**Diary Entry**
The iron moved monotonously under Emily’s hand, steam rising in the stifling kitchen. The evening had cooled slightly, but the heat from the appliance was relentless. Nearly done, she thought, when her phone buzzed—once, then again insistently. She set the iron aside and picked it up, surprised to see Sophie’s name.
“Soph? What’s wrong?” she asked, already tense.
“Nothing. I’m coming to London for work—skipped the hotel. Staying with you. Two nights. That all right?”
“Of course. When?” Emily’s mind raced—she had barely any food in, just enough for herself.
“Tomorrow. Last-minute decision. I’ll text the train details. Meet me?”
“Absolutely,” Emily promised, though she winced at another day off work.
Sophie laughed. “Don’t fuss. We’ll talk plenty. See you.”
Emily finished the ironing, folding the clothes carefully. She was glad to hear from Sophie, though dread prickled. *She’ll pry, ask questions. I’ve just settled into solitude.* She glanced at the clock—just enough time to dash to Tesco before closing.
The fridge was near empty. These days, she barely cooked, appetite stolen by the chemo. She slipped on a cardigan and left, thoughts drifting to their friendship.
They’d met in Year 7, Sophie the new girl with a mischievous grin. Uni together, then Sophie had married young—an Army officer whisking her off to some distant base. Letters turned to calls, then faded to birthday texts. Lives diverged.
Emily had married David a year after graduation, fallen pregnant quickly. The birth had been brutal; no more children. Their daughter, Lily, was grown now—married, moved to Edinburgh for her husband’s job.
In the shop, Emily grabbed pasta, wine. *No time to clean properly. But it’s just Soph, not royalty.* She debated lying about David—claiming he was away or visiting Lily—but Sophie knew her too well.
She’d seen the signs long before David left. Suddenly, he bought trainers, started jogging. The suits stayed in the wardrobe. When Lily moved out, Emily packed his things neatly herself. No satisfaction for *her*—the other woman—to call his wife neglectful. Let her see the ironed shirts. Let *him* know what he’d lost.
Then… the diagnosis. Routine screening, a crushing blow. Surgery, chemo, endless scans. Sometimes she ached to call David, to say, *Look what’s happened.* Would he stay out of pity? No. She’d rather be alone.
These days, her social circle was parkside nods to pensioners or young mums.
*Lovely weather. Out for a walk?*
*Where’s the little one? Nan’s?*
Empty chatter.
Next evening, Emily rushed home to cook. Floors wiped, train caught—exhausted, but no time to rest.
The train crawled in. Emily squinted through windows, heart pounding. What if she didn’t recognise Sophie?
Near the stairs, she stopped—better to wait where the crowd slowed. Then, there she was: older, rounder, but unmistakable. Sophie spotted her, arms flying up. They collided, oblivious to jostling suitcases.
“Let’s go,” Emily said.
Underground, they talked over each other—fears of missing one another, the years slipping away. The bus ride home was sweltering; Emily wavered, catching Sophie’s assessing gaze but too tired to pretend.
At the flat, she collapsed onto the sofa.
“Rest. I’ll shower,” Sophie ordered, reappearing fresh as if she hadn’t travelled all day. Wine appeared from her bag. Two glasses in, the truth spilled—David, the cancer, the loneliness.
Sophie held her as they cried. “Why didn’t you call? How’ve you borne this alone?”
Sleep came late, Emily’s mind churning. Still, it was a relief to share the weight.
Morning: a note left for Sophie, keys on the table. Work dragged. Sophie texted—errands, back late. Evening brought more talking, Sophie’s own worries—her eldest at Sandhurst, the younger glued to his console.
“Twenty-six years, Em. And he just—” Sophie sighed.
“Maybe I was already ill. Too tired for anything. He looked elsewhere.”
“Don’t *defend* him! Blind fool.”
“Doesn’t matter now.”
Sophie’s eyes narrowed. “What’s David do now? Where?”
Next day, Emily hurried home. Sophie left tonight—so little time.
“Feel okay?” Sophie asked the moment she stepped in.
“Fine. Why?”
“Good. Dress up—we’re going out.”
“Where?”
“Restaurant. Table’s booked.”
Emily relented, donning her favourite dress but skipping makeup. “No one to impress.”
Sophie lowered her voice. “Wear something that makes you feel strong. Can you handle it?”
“For you.”
The restaurant lights were soft. Then she saw him—David, older, diminished.
“You set this up?” Emily froze. “You went to him?”
Sophie gripped her arm. “Hear him out. For me.”
Emily sat. David poured wine—water for himself; driving.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“Would it have changed anything? Would you have stayed out of guilt?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see—Sophie told me.”
Emily shot Sophie a look. A shrug answered.
“I knew my mistake early. She’s a lifetime younger. Starting over… too late.”
“Why not come back?”
“Would you have forgiven me?”
“I waited,” Emily admitted.
A girl passed—short dress, heavy boots.
“Remember tanning in March?” Sophie mused. “Now they bleach themselves pale.”
“Trends,” Emily said flatly.
Sophie stood. “I’ll grab my things. David’ll drive you.”
At the flat, Sophie hugged her tight. “He loves you. Forgive him. For me.”
The station farewell was quick. “Bring her home safe,” Sophie warned David. “Or my boys and I will visit.”
“Come properly—all of you,” David said.
Sophie whispered, “It’s not too late. Grandkids soon—Lily doesn’t know?”
The train pulled away.
“Ready?” David asked.
“Where?”
“Home.”
“You’re going back to the cottage?”
His wry smile. “Sophie’s thorough.”
“Is it far?”
“Not if you want to see it.”
“My things, then. Unless you’ve changed your mind?” The station lights lit his face.
“No. Just thought—”
“Me too,” she cut in.
The drive was quiet. Past the suburbs, moonlight glinted on the Thames. He stopped.
“Here?”
“No. Look.” He pointed. “Remember dawn swims? You were shy without a swimsuit.”
“You turned away. I wanted you to kiss me.”
“Too scared.”
She sighed. “Shortest nights of the year.”
“You *do* want me back?” His hands circled her wrists.
“Do *you*? No regrets?”
In the dark, he looked like himself again. “More than anything. Just forgive me.”
One adjusts to solitude. But who says it’s preferable? Dawn swims, strong tea, falling asleep tangled together—that’s worth the risk.
