The ache was deep…
Emily was on the phone when Oliver peeked into the office. Charlotte shot her a sidelong glance, silently signalling that the call was important and they weren’t to be disturbed. Oliver’s head vanished as the door clicked shut.
Ten minutes later, Emily hung up and set her mobile aside.
“Oliver stopped by earlier,” Charlotte said.
“Why for me? Maybe he wanted you?” Emily’s cheeks flushed.
“I’m married. Haven’t you noticed how he looks at you?”
“How?” Emily lifted her gaze from the monitor.
“Like he’s interested,” Charlotte replied with a knowing smirk.
Of course, Emily had noticed. She wasn’t blind. He was handsome, just her type—if only he weren’t so much younger.
Work piled up, and Emily skipped lunch with Charlotte. Oliver slipped into the office, placing a steaming cup of coffee on her desk.
“Take a break. Busy?”
“Always,” Emily smiled gratefully and took a sip.
“Fancy catching a film tonight?”
“Sorry, I’ve got my little girl.” She avoided his eyes, drinking more coffee.
“I know. Could your mum watch her?”
Emily finally met his gaze. So, he’d made the first move instead of just lingering in glances. Charming, cheerful. If only he were older—she’d have responded ages ago.
She looked younger than her years, but the gap between them was still obvious. After her painful divorce, she’d avoided men entirely. Time dulled caution, and she felt ready for love again—just not with Oliver.
“So? Did he come by?” Charlotte asked when she returned from lunch.
“Who?” Emily feigned ignorance.
“Why are you dodging him? He’s lovely. If I weren’t married—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Emily cut in. “The age gap’s absurd.”
“So what? You don’t look your age. A bit of fun never hurt anyone, especially not a woman alone this long. Admit it—you like him too. You glow when he’s near. Am I wrong?”
Emily stayed silent.
“You’ve been single for years. You said you were ready. While you wait for some aged prince charming, some pretty thing will snatch Oliver up. Why not enjoy it? For your mood, if nothing else.”
Emily said nothing. But Charlotte was right. Maybe she *should* go to the cinema with him.
She rang her mother, left little Sophie with her after work. The film would run late—she’d collect her in the morning. Her mother squinted but held her tongue.
The evening was perfect. Emily hadn’t been to the cinema in ages, let alone anything resembling fun. It ended in bed. She’d expected it. Why delay? She was free. He was free. For her mood, as Charlotte said.
“Well? How was it?” Charlotte asked the next morning. “Don’t play dumb. You’re practically radiant.”
Emily didn’t answer. She wouldn’t discuss her private life. But secrecy was short-lived. Oliver kept visiting the office, trading loaded glances that sent her pulse racing. Charlotte noticed, smirking knowingly.
Their affair accelerated. They met daily—always at her flat. Oliver lived with his mum. At first, he arrived after Sophie was asleep, leaving before dawn. Then he lingered. The girl never questioned why her mum’s friend sat drinking coffee in the mornings. She even liked it—he softened Emily’s sharpened tone when she rushed Sophie through dressing.
When she’d married, her ex had pushed to sell both their flats for a bigger home. Emily resisted—hers was a gift from her late father. A wise choice, in hindsight.
Now, with Oliver around, she toyed with upgrading. Sophie was growing, understanding more. But post-divorce, Emily had bought a secondhand car—still paying off the loan.
“Ever thought about a mortgage?” Oliver asked once.
“I’ve got the car to clear first.”
The question unsettled her. How long would this last? Years flew by; a woman’s youth was fleeting. Growing old together was sweet—but Oliver was just hitting his prime. How long before the gap between them yawned? Cosmetics, treatments, surgery—none came cheap.
And still, youth always won. She’d seen films where women ruined themselves chasing it—lovers left them anyway. Did she want a mortgage, then solitude?
Yet Oliver grew more irresistible each day. A girl’s smile at him sent jealousy stabbing through Emily, fogging her mind. How could she not fall, not ache, when her heart was free and hungry? She wasn’t old yet.
So she waited, uncertain.
Then Oliver left for a two-day work trip. With no urgent tasks to distract her, loneliness gnawed. At lunch, Emily took a walk. The air was crisp, dry—forecasters predicted snow soon.
Halfway, the cold bit. She turned back, ducking into a café for coffee. Shrugging off her coat, she froze—Oliver sat opposite a young blonde. Their heads nearly touched, hands clasped. They gazed at each other, oblivious.
No mistake—this was more than friendship. He’d claimed to be away. A dull ache twisted in Emily’s chest, hot and suffocating. She fled before he noticed.
She’d known this would happen—just not so soon. She’d thought it would be light, easy. She hadn’t expected to fall.
What now? A fight? Throw him out? Revenge? But the pain—oh, the pain…
That evening, she snapped at Sophie, who burst into tears. Emily hugged her tight, sobbing too—anger, hurt, another disappointment poured out. Would she ever have a proper family? A love that lasted?
She tucked Sophie in but lay awake. If Oliver came, lied about an early return, she might forgive. Maybe she’d misseen. They’d been side-on. Should she have approached? No—it was him. She’d ironed that shirt. If he came, she’d spit venom.
Dawn brought a throbbing head and frayed nerves. Sophie dawdled, refusing nursery. Emily shouted—tears followed.
Oliver would return “from his trip” tonight. Sophie shouldn’t witness their row. Emily rang her mother, promising an evening pickup.
After work, she paced. The bell rang. She let him in, stepping aside.
“Hey. Where’s Sophie? At your mum’s? Good—I missed you.” He leaned in, but Emily pulled away.
“What’s wrong?” Oliver frowned.
“Headache, probably a cold. Didn’t want Sophie catching it. You just got back?” She stared hard.
“Yeah, an hour ago. Came straight here.” He nuzzled her hair—and she caught a whisper of foreign perfume.
“I saw you today. With a blonde.” Emily shoved him. “How long have you lied? Just say you’ve met someone—I’d let you go.”
“Em—” He reached, but she recoiled.
“Go. I’ll bring your things to work.”
He protested, but Emily locked herself in the bathroom, drowning his voice with the tap. When she emerged, he was gone.
She pictured sobbing alone. No—not again. She called Charlotte.
“Meet me. I’m a mess. Please. Not at home.”
They chose a wine bar. Drinking loosened Emily’s tongue. The story spilled out. The wine—or the confession—eased the weight.
“Didn’t think I’d react like this,” Emily admitted. “I’ll get over it, but now… it *hurts*.”
Charlotte refilled her glass. Emily drained it. Public composure held—no tears. The wine dulled the edge.
Standing, the room spun. Nausea rose. Charlotte hurried her outside.
“I need Sophie.” Emily swayed.
“Like this? Tomorrow. Call your mum.”
A taxi stopped. Charlotte bundled her in.
“Take her home. Fifteenth, Elm Street. I’ve noted your plates,” Charlotte warned.
“Thought you were in a hurry,” the driver sighed. “Drunk.”
“Bad night. Nerves.” Charlotte paid. “Just get her home safe.”
Emily woke stiff, head pounding.
“Up already?” A man’s voice startled her.
“Who—? Where—?”
“Taxi. Your friend flagged me. Got you home, but you passed out. No ID—couldn’t leave you.”
She fumbled for her purse.
“Don’t bother—she paid.” His tone held no irritation.
Peering out, she recognised her building. Two windows glowed.
“Got the right place? I’ve work soon. A coffee’s thanks enough.”
Memories flooded back—Oliver, the row, Charlotte…
“Come up,” Emily muttered, stumbling out.
The cold cleared her head. They rode the lift in silence. Inside, she gestured to the kitchen.
“Wash up first.” She locked herself in the bathroom.
The mirror showed a pale face, shadowed eyes. *What a sight. Good thing Oliver can’t see.* Then—why did that matter now?
She washed, touched up her lasShe glanced back at the man waiting patiently in the kitchen—perhaps not every ending had to hurt.
