whose paths split but who now find each other againthat he asks permission to write about them and takes their numbers.
You know, he says as he leaves, in a world where everyone talks through screens, your story is a breath of fresh air. Its becoming a rarity.
Poppy raises an eyebrow. So, Ellie? Did you like him?
Its not about him, Ellie waves off, a faint smile betraying her. Just tonight proves another thing. When you step toward your past, the future tosses pleasant surprises your way.
They exit the café. The air is crisp, streetlights shimmer in puddles. Walking sidebyside on the wet pavement, they remain quietnot because theres nothing to say, but because everything important has already been spoken. In that silence lies the promise that their roads will no longer part.
The following morning Max calls Ellie, his voice excited and a little mysterious.
Its not just for the article, he says. Yesterday I spoke with the owner of a boutique chain. Hes looking for partners for a collaborationmodern business meets handcrafted history. I showed him photos of your friends work He wants to meet you and Poppy.
Ellie watches the familiar courtyard outside her flat. Three days ago her world was confined to office walls; now destiny offers her something she once feared to dream ofnot merely reviving a friendship, but weaving their lives together for real. Creating something new. The harmony and calculation that have always lived inside her could join with Poppys knack for breathing life into the ordinary.
Alright, she finally says. Lets meet at Poppys workshop. I think thats the right place.
She hangs up, understanding that this is not just a business opportunity. Its a chance to rewrite her story, this time in a completely different key.
