The air in the salon was thick with the scent of hairspray and anxiety. Emily adjusted her fringe in the mirror, her fingers trembling slightly.
“Emma, be honestdoes this haircut suit me?” she asked, her voice tight with worry.
“You look gorgeous, love,” Emma reassured, though her tone carried a hint of something insincere. “It really takes years off you.”
Emily paid the stylist and caught her reflection againforty years old, a neat bob that did, in fact, make her look younger. But the sight brought no joy.
“Fancy a coffee?” Emma suggested as they stepped into the crisp London air. “Theres a new place just round the corner.”
“I cant stay long,” Emily murmured. “Dinner wont cook itself.”
They settled by the window. Emma ordered a cappuccino and a slice of Victoria sponge; Emily, just tea.
“So,” Emma stirred her drink, “what does James think of the new look?”
Emily shrugged. “He hardly notices what I do. Wore a new dress yesterdaydidnt even glance up.”
“Really?” Emma leaned in. “I thought things were good between you.”
“If by ‘good’ you mean were basically flatmates, then sure. Hes at work dawn till dusk. Weekends, its football with the lads or tinkering in the garage. Im either cleaning or visiting Mum.”
“Em, when was the last time you two did anything together? Theatre? A walk in the park?”
Emily frowned, searching her memory. “Honestly? Cant recall. Probably Sarahs birthday party three months ago. And even then, we barely spoke.”
Emma sighed. “Bloody hell. He used to chase you like a lovesick puppy. Remember uni? Flowers every other day, terrible poetry.”
A faint smile tugged at Emilys lips. “That was twenty years ago. People change.”
“Not all of them,” Emma countered. “My Gregs still a romantic. Surprised me with tickets to the Royal Albert Hall last week. Said he missed ‘culture.'”
Emily studied her friendthe spark in her eyes, the effortless glow. They were the same age, known each other since primary school. Yet Emma radiated happiness.
“Youre lucky,” Emily said softly.
“Lucks got nothing to do with it,” Emma snipped, slicing into her cake. “Its about effort. Youve let yourself go, love. No offence.”
Emilys cheeks burned. “Excuse me?”
“Be honestwhen was the last time you wore something that wasnt a tracksuit? Or bothered with makeup? Gym membership gone to waste?”
The words stung. Yes, shed put on a stone or two. Yes, life had become a cycle of chores. But
“Im not a bloody mannequin, Emma. Ive got a home to run.”
“Its not about being perfect. Its about being a wife, not a housekeeper. Maybe James pulled away because you stopped being… you.”
Emmas implication hung in the airunspoken but clear.
“Right,” Emily muttered, though her chest tightened. So it was her fault?
On the way home, she bought a new lipstick and mascara. That evening, she dressed in her best frock, set the table properly.
James walked in at eight, eyebrows lifting. “Special occasion?”
“No. Just fancied a nice dinner.”
He nodded, shovelling in roast potatoes without looking up. “Hairs different.”
“Today. Do you like it?”
James glanced up, assessing. “Its shorter.”
No compliment. No warmth. Emily bit her tongue.
“James… maybe we could do something this weekend? Its been ages.”
“Cant. Helping Greg with his shed.”
“Greg? Emmas Greg?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“No reason.”
The evening dissolved into silencetelly, bed. No conversation. No connection.
Days later, over lunch, Emma gushed about Emilys gym progress. “Look at you! James must be thrilled.”
“He said I look well. Thats it.”
Emmas eyes gleamed. “Then make him jealous. Show him other men might fancy you.”
“Emma, Im married.”
“Not suggesting an affairjust a bit of flirting. Let him worry he could lose you.”
Emily shook her head. Games werent her style.
But doubt festered.
Then came the call.
“Em, can you talk?” Emmas voice was ragged. “Gregs cheating.”
The confession spilled outa note found, bitter words exchanged. Emma, the picture of marital bliss, was crumbling.
“You always seemed so happy,” Emily whispered.
“Lies,” Emma admitted. “I envied your stability.”
The revelation left Emily reeling. Even Emmas perfect marriage was a façade.
Days later, her neighbour Mrs. Wilkins mentioned spotting James with a “lovely young woman” near a new café. The descriptiontall, polished, decades youngersent ice through Emilys veins.
She stalked the café the next day. And there he waslaughing, pouring wine, touching her arm. The woman was stunning. Confident. Everything Emily wasnt.
She fled, nausea rising.
That night, James claimed overtime. Emily played along, but the charade was suffocating.
When she confronted Emma, the truth detonated between them.
“That woman… shes my friend,” Emma confessed, face ashen. “I introduced them.”
The betrayal was a knife to the ribs.
“You knew,” Emily breathed. “All those advice. All those lies.”
Emma crumpled. “I never meant”
“Save it.”
The next morning, Emily filed for divorce.
Not for revenge.
But because, for the first time in years, she chose herselfwithout apologies, without illusions.
