Emily needed to rest up for the weekend. She opened the wardrobe, pulling out one of her new dresses.
“Saturday is Emma’s birthday,” she muttered, folding the fabric.
“Mmm?” Tom grunted, sprawled on the sofa in front of the telly.
“It’s Saturday for her party, and Sunday, George proposes to her properly. Two reasons to celebrate in one weekend,” she said, brightening.
“Right,” he mumbled, eyes flicking to the sports news. “Vera will be in a black dress that day.”
“Don’t be cruel. They’re mad for each other!” Emily snapped, offended.
“And you think love’s what’s tying them together? Emma just put a ring on him. No surprise she’ll announce a baby in a few months.”
“That’s not—why do you assume they hate each other?” Emily stammered, dropping the heels she’d picked up.
“Who knows? I don’t care about anyone but myself. Well… you,” he said, avoiding her gaze.
Emily frowned, unsettled. A shadow coiled in her chest. She abandoned the dress fitting, took a late shower, and went to bed. Tom promised to join her once the film finished—but he never did.
**…**
They’d shared a flat for two years. Emily dreamed of Tom proposing, of a white wedding in London, her name etched beside his. She imagined a nursery at 221B Baker Street, a boy or girl with his grin and her eyes. Yet reality clipped her wings. Tom’s love was in flowers and weekends in pubs. He never rushed to put a ring on it, even though they’d been together since their third year at UCL.
“Tom, don’t you think my surname would suit you?” she’d try to break the ice.
“Emily, who cares? It’s 2023. A piece of paper doesn’t matter. We’re happy, aren’t we?” he’d shrug, pulling her close.
“Happy? Without marriage? I don’t want to die an old spinster. A family needs a shared name!”
“Must we talk about this again? You women fixate on weddings. *Does it change the way I feel about you?* Never happened. Never will.”
Their first meeting had been electric—on a sociology lecture, fiery debates about colonialism. They’d moved in together post-graduation, their parents’ contributions funding the flat. But when Tom bailed on his job at a dodgy PR firm, Emily became the breadwinner. She worked for a fintech startup, her side hustle designing bespoke scarves doubling her income. Tom, meanwhile, lounged until his father “borrowed” his savings for a car, then slunk back to Emily.
“Love, I found these tickets to Cornwall,” she’d said once, grinning.
“Stone Age,” he replied, thumb scrolling. “Just go. I’ve got better things to do than lie here and be lectured about work.”
“Right, then—off to your parents’ cobweb farm! Maybe you’ll find a *real* wife there,” she bit back.
“A pleasure to help,” he spat, storming out.
He returned weeks later, greasy and contrite, a second-hand ring from his first paycheck. She swallowed her pride, clinging to the fantasy. Until Emma and George’s engagement party.
All week, Emily fumed. “Why won’t he commit? The thought of marriage repels him!”
“Because he’s a parasite,” snapped her colleague, Sarah, over tea in the office kitchen. “He’s got you cooking, cleaning, paying the rent. You’re his sugar plum, Em. Don’t be blind. He’s probably got someone in Brighton on the side.”
“Nonsense! We’re not like that!”
“Then ask him about the late-night texts. Or the *accidental* flatmate in Manchester. Wake up before you end up begging for child support and a slap on the hand for it.”
But when Emily followed Tom into a pub at Emma’s birthday, her world splintered.
“Eh, mate, tomorrow you’re a groom,” George toasted.
“Can’t be a real one,” Tom laughed, swirling his pint. “A wife’s not a wall, innit? Still time for one last fling before the big day.”
“Careful,” George snorted. “Your Emily might be the last to find out.”
Emily froze, her event dress clutched in her hand like a shroud. She left without a word, ignoring his frantic calls.
The next day, Tom’s lies spilled freely. “You think I’m so pure? Prove it.”
“Save your breath,” she said, packing her things. “You’ll find another sugar plum.”
George and Emma’s engagement went ahead without her. So did their wedding, then their divorce. Divorce court whispers blamed George’s “*typical London indiscretions*,” but Emily never told Emma. Some truths wither in the British rain, and some women bloom where they fall.
Now, Emily sketches her own signature on contract for a new boutique, the scent of Earl Grey and lilies replacing his stale cigarettes. Tom’s name is but a footnote in her memoir, a man who taught her that love demands more than a shared postcode and a ring on the chandelier.