**Exhale**
Yesterday, Kate turned 47. Two years ago, her life had been shattered. It figures—such a clichéd phrase, yet it captured everything that had happened to her perfectly.
She had found the dress just days before her birthday. She rang her mum and said she’d bought a blue one. Her mother demanded to see it in person. When Kate put it on, her mum was delighted. *”You look absolutely lovely. But blue? That’s turquoise!”* What a strange generation. Probably because they grew up going to dressmakers, discussing styles, choosing fabrics. Every dress was an event in itself.
So, the turquoise dress—now aware it wasn’t just *”some blue thing”*—waited for its grand debut.
For this birthday, Kate invited every last one of her scattered relatives and friends. The restaurant had set up a table in a cosy corner of the snug little hall.
Her cousin, Natalie, gave a toast that lasted a solid ten minutes. She reminisced about how, at sixteen, they’d got plastered and tried to hail a taxi. They couldn’t remember how to say *”cathedral”* properly and kept slurring at the driver, *”What don’t you understand? We live by the cathedral! The cathedral! Hedgehog Village! Just drive to the centre—we’ll show you!”* She then jokingly suggested they all get smashed again to forget their own addresses. But her romantic notion was ruined when someone pointed out they were all staying at the same hotel as the restaurant. *”No bloody romance left,”* Natalie laughed. Her husband chimed in, *”We’ve stopped climbing through our lovers’ windows! Only because of the mosquito nets. Otherwise, we’d still be at it. Me especially.”* *”Obviously. You’ve got a bungalow,”* Kate shot back, making everyone roar.
Then Alex, her other cousin’s husband, raised his glass. He brought up their trip to Brighton a hundred years ago. At first, they’d all started winning at the casino. Then they lost every last pound. As they stumbled out, Kate had grinned and said, *”What would you lot do without me? I stashed a twenty for drinks and snacks.”* So, they’d all trooped back to the hotel, got hammered, then staggered along the pier singing *”White Cliffs of Dover.”* *”So here’s to the incredible woman who saved us from dying sober and starving!”* Mum’s husband, Geoffrey, lamented that the restaurant didn’t have scales so they couldn’t drink *”on the weigh.”* Then, everyone started humming *”White Cliffs of Dover,”* fading into whispers like that famous pub singalong.
The evening was brilliant. Her husband didn’t give a toast—but then again, he never had. He always joked he was *”no orator, just a tech bloke.”*
The next morning, they met for breakfast and a stroll through Hyde Park. By evening, everyone had gone their separate ways, leaving Kate and her husband alone in the flat.
He stared at the corner where his computer desk sat and said they needed to talk. A cold unease crept over Kate. Actually, she’d felt off all day. She hadn’t even drunk that much, yet her insides trembled. Then he told her—he’d met someone. He was in love. He was leaving. Right then. He just hadn’t wanted to ruin the party.
The next year was the year of the letter *C*: Change, chaos, crying, confusion, cocktails, more crying…
By her 46th birthday, Kate decided to switch letters. She woke up and walked along the shore. Even on her darkest days, she forced herself to take morning walks. The air was crisp—January—and the beach deserted. That freshness, that solitude, or maybe just the sea’s energy, lifted her up from within. She suddenly *knew* she’d healed. Never been one for *”energy woo,”* but in that moment, she physically felt the darkness and filth evaporate.
Except—she still couldn’t manage a full exhale.
Kate decided the next year would be the year of *N*: New people, new *her*. But no surrender!
That same day, she made a dating profile. Out of all the men who messaged, one stood out. They met. That was a year ago.
Hard to believe her life had flipped so completely again. Wonder if palm readers would spot it—a break in her lifeline, a fresh start? Right there, today. Kate breathed in the morning air deeply, gladly—but still couldn’t exhale fully.
She rang her mum to say goodbye.
*”I told Claire you were off on your trip, and she insists you stay the night with them,”* Mum said.
*”Lovely, I adore them. I was going straight to the Cotswolds, but I’ll stop in London first. It’s barely a detour—just a quick hop to their place from there.”*
*”The Ollies”*—what everyone called Oliver and Olivia Olsson because of the three *O*s in their names—were still *her* friends.
By the second evening, Kate reached London. Claire and Felix had already laid the table and warned her not to fill up on nibbles because they had a surprise. Twenty minutes later, *”the surprise”* walked in.
*”Kate, meet Victor. Our neighbour. Sadly, he’s about to move up to Yorkshire. But tonight, he’s treating us to sea bass—his secret recipe.”*
*”Pleasure,”* Victor said.
*”Likewise,”* Kate replied. She liked him instantly—so much it almost felt like a betrayal to Ian, the man she was supposed to meet in Scotland tomorrow. Victor was around fifty. Not classically handsome, not gym-fit, but with an open, clever smile.
*”Right then, who are we waiting for?”* Felix raised his glass.
Victor poured Kate a drink. *”Shall we skip the formalities? We’re young at heart.”*
*”Gladly,”* Kate smiled. Victor grinned. *”Youth is ready! Cheers!”*
Everyone laughed and drank.
*”This feels like New Year’s! Victor, I’m not a fish person, but that bass is incredible. Felix, your prawn cocktail’s as legendary as ever. Blizzard of the century or not!”*
*”What blizzard?”* Victor asked.
Felix groaned. *”Pour yourself another. Time for the family legend.”*
Between bites of his famous prawn cocktail, Felix began: *”Our first winter here. Almost thirty years ago. The forecast said the worst snowstorm in decades was coming. Schools shut, warnings every five minutes. We prepped like it was the apocalypse—stocked up on gin, I chopped enough salad for a battalion. By six, we were holed up at ours with Kate’s parents, getting sloshed. Even let seventeen-year-old Kate have a sip. Snow started—big, pretty flakes. But no storm. We kept drinking. Finished the salad. Still no storm. Polished off the gin, walked Kate’s family home through a few inches of snow. Next morning? That *was* the storm.”*
They laughed, ate, drank. Kate wished the night wouldn’t end. But an hour later, Felix was nodding off, and Kate, exhausted from driving, felt sleep pulling at her. Victor noticed.
*”Right, I’m off. Kate, absolute pleasure. If you’re ever in York, my door’s open. Felix, Claire—see you in a few days.”*
The second the door shut, Claire clapped.
*”He *fancies* you! Don’t be daft—invite yourself to York!”*
*”Claire! Didn’t Mum tell you? I met someone online. He visited me in Cornwall. Nothing happened, but he invited me to Scotland. We’ve written for a year—know everything about each other. Hotels are booked. You want me to bin all that and chase the neighbour?!”*
*”Fine. Stick to the plan. Sleep now. Fancy a walk in Hyde Park tomorrow?”*
*”Can’t. Promised the Ollies I’d be there by lunch.”*
By one the next day, Kate pulled into the Ollies’ drive.
Oliver stepped out. *”Brilliant you’re here. Leave your bag—let me pamper the pretty brunette while the blonde fries spuds.”* They both laughed. *”Come on, poor Jack’s losing his mind.”*
Before they opened the door, a huge golden Labrador barrelled into Kate. She sat right down, letting him cover her in slobbery kisses. *”My good boy! You remember me. Guess what I brought you?”* She pulled out a chew from her bag, and Jack bolted off with it.
*”Kate! Kitchen. Can’t leave the stove. We’ll lick each other later.”* They hugged. *”Wash up, unpack. We’ve put you in Alex’s room. Food in ten.”*
Upstairs, Kate texted her mum: *”At the Ollies’.”* Then a message popped up—from *”the Scotsman”* (her nicknameAs she walked towards Victor and the white Labrador on the beach, Kate finally exhaled, realizing that some endings are just the start of something better.
