I’ll Pick You…
On the very first day at university, two girls instantly caught each other’s eye. Both pretty, with a certain resemblance. From then on, they were always seen together.
Lucy believed she deserved better than spending her life in a small provincial town, like her parents had. Her mother worked as a shop assistant, her father as a builder—and, of course, he drank. After finishing school, she announced she was leaving for London to study.
Her parents sighed but didn’t argue. They reasoned that maybe she’d have better luck than her older sister, who married poorly and was now raising two children alone. They couldn’t send much money, but they’d pack vegetables from their garden and preserves whenever someone was heading that way. A neighbour happened to work as a train conductor on the London route.
Once in London, Lucy swore she’d never go back home. She befriended Kate partly because Kate was a true Londoner—her father a doctor, her mother an accountant. A proper, cultured family.
Kate pitied Lucy, and Lucy took advantage. She’d complain her boots were worn through—Kate would lend her a spare pair. Nothing to wear for a night out? Kate handed over a new dress—lucky they were the same size. Lucy even crashed at Kate’s during exams—no studying got done in halls.
Lucy hated studying but slogged through, though she’d much rather be clubbing. No matter—once she graduated and settled in London, she’d have her fun.
Kate, meanwhile, breezed through effortlessly. Lucy envied her, though she’d never show it. Naturally, they both fell for the same guy—handsome, athletic. Tom had moved to London from a military town where his father was stationed. Soon, they were inseparable—always out as a trio.
“Oi, Tom, you with both of ‘em? Pass one over,” the lads joked.
Even tutors ribbed him, asking who he fancied.
Tom brushed it off. He preferred calm, gentle Kate. But he hid it, afraid people would think he chose her for her London roots.
In lectures, his knee would “accidentally” brush hers. He’d lean close like he had something to say. Lucy noticed—how their faces froze in those moments—and resentment flooded her. Not only was Kate a born-and-bred Londoner from a good family, but she’d stolen the best guy too.
Tom tired of hiding his feelings. He confessed to Kate, and Lucy felt increasingly like a third wheel. Their trio fractured. Lucy wouldn’t accept it. She wouldn’t lose Kate—nor let her have Tom.
So she plotted. She’d restore fairness, sabotage their budding romance. Confrontation wouldn’t work—she needed them to argue, to split. Time was tight. Third year was ending—just exams left. What if they married before graduation?
“Wish she’d break a leg,” Lucy thought. “No, Tom would carry her everywhere. Better if her face broke out. Maybe I’ll buy her strawberries…”
Fate, inexplicably, shielded Kate. Lucy’s face erupted instead.
Just before exams, Tom’s mother fell seriously ill. He postponed exams until August and left. London was unusually sunny—beach weather, not study weather. After their first exam, the girls walked past a bridal boutique.
“Which dress would you pick?” Lucy asked.
“Dunno. Haven’t thought about it.”
“Liar. Every girl dreams of a white dress. I’d want this one.” Lucy pointed to a full-skirted gown. “Would it suit me? Let’s try it on—no charge, right?”
“Rather have ice cream in this heat,” Kate said, tugging her away.
“Come on, just one! Pretend I’m the bride, you’re bridesmaid,” Lucy wheedled.
“Trying on dresses before a proposal? Bad luck.”
“Old wives’ tales. Everyone does it.”
Inside, a bored saleswoman perked up.
Lucy played bride, scrutinising gowns. She tried one on—Kate admitted it suited her.
“We’ve a perfect dress—fits few. Petite like you? Ideal. Special discount,” the saleswoman told Kate.
“It’s my friend getting married.”
“Try it anyway.”
When Kate emerged, Lucy’s breath caught. The dress clung flawlessly—elegant, understated.
“Needs a veil,” Lucy muttered.
“A tiara’d suit better.”
“Bring one,” Lucy snapped, masking envy.
Everything suited Kate. Lucy’s reflection looked tacky now.
“Mind if I take photos? Stunning,” the saleswoman said.
Lucy grabbed her phone. “Smile. Now turn—look back. Perfect.”
“Enough,” Kate said, retreating to change.
Alone, Lucy hatched her plan. She scrolled through the photos—Kate, a radiant bride. “I’ll touch them up,” she decided, “send them to Tom: ‘While you’re away, your girl’s wedding shopping.’” A man outside—on his phone—could pass for the groom. Luck was on her side.
Back at halls, Lucy skipped the summer trip home. Her room now housed her sister and kids.
“Mum, I’ve got a job—won’t be back.”
“Brilliant! No more sending money—Olga’s kids need so much…”
“Typical. ‘Got work?’ ‘Great, no more cash!’”
“They’re struggling too,” Kate soothed.
“She should’ve known he’d leave!”
“I’d never leave you. Come on—Mum made borscht.”
That month, Lucy sent Tom the bridal photo.
He returned in August, grim.
“Your mum alright?” Kate pressed.
“She’s fine. Congrats, by the way.”
“On what?”
“Your wedding. Why keep it secret?”
“What? That was a joke—Lucy’s prank. Tom, let me explain—”
“Funny joke,” he said, walking off.
“Why’d you send that photo?” Kate rounded on Lucy.
“You looked great—thought he’d propose already.”
“Now he thinks I’m lying!”
Tom ignored calls. Kate avoided Lucy. But Lucy wasn’t bothered. Term meant money from home. She’d manage without Kate—Tom would be hers.
In lectures, Kate sat alone, stealing glances as Lucy clung to Tom. Then his mum died—Lucy comforted him, never leaving his side. Soon, they’d filed for marriage. No explanations needed.
Tom’s dad got a post at Sandhurst—they married, switched to distance learning, and moved.
Two years after graduation, Kate married her father’s friend’s son—her parents’ choice. They didn’t love each other. No kids came. He cheated; they divorced after seven years.
“You’re going where? That village? It’s derelict!” her mum protested.
“I need space, Mum. I can’t breathe.”
“Go to Spain, then.”
“I want solitude.”
The house, once grand, stood neglected. Her grandad built it, dreaming of generations—but his son left for London, built a career.
The key turned smoothly—someone oiled the lock. Inside smelled of damp and old books.
She fetched firewood, lit the stove. Outside, a bearded man watched.
“Water’s off. Use mine.”
Back home, she washed up, then returned with pancakes her mum packed.
“Hello?” she called, entering his house.
A book lay on the sofa—The Shining. Inside—the torn, glued photo Lucy sent Tom.
She looked up—into Tom’s eyes.
“You?”
“Me.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “You?”
Over tea, they talked.
“I was young, stupid. Realised Lucy and I were wrong. She had men—we split. This is her dad’s place. I left everything.”
“Why not come to me?”
“You were married.”
“Divorced now.”
Dusk fell. Mosquitoes swarmed.
“I’ll walk you back.”
At her door, she whispered, “Don’t let me go…”
He caught her, pulled her close—and didn’t.
