Emma adjusted her fringe in the salon mirror, her fingers trembling slightly. “Tell me honestly, Rebeccadoes this haircut suit me?”
Rebecca waved a hand dismissively. “Dont be silly! You look absolutely stunning.” But there was a false note in her voice, a tightness around her smile.
Emma turned to the stylist and handed over her card. The reflection showed a woman in her forties, the shorter cut framing her face in a way that took years off her appearance. Yet it brought no joy.
“Fancy a coffee?” Rebecca asked as they stepped onto the bustling London street. “Theres a new place just round the corner.”
Emma nodded. “Quick one, though. Ive still got dinner to make.”
They settled by the window. Rebecca ordered a cappuccino with a slice of Victoria sponge; Emma, a simple Earl Grey.
“So,” Rebecca stirred her coffee, “what does David think of the new look?”
Emma shrugged. “He barely notices. Yesterday I wore a new dresshe didnt even glance up.”
Rebecca leaned in. “Really? I thought things were fine between you.”
“Theyre… tolerable. Hes at work from dawn till dusk. Weekends, its football with the lads or tinkering in the garage. Were like flatmates, not spouses.”
Rebecca sighed. “And when was the last time you did something together? Dinner? A walk in Hyde Park?”
Emma faltered. “Three months ago? Sarahs birthday party. We barely spoke.”
“God, Em.” Rebecca shook her head. “He used to follow you around like a lovesick puppy at uni. Remember? Flowers every week, those awful poems.”
Emma smiled faintly. “Twenty years ago. People change.”
“Not all of them,” Rebecca countered. “Take my Jamesstill a hopeless romantic. Surprised me with tickets to the Royal Albert Hall last week. Said he missed ‘culture.'”
Emma studied her friendglowing, effortless. They were the same age, yet Rebecca seemed untouched by time.
“Youre lucky,” Emma murmured.
“Lucks got nothing to do with it,” Rebecca said, slicing into her cake. “Youve got to keep them on their toes. No offence, but youve let yourself go.”
Emma stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“Look at you. Yoga pants, no makeup, hair in a ponytail. When did you last hit the gym?”
Heat crawled up Emmas neck. Yes, shed gained a stone or two. Yes, her wardrobe was more practicality than style. But between work and the house and her mothers doctor appointments
“Im not a bloody supermodel, Rebecca.”
“Its not about that. Men want a woman, not a housekeeper. Maybe Davids distant because youve stopped being… well, you.”
Emma nodded, throat tight. So it was her fault. Her marriage was crumbling because shed dared to age, to prioritise laundry over lipstick.
On the way home, she ducked into Boots and bought mascara and a bold red lipstick. That evening, she dressed in her best blouse and applied both with care.
David walked in at eight, blinking at the set table, at her made-up face. “Guests coming?”
“No,” she said lightly. “Just thought wed have a proper dinner.”
He hummed, shovelling in shepherds pie. “New haircut?”
“Mm. Do you like it?”
He glanced up, assessing. “Suits you. Shorter.”
That was all. No spark. No recognition.
The next day, she joined a gym in Islington. Three evenings a week, she pounded treadmills until her muscles burned. A month in, shed dropped half a stone, her posture straighter, her clothes looser.
“Bloody hell, you look fantastic!” Rebecca crowed when they met again. “See? I told you. What does David say?”
Emma stared into her tea. “Said I looked ‘well.’ Thats it.”
Rebeccas eyes gleamed. “Maybe he needs a push. Jealousy works wonders. Let him see other men noticing you.”
Emma recoiled. “Im married.”
“Not suggesting an affair! Just a bit of harmless flirting. Make him realise what hes taking for granted.”
At home, David barely registered her efforts. Dinner. Telly. Sleep. Rinse, repeat.
Then, one evening, Rebecca called, voice frayed. “Em, can I come over? Jameshes cheated.”
She arrived in tears, mascara streaked. “Found texts on his phone. Some woman from his office. He said she *understands* him. That I just nag.”
Emma held her as she sobbed. All Rebeccas boasts about romancelies. Her perfect marriage, a façade.
The next morning, Emma mentioned it over toast.
“Shame,” David muttered. “Though James did say Rebeccas been suffocating him. Always demanding flowers, weekends away. Bloke just wants peace.”
Emmas chest tightened. So Rebeccas neediness had driven him away. Was her own restraint the right approach?
Days later, Mrs. Thompson from number 42 cornered her at Tesco. “Saw your David with a lovely young woman yesterday. Near that new café on High Street. Thought it was your sister!”
Emmas heart lurched. “I dont have a sister.”
“Oh.” The older woman faltered. “Well, he was ever so attentive. Holding her hand, laughing…”
Emma fled, groceries forgotten.
The next afternoon, she loitered outside the café, hidden behind a newspaper. At three, David appearedarm in arm with a striking brunette in a camel trench coat.
Emma watched, sickened, as they shared wine, as he leaned in to murmur something that made the woman laugh.
She stumbled home, numb.
That night, she confronted Rebecca. “Who is she?”
Rebecca paled. “Her? Oh, justjust someone from work.”
“Tell me the truth.”
A beat. Then, quietly: “Her names Claire. Were friends. And I… I introduced them.”
The room spun. “You *what*?”
“At a work do! I didnt thinkDavid started texting her, and I didnt know how to stop it. I *tried*”
Emma stood, trembling. “All those *tips*. The gym. The lipstick. Were you *guiding* me while helping him cheat?”
Rebeccas silence was answer enough.
The next morning, Emma filed for divorce.
Not out of spite.
But because, for the first time in years, she chose herself.
