The Train to a New Life
Emily woke up and listened. The silence in the flat told her Oliver wasn’t home. She stretched and went to the kitchen. A note lay on the table: *”Sorry, forgot to mention last night. Working till lunch.”*
She scoffed, crumpled the paper, and tossed it in the bin. She’d long suspected Oliver was seeing someone—always gone, barely speaking. Their daughter had married and moved to her husband’s base. Just an empty shell of a marriage now.
Her phone rang. Margaret.
*”What are you up to?”* Her closest friend since school.
*”Nothing. Just got up.”*
*”Listen, it’s gorgeous out—sunny, springtime. Fancy a shopping trip? I’m in the mood for something colourful. Please say you’re free?”*
*”Completely. Oliver’s at work.”*
*”On a weekend? Right, get yourself sorted, dress sharp, I’ll pick you up in an hour.”* The line went dead.
Emily filled the kettle and headed to the bathroom. She loved shopping with Margaret—her friend had an eye for quality. Emily always felt overwhelmed, but Margaret, like magic, pulled out *the* perfect dress every time.
She’d taught Emily to dress well for shopping. *”Look the part, or they’ll treat you like some penny-pincher.”* Oddly, it worked. They never left empty-handed.
Emily freshened up, checked the mirror, and smiled. Retail therapy was just what she needed.
Ten minutes later, Margaret called. *”Outside!”*
*”Hi. Anything specific you’re after?”* Emily asked, sliding into Margaret’s Mini.
*”Nope. New collection’s arriving, last season’s on sale. Spring’s here—feel it?”*
*”Oliver will kill me. We’re saving for holiday…”*
*”He won’t. Cut the tags, ditch the receipts, halve the price you tell him.”*
*”And spend twice as much.”*
*”I’ve a foolproof trick for husbands.”*
*”Which is?”*
*”You’ll see.”*
Margaret was striking—not heavy, but statuesque, with dark curls and full lips. Heads turned. Emily was her opposite—petite, fair, green-eyed. In jeans, she could pass for a girl. Around Margaret, she felt small, unsure.
Shop assistants fawned over Margaret. With Emily? Condescension. She’d fluster, refuse help, flee.
Two hours later, laden with bags, Emily groaned.
*”Enough. Oliver will murder me.”*
*”Come on.”* Margaret tugged her toward lingerie.
*”No way. He won’t speak to me for weeks!”*
*”Look at this lace! Bordeaux—perfect with your hair.”* Margaret held up a stunning bra. *”A matching robe… Too much?”*
*”Who’ll see it under clothes? And it’s pricey. No, don’t tempt me.”*
*”Honestly, when will you learn? This isn’t for under dresses—it’s for *him*. With your figure? A miracle. He’ll forget being cross. We’re taking it.”* Margaret marched to the till.
*”I’m done. My feet are dead. Let’s sit somewhere. Only had coffee this morning.”* Emily hesitated. *”I think Oliver’s cheating.”*
*”Because he’s working weekends?”* Margaret steered her to a café.
*”I’ve suspected for…”*
*”Here we are.”* Margaret cut her off.
They settled by the window. As they waited, Emily scanned the café. Two tables away sat a man—Oliver’s build, same haircut, white jumper. *Her* Christmas gift. But why wear it to work? His office was across town.
She dismissed it—until he turned. The profile confirmed it. *Oliver.*
Her stomach lurched. She shrank back.
*”See a ghost?”* Margaret asked.
*”Shh. That’s Oliver. Let’s go before he spots us.”*
*”So what? *He* should sweat. You said he was working miles away. Dressed for a date, clearly waiting—aren’t those your suspicions?”*
Emily stood.
*”Where are you going?”* Margaret grabbed her wrist.
*”To talk. Sooner or later, he’ll see us.”*
She sat opposite Oliver.
*”Hi.”*
He startled. *”What are you—?”*
*”You wrote you were working. New term for this?”*
*”And you?”*
*”Shopping with Margaret. Needed a break.”* She waved at her friend.
Oliver didn’t look. *”Waiting for someone? Checking your watch?”*
He rallied. *”How much did you spend? We agreed—no splurges before holiday.”*
*”Relax. I’ll need holiday clothes too.”* Oddly calm—truth was better than doubt.
His phone buzzed. He flipped it facedown.
*”Why do that? You hide it at home, take it to the loo—secrets?”*
*”Habit.”*
*”New one. Let me see.”* She reached—he snatched it away.
A young woman paused near them, sat nearby. Oliver glanced—too slow. Emily caught it.
*”Your date? Order ready?”* A waitress appeared, smirking at Oliver.
*”Already ordered, *darling*?”* Emily’s grip tightened on the vase. *”Five minutes?”*
The waitress vanished.
*”That her? Pretty. Twenty-five, max. Need girls that young to feel good?”*
*”Stop. We’ll talk at home.”*
*”And lunch? She’ll be hungry. I can’t spend, but you can play benefactor?”*
She held back shouting. Margaret waved frantically—Emily ignored her.
*”How long? Six months? When you started hiding your phone. Admit it. After all these years?”*
*”Em, you’re mad. What affair? I dropped papers for a client, popped in for coffee—”*
*”Let’s see.”* She stood—just as the waitress returned with plates. One had a cloche.
*”Enjoy.”*
*”Just coffee, huh?”*
Oliver reached for the plate—Emily lifted the cloche. A velvet ring box.
*”When were you going to tell me you’re leaving?”*
*”Not here.”* He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
*”You’ve no home. Pack your things tomorrow. Bon appétit.”* She strode out.
Margaret caught her outside.
*”Em! Car’s the other way. I can’t run in heels. Let’s dump these bags.”*
Emily obeyed.
*”If we hadn’t stopped… I knew, but buried it. Scared to lose him. But he’s already gone.”* She wept in the car.
*”Love, maybe you’re jumping the gun? She’s your Lara’s age. Might just be a fling—”*
*”Remember his Edinburgh trip? Someone sent a photo—him and a girl by his car. Said she wanted to make her boyfriend jealous. I *believed* him. Now this ring… What do I *do*?”*
Shaking, she flung a bag’s contents onto the pavement.
*”You daft thing.”* Margaret gathered the clothes, hugged her as she sobbed.
*”Enough tears. Home.”*
There, Margaret made her drink brandy. Then more. Emily stopped crying, yanked Oliver’s clothes from the wardrobe. A suitcase overflowed—she stuffed the rest in bags, tossed in his razor, toothbrush.
*”Good riddance. Never liked him.”* Margaret helped haul them to the hall.
*”Right. I’m off—John’s waiting. Sleep. I’ll call tomorrow.”*
Surprisingly, Emily slept. She woke late—light from the kitchen. Oliver sat on the sofa.
*”Take your things. Go.”*
*”Em, talk to me.”* He looked wrecked.
*”More lies?”*
*”No. I… got involved. Thought it’d fizzle out. But she’s pregnant. I can’t leave her.”*
*”Well done. *Get out.*”* She hurled a pillow, collapsed weeping.
She didn’t hear him leave.
Days blurred, the pain unrelenting. Emily drifted through the empty flat. She almost called him—stopped herself. Margaret learned they’d rented a place—the girl was new in town.
Emily remembered decorating this flat—inherited from Gran. They’d chosen everything together, so happy. Now? Hollow echoes, like her heart.
Lara called. Oliver had told her.
*”Mum, come stay. It’s warm here… Mum, I’m pregnant. I’ll need you. Why stay alone?”*
*”I’ll be in*”Alright,”* Emily whispered, stepping into the embrace of her daughter as the military officer with kind eyes waited patiently beside them, the bustle of the station fading into the promise of a fresh start.
