Emma Can’t Lie Under the Spires
At school, Oliver wasn’t known for good behaviour, though he excelled in his studies. Teachers praised his grades but often scolded his mischief. Handsome and charming, girls flocked to him, and he took advantage, switching girlfriends often.
Charlotte had been in his class since Year One. By Year Six, she realised she was far heavier than the other girls, and the cruel nickname “Blubber” followed her everywhere. Though she pretended not to care, the older she got, the sharper the sting became—especially as her classmates started whispering about crushes and who had pulled whose hair. No one tugged Charlotte’s plaits or whispered about her. The boys just called her that awful name out of habit. At home, she cried into her pillow.
“Mum, why am I so fat? Why am I the only one in class like this?” she sobbed.
“Darling, don’t fret,” her mother soothed. “You’ll grow out of it. You’re still young.” But even she knew her daughter’s weight wasn’t just puppy fat.
Oliver was the worst. By secondary school, he dated Grace, a beautiful but spiteful girl who loved mocking Charlotte. He egged Grace on, laughing as they teased her. Perhaps he wanted to impress her. Charlotte endured it silently, tears rolling down her round cheeks.
Time passed. School ended, and their paths diverged—Oliver to a construction degree, Grace to college, Charlotte to university. Years went by without them crossing paths.
One evening, Oliver returned from the lake at the park’s edge, still buzzing from celebrating a work bonus with mates. Laughter faded as he noticed a woman alone by the water, tossing bread to ducks. When she looked up, he was lost in her blue eyes—warm, bright, mesmerising.
“Oliver,” he said, offering his hand. “Your name, lovely stranger? Fancy a walk? Or better yet, marry me straight away? Here’s my card.”
She hesitated, frowning, but took it before turning away. He jogged after her.
“Wait! If I offended you, forgive me. Had one too many pints. Call me—I’d love a chance to make it up.”
The next day, his phone lit up: Charlotte. His heart leapt.
They met that evening. She arrived smiling, and their date was perfect. Over the months, Oliver fell hard. She was kind, well-read, knitted, played tennis—nothing like the women he’d dated before. At twenty-eight, he’d had flings, even lived with someone, but this was different.
Yet one thing unsettled him: her faith. She attended church twice a month. He never asked why.
“Maybe she’s private. Trauma, perhaps?” he mused. “Odd that her socials are locked, though she introduces me to friends. Why no couple photos? Shyness, I suppose.”
He shrugged it off. Boundaries were healthy. In time, she’d open up.
Six months in, he suggested moving in together.
“I’m sorry, Oliver, but no,” Charlotte said gently. “We’re moving fast, and well… I’m a believer. Not fanatical, but I keep to my principles. I won’t live with a man unless we’re married.”
He admired her all the more for it.
Later, after a project wrapped, he whisked her away for a weekend in the Cotswolds.
“Four hours by car?” she asked.
“Closer to three if I speed,” he teased.
They laughed the whole way. Over tea in a cosy café, he blurted out,
“Marry me, Charlotte. Let’s find a jeweller right now.”
She tensed. “Oliver, I’ve told you—faith matters. You’ve never even been to church. For something this serious, you’d need to confess, seek blessings from my parents—”
“But you’ve not introduced me to them!” He spotted a spire through the window. “Come on.”
Inside, he marched to the vicar. “I’ll confess right now, Father. Marry us, please.”
The vicar sighed. “Marriage requires preparation. But I’ll hear your confession.”
It was brief—three minutes of half-remembered regrets. The vicar murmured about sincerity and absolved him.
Oliver turned, proposing again. Charlotte walked out silently.
“Why won’t you answer?” he begged outside.
“I can’t lie under the spires,” she said softly. “You really don’t remember me, do you? I’m Charlotte Whitmore. From school.”
His stomach dropped. Memories flooded back—the taunts, her tears. He sank onto a bench.
“Minus six stone,” she whispered.
He was speechless. Shame burned through him. He even recalled her father cornering him once: “Harm my girl again, and you’ll answer to me.”
“I changed,” she continued. “Found faith when I first spoke to a vicar. He told me to forgive. I tried… but in there, I realised I haven’t. Not truly.”
“Charlotte, please—”
“You broke me, Oliver. And today, God showed me I can’t be with you.” She walked away.
He sat for hours until the vicar found him. Over tea, Oliver confessed properly this time.
Driving home, he gazed at the stars. “God, help her forgive me. Please.”
Her phone was off when he called. All he had left was faith—and hope.
