AI The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest pulsed , a sickly emerald beacon against the London drizzle. Rory pushed through the door, the bell above her head jingling a familiar tune. Inside, the usual symphony of clinking glasses, low chatter, and the mournful wail of a blues saxophone embraced her. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light slicing through the perpetually dim interior, illuminating old maps plastered on the walls, their faded colours whispering of forgotten journeys.
She slid onto a stool at the far end of the polished mahogany bar, the worn leather cool beneath her palms. Silas, his auburn hair streaked with grey, his beard neatly trimmed to match, glanced up from polishing a pint glass. A slight limp in his left leg, a memento from some forgotten mission, never slowed his movements behind the bar. He nodded a silent greeting, his hazel eyes, quick and knowing, sweeping over her.
“The usual?” he asked, the words a low rumble. His silver signet ring caught the dim light as he reached for a glass.
“Please, Si,” Rory replied, her voice a little rough around the edges. She traced the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a childhood souvenir. Her straight, shoulder-length black hair fell forward, obscuring her bright blue eyes from the main room.
Silas placed a tumbler of amber liquid before her, the ice cubes clinking softly . The scent of aged whiskey filled the air. She took a slow sip, the warmth spreading through her, a familiar comfort against the evening chill . Her gaze drifted over the scattering of patrons: a couple tucked in a corner, their heads bent in quiet conversation, a lone man hunched over a newspaper, a group of suit-clad men laughing too loudly by the jukebox. Nothing out of the ordinary, another Tuesday night at the Nest.
She pulled her phone from her pocket, the screen a brief, harsh rectangle of light. Two new messages from Yu-Fei. Rory sighed. Another late delivery, no doubt a double order of sweet and sour chicken. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but a sudden shift in the bar’s ambient hum stole her attention.
The jukebox, which previously delivered melancholic sax riffs, erupted with a familiar , jarringly upbeat pop song. A peal of laughter, sharp and bright, cut through the smoky air. Rory’s head snapped up, her bright blue eyes narrowing on the source.
A woman stood by the jukebox, her back to Rory, swaying exaggeratedly to the beat. Her hair, a vibrant, almost artificial shade of blonde, cascaded down her back. A sequined top shimmered under the dim lights, catching every stray glimmer, turning her into a walking disco ball. Rory felt a flicker of annoyance. That kind of exuberance felt out of place in Silas’s sanctuary .
The woman spun around, her laughter bubbling over. Her eyes, a startling emerald green, scanned the room, lingering for a moment on Rory’s face before widening in surprise. A slow, uncertain smile stretched across her lips.
“Rory? Is that… Rory Carter?”
The name, spoken with such confident familiarity, sent a jolt down Rory’s spine. The voice. It burrowed through the years, through layers of forgotten memories, striking a chord she hadn’t realised was still strung. She stared, her whiskey glass halfway to her lips, the ice suddenly heavy. The woman took a step closer, then another, her high heels clicking a staccato rhythm on the wooden floor.
“It is you!” The woman’s smile blossomed, dazzling and almost painful. She practically skipped the remaining distance, stopping just a few feet from Rory. “God, Rory, I almost didn’t recognise you. But then I saw that little scar… and those eyes…”
The recognition, slow and reluctant, finally dawned on Rory. The vibrant blonde hair, the sequined top, the boisterous laugh – they were all masks, poorly fitted, barely concealing the familiar features beneath. Eva. Her mind reeled. Eva, her childhood friend, the one who pulled her to London, the one who vanished without a trace, now standing before her, a sparkling, glittering enigma .
Eva stood taller, her figure a little softer, but the angular lines of her jaw, the slight tilt of her nose, the way her top lip curled when she smiled – these were all undeniable.
“Eva?” Rory breathed, the name a rusty whisper . It tasted foreign on her tongue, heavy with years of unspoken questions.
Eva’s smile wavered for a fraction of a second, a brief shadow flitting across her vibrant features, quickly chased away by another, brighter one. “The one and only! Oh my god, I can’t believe it! It’s been… what? Five years? Six?” She laughed, a little too loudly, too brightly. “Look at you! Still rocking the dark side, I see.” She gestured at Rory’s black hair, black jeans, black jumper.
Rory felt a prickle of irritation. “Some things don’t change.” The words were sharper than she intended. She took another sip of her whiskey, the cold burn a welcome distraction.
Eva, oblivious or perhaps choosing to be, pulled up the stool next to Rory, her sequins catching the light as she moved. “Tell me everything! What have you been up to? Still in law school, I bet. Knew you’d be some hotshot barrister by now.” Her voice, once soft and lilting with a faint Welsh lilt , now carried an unfamiliar London sharpness, edged with an almost performative cheer.
Rory set her glass down with a soft click. “No law school.”
A surprised blink from Eva. “Oh. Really? What then? Don’t tell me you became a… a librarian! No offence, but that was always your mum’s dream, not yours.” She giggled.
“I deliver food,” Rory stated flatly, watching Eva’s reaction closely.
Eva’s laughter evaporated. Her emerald eyes, though still bright, held a hint of something Rory couldn’t quite decipher – surprise, perhaps a touch of pity, quickly masked . “Oh. Well. That’s… different.” She cleared her throat, her gaze darting around the bar, avoiding Rory’s eyes. “So, you’re still living above the bar then? Rory, you always could pick interesting places. But hey, it’s London! Any job's a good job, right?”
“It keeps the bills paid,” Rory replied, her voice carefully neutral . The familiar ache in her chest stirred. The easy camaraderie they once shared, the unspoken understanding that had bound them together since childhood, felt like a distant dream . This Eva, with her glittering facade and forced cheer, was a stranger.
“Exactly!” Eva chirped, a little too enthusiastically. She turned fully towards Rory, leaning in conspiratorially. The scent of expensive perfume, cloying and sweet, enveloped Rory. “But come on, there has to be more. You were always so ambitious, so clever. Remember that time we built an entire city out of cardboard boxes in your garden? You were the architect, I was the interior decorator.” She laughed, a genuine note finally entering her voice .
A ghost of a smile touched Rory’s lips. “You insisted on glitter glue for the rooftops.”
“It was avant-garde!” Eva protested, playfully nudging Rory’s arm. “So, no law then? What happened? Did you finally realise how much barristers talk rubbish?”
The sudden intimacy, while jarring, allowed a sliver of the old Eva to peek through. But the warmth was fleeting . Rory hesitated, a lump forming in her throat. How to explain the spiral that followed Evan, the crushing weight of leaving and starting over, the slow, arduous climb back to some semblance of stability? How to explain that ambition had been replaced by survival?
“Things… changed,” Rory began, her voice low . “After… after that. It was hard, Eva. Starting again. London felt like a good place to disappear.”
Eva’s theatrical smile faltered completely this time. A flicker of something real, something akin to sorrow, crossed her face . She reached out, her hand hovering for a moment above Rory’s, before she pulled it back, instead fiddling with her sequined cuff.
“Right. Evan,” she murmured, the name a heavy stone dropped between them. The lively music from the jukebox seemed to dim. “I heard… I heard he finally got what was coming to him. Some kind of fraud charge. Good riddance to bad rubbish, eh?” She tried a jaunty tone, but it fell flat.
Rory nodded, a grim satisfaction in the truth of that statement. “He did. Locked away.”
A silence settled between them, thick and uncomfortable. Eva’s gaze wandered to the half-empty whiskey glass in front of Rory.
“So, you’re still… single then?” Eva asked, her voice softer now, almost tentative . She looked at Rory with an unreadable expression. “Since you’re still here, I mean.”
Rory raised an eyebrow . “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing!” Eva quickly interjected, her hands going up in a defensive gesture . “Just, you know. Figured you’d have found someone here. London’s full of eligible bachelors, right?” A strained laugh escaped her. “Unlike dreary Cardiff.”
Rory felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach . “I’m fine.”
“Of course you are,” Eva said, though her eyes held a trace of doubt . She bit her lip, then, as if making a decision, brightened visibly . “Well, I, for one, am thriving! You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen, the places I’ve been! I’m working for this incredible PR firm now. Global clients, private jets, all that jazz.” She waved a manicured hand dismissively, though a hint of pride shone in her eyes. “It’s demanding, but darling, the perks are divine.”
She paused, as if waiting for a reaction, for an expression of awe or envy . Rory, however, simply took another slow sip of her whiskey, watching the ice melt.
“And what about you?” Rory finally asked, breaking the silence . “After… after you just left. Vanished. Not a word. Not a text, not a call, nothing.” The bitterness, long suppressed, finally found its way into her voice.
Eva flinched, her carefully constructed cheer crumbling around the edges. Her colourful fingernails, each sparkling with glitter, picked at an invisible thread on her sequined top. “Rory, I… I was struggling, okay? Things got… complicated. And I didn’t want to drag you down. You had enough on your plate with Evan and everything.” Her voice was barely above a whisper now. “I didn’t know how to explain it. I panicked.”
“You didn’t have to explain it,” Rory said, her voice quiet but firm . “You could have just said something. Anything. I thought something terrible had happened to you.” The memory of the sick dread, the frantic calls, the unanswered messages, still stung.
Eva finally met Rory’s gaze, her emerald eyes filled with a raw, uncharacteristic vulnerability. “I know. I know, and I’m so, so sorry, Rory. Honestly, I am. It was a stupid, cowardly thing to do. I just… I got scared. My life was a mess, and I just needed to escape everything. Everyone.”
Rory studied her, trying to reconcile the tearful girl she remembered with the polished woman before her. The confession, while welcome, felt too little, too late. The chasm between them seemed wider than ever .
“So, you ran away from your problems and then became a PR executive?” Rory asked, her voice laced with a subtle challenge.
Eva sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to deflate some of the artificial bravado she carried . “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. I had to fight for it, Rory. Claw my way up. It’s a ruthless industry.” She glanced at Rory, her lips twisting into a wry smile. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? You always had everything figured out. Always the calm one, the sensible one.”
The words, meant as a compliment perhaps, landed like tiny barbs. Rory felt a sudden, fierce protectiveness rise within her.
“I’m still figuring things out,” Rory said, her voice sharper than she intended . “And being sensible doesn’t mean I haven’t struggled, Eva. It just means I didn’t broadcast it to the world.”
Eva winced. “Right. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… you always seemed so… together. So sure of yourself. And I never was.” A genuine melancholy settled over her features. “I always looked up to you, Rory. Always.”
The unexpected admission softened Rory’s stance slightly . She remembered the shy, awkward Eva who clung to her side in primary school, the one who always sought her approval.
“What changed?” Rory asked, her tone gentler now . “What happened to the girl who used to drag me to those terrible indie concerts and made me wear glitter on my face?”
A sad smile touched Eva’s lips. “Life, Rory. Life happened.” Her gaze drifted to the bustling bar, then back to Rory, a profound weariness in her emerald eyes. “And you, what changed for you? You’re so… quiet now. So contained.” She paused, then added, “You used to have that spark, Rory. That fire.”
Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. The burning question, the weight of years, hung heavy in the air between them. The chasm, though perhaps momentarily bridged by a shared glance of regret, remained.