Another Problem…
“Jules, come on, please,” begged Emmy, tugging at her sleeve.
“I don’t want to. I don’t know anyone there. Go alone or ask Lizzie, maybe Kate,” Julia replied, barely looking up from her textbook. “Exams are coming up—I need to study.”
“Kate’s cramming, Lizzie won’t go without her Simon, and it’s awkward going alone—like I’m chasing after Oliver.”
“Aren’t you?” Julia arched a brow.
“Jules, please…” Emmy clasped her hands together in pleading.
“Fine. But if you ditch me there, we’re done,” Julia warned, rising from the sofa.
One of the seniors had parents working abroad for a year, leaving his flat empty. Every Saturday, it turned into a student gathering—older undergrads, recent graduates, even a few dropouts swapping stories and looking down on the freshmen with their newfound, fleeting wisdom.
Emmy had stumbled in by accident months ago, dragged along by a short-lived fling. They broke up, but she kept coming—mostly because of Oliver. Now, with exams looming and no chance to bump into him on campus, she needed Julia as a buffer.
Julia pulled on her jeans and an oversized white blouse, tucking in just one side. On her slim frame, it looked effortlessly cool. She lined her eyes, shook out her hair, and turned to Emmy, who was practically vibrating with impatience.
“What are we waiting for?” Julia asked.
“Honestly, the eyeliner suits you. Mysterious, like a heroine from some old novel.”
“One condition—if Oliver’s not there, we leave immediately.”
“Deal,” Emmy agreed too quickly.
The door swung open, revealing a woman in jeans and a rugby shirt, cigarette dangling from her lips, wild curls framing her face. She squinted through the smoke, jerked her head toward the living room, and vanished. Inside, muffled music and laughter hummed.
“Keep your shoes on—nobody bothers here,” Emmy whispered as Julia reached for her trainers. She tried to play it cool, but her stiff shoulders betrayed her. The flat smelled of stale beer and crisps. A half-empty table stood centre stage, ringed by bottles of cheap wine and vodka. Couples lounged on sofas; a pair argued over dart scores; another swayed by the window, if you could call stepping in place dancing. Nobody glanced their way—or if they did, their eyes slid right past. What was there to say to first-years?
Julia perched on the edge of a couch. The doorbell rang, and the rugby-shirted woman reappeared, trailing two lads. The room erupted—handshakes, backslaps, even the dancers broke off to greet them.
“There he is!” Emmy shot up and beelined for Oliver. He barely glanced at her, replying with a bored shrug, while his mate—taller, older, with sharp grey eyes—studied Julia. She dropped her gaze.
“Hi. Bored?” He slid beside her. Up close, he looked even older. “Haven’t seen you before. Fancy a dance?” His hand was warm, his grip firm.
They shuffled by the window. The music was low enough to talk over—course, halls or home, favourite lecturers. More people trickled in, making the flat feel like a TARDIS, bigger on the inside.
When Emmy reappeared, her smile was brittle. “I’m heading out.”
“Me too,” Julia said, regret darting through her as she untangled from her dance partner.
“I’ll walk you,” he offered. “Just let me say goodbye.”
Outside, Emmy muttered, “Prat,” glaring at the pavement.
Julia barely heard her. Then the door clicked open, and there he was.
“Alright, ladies, proper introductions—Callum.”
“Callum Hart? The rugby captain? No wonder you looked familiar!” Emmy squeaked.
“You follow rugby?”
“Ex-boyfriend was obsessed. Never missed a match.” She babbled the whole walk home, while Julia stayed quiet. At her door, Emmy pressed, “We’ll see you again, right?”
“Bye,” Julia said, turning toward her building.
“Jules, wait!” Callum jogged after her. Emmy’s lips pursed.
The night air was cool. They lingered, neither wanting to leave. He talked about interning at a local paper, dreams of broadcasting.
“You’ll hear my name someday,” he said, almost smug. “So, teaching, eh? Always fancied moulding young minds?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just asking.” He grinned, then pulled out his phone. “Give me your number.”
“Lost yours, did you?” She handed hers over, then heard his ringtone. Heat prickled her neck—this wasn’t over.
That night, Emmy called. “Didn’t peg you for a dark horse. Rugby captain, seriously? Spill—did he kiss you?”
“We didn’t even walk. I came straight back to study.” She didn’t mention the number.
Two days later—after she’d given up hope—Callum rang. Her last exam was over. Summer stretched ahead. They went punting, then café-hopping.
Soon, they were inseparable. His beat-up car took them beyond the city—picnics, swimming.
One rainy afternoon, he led her to a friend’s flat, letting himself in.
“Where’s your friend?” she asked, stepping back. “Bring girls here often?”
He caught her wrist. “Just tea, chat. Friend’s away—I’m keeping an eye on the place.”
She stayed. What happened next felt inevitable.
After that, they met there often. Then he left for a “work trip.”
Until Emmy dropped the bomb: “You know he’s married, right? Kid’s barely one.”
Julia didn’t believe her—until she did. The daytime-only meetings, the excuses about deadlines. She texted him furiously, turned off her phone.
Then the nausea started.
That first reckless time—they hadn’t been careful. She couldn’t keep it. Not now. The clinic doctor’s icy stare, the humiliating questions. Paid, no questions asked.
The anaesthesia dragged her under before she could panic.
Her mother noticed only her pallor. Lectures resumed. Julia ached for Callum, half-wanting to forgive him.
Then bespectacled Neil sat beside her in class.
“You’re seeing Hart?” he whispered.
“None of your business.”
“His wife’s lovely. Kid’s just turned one.”
“Why tell me this?”
“So you don’t waste hope. He’ll string you along until you crack. You deserve better.” He paused. “I like you. Didn’t think you’d noticed.”
She hadn’t—not really. But love didn’t vanish with the truth.
Then Callum reappeared at her door.
“Jules, please. I couldn’t lose you. I’ve missed you—”
She saw the desperation in his eyes, almost caved.
“Yeah, you’re married. That means something.”
“It doesn’t! Love isn’t about paperwork—”
“So your wife’s a problem? Am I?”
The words sealed it. She walked away.
Later, she spotted his car. Kissed Neil on the cheek where Callum could see. He never came back.
To forget, she let Neil walk her home. He was smart, funny, saved her in seminars.
“Ever thought of journalism?” she asked once.
“Prefer teaching. Less spin.”
Her mother approved: “He’ll go far. Headmaster, at least.”
They married after graduation. Neil wrote textbooks, joined the Department for Education. She taught part-time after their daughter came.
Years later, Emmy burst in: “Guess who’s back? Oliver! We’re dating now. Oh—and Callum’s in London. Divorced, remarried some editor’s daughter. Career move, clearly.”
Julia’s chest tightened. All that talk of “problems”—gone for the right connections.
At parents’ evening, a girl named Hart, Daisy, appeared in her class.
“You knew her father?” the mother asked.
“We… crossed paths. He’s in broadcasting now?”
“Small paper, actually. Didn’t work out.”
Walking home, Julia thought of Callum. Her life was good—loving husband, bright child, work she enjoyed.
Maybe love wasn’t wildfire. Maybe it was the quiet glow of the hearth—steady, lasting.
