If Not for You…
Margaret and Clara had been friends since their earliest days, attending the same nursery and sharing a desk in school. As they grew older, Margaret blossomed into a striking beauty, always surrounded by admirers—life seemed effortless for her. Clara, however, was the quiet sort, one of those girls who faded into a crowd, her face never catching a second glance.
After school, Clara chose to study nursing, her calling clear in helping others. Margaret, convinced she didn’t need a degree to succeed, took a short course instead and found work in a beauty salon, shaping brows and applying lashes.
The two weathered every squabble and heartbreak together, hardly a day passing without meeting or talking on the phone. Margaret did most of the talking, Clara listening, offering sympathy over yet another failed romance or shared joy at the latest beau.
As often happens between friends, they fell for the same man.
Clara met Daniel first. He wasn’t dashing, merely ordinary—the kind of man with whom love and a quiet life might have grown. But happiness, as they say, rarely comes easy.
Clara was returning from the shops. An hour earlier, rain had lashed down, leaving puddles still glistening on the pavement. As she skirted a particularly wide one, she froze—a man on an electric scooter was hurtling toward her, eyes fixed somewhere past her. Unsure if he’d seen her, she yelped and jumped aside—straight into the puddle.
“Blasted riders! Blind as bats!” an old woman nearby huffed, shaking a crooked finger. “Nearly ran you over, didn’t he? Ought to watch where he’s going…”
The young man stopped and turned. Clara, meanwhile, clambered onto dry pavement, inspecting her mud-splattered legs with dismay.
“Sorry. Why’d you jump? I saw you—would’ve steered clear.” He rolled closer.
Clara wasn’t interested in apologies. She was too busy figuring where to step without sinking back into the murky water.
“Come on, I’ll give you a lift,” he offered.
“Leave me alone,” Clara snapped.
“I said sorry. Or d’you fancy wading? Where to?”
“Ten Churchill Street.”
Clara hesitantly gripped the handlebars as the scooter glided forward, wind whipping her face, breath stolen by the speed. She’d never ridden one before—terrified, really—but with him, fear vanished.
As they reached her building, he slowed. “Which door?” Warm breath tickled her ear, sending shivers down her neck.
“Third.”
He stopped right at the steps, neatly avoiding another puddle. Clara hopped off.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
Their eyes met at the same level. She noticed then—his tanned skin, the kindness in his gaze, a smile that made her pulse quicken.
“Daniel,” he said.
“Clara.”
“Proper mess, that. Fancy the pictures sometime? All my mates have skipped town, and going alone’s a bit grim.”
Clara shrugged. “Alright.”
“Tomorrow, seven o’clock. Right here.” With a grin, he sped off around the corner.
Clara floated home.
“Why the glow?” her mother asked.
“Nothing. Stepped in a puddle—gonna wash up.” She handed over the shopping and locked herself in the bathroom, replaying the encounter, skin prickling.
The next evening, she tugged on trainers and jeans, certain he’d arrive the same way.
“Off somewhere?” her mother called.
“The cinema. With Margaret,” Clara added.
“Don’t be late.”
Outside, Daniel was nowhere in sight. Her stomach dropped. Foolish, believing—
“Oi!”
She spun. There he was, grinning. Relief flooded her, cheeks burning as if he’d overheard her doubts.
“Hop on. Starts in twenty.”
Again, the rush of wind, the press of his chest against her back, heart stuttering with joy.
After the film, they walked back, talking easily. Daniel had left the scooter behind.
“Who was that bloke last night?” Margaret rang the next morning. “Spill it.”
“Mum told you?” Clara tensed.
“Course not. So—who is he?”
Clara burned to boast. She’d never had a beau before—Margaret cycled through them like gloves.
“Just some guy,” she lied. But he wasn’t. He’d noticed her. Asked her out. They’d meet again tonight.
Daniel waited scooter-less this time. They ambled through town—until Margaret appeared, as if she’d lain in wait.
“Hello!” she trilled, gaze locked on Daniel.
He stared back. Margaret smirked, flirting brazenly. Soon, Clara lagged behind, unnoticed as the two strolled ahead.
She crept home, switching off her phone. Margaret came the next day, contrite, confessing she’d fallen hard…
Clara’s anger didn’t last. They remained friends—even after Daniel and Margaret married.
Clara finished nursing school, landing a job at a private clinic. Margaret still worked at the salon, more for fun than pay. Daniel earned well.
They celebrated birthdays, New Year’s, weekends at the pub. Daniel grew ever dearer—Clara never let it show.
One midnight, her phone shrilled.
“Know what time it is?” she grumbled, seeing Daniel’s name.
“Margaret’s gone.” His voice cracked.
“What?”
“We were driving back from the cottage—she wanted to take the wheel… A tow truck shot right in front of us. She—she died instantly.”
“Where are you?”
Clara threw on clothes.
“Who called?” her mother mumbled, half-asleep.
“Margaret—accident. Hospital. Now.”
She snatched her white coat, blending in at reception. Dawn paled Daniel’s face as he lay wired to machines.
“How are you?”
“Can’t feel my legs. Should’ve been me.” His eyes swam with terror.
“Hush. You’re alive.”
A surgeon shrugged. “Nerves intact. Now we wait.”
Clara helped with funeral arrangements, visited Daniel daily. He spiraled—refusing food, snapping at her, drowning in guilt.
“We can’t keep him here,” the doctor said. “He needs rehab—massage, hope. A private carer’s best, if you can afford it.”
Daniel’s mother balked. “No money for that.”
Clara juggled shifts but couldn’t stay forever. His parents hired a young carer—pretty, lively. Daniel perked up.
Clara’s chest ached with jealousy. She visited less.
Two weeks later, Daniel’s mother rang, trembling.
“That girl—robbed us blind! Took the money, the silver—just vanished!”
Police had come and gone. The carer had drugged Daniel, looted the house, fled with forged references.
“Daniel won’t speak. Won’t eat. Clara—please.”
At his bedside, she pleaded. “You’re not to blame. Fight, Daniel!”
“Who needs me like this? Go.” He turned away.
“I do,” she whispered.
His laugh was bitter. “Out of pity? Don’t bother.”
Clara straightened. “Margaret thought you only took me to the pictures to make up for the puddle. Maybe she was right. But I was happy. Even when you chose her—I stayed. Cried into my pillow, but I stayed. And I’ll stay now. I’ll get you walking again. For Margaret. Then I’ll leave.”
“No more carers,” she told his parents. “I’ll do it.”
She worked nights, returning for injections, massages, exercises. Slowly, sensation returned. Clara bought a stationary bike, braces—pushing Daniel through pain and despair.
Then—he stood. Wobbly, brief. Then steps with crutches.
Hope ignited him. But as he improved, Clara withdrew. He’d never reciprocated her love—only friendship.
Her mother tried matchmaking. Clara refused every suitor. Her heart belonged to Daniel.
One evening, voices drifted from the kitchen. Clara stormed in, ready to shoo away another unwanted bachelor—and froze.
Daniel sat at the table. He rose unsteadily.
“Clara. We were just having tea,” her mother said softly.
“How—?”
“Came to thank you. I’m walking now—with a stick.” He paused. “Clara… I was selfish. When you said you needed me, I pretended not to hear. Too scared—thought it was pity. Feared you’d leave like the rest. But when you stopped coming… I realised what you truly were to me.” He pulled out a ring. “Marry me?”
Clara stared, silent.
“Too late? Is there someone else?”
“I waited so long…”
Two years later, Daniel walked unaided, just a slight limp. Back at work, he doted on Clara—now heavy with child, weeks from birth. He bought fruit, insisted on vitamins, escorted her daily.
A man can conquer anything—if someone believes in him.
