In a quiet little town nestled between gloomy pine forests and dull, windswept fields, where autumn leaves skittered down the cobbled streets, life moved at the pace of a drowsy river. Near the end of his shift, Tom’s phone buzzed—his girlfriend Chloe’s custom ringtone slicing through the silence.
“Tom, I’m at the salon. Come pick me up—you know the one,” she said breezily.
“Right, be there soon,” he muttered, hanging up.
Tom knew Chloe would be at least two hours—she always was—so he took his time. After parking outside the salon, he killed the wait at a nearby café, figuring she’d call when she was done. The waiter swooped in the moment he sat down.
He ate, scrolled through the headlines, watched a few reels, but still, no call from Chloe. “Wonder how much this visit’s setting her dad back this time?” he mused. Not that Chloe ever paid—her father, a slick businessman with money to burn, footed every bill, and she never skimped.
They’d been together seven months, sometimes sharing his modest little flat. But when Chloe got bored of his “pokey place,” she flounced back to her parents’ mansion in the countryside. An only child, spoiled rotten. She’d introduced Tom to her folks, though her mother, Victoria, had looked down her nose at him—just a 27-year-old software developer, after all. Chloe must’ve told mum to back off, because while frosty, she kept the jibes to a minimum. Still, Tom never felt welcome.
And truth be told, he was starting to realise Chloe wasn’t the one. But the idea of marriage nagged at him, especially after her father’s little chat: “Make my girl happy, you’ll never want for anything. Break her heart, and you’ll regret it.” Subtle.
Chloe was gorgeous, sure, but high-maintenance. He couldn’t fathom why she needed three hours at the salon—she was already flawless. Sharp, witty, but entitled, thanks to Daddy’s money. Just last night she’d announced:
“Tom, we’re flying to the Maldives in ten days. Dad’s covering it. I need a break.”
“From… what, exactly? You don’t work,” he’d pointed out.
“Daddy can sort your time off, don’t fuss.”
It grated. Their relationship was a tangle, and Tom knew deep down they were worlds apart. But still, he’d been ready to marry her. Nursing his coffee, he suddenly heard:
“Tom? That you?” A bloke across the room grinned like an old mate.
“Dave? Bloody hell!” Tom shot up, recognising his childhood friend. “Twelve years, is it?”
“Mate, you’ve filled out!” Dave clapped him on the back. “Look proper respectable now.”
“And you’re not that scrawny kid anymore,” Tom laughed. “What brings you here?”
“Waiting for my sister, Emily. She’s at the Royal Academy—final year. Concert’s tonight, but classical’s not my thing, so I ducked in here,” Dave said.
“Emily? How is she?” Tom brightened.
“Absolute prodigy. No connections, just pure talent—got in on her own merit,” Dave said proudly.
“I’ve got to see her!” Tom blurted.
“I’ll call her in half an hour—we’re meeting after. Fancy joining? You on your own?”
“Waiting for Chloe, my fiancée. She’s at the salon, should be done soon.”
“Perfect, Em and I’ll swing by,” Dave promised before slipping off.
Tom sank into memories—summers at his gran’s in the village where Dave and Emily lived. Their garden with the apple tree, the pond, the river. Fishing, campfires, Emily—skinny, with dark braids—singing while Dave played guitar. His first crush. “Wonder what she’s like now?” he thought, smiling absently.
“Bit odd, grinning at thin air,” came Chloe’s voice.
“Finally,” Tom said, scanning her for any sign of the salon’s three-hour magic.
“Well?” She struck a pose.
“Looks… fine,” he offered.
“Fine?!” Chloe huffed. “Do you even know what this manicure and facial cost? I look incredible, don’t I?”
“Course you do,” Tom said, sidestepping the fight.
“Come on, we’ve got guests at mine,” she ordered.
“Can’t—just ran into my old mate Dave. His sister’s joining us soon.”
Chloe’s lips pursed, ready for a tantrum, but then Dave strode in with Emily. She flung her arms around Tom.
“Tom! Look at you—proper grown-up!”
He froze. She was stunning—soft, glowing, warm brown eyes. He didn’t want to let go, but Chloe’s icy “Hello.” cut in.
“This is Chloe, my fiancée,” Tom said hastily. “Dave and Emily.”
“Alright, love?” Dave grinned.
They fell into easy chatter about the old days while Chloe sat stiffly, ignoring them. Tom was back at the pond, the apple tree…
“Rather be under a cabana in the Maldives,” Chloe cut in. “Daddy’s pool’s bigger than your puddle, anyway.”
“Any fish in it?” Dave quipped.
“Only on my plate at Michelin-starred restaurants,” she snipped.
The conversation fizzled. Emily rescued it: “Tom, you should visit.”
“Definitely,” he said, glancing at Chloe. “This weekend.”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’ll come to this backwater.”
“Don’t bother,” Tom frowned. “Mosquitoes, mud, no signal—you’ll hate it.”
“I’ll bring mineral water. God knows what’s in your tap.”
“And a Porta-Potti, yeah? Microwave optional,” he shot back.
The village welcomed them warmly—a feast under the apple tree, barbecue smoking. Tom felt alive, like a kid again. Chloe whinged nonstop:
“Tom, the grass hurts my feet. This meat smells weird. A bug bit me! The sun’s in my eyes!”
“Chloe, either enjoy it or go inside,” he snapped.
“It’s stuffy in there,” she sulked, but stomped off anyway.
By the pond, fishing rod in hand, Tom asked:
“Emily, you seeing anyone?”
“Nah, not for ages. Why?” she smiled.
“You’re just… lovely. Natural.”
“And brilliant,” Dave added. “Knit you a jumper, bake a pie—proper domestic goddess.”
“Unlike your missus, who’d just order Deliveroo,” Emily teased.
“True,” Tom admitted, surprising himself. “Can’t imagine her kneading dough.”
“You’ll learn,” Dave joked.
Tom stayed quiet, realising life with Chloe meant no cosy nights in. On the drive back, she declared:
“Never taking me there again. Maldives next week.”
“Not going,” Tom said flatly.
“You’ll lose me.”
“Still not going.”
Silence all the way home. Tom’s mind was made up: “Apples and fishing beats five-star misery. I’m done. Her dad’s threats don’t scare me—never wanted his money anyway.”
Dropping her off, he met her glare.
“Last chance. Maldives?”
“No. I’ll take a cottage over a cabana. We want different things.”
“Bye, then.” She slammed the door.
Tom exhaled, lighter, and dialled:
“Emily, I’ll be there in two days. We’ll figure it out.”
“Alone?” she asked softly.
“Always,” he said, heart humming.
“Good.”
His phone rang again—Chloe’s dad. Tom declined, not letting anything ruin the moment.
