Emily closed the file and sent it to her work email. On Monday at the office, she’d open it, print it, stamp it, and submit the report. Done! Freedom at last.
She worked as an accountant for a small firm in London. The workload was heavy, but the pay was decent, and the office was just a short walk from her flat—no frantic rush-hour commutes, no packed Underground carriages. A brisk morning stroll to work, a bit of fresh air.
The accounting department was all women. Emily kept to herself. Most had families, kids—she was the only single one. When asked to take on extra work, she never refused, burning midnight oil at home, even on weekends. Like now.
Up at dawn on Saturday, she double-checked everything before emailing the file. Now she could finally freshen up, eat breakfast, and then… But her phone rang, cutting off that train of thought.
“Emily, hi!” a bright, too-familiar voice chirped through the receiver.
“Hello,” Emily replied cautiously. “Who is this?”
“Oh, come on. It’s me, Becky!”
“Becky?” Emily’s voice sharpened with disbelief. “You’re in London?”
“Not yet, almost there,” Becky laughed.
Emily’s throat tightened. Of all people she least expected to hear from, it was her old school friend. Fifteen years of silence after the betrayal, and now this. She should’ve changed her number.
“Em, you’re the only person I know in London,” Becky rushed on, filling the sudden silence. “Can you meet me? Please. I’ve been divorced from Tom for ages. Time for a fresh start.” Her voice sounded small, almost guilty.
Emily didn’t want to see her. But years had passed—wounds long scarred over. And she *was* curious about news from her hometown. Fine. She’d meet her, help her get settled, then walk away.
“What time’s your train?” she asked flatly.
“In twenty minutes. You’ll come, yeah?” Becky’s voice brightened.
“It’ll take me an hour—bus, then the Tube. If you can wait, stay in the station concourse. Don’t wander off.” Even as she said it, Emily couldn’t believe she was agreeing.
“I’ll wait,” Becky promised.
With a sigh, Emily abandoned her cold tea, splashed water on her face, dabbed on a bit of makeup, and hurried out. She rented a tiny one-bed flat in a quiet London borough. Small, but affordable.
Inside the bustling station, Emily hesitated. How would she find Becky in this crowd? Fifteen years had passed—would she even recognize her? She walked slowly, keeping to the center where she’d be easier to spot.
“Emily!” a voice trilled.
A heavily made-up woman rushed toward her from the kiosks—thinner in memory, now curvier, hair dyed too-blonde, her face prematurely lined. But it was unmistakably Becky.
She threw her arms around Emily, squeezing too tight.
“Finally! I was about to collapse.” Linking arms, she tugged Emily toward a trolley piled with a wheeled suitcase and an overstuffed tote.
“You can’t just leave bags lying around here. They’ll get nicked,” Emily muttered, grasping for something to say.
“No one touched them. Money and documents are safe.” Becky patted the neckline of her blouse with a smirk.
Emily rolled her eyes. No one around even glanced their way.
Becky balanced the tote on her suitcase and shot Emily a hopeful look.
“Where do you need to go?” Emily exhaled.
“Still mad at me, huh? I was going to ask… Could I stay with you a few days while I find a flat?” Becky bit her lip.
*The audacity. Stole my boyfriend, now wants a free place to stay. Should’ve ignored the call—*
“Let’s go,” Emily said abruptly, turning toward the exit.
Becky chattered as they walked, but Emily stayed silent, pretending to focus on navigating the crowd. Eventually, Becky gave up, huffing behind her, struggling to keep pace.
“Thought you’d live somewhere posh. Doesn’t even feel like London,” Becky sniffed when they reached Emily’s cramped flat. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gone soon. You live alone? There’s men’s slippers by the door.”
*Damn. Should’ve hidden those.*
“Just for guests,” Emily lied.
Becky flopped onto the sofa, legs stretched out.
“I’m in London! Can’t believe it.”
Emily put the kettle on, pulled bread and ham from the fridge, and began assembling sandwiches.
“Got any wine? Let’s toast to reunion,” Becky suggested.
Emily retrieved a half-finished bottle, set out two glasses.
Becky drank freely, ignoring Emily’s untouched glass, and rambled: divorcing Tom after he turned out to be a nightmare, marrying an older man for money, cheating on him with his driver, getting dumped in disgrace. The divorce drained her, but she had savings. Time to start fresh in London.
“Smart of you to leave right after school. Nothing back home but boredom.”
Emily hadn’t *needed* to move to London for accounting school. She and Tom had been together since secondary. They’d planned to marry after she finished her course. Then Becky got him drunk at prom and claimed she was pregnant—a lie—but Tom married her anyway.
Emily had cried for weeks, then left. No grand ambitions, just a need to stand on her own feet. By the time the truth came out, Becky and Tom were already divorced.
“Don’t let her back into your life,” her mother had said. “If he forgot you that easily, he never loved you.”
Now, listening to Becky’s tales, Emily was glad she hadn’t mentioned James.
They’d met six months ago on the Tube. London-born, parents owned his flat, but they were picky about his girlfriends. Emily impressed them—”classy, not like those flighty girls,” his mum had said.
After Tom, Emily hadn’t let anyone close. Until James. With him, she’d imagined growing old together, weekends in the countryside, children, grandkids…
He was away on business until Tuesday. With luck, Becky would be gone by then.
But days passed, and Becky showed no signs of leaving. Slept till noon, vanished by the time Emily returned from work, stumbled home drunk at dawn. No chance to talk.
“Want me to handle it?” James offered once.
“No, I’ll do it,” Emily insisted, terrified of them meeting.
One evening, she came home to find Becky passed out on the sofa—wearing *her* dress, *her* bracelet dangling from a limp wrist. Fury spiked. Two weeks of freeloading, and now this?
“Becky, wake up!” Emily snapped. A groggy mumble was her only reply. “I swear, I’ll pour water on you.”
“Wha—?” Becky cracked one eye open.
“Why are you wearing my things?”
“Jealous?” Becky slurred.
“Get out. You promised to find a flat—”
“Kicking me out?” Becky sat up abruptly, suddenly lucid.
“Look, I need my space. This flat’s too small. Take it off. Now.”
“Fine.” Becky yanked the dress over her head and tossed it.
Emily gasped. The underwear was hers too.
“Want this back?” Becky taunted, reaching for her bra clasp.
“Keep it,” Emily hissed.
Memories flooded back—her favorite blouse reeking of Becky’s perfume. At the time, she’d brushed it off.
“Out. Today. You said you had money.”
“Had,” Becky spat, cinching a robe. “I’ll leave tomorrow. Too late now, yeah?”
“Wash your filthy dishes,” Emily muttered, scrubbing a plate.
The doorbell rang.
James stood there.
“What are you *doing* here? We agreed—”
“Came to help,” he said, his gaze fixed past her.
Emily turned. Becky leaned in the doorway, smirking.
“This your bloke? Quiet one, aren’t you? I’m Becky. Come in, handsome.”
Emily’s vision blurred with rage.
James introduced himself—and *smiled*.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Becky purred, swaying past, legs bare under the short robe.
She flitted around the kitchen, “accidentally” brushing against James, tossing him coy glances. Emily fought tears. *Again. Every time.*
“You two enjoy tea. Early start tomorrow.” She stormed out.
She prayed James would follow. He didn’t.
In the bedroom, she trembled. She’d kick them both out. Never speak to him again. *Never.*
Becky swept in, changed into jeans and a top, dropped the bracelet on the bed.
“James and I are off. Don’t wait up.”
“Em—” James hovered in the doorway. She didn’t turn.
The front door slammed.
Only then did she sob. Stupid, stupid—letting Becky inAs the months passed, Emily learned to trust again—not in fair-weather friends, but in the quiet strength of love that had stood by her when she needed it most.
