The phone jolted her awake—her ex-husband. Why hadn’t she silenced it last night? Instead of saying hello, she yawned, making sure he knew he’d woken her. He droned on with needless apologies, rambling about the weather, work, TV news. Preparing her for something. Lauren didn’t rush him, didn’t respond. Sometimes she just nodded, as if he could see.
Fifteen years of marriage could grant a man that kind of vision, she supposed. She shuffled to the kitchen in just her knickers, switched the call to speaker, and dropped the phone on the table. The fridge’s empty, grimy shelves stared back in silent reproach. A lonely bottle of wine sat on the door, wedged beside a triangle of plastic-wrapped supermarket cheese.
“How’s Sophie?”
The mention of her daughter forced a reaction. “Haven’t you called her?”
“I did,” he said quickly. “Last Thursday. Said she’s thriving.” He chuckled. “Also mentioned you’re off on holiday soon. Hit the jackpot, have you? Where to? And what about your students? Sent them packing?”
She took a swig straight from the bottle, pressed the phone to her ear so the mic wouldn’t catch the tremble in her hand as the glass clinked against the counter. Another gulp, then a forced, playful smile.
“Needed a break. Thought I’d treat myself to palm trees and sea air. Not yet, though. Got a month to kill. Jealous?”
“Course not.” The old game again.
“I’ll bring you back… nothing,” she said, exhaling. “Anyway, what did you want?”
“Bit awkward, but I’m skint. Could you lend me fifty quid? Just till payday. Unforeseen expenses.”
“Mmm.” She sliced a sliver of cheese and let it melt on her tongue like a sweet. “What kind of expenses?”
“Met a woman. Really lovely, she is.”
A jagged, irrational jealousy clawed up Lauren’s throat. “Ask *her* for the money, then!” A sudden image: her husband—no, not yet her husband—twenty years ago, tall and lean, fringe swept dramatically across his face, grinning with that sharp canine. Beside him, some tart in a microskirt and red lipstick.
“Laur, what’s wrong?” His voice softened to that old, familiar tone. It prickled her throat, stung her eyes. Any second now, she’d crack.
“Nothing. Just tired. Sorry. I’ll transfer it. Have a good day.”
As she jabbed at her banking app, a message popped up from Christopher:
*Good morning, darling! Perfect day for a picnic by the lake. Pick you up at 3?*
“You too? Sod off, the lot of you!” Anger wrung stupid tears from her. She finally poured a proper drink, gulped it, chewed the cheese. In the hallway mirror, she traced the lace edge of her knickers where they met skin, afraid to go lower—to the tiny knot, no bigger than a pimple, nestled where no one looked. Still there. Unchanged.
A scalding shower, scrubbed raw. Hair washed twice, masks, serums, blow-dry. The laptop chimed with notifications. She pulled on a T-shirt. The first message:
*Hello! I’d like to learn German from scratch. Do you have availability? Payment options?*
Her fingers moved on autopilot. Routine fortified her. Sending the reply, she accidentally clicked his profile—and saw exhaustion, loneliness. Her stomach lurched.
*How many sessions a week? Just a heads-up, no lessons from the 1st to the 10th. Might not be any ever again, because I’ll be dead.* She backspaced to *”no lessons.”*
He replied instantly:
*Three times a week. Flexible—I work from home. Can adjust.*
*Today at 5? London time.*
*Perfect.*
Sophie called as she finished her takeaway laksa. They used to call this spicy broth “hangover soup.”
“Mum? You okay?”
“Fine. Eating. You’re distracting me.” A lie weighted with fear.
“Off to the beach. Dad rang. He’s proper wound up about you…” Static, city noise, worry.
“Your dad’s been wound up about me for five years.”
“Snark means you’re alright. Yeah?”
“Miss you, love. How’s things?”
“You too!”
They chatted about nothing. Together, yet miles apart—Sophie heading to Brighton Pier, hunting for sunbeds, waves drowning out the bad. Hung up. One stepping forward, the other teetering on a ledge. But clinging to the memory of gilded, careless joy. Lauren checked the time. Nearly five. Still half-there, glowing, she booted the laptop—plunged into the video call like an icy lake.
His *eyes*. That was the first gut-punch. She babbled about German grammar, apologised without knowing why. Couldn’t look away. When the forty-five minutes ended, she slumped back, finally let the tears come. Rang her best mate.
“No lectures. I’m in love.”
“Ooh! Who? What about Christopher?”
“Kate, *what* Christopher? I—” Realised she didn’t even know his name. Had she missed it? All she remembered were those eyes. “Who’s the lucky bloke?” Kate pressed.
“Just met. My new German student. Kate, I’d forgotten what this feels like. Thought I was broken, but—” Rambling, hoping she’d understand.
Kate—plump, settled, married forever—exhaled smoke. “I’m happy for you, Laur. After the divorce, then Sophie leaving… You were a ghost. Thought Christopher might help, but he’s just a ‘for your health’ fling, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Lauren buzzed with stupid, irrational joy.
“Your voice is different. Can I meet him?” The spell shattered.
“Shoot—got another call. Chat later!” She hung up, scrubbed the fridge, anything to fast-forward to Wednesday at 5 PM. Tossed all night, gulped water, spat into the dark like a teenager. Never once thought of the little killer with its gentle name: Melanoma.
Morning came. A message:
*Counting down to Wednesday. Can’t wait. Any chance you’re free today?*
His name was Mark. It conjured images of knights, yellow dust, swords—clichés she refused to entertain. So she didn’t ask where he lived. Or his marital status. Terrified of scaring away this digital, fragile, electric thing that made her *want* to live.
“Why German? Work?” she asked, desperate to steady the molten ball in her chest.
“No.” He looked right at her. “I saw your profile picture. Thought you needed saving.”
“So you’re a knight?” Teasing, reflexive.
“Suppose.” A shrug.
“I’ll call you Knight.” The video call ended abruptly. “This doesn’t happen!” A whisper, then a shout. She needed air. Outside, London’s trees yellowed prematurely—neither summer nor autumn. The supermarket was winter. She picked peppers, curd, salami with care, hauled the bags home, shoulder aching with forgotten weight. Only then did she check her messages:
*Sorry if I upset you. I’m rubbish with people.*
“Nothing to apologise for. This is… strange. I’m not used to honesty.”
*Neither am I. But it happens.*
“Making soup tonight. Fancy some?”
*Love to. Call you soon?*
“Five minutes.”
She touched up her lipstick. The call connected. Over peeled potatoes, they slipped into first names, raced through books and films, elbows bumping in an imaginary kitchen. Only when staring at the broth did they remember—they weren’t together. Both deflated.
“Enjoy!”
“Thanks. Talk tomorrow.” Ice in her tone. She didn’t eat. Bought wine, drank in the dark, buried her phone, died a little. All so she could wake dry-mouthed to:
*Good morning! Sleep well?*
Taxi ride dragged. First, her ex called. “Laur, you alright?”
“Brilliant!” *He bloody senses it.* Then Kate. The cab smelled of pancakes. Then Sophie:
“Mum, I miss you. Can I come home?”
“Not now, love. Got to go.”
Inside, the hospital was bright, not scary. Green walls. Plastic chairs. She walked calmly, no echo. A fat auntie with a pushchair and a bald little girl in a headscarf stepped out the lift. The girl beamed up at her.
Three days staring at construction workers through the window, waiting to die. It didn’t happen. Discharged.
Taxi home, hand pressed to her side. Blind, shuffling. At the doorstep, she collided with a man. Felt his shirt against her cheek, almost fell. Then his voice:
“Knight at your service, milady.”
She grabbed his shoulder, saw his eyes—*those eyesShe laughed through her tears, gripping his arm like an anchor, and whispered, “I suppose this *does* happen.”
