Emma closed the file and emailed it to her work account. On Monday at the office, she’d open it, print it, stamp it, and submit the report. Done! Freedom at last.
She worked as an accountant for a small London firm. The workload was heavy, but the pay was decent, and the office was just a short walk from her flat—no need to waste time cramming into public transport during rush hour. She enjoyed the fresh air on her way to work.
The accounting department was all women. Emma kept to herself. Most of her colleagues had families and children, while she was single. If anyone asked for help or to take on extra work, she never refused, often finishing tasks at home in the evenings or on weekends, just like now.
She woke early on Saturday, double-checked everything one last time, and sent the file. Now she could freshen up, have breakfast, and then… Her thoughts were interrupted by her phone ringing.
“Emma, hi!” a cheerful female voice chimed.
“Hello?” Emma answered cautiously. “Who is this?”
“Honestly, it’s me—Megan!”
“Megan?” Emma repeated skeptically. “You’re in London?”
“Not yet, almost there,” the voice laughed.
Emma didn’t know what to say. Out of everyone she expected to hear from, Megan—her old school friend—was the last. After her betrayal fifteen years ago, they hadn’t spoken. Now she regretted never changing her number.
“Em, you’re the only person I know here,” Megan broke the silence. “Can you meet me? Please. I divorced Mark ages ago. Time for a fresh start.” Her voice sounded shaky, almost guilty.
Emma didn’t want to see her. But so much time had passed—old wounds had healed. And she *was* curious about news from back home. Fine. She’d meet her, help her get settled, and that would be that.
“What time’s your train?” she asked flatly.
“Twenty minutes. You’ll come?” Megan’s tone brightened.
“It’ll take me an hour—bus, then the Tube. Wait in the main hall. Don’t wander off.” She could hardly believe she was agreeing.
“I’ll wait,” Megan promised.
With a sigh, Emma glanced at the cold kettle, washed up quickly, dabbed on makeup, dressed, and left. Her tiny one-bed flat in a London suburb was modest but affordable.
Inside the station’s bustling hall, Emma hesitated. How would she spot Megan in this crowd? She hadn’t seen her in fifteen years—would she even recognize her? Emma walked slowly, keeping to the center.
“Emma!” The voice rang out.
Near a kiosk, a familiar but changed Megan rushed toward her—fuller-figured, blonde highlights, heavy makeup aging her, but unmistakable. She threw her arms around Emma.
“Finally! I’m dead on my feet.” She linked arms, dragging Emma toward a wheeled suitcase and an oversized tote.
“You can’t just leave your things like that—they’ll get stolen,” Emma said automatically.
“Didn’t happen. Besides, my money and ID are safe.” Megan tapped her chest.
Emma rolled her eyes. No one around seemed to care. Megan stacked the tote on the suitcase and grinned.
“Where do you need to go?” Emma exhaled.
“You’re still mad at me, aren’t you? Listen… can I stay with you a few days? Just till I find a flat?” Megan bit her lip.
*Unbelievable. She steals my boyfriend, now wants free lodgings. Should’ve ignored the call…*
“Come on,” Emma muttered, heading for the exit.
Megan chattered as they walked, but Emma stayed silent, feigning focus on navigating the crowd. Eventually, Megan gave up, huffing behind her.
“I thought you’d live in central London. This doesn’t even feel like the city,” Megan complained when they reached the flat. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave soon. So… you live alone? Those men’s slippers by the door?”
*Should’ve moved those.* “Just for guests,” Emma lied.
Megan flopped onto the sofa, stretching her legs. “London! Can’t believe it.”
Emma made tea, sliced bread and ham for sandwiches.
“Got any wine? Let’s toast to reunion,” Megan suggested.
Emma fetched a half-finished bottle, poured two glasses. Megan drank eagerly, not noticing Emma barely sipped hers. She rambled about Mark—*handsome but horrible*—and a second, wealthy husband she’d married for money, then cheated on with his driver. The divorce drained her, but she’d gotten a payout. Now she was here, “starting over.”
“You were smart to leave right after school. Nothing back home but boredom…”
Emma hadn’t *needed* to come to London for accounting school. She and Mark had been together since Year 9. They’d planned to marry after her studies—until Megan got him drunk after prom and lied about a pregnancy. By the time the truth surfaced, they’d already wed and divorced.
Emma had cried, then left. No dreams of uni—just a quick qualification and independence. *”Don’t let Megan back in,”* her mum had said. *”If Mark forgot you that easily, he never loved you. Better now than after marriage.”*
Listening to Megan now, Emma was glad she’d never mentioned Ian.
They’d met six months ago on the Tube. A born-and-bred Londoner, his parents had bought him a flat but were picky about girlfriends. They’d liked Emma—*”proper, dignified, not like some transplants,”* his mother said.
After Mark, Emma hadn’t let anyone close. But with Ian, she’d imagined growing old together, weekends in the countryside, children, grandchildren…
Now he was away on business till Tuesday. She prayed Megan would be gone by then.
But days passed, and Megan stayed. She barely seemed to look for flats—too busy clubbing, stumbling home at dawn, sleeping while Emma worked. They never talked.
“Want me to handle it?” Ian offered once.
“No, I’ll do it,” Emma said quickly, dreading their meeting.
One evening, she came home to find Megan asleep on the sofa—wearing her dress, her bracelet glinting on Megan’s wrist. Emma seethed. Two weeks freeloading, now stealing her clothes?
“Meg, wake up!” she barked. Megan mumbled, eyes shut. “Up! Or I’ll dump water on you.”
“Why shout?” Megan cracked one eye.
“That’s *my* dress. *My* bracelet!”
“You begrudge me?” Megan slurred.
Emma glowered. “You promised to find a flat—”
“Kicking me out?” Megan sat up abruptly.
“I need my space. This flat’s too small. Take off the dress. Now.”
“Fine.” Megan yanked it over her head. Emma gasped—her *lingerie* too?
“This too?” Megan reached for the bra clasp.
“Keep it,” Emma snapped.
Now she understood why her blouse had smelled of Megan’s perfume.
“You’re leaving. You said you had money.”
“*Had*,” Megan sneered, tying a robe. “I’ll go tomorrow. Not at *night*, yeah?”
Emma scrubbed dishes angrily. The doorbell rang. Ian stood there.
“You weren’t supposed to come today.”
“Thought you needed help.” His gaze drifted past her.
Emma turned. Megan smirked.
“This your bloke? Quiet types—your thing, eh? I’m Meg. Come in, handsome.”
Emma could’ve strangled her.
Ian introduced himself—*smiling*.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Megan purred, swaying to the kitchen, legs on display.
She “accidentally” brushed against Ian, shot him looks. Emma fought tears. *Again. They always fall for her. All his sweet words—nothing.*
“Enjoy your tea. I’m up early.” She stormed out.
She hoped he’d follow. He didn’t.
Megan entered later, changed into jeans, tossed the bracelet onto the sofa.
“We’re off. Wouldn’t want to *disturb* you.”
“Ian?” He peeked in. She didn’t look.
The door slammed. Only then did Emma sob. She cursed herself for letting Megan in, for losing Ian. She’d dreamed of *everything* with him. Never again. Never trust *anyone*.
Later, washing dishes, she scrubbed Megan’s lipstick-stained cup like it carried plague.
The bell rang. Ian.
“Silly. I know what you thought. But you’d never have kicked her out otherwise. I know her type.”
“Where is she?”
“Where she belongs—a hotel. Played along, ‘took her away,’ booked her in, then told her off. Warned her never to come back. I’ll collect her things tomorrow.”
Emma buried her face in his chest.
“You thought I’d—what? Be like *Mark*?”
Her head jerked up.
“Meg talked. But I only*”And from that day on, Emma learned that true friendship—and love—never asks you to sacrifice your peace for someone else’s chaos.”*
