28April2025 Tuesday
The ceremony had been at its most crucial moment when the groom abandoned his bride and walked straight over to another woman. The consulting room I was in was narrow, its papered walls peeling in tiny flowers. The air held the stale scent of an old iron and the faint odour of stray cats drifting in from the hallway. Emma sat on the very edge of the bed, untying her shoes while her legs ached after a grueling shift. Earlier that day the clinic had received a husky with a deep knife wound. A farmer from a nearby village explained, He got into a fight near the derelict farmhouse. Emma asked no further questions; the priority was saving the dog.
She slipped out of her white coat, hung it neatly on a peg, and pulled aside a curtain that concealed her makeshift kitchen: a kettle, a tin of buckwheat and a single cracked mug. From the next wall came the muffled profanity of the tenants in flat three, but Emma had long stopped hearing them. She turned on the radio Retro FM, brewed a mug of tea and perched on the windowsill, staring at the yellowed pane opposite. It was an ordinary evening, one of countless others that had come before.
The room reeked of dust, iron and cat litter. The radio crooned a love ballad from the late80s. Emmas buckwheat porridge cooled in the chipped mug. She watched the opposite windows as if someone there had just returned home: stripped off a coat, hung it, sat down at a table. A solitary figure, perhaps as lonely as she felt, though likely not in a council flat.
She ran a fingertip over the cold glass and smiled faintly. The day had been strange. First the injured dog, then him.
He arrived nearer lunchtime, cradling the bloodstained husky, yet he looked remarkably composed. No hat, a light trench coat, glasses fogged from the cold. The waiting area was packedpeople fidgeted, muttered, shouted. Emmas attention snapped to him, not because he was handsome but because he seemed unruffled. He stepped in as if he already knew what to do.
Is there a surgeon on duty? he asked, meeting her eyes. Shes still alive.
She gave a small nod and led him toward the operating theatre. Gloves were donned, the scalpel glinted, blood splattered. He held the dogs ears steady while Emma stitched the wound, never flinching.
When the procedure ended, he followed her back into the corridor. The dog lay under an IV drip. Arthur extended his hand.
Arthur.
Emma.
You saved her.
We did, she corrected.
He offered a brief smile, his gaze softening.
Your hands didnt shake.
Just habit, she shrugged.
He lingered at the door, ready to say more, then handed her a slip of paper with a number scribbled in blue ink just in case. Emma slipped it into her pocket and forgot about it for the rest of the day.
Later, while washing up, she found the paper beside her keys. The number read simply: Arthur. She didnt know then that this would be the seed of something larger. A warm feeling blossomed inside her, first like steam from a fresh cup of tea, then like spring breaking through frost.
She never wrote the number down; it lay on the edge of the bedside table, almost lost among other receipts while she did the dishes. She glanced at it and thought, Strange, if I called then, He never calls. Folks like that dont.
The next morning she arrived ten minutes late to the clinic. In the reception area a irritable elderly lady with a pug and a hooded teenager were already waiting. The shift was routine: injuries, flea bites, infections. By lunchtime her back no longer complained.
At three oclock he returned, this time without the dog, carrying two coffees and a bag of pastries. He stood at the door, a little shy, like a schoolboy.
May I? he asked.
Emma wiped her hands on her coat and nodded, surprised.
Youve got no excuse now
I do. Thank you, and perhaps a walk after work, if you arent too tired.
He didnt press, didnt rush. He simply offered and left the choice to her. That small courtesy eased the weight on her shoulders.
She accepted. First they walked to the bus stop, then wandered through the park. He walked beside her, talking about how hed found the dog, why hed chosen this clinic, and where he lived. He spoke plainly, without pretension. His coat was clearly expensive, and the watch on his wrist was certainly not cheap.
What do you do? she asked when they reached the pond.
Im in IT. Honestly, its dullcode, servers, projections, the occasional hologram demo, he chuckled. Id rather have a job like yours. Something real, messy, alive.
Emma laugheda sound that hadnt escaped her all day.
He didnt kiss her goodbye; he simply took her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze, and left.
Two days later he returned, this time with a leash. The dog had been discharged.
From then on the first two weeks he was almost a daily visitor. Sometimes he brought coffee, sometimes he collected the dog, sometimes he just said, I missed you. Emma initially kept a professional distancelaughing too loudly, answering too formallybut soon let the guard down. He became part of her life, a warm extra shift that felt less like work and more like a cozy blanket on a cold night.
The flat grew tidier. She stopped skipping breakfasts. Even the senior tenant on the floor, who usually snapped at everyone, once remarked, Emma, you look brighter these days, and actually smiled.
One evening, as Emma was about to head home, he waited at the entrance in a dark coat, a thermos in hand and a contented grin.
Ive stolen you away for a while, he said.
Im tired, she replied.
Even more so.
He guided her to his carsteady, never pushy. Inside, citrus and cinnamon mingled in the air.
Where are we going? she asked.
You like stars?
What do you mean?
The real night skyno streetlights, no city smog.
They drove about forty minutes. Outside the town the road turned black as ink, illuminated only by the cars headlights. A weatherworn firewatch tower stood in a field. He was the first to climb, then offered Emma a hand.
At the top the cold wind bit, but the sky spread above them: the Milky Way, occasional aircraft, slowmoving clouds.
He poured tea from the thermosno sugar, just as she liked.
Im not a romantic, he said, but I thought you spend so much time among pain and cries you deserve to breathe.
Emma was silent. Inside her a strange sensation grew, as if a cracked bone were finally knitting back together.
What if Im scared? she asked unexpectedly.
I am too, he replied simply.
She looked at him, and for the first time felt no doubt. Maybe it isnt all for nothing, she thought.
A month later, he still didnt whisk her off to fancy restaurants or buy rings. He drove her to the market on weekends, waited after her shifts, helped carry dog food. Once, while she was assisting in surgery, he sat by the door until she emerged, then asked, If you hadnt become a vet, what would you have done? He listened, as if her answer mattered.
Emma still lived in her modest flat, handwashing her clothes, rising at 6:40am. Yet new details appeared: his sweater on her hanger, his key on the communal hook, a pot of coffee on the stove that shed never bought before. She found herself turning at every hallway creak, hoping it might be him.
When the clinic lost heating one winter, Emma was used to shivering, but Arthur arrived early during the lunch break, carrying a compact heater.
Dont let that old fridge freeze you out, he said, placing the heater by the wall. I dont want you catching a chill.
Im not fragile, she replied, but she turned the heater on anyway.
He lingered at the doorway, as if he didnt want to leave.
Listen, he said suddenly, being near you feels oddly calm, almost too calm. Is that strange?
No, its just me, she shrugged. Im always like this.
He smiled, stepped closer, and gave her a gentle hugno drama, just the quiet trust you give someone you know will never betray you. She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest, and realized he was the sort of person you trust like a dog that lies by your side because it feels safe, not because youve trained it.
From that night onward he began staying longer, sometimes overnight, sometimes waking early to make coffee while Emma dozed. She tried to keep her old distance, but the habit slipped away; he became a quiet, steady part of her days, almost invisible yet essential.
One afternoon he confessed, Youre the only person I can truly trust. The words lingered in the empty hallway.
Later that week a text arrived: Friday, Mothers dinner. Id like you to come. No pretence, just meet her. After a pause, she replied, Alright.
On Friday she wore a simple grey dress shed kept from a postgraduate course, brushed her hair, and applied a modest amount of mascara. Her colleague, Lucy, handed her a strand of pearls.
Put these on. Theyll add a touch of class, Lucy advised.
Thanks. Ill try not to get tangled in the cutlery, Emma joked.
The house belonged to a glassandstone estate. A Swissstyle gate opened as Arthurs sleek black car rolled up. He met her at the door, gave a light hugnothing theatrical, just a hint of nervousnessand took her hand inside.
The foyer smelled of lavender and something sharp, like perfume. Walls displayed abstract canvases, thin pendant lights hung like needles, the floor shone like polished glass. IngaSophie, the matriarch, entered like a portrait come to life: tall, upright, in a dark navy dress, smiling without reaching her eyes.
Good evening, Emma, she said. Arthur has spoken highly of you. Please, come in.
Emma shook the offered hand.
Thank you for having me, she replied.
The dinner table held three courses, five place settings, and one attentive waiter. Emma felt like a decorative piece in a museumpretty but out of place. Arthur tried to steer conversation toward movies and holidays, but IngaSophie steered it toward art, galleries, and the new collection by Eleanorshes the partners daughter, you know?
Emma nodded politely, but inside she sensed she was a temporary guest, a footnote between larger events.
When IngaSophie rose, she tossed over, Arthur tends to act on impulse. Itll pass.
Emma met her gaze directly for the first time.
Im not a passerby. Im genuine. Believe what you will.
The woman raised an eyebrow. We shall see.
After dinner Arthur drove her home. The car was quietso heavy that even breathing felt cramped. At the entrance he took her hand.
Sorry, he said.
For what?
For how this all feels more about them than about you.
Emma nodded. Im about me. Dont worry.
He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, almost a farewell, and left.
Back in her flat she removed the pearls and set them on the nightstand, then realized she would never fit into that house. Even with him nearby, she belonged elsewhere.
Two weeks later, Arthur began arriving later at night, claiming work emergencies. He never fully left, but hesitated, as if at a crossroads. Emma tried not to dwell on it. Love, she thought, meant overcoming obstacles; after all, she wasnt perfect either.
Then, one Friday afternoon, he came bearing a bouquet, a bottle of champagne and a silver box.
Emma, he began, dropping to one knee, I love you. I dont care about anyone else. Will you marry me?
She laughed through tears, then hugged him and asked, Are you sure?
Yes. Absolutely.
They decided on a small, nofrills ceremony. Arthur wanted a loft, live music, a simple buffet. Emma borrowed a modest dress from a colleaguelace at the bodice, a bit loose at the waist, but as if it were hers.
She invited only her aunt Galia, whod raised her, and declined to bring any other guests. Galia replied, Emma, my blood pressures spiking, I cant make it. Its not for me.
On the wedding day, Emma rose at five, ironed the dress, applied light makeup in a tiny mirror, drank tea while looking out the window. Her heart poundednot from joy but from a strange nervous flutter, like standing on the edge of a dive.
When she arrived at the venue, a whiteribboned arch, live strings, mimosaladen tableseverything looked like a film set. Photographers clicked, waiters floated trays of champagne. At the centre of the arch stood Arthur in a crisp suit, smiling.
Emma approached, throat tight.
He looked at her
Then walked past her, straight to a newly arrived guestEleanor, a tall, immaculate woman in a champagnecoloured gown, escorted by a sharply dressed gentleman.
Eleanor, youre my bride, Arthur announced.
Emma stood beneath the arch, her dress suddenly feeling alien. A cold shiver ran up her shoulders.
Excuse me, he said, turning back, youre in the wrong hall.
Laughter erupted, applause thundered. Emma remained statuesque, watching him embrace Eleanor, watching IngaSophie plant a kiss on Eleanors cheek, hearing guests record the moment on their phones.
It was a performance, and she was a stray extra.
She turned, her dress snagged on the threshold, her shoes clattered down the stairs. A security guard shouted something, but the noise of the crowd drowned it out. She fled the hall, through corridors that seemed to erase her presence, out onto the street where rainslicked pavement reflected the gloomy sky.
A woman in heels halted at the curb, teenagers smoked under a shelter, nobody looked back. Emma walked on, aimless, past shop windows and laundrette doors. A guard at a business centre gestured her away, Sorry, you cant be here. She nodded, kept moving, shoes abandoned on a flowerbed, her former life slipping away with them.
She sat at a bus stop, cars whizzed past, each carrying strangers destinies. A black 4×4 pulled up, its door ajar. A voice called, Excuse me youre Emma, arent you?
She looked up at a man in his sixties, neatly dressed, a worried expression. He seemed familiar, yet she couldnt place him.
I dont remember you, she said softly.
He stepped out, leaned forward, Two years ago, near the maternity ward, I suffered a heart attack. Everyone rushed past, but you stayed, called an ambulance, held my head on your lap, held my hand.
A flash of memorycold, sirens, a missed busfilled her mind.
It was you?
Yes. Ive been looking for you ever since, to thank you. I saw you walk away and never heard from you again.
He gestured toward the back seat, Come, have a seat.
She entered the vehicle without asking why; she had nowhere else to go.
Inside the scent of leather and fresh mint filled the air. George Anson, as he introduced himself, offered no questions, only a warm blanket and the heater.
After a while he said, I live out of town. My son needs someonenot a caregiver, not a nursejust a person who wont turn away. Someone who isnt scared.
He paused, looking into the rearview mirror. I dont know whats happened to you, and I wont ask. If you want, we can go to my place. Rest, then decide whats next.
Emma watched the headlights dance on puddles, thinking of the loft where a party she never attended was still in progress. Alright, she said, Ill go.
Georges house was plain brick, no ostentation, just the smell of fresh bread and the quiet of an empty home. In the hallway, he handed her his late wifes shirt. Emma changed in the bathroom, washed, and stared at herself in the mirrordifferent eyes, same stubborn heart.
He placed a tray of tea on the kitchen table. My son, Victor, thirty, lost a leg in an accident six months ago. He used to be a climbing instructor, now he barely speaks. Caregivers quit. I thought youd understand because you helped me when no one else would.
Emma asked, Why think I could manage?
He smiled, Because you chose to do what was right, even when it was inconvenient.
They walked upstairs; Victors room was bright, a window overlooking a garden, crutches leaning against the wall. He sat, unbothered, eyes fixed on the view.
Emma, George said, shell be staying with us, trying to help.
Victor snapped, I dont need anyone. Especially not you.
Emma sat on the edge of the bed, Hello.
Victor remained silent.
Whats with the shirt? she asked, gesturing to his worn coat.
The one Id left in the mud, he muttered. Im not here to be rescued. If you want to leave, just say so. Ive had enough of drama.
Silence stretched. Victor finally looked up, a flicker of curiosity in his gaze.
Youre odd, he said.
Im not a nurse, Emma replied. Im Emma. And I wont play theShe smiled, placed a steady hand on his shoulder, and whispered that together they would find a new way forward.
