Love, Forty

Emma's hairdresser always asks about the copper highlights. Every six weeks, like clockwork. 'Doing it for him again?' Marta says, running her fingers through Emma's hair. Emma nods, keeps her eyes closed. She's been doing this for three years.

Liam plays padel professionally. He's always in Madrid, Buenos Aires, Mexico City. He's Emma's oldest friend, her best friend, her sometimes-in-bed friend. He says they're better this way. No complications. No labels. Just the two of them, whenever he's back in London.

Tuesday at the club, Liam returns from a tournament in Mexico. He meets Emma on Court 4 for their usual match. But he's different — distracted, checking his phone between serves.

Emma notices a long dark hair caught in the collar of his shirt. Not hers. Not his.

She serves, hard and angry. The ball slams into his palm instead of his racket. He winces, shakes his hand.

'You're seeing someone,' she says. It's not a question.

He looks at her, really looks at her, for the first time all afternoon. 'I'm engaged. Her name is Sofia. She's the tournament organizer from Mexico City.' A pause. 'I didn't think you'd care.'

Emma's entire chest hollows out. She's been the other woman for three years without even knowing it. The hair she's been dyeing copper for three years — his color. The friends label. The way he texts her when he's lonely, never when he's happy. She's been the placeholder.

'Congratulations,' she hears herself say. Her voice doesn't shake.

'Emma — I didn't know you felt —'

'I don't.' She picks up her bag, her water bottle, her racket. 'We're friends, Liam. You said so.'

She walks off the court, out of the club, into the cold London evening. Her palm still tingles where she gripped the racket too hard.

In the taxi, she books an appointment with Marta. 'Dye it back,' she texts. 'Whatever color it was before the copper.'

At home, she pours a glass of wine, catches her reflection in the window. Three years of wearing someone else's color like a brand. She's been at love all this time — love, zero — without even realizing she was playing.

She finishes her wine, books a court for tomorrow morning. Just her. Just the ball. Just the sound it makes against the racket, over and over, until her arm aches and her palm burns and she finally, finally doesn't think of him at all.