After dinner, Emily curled up on the sofa with a book, sinking into the adventures of the novel’s heroine. Just as she was getting lost in the story, her mum walked in, holding a buzzing phone with her friend Lucy’s grinning face lighting up the screen.
With a reluctant sigh, Emily set the book aside and answered, shooting her mum a pointed look. Her mum finally took the hint and slipped out—though Emily had no doubt she’d be hovering just outside the door, ear pressed to the wood.
For five minutes, she and Lucy chatted about nothing in particular until Lucy abruptly announced she was throwing a birthday party at her countryside cottage that Saturday.
“Your birthday was last month, wasn’t it?” Emily frowned.
“What’s the difference? I’ll celebrate it every day if I fancy! It’s just an excuse to get everyone together!”
“Why not just meet up without the pretence?”
“Because it’s more exciting this way! My Tom’s mate from Germany’s coming. He doesn’t know when my birthday actually is—he’d probably duck out if he thought it was just a random hangout. But a party? That’s commitment. And Daisy—remember her?—she lost her mind when she heard he was coming. He’s some big-shot in film, apparently. Director, producer, whatever. And Daisy’s desperate to break into acting. Clings to him like glue—utterly unbearable.”
“So, what’s my role in this?”
“Oh, come on, it’s my birthday! You *have* to come!” Lucy was starting to sound annoyed.
“Ah. Filling out the crowd, am I?” Emily smirked. “And why the cottage? There’s still snow on the ground.”
“Don’t be thick. So he doesn’t leg it!” Lucy cackled at her own cleverness. “Come on, it’ll be a laugh—barbecue, drinks, the works. And we never took down the Christmas tree. Too much snow to bother fetching it. Please, Em? For me?”
Emily could practically see Lucy’s exaggerated pout through the phone.
“Fine,” she sighed, figuring four days was plenty of time for *something* to come up—a sudden illness, bad weather, anything to get her out of it.
The second she hung up, her mum bustled back in.
“Where’s she dragging you off to?”
“You *heard* her,” Emily chuckled.
Her mum didn’t even blush.
“Good. You never go out. Nearly forty and still single. I’ll be dead before I see grandchildren.”
“Mum, suitors aren’t daffodils—they don’t just sprout in the countryside,” Emily joked. “I’m thirty-two! Eight whole years until forty. And kids should come from love, not because you’re nagging for grandbabies…”
Her mum huffed, waved a dismissive hand, and stalked out—only to reappear seconds later.
“You’re always buried in books. Living through other people’s lives while yours passes you by. Books won’t land you a husband. Time’s ticking…”
“You *heard* me. I’m going. Maybe I’ll bring back a souvenir grandkid,” Emily teased again.
Her mum shook her head in mock offence.
“Sorry, Mum.” Emily hopped up and hugged her.
On Friday, Lucy rang again, reminding her to dress nicely—”Can’t let the foreign guest think we’re a bunch of slobs”—and said they’d pick her up at seven sharp.
“*Seven*? Why so early?” Emily groaned.
“Long drive, gotta heat up the cottage, prep everything… We’ll be lucky to finish by evening.”
Her alarm blared at six. For a solid minute, Emily couldn’t remember why she’d set it so early on a weekend—until her mum marched in announcing breakfast was ready.
She groaned, mourning her peaceful Saturday. By the time she shuffled outside an hour later, Tom’s car was already idling at the kerb. Emily slumped into the back seat with a grumpy greeting.
“Cheer up. Sleep if you want,” Lucy offered magnanimously.
The entire drive, Lucy prattled nonstop. “*God, how does Tom put up with her?*” Emily wondered before dozing off.
The countryside was beautiful and eerily empty, snow blanketing everything except the tyre tracks winding between cottages. At least they weren’t the only ones braving the cold.
Inside, a massive artificial Christmas tree stood in the corner. For a second, Emily felt like they’d time-travelled back to December. Tom got the fireplace going, filling the room with the nostalgic scent of woodsmoke.
Before the flames even caught properly, two more cars pulled up. From one emerged a couple of their friends and Daisy. From the other—a tall, bespectacled stranger.
“That’s the director? Doesn’t look the part,” Emily muttered.
“How many directors do *you* know?” Lucy shot back.
Daisy bounded toward the house like an excitable puppy, shrieking with laughter loud enough to wake the entire village.
“Quit staring,” Lucy said, stepping away from the window to greet the guests while Emily retreated to the kitchen to unpack groceries.
“Your friend—*actually* a director?” Emily asked Tom.
Before he could answer, the house erupted in noise—stomping, shouting, and Daisy’s piercing giggles. The stranger—Paul—nodded at Emily as he carried in more bags, his gaze lingering just a beat too long.
“Need help?” he asked.
Soon, the kitchen was crammed with people, laughter, and the crackling fire. Despite herself, Emily was glad she’d come.
After sandwiches and tea, the men went outside to set up the barbecue while the women chopped salads and boiled potatoes. Toasts were made, Lucy collected gifts shamelessly, and then came the dancing. Daisy draped herself over Paul, who barely drank and remained the soberest of them all. When she slipped away, he asked Emily to dance.
“You really came from Germany? How long have you lived there?”
Between the blaring music, conversation was hopeless. When Daisy returned, she cranked up the tempo and nearly toppled the tree—shattering a few baubles in the chaos.
Seizing the moment, Emily grabbed her coat, shoved her feet into boots, and slipped outside. The sky was ink-black, studded with stars invisible in the city.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Paul’s voice came from behind her.
“Yeah. Forgotten how many there are.”
“None in Germany?”
“Plenty. Just never looked up.”
“Miss England?”
“At first, desperately. Then… you adjust. Pros and cons everywhere.”
“What’re you working on now? Any new films?”
“There you are!” Tom appeared in the doorway. “Don’t miss the fun!”
“We’ll be right in,” Paul said.
“Guessing you’re not loving this either,” he murmured once Tom left.
“Too much noise.” Emily shivered. “Wish I could just leave.”
“Why not? I’ve got the car. Want me to take you home?”
“Lucy’ll kill me.”
“Call her later. Say I kidnapped you. So?”
“Seriously?” She searched his face for a joke.
“Let’s go.”
Nobody noticed the engine. Or if they did, they were too drunk to care. Emily dozed off, waking as they reached the city.
“Hope I didn’t snore,” she mumbled, smoothing her hair.
“Where to?”
She gave directions, then frowned. “How’d you get a car?”
“Rented one. Feel naked without wheels.”
At her doorstep, Paul asked for her number. “I’ll call tomorrow. You’re… different.”
Before she could ask *how*, he was gone.
“You said you’d be back tomorrow!” Mum fretted when Emily walked in.
“Too crowded. You know I hate sleeping elsewhere.”
Next morning, Lucy screamed down the phone: *”Playing the shy one, then swiping my guest?!”*
Emily tried to explain *he* drove *her*, but Lucy ranted on before hanging up.
Paul didn’t call. Not the next day, not in three. “Why take my number if he didn’t mean it? Plenty of younger girls out there. Who’d pick a thirty-two-year-old?” She tried to forget him.
Wednesday brought sleet. Head down, Emily trudged home when a car honked nearby. She ignored it.
“Emily.”
She spun—*Paul*.
“Waited for you. Talk in the car?”
Grudgingly, she got in.
“I owe you an explanation—”
“You owe me nothing.”
“I’m no director. Work in IT. Did some VFX for a film once, and Lucy ran with it.”
“Why not say so? Daisy dreams of acting!”
“Dunno. By the time I realised, it was too late.” *Fair point.*
“I *meant* to call, but my phone got nicked. Couldn’t remember your number, so… here I am.”
“Why?”
“Well… I *said* IThen, as the sleet turned to rain outside the car window, Paul reached for her hand and said, “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you—and I’d like to try, if you’ll let me.”
