**Diary Entry**
I closed the file and emailed it to my work account. On Monday, I’ll open it in the office, print it, stamp it, and submit the report. That’s it—freedom at last!
I work as an accountant for a small company in London. The workload’s heavy, but the pay’s decent, and the office is just a short walk from home. No squeezing onto packed tubes during rush hour. A morning stroll to work—fresh air, a bit of peace.
The accounting team is all women. I don’t get too close to anyone. Most have families, kids, while I’m on my own. If someone asks for help—to take on part of their work—I never say no. I’d do it at home, evenings, weekends, just like today.
Woke up early Saturday, checked everything one last time, then sent the file. Now, time to freshen up and grab breakfast. After that… I didn’t get to finish the thought. The phone rang.
“Emma, hi!” A cheerful woman’s voice.
“Hi,” I answered cautiously. “Who is this?”
“Oh, come on. It’s me, Gemma!”
“Gemma?” I repeated, skeptical. “You’re in London?”
“Almost there,” she laughed.
I didn’t know what to say. Out of everyone I expected to hear from, Gemma was the last. After what she did fifteen years ago, we hadn’t spoken. I should’ve changed my number.
“Emma, you’re the only person I know here,” Gemma cut through the silence. “Can you meet me? Please. I’ve been divorced from Dan for ages. Time for a fresh start.” Her voice sounded small, guilty.
I didn’t want to see her. But so much time had passed. Old wounds had scarred over. And I was curious about news from home. Fine. I’d meet her, see her off wherever she needed, then leave it at that.
“What time’s your train?” I asked, flat.
“Twenty minutes. You’ll come?” Her voice brightened.
“Bus takes me twenty, then the Tube. I’ll be an hour. You’ll wait?” I couldn’t believe my own voice. “Stay in the main hall. Don’t wander off.”
“I’ll wait,” she promised.
I sighed at the cold kettle, washed up quickly, threw on some makeup, dressed, and left. My little one-bed flat in a London suburb was just enough for one—cheap, at least.
Inside the bustling station hall, I hesitated. How would I find Gemma in this crowd? Fifteen years had passed—would I even recognise her? I walked slowly, keeping to the centre so I’d be seen.
“Emma!” A delighted shout.
Gemma—older, rounder, hair bleached blonde, heavy makeup ageing her—darted from a newsstand. She threw her arms around me.
“Finally. My feet are killing me.” She linked arms with me, dragging me toward her wheeled suitcase and oversized bag.
“You can’t just leave stuff out here,” I muttered. “Someone’ll take it.”
“But they didn’t. Money and papers are on me.” She glanced down at her ample chest.
I shook my head, scanning the crowd. No one cared about us. Gemma balanced her bag on the suitcase, eyeing me expectantly.
“Where do you need to go?” I sighed.
“You’re still mad? Look, I wanted to ask… Can I stay with you a few days? Just till I find a place?” She bit her lip.
*The audacity. Stole my boyfriend, now wants to freeload. Should’ve ignored her call…*
“Come on,” I said, heading for the exit.
Gemma chattered behind me, but I pretended to focus on navigating the crowd. She fell silent soon enough, huffing as she struggled to keep up.
“Thought you’d live central,” she said, disappointed, stepping into my tiny flat. “Doesn’t even feel like London. Don’t worry, I’ll leave once I get a place.” She paused. “You live alone? There’s men’s shoes by the door.”
*Should’ve hidden those.*
“For guests,” I said.
Gemma flopped onto the sofa, stretching her legs. “I’m really here. Still can’t believe it.”
I put the kettle on, grabbed bread and ham for sandwiches.
“Got any wine? Let’s toast to reunion,” Gemma suggested.
I pulled a half-finished bottle from the fridge, set out two glasses.
Gemma drank freely, ignoring how I barely sipped, and rambled. Her first marriage to Dan collapsed fast—handsome, but terrible temper. Second husband was older, married for money. Cheated on him with the chauffeur, got kicked out. Divorce drained her, but she had cash now. Time for a new life in London.
“Smart of you to leave right after school. Nothing back home but boredom…”
I hadn’t needed to come to London to study accounting. Dan and I had been together since Year 9. We’d planned to marry after I finished college. Then Gemma got him drunk after graduation and slept with him. Claimed she was pregnant—a lie—but Dan married her anyway.
I’d cried, then left. No grand ambitions—just needed to earn a living. When the truth came out, Dan divorced her.
*”Don’t let Gemma back into your life. And Dan? If he forgot you that easily, he never loved you. Better now than after marriage.”*
Sitting there, listening to Gemma, I remembered Mum’s words. At least I hadn’t mentioned Greg.
We’d met six months ago on the Tube. A Londoner, parents had bought him a flat, but they were picky about his girlfriends. They liked me. *”Proper girl, not like some of those others,”* his mother said.
After Dan, I hadn’t let anyone close. But with Greg, I’d pictured it all—marriage, weekends in the countryside, growing old together…
He was away on business until Tuesday. I prayed Gemma would find a place before then.
But days passed. She wasn’t looking—too busy clubbing, stumbling home at dawn, often drunk. Asleep when I left for work, gone when I returned. No chance to talk.
“Want me to deal with her?” Greg offered once.
“No, I’ll handle it,” I said quickly, dreading them meeting.
One evening, I came home to find Gemma passed out on my sofa—wearing my dress, *my bracelet* on her wrist. Rage bubbled up.
“Gemma. Wake up.” She muttered, eyes shut. “Get up, or I’ll dump water on you.”
“What’s the yelling?” She cracked one eye open.
“Why are you wearing my things?”
“What, you’re stingy now?” she slurred.
“They’re *mine*. You said you’d find a flat—”
“You’re kicking me out?” She sat up, suddenly clear-eyed.
“Not like that. But this is my space. My life. Take the dress off. The bracelet too.”
“Fine.” She yanked the dress over her head, handed it to me.
I froze. The underwear was *mine* too.
“This too?” She reached for her bra clasp.
“Keep it,” I snapped.
I remembered reaching for a blouse last week—it’d smelled like her perfume. Thought I’d imagined it.
“You need to leave. You said you had money. What’s the issue?”
“Had money. Don’t now,” she spat, wrapping herself in a robe. “I’ll go tomorrow. Not at night, yeah?”
“At least wash your dishes,” I muttered, scrubbing plates.
The doorbell rang. Greg stood there.
“What are you doing here? We agreed—”
“Thought you might need help.” His gaze drifted past me.
I turned. Gemma smirked.
“This Greg? Shy little you knows how to pick ’em. I’m Gemma. Come in, handsome.”
I could’ve strangled her.
Greg smiled. *Smiled.*
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Gemma purred, swaying to the kitchen, legs on full display.
She *flirted*—brushing against him, lingering looks. I bit back tears. *Again. Every time.*
“I’ve got an early morning,” I said stiffly, storming out.
Greg didn’t follow. The kitchen murmurs twisted my stomach. I’d throw them both out. Never let him back—
Gemma strutted in, changed into jeans and a top, tossed the bracelet onto the sofa.
“Greg and I are heading out. Don’t wait up.” She sauntered off.
“Em…” Greg peeked in. I didn’t turn. Tears burned.
The door slammed. Only then did I sob—raging at myself for letting Gemma in, for trusting Greg. I’d *dreamed* of a life with him. Never again. Never.
After crying myself dry,A year later, I heard through an old friend that Gemma had moved back north, still bitter and alone, while Greg and I quietly married, and at last, I learned to trust my life without looking back.
