The Plain Jane.
Staring into her phone as if it were a mirror, Emily adjusted the glossy shine on her plump lips for the fourth time. Her long legs, sheathed in nude stockings, were on full display beneath an ultra-short black leather skirt. The plunging neckline of her tight pink top barely concealed her ample, surgically enhanced chesta gift from one of her ex-lovers, the owner of a chain of car dealerships. Her delicate, refined nose, courtesy of another admirer, a plastic surgeon, completed the picture. Her platinum blonde extensions cascaded down to her waist, shimmering in the sunlight.
“Liz, he should be here by now!” she fussed, nervously twisting the ends of her hair. “Look at his profile picturesa townhouse in London, a villa in Portugal…”
Elizabeth quietly stirred her cooling coffee, occasionally glancing at her friend. Next to the dazzling Emily, she was barely noticeablepetite, slightly curvy, dressed in a modest white blouse with long sleeves and a navy-blue knee-length skirt. Her mousy brown hair was pulled into a simple ponytail, and the only makeup on her face was a swipe of clear lip balm. Thick textbooks on English literature sat beside her handbagshe had plans to study after this meeting.
“Em, are you sure hes serious?” Elizabeth asked softly, adjusting her thick-rimmed glasses.
“Obviously!” Emily rolled her heavily made-up eyes. “Hes forty-two, runs a property development firm, owns homes across Europe. I just need a husbandfive years, tops. Then divorce, a settlement, and Ill be living comfortably in one of his holiday homes.”
Elizabeth winced but stayed silent. Emily continued, stroking her rounded chest.
“Just make sure he doesnt realise my French is terrible. Thats why youre here, clever clogs. And honestly…” She flashed a predatory grin. “You know why I really invited you, right? Contrast, darling. Next to someone so… plain… Ill look like an absolute goddess.”
The words stung, but Elizabeth just lowered her gaze. She was used to playing the “ugly friend.” Ever since secondary school, Emily had dragged her along to dates and parties for this exact purposeto shine brighter by comparison.
A man walked into the café. Average height, slightly portly, with greying hair and kind brown eyes behind thin gold-rimmed glasses. Unremarkable at first glance, but Emilys sharp eyes caught the detailshis charcoal suit was understated, but the fabric was clearly expensive, the tailoring impeccable. His black Oxford shoes were from a luxury Italian brand, the kind shed seen in glossy magazines. A single pair cost more than her yearly student loan.
“Oh!” she whispered. “Hes loaded. Pity about the face, though.”
The man approached their table, holding a single white rose.
“Excuse me, are you Emily?” His voice was soft, with a refined London accent. “Im James Whitmore.”
“Yes, thats me!” Emily instantly transformed, flashing a seductive smile and leaning forward to deepen her cleavage. “And this is my friend Elizabeth.”
James nodded politely to Elizabeth and handed the rose to Emily before sitting down. Elizabeth noticed he avoided looking at Emilys revealing outfit, his gaze lingering instead on her stack of books.
“I brought you both a small gift,” James said, sliding two elegant Chanel boxes across the table.
“Oh! How sweet!” Emily immediately inspected the packaging, mentally calculating its worth. “This is très cher, yes? *Très* expensive perfume!” she exclaimed in broken French, stressing the wrong syllables.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Whitmore,” Elizabeth said quietly, and James looked at her in surprise. Unlike Emily, she spoke almost flawlessly, with perfect intonation. “Its very thoughtful.”
“Please, call me James,” he smiled. “So, you both study French literature?”
“Oui! Je parle très bien!” Emily chirped, tossing her platinum waves. “I want to go to Paris! So beautiful! You have big house there, oui?” She playfully brushed his hand with her bright-red nails.
James barely suppressed a wince at her butchered grammar. Oblivious, Emily prattled on, erupting into loud giggles and tilting her head back to show off her long neck.
“And you, Elizabeth?” James turned to her. “What fascinates you most about literature?”
“Im particularly drawn to translation,” she replied, her quiet voice gaining confidence. “The challenge of preserving not just meaning, but style and cultural nuance.” She gestured to her books. “Were studying French modernists this termProust, Sartre, de Beauvoir…”
“Really?” His eyes lit up. “What do you make of *In Search of Lost Time*? Most students find it impenetrable.”
“Difficult, yes, but extraordinary,” she smiled. “The stream of consciousness, the depth of introspection… Its like piecing together a mosaic of human experience.”
Emily scowled. The conversation was veering off-script.
“James!” She draped a hand on his shoulder, fingers tightening slightly. “Tell me about your business! You are très riche, oui? Successful man!” She winked and burst into another shrill laugh.
“I specialise in sustainable architecture,” he replied dryly, gently removing her hand. “But Id rather hear more about your studies.” He turned back to Elizabeth. “Have you attempted translating Camus? His existential themes must pose quite the challenge.”
For the next half-hour, James barely glanced at Emily, engrossed in discussion with Elizabeth about philosophy, prose, and the art of translation. Elizabeth, usually silent in her friends shadow, seemed to bloom. Her brown eyes sparkled behind her glasses as she animatedly discussed her favourite authors.
Emily grew increasingly sullen. She repeatedly tried to interjectadjusting her cleavage, crossing her legs, tossing out simple phrases like “Oui, très intéressant!” or “Moi aussi, jaime les livres!” But her clumsy interjections were lost in the lively exchange.
“Excusez-moi,” she finally snapped, standing abruptly. Her surgically enhanced chest wobbled dramatically. “Elizabeth, we need the ladies. Girl talk, you know?”
In the bathroom, Emily rounded on her.
“Have you lost the plot?! Why are you chatting up *my* man?!”
“Em, I was just answering his questions”
“Spare me the act!” Emily jabbed a manicured finger into her chest. “You know exactly why youre hereto make *me* look better! I dropped a fortune on this look!” She gestured to herself. “*Im* the star, and youre the dull sidekick whos meant to sit there quietly! But no, youve got to show off with your books and your *oh-so-clever* chat!”
“Em, he *asked*”
“Shut it!” Emily loomed over her. “Get out! Go home! Hes *mine*! Ive been hunting him for months, and some frumpy bookworm isnt ruining this!”
Elizabeth paled. She took off her glasses, wiped them shakily, and put them back on.
“Fine, Em. Sorry for intruding.”
She collected her books and bag.
“James, Im terribly sorry, but I must leave,” she murmured at the table. “Thank you for the lovely conversation and the gift.”
“But why?” James stood, dismayed. “Did I say something wrong? I was thoroughly enjoying our talk”
“Not at all,” she said with a sad smile. “It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope you enjoy your stay in London.”
She hurried out, clutching her books to her chest, leaving Emily alone with her prized catch.
But the prize had lost interest. Emily returned with a triumphant smile, thrusting out her chest and flicking her hair.
“Now we can talk, just us!” she trilled. “Elizabeth is… how you say… *très ennuyeuse*. But me? *Je suis amusante*!”
James nodded politely, but the spark was gone. He endured twenty more minutes of Emily boasting about her looks, her surgeries, and her designer wardrobe before standing abruptly.
“Apologies, Emily, but Ive urgent matters,” he said, leaving cash for the coffee. “This was… enlightening.”
He left without asking for her number.
Emily sat seething, scarlet nails drumming the table. Her perfectly contoured face twisted with rage. She pulled out her phone and began swiping through a dating app. Within minutes, she was texting a tech entrepreneur named Daniel:
“*Salut, chéri! Whens your flight to London? Je tattends!* ”
—
Two weeks later, Elizabeth exited the university after defending her thesis on French existentialist translations. Her bag held a paper marked “First,” and her heart felt lightdespite Emily pointedly ignoring her, sitting as far away as possible in lectures.
At the gates stood a sleek black Jaguar. Elizabeth walked past, adjusting her heavy bag, when the door openedand out stepped James Whitmore, holding a bouquet of white roses.
“Elizabeth!” He looked nervous, almost boyish. “Ive been waiting.”
“
