Sophie raised her hand to knock on Emilys flat door but paused. Something twisted inside her, a hint of unease she brushed aside. She and Emily had been close since their university days, nearly twenty years now. Emily was always that friend you could just turn up to see, bottle of wine in tow or just yourself, ready for a cry or a giggle. Todays visit was nothing major: Sophie simply wanted to return the dress shed borrowed for a work meeting and, of course, complain that her husband was running late at work yet again.
Emily opened the door clad in her bathrobe, hair wet from a shower, smiling her signature bright, toothpaste-ad smile.
Oh, Sophie, come in! Ive just put the kettle on. Saved me from talking to myself again.
Emilys flat smelled of vanilla and some kind of expensive floral air freshener. Everything was familiar: creamy walls, squashy sofa, half-drunk mug of coffee on the side table. Sophie dropped her coat on the peg, put the dress over the back of a chair.
I wont stay long, she said. Just returning your prized possession. And honestly looking to have a whinge.
Emily let out a laugh. Moan away, love, Ive an endless supply of sympathy. Sit, Ill bring the coffee.
While Emily busied herself in the kitchen, Sophie absentmindedly scanned the room. On the dressing table by the window, among bottles of perfume and cream, she spotted a hairbrush. Ordinary, black, wide-toothed. Identical to her husbands. Actually exactly identical.
Sophie frowned. Ben, her husband, was borderline evangelical about those brushes; he bought them in bulk online because, theyre sturdy and dont break. They had three at home or rather, two now, since one had mysteriously vanished a couple of months back. Ben had grumbled about it: Must have left it somewhere, good thing I stockpiled.
She looked closer. The brush was carelessly left out. A few short, dark hairs caught in the bristles masculine, for sure. Emilys hair: pale and long. Bens: dark, shot with a bit of grey at his temples.
Sophies heart gave a single, violent thud, then steadied itself as though nothing had happened. She picked up the brush.
Emily, she called lightly, determined her voice wouldnt quiver, where did this hairbrush come from?
Emily appeared in the doorway, two mugs in hand.
That? Oh, no idea. Probably left by one of my many glamorous guests, ages ago.
Sophie turned the hairbrush over. On the handle was the tiniest scratch, nearly forming the letter B. Bens own handiwork hed made it accidentally with a penknife while unboxing the things, then joked, B for Ben. Now its unmistakably mine.
This ones Bens, Sophie said quietly.
Emily put the mugs down. Her smile wobbled but didnt quite disappear.
You sure? They all look the same to me.
The scratch. Remember? Ben made it himself.
A silence stretched between them. Emily inspected the brush then shrugged.
Well, who knows. Maybe he popped by and forgot it. Or maybe you brought it over if you stayed here once?
Sophie shook her head. When I stay over, I bring my own in my make-up bag. And Ben when was Ben last at yours?
Emily looked away. Cant remember. Ages ago.
Sophie put the brush down; her hands had started to shake.
Emily just be honest. Whats going on?
Emily sat across from her, clutching her mug.
Sophie, come on. Over a brush? You know how I feel about Ben. Like a brother, honestly.
Thats why Im asking.
Emily sighed. Seriously, nothing happened. Maybe he did forget it. Maybe its one of the ones you say he buys by the shedload.
Sophie stared at her. Emily had always been a decent liar since their student days: skipping lectures, hiding boyfriends, telling white lies to her mother. But now, her eyes werent frightened just tired. Expectant, almost.
Fine, Sophie said. Ill take it. Give it back to him and ask how it ended up here.
Emily nodded just a little too quickly.
Of course. Take it.
Sophie put the brush in her handbag. They spent twenty more minutes chatting about work, kids, the new Netflix comedy, but the air was tight as piano wire. When Sophie stood to leave, Emilys goodbye hug lingered a bit too long.
Dont go inventing stories in your head, okay? Emily whispered. Were mates.
Of course, Sophie replied.
Back home, Ben hadnt returned yet. Sophie placed the brush on his bedside table next to his watch, then sat on the bed and waited.
He came in about ten, looking knackered, briefcase in hand, smelling of sharp winter air and subtly someone elses perfume. That same expensive floral one.
Alright, love, he said, pecking her cheek. How was your day?
Fine. I saw Emily.
Ben nodded, heading to the bathroom to wash up. She could hear him humming his default state when feeling cheerful.
When he reappeared, pyjamaed, his eyes instantly clocked the brush.
Oy, look my missing brush! Whered you find it?
Sophie watched him carefully. At Emilys. Left on her dressing table.
Ben held the brush, turned it over. Weird. Thought Id lost it around the house.
Have you been at Emilys lately?
He shrugged. Dont think so. Maybe three months ago, while you were on that work trip. She needed a hand with her laptop.
Sophie didnt answer.
What is it? he asked.
Nothing. Just odd it turned up at hers.
He laughed. Probably you left it. Or she borrowed it from ours one night.
She claims a guest left it.
Well, then Im your mystery guest! Ben chuckled. Dont stress, Soph. Its just a brush.
He lay down and pulled her in for a hug, as always. But Sophie barely slept. She replayed the evening: why didnt Ben even look surprised? Why didnt he ask how the brush got left in such a place? Why did Emily so eagerly let her take it?
By morning, Sophie rang Emily.
Em, can we meet? Properly talk?
Im at work, Soph. This evening?
No. Now. Coffee at the place opposite your office.
Emily arrived half an hour later pale, clutching her handbag like a lifebuoy.
They took seats at the back, an awkward silence settling as the waiter brought coffee.
Right, said Sophie.
Emily gazed out the window. Theres nothing to say, Sophie. Youre imagining things.
I saw your face yesterday. You were lying.
Emilys features crumpled, and then she admitted it.
Once. Only once, Sophie. Months back. It was stupid. We both regretted it.
Sophie felt her insides turn frosty.
When?
About three months ago. When you were out of town. He popped by helped with the laptop. We had wine. It just happened.
And thats it?
Emily nodded. Nothing since. Swear it. We both knew it was wrong. We agreed to pretend it never happened.
And the brush?
He stayed over… it was late, and he couldnt drive home. Left in the morning, used the brush, forgot it. I kept it in case he asked, but he never did.
Sophie stared at her mug.
Why didnt you tell me?
Because I care about you. I care about him as a friend. Didnt want to break everything. And you know, after my divorce its been lonely.
And Ben?
He loves you. He said it was a mistake. That it never should have happened.
Sophie stood up.
I need time to think.
She left the café. On the street, January snow tumbled in thick, dramatic flakes. Sophie walked all the way home, too restless to even try for a taxi.
At home, she packed Bens things calmly, steadily. Everything folded neatly into a suitcase by the door. When Ben returned that night, she simply pointed.
Sophie he began.
I know everything. You need to go.
It was a mistake. Just once.
Not for me. Its betrayal. Both from you, and her.
Ben tried to explain, apologise she was cold, frighteningly so.
Go. I dont want to see you.
He left. The next day Emily bombarded her phone with calls, texts, pleas for forgiveness. Sophie ignored her.
A week passed. Sophie drifted through her days: going to work, cooking for one, gazing blankly out the window. Colleagues noticed she brushed them off.
One evening, the doorbell rang. Emily, standing red-eyed at the threshold, clutching a bouquet of white roses.
May I come in?
Sophie let her in.
They sat at the kitchen table.
Im not asking for forgiveness, Emily said. I know I dont deserve it. But I cant stand to lose you. Youre like a sister.
Sophie looked at her.
You slept with my husband. What did you think of me, while it was happening?
Emilys tears spilled. I have no excuse. We were both miserable that night, both lonely. You away, him saying you two were drifting. We opened wine and it happened.
Sophie poured herself some water.
I dont know if Ill ever forgive either of you.
I understand.
Emily left. The white roses remained, wilted and unceremonious on the kitchen table.
Weeks went by. Ben rented a flat. He called, he messaged. Sophie didnt reply. Emily stayed away, only sending the occasional, carefully vanilla text: Hope youre well, Happy Birthday. Sophie answered, but always curt.
One spring day, Sophie strolled through the park and spotted them: Ben and Emily sharing a bench, sitting far apart, visibly not together. Emily explained something, Ben nodded. Then they split off separate ways, like two dodgers at a bus stop.
Sophie took shelter behind a tree. Her heart strained, not from pain but relief. Whatever it was, it was over.
That evening, Ben rang.
Soph, I saw you at the park. Can we talk?
They met at the same café where Sophie had confronted Emily.
Im not with her, Ben said promptly. We met to deal with that whole mess, to draw a line. Shes moving. Got a new job up north.
Sophie nodded.
And you?
I want to come back, if youll let me. Ive been an idiot, Soph. It was the biggest mistake Ive ever made.
She looked at him a long time.
I dont know if Ill ever trust you like before. But Im tired of being alone too.
They started from scratch slowly, gingerly. No dramatic declarations, no promises carved in stone. Shared dinners. Walks. Conversation.
Sophie never saw Emily again. She did, as promised, move away. Sometimes shed send short, neutral texts: How are you?, Happy Birthday. Sophied reply, flatly but civil.
The infamous brush, Sophie hurled into the communal bin the evening Ben left. A nice, public, cathartic toss. Never wanted to clap eyes on it again.
A year on. Sophie and Ben back under one roof. Not quite as they were better, in fact. They spoke more, really listened. Little by little, trust stitched itself back together.
One ordinary afternoon, Sophie found a new brush in the drawer same model, black, wide-toothed. Ben grinned.
Why? she asked.
Theyre just handy, Ben joked. But Ill never forget how easy it is to lose one.
Sophie actually laughed. For the first time in what felt like ages, she meant it.
Their scandal faded behind them not showy, not public, but small and corrosive and close to home. Yet theyd survived. Maybe they were stronger for it. Or perhaps just more keenly aware how easily something precious can slip away over one black, wide-toothed brush left on the wrong dressing table.
