The phone rang, jerking her awake—her ex-husband’s name flashing on the screen. Why had she forgotten to mute it last night? Instead of a proper “Hello,” she yawned loudly into the receiver, making sure he knew he’d woken her. He apologised at length, rambling about the weather, work, and some nonsense from the telly. He was building up to something, softening the blow. Lucy didn’t hurry him. Didn’t answer. Occasionally, she nodded as if he could see her through the phone.
And maybe he could. Fifteen years of marriage granted a man uncanny intuition. She padded to the kitchen in nothing but her knickers, switched the call to speaker, and set the phone down while she opened the fridge. Its empty white shelves were long overdue for a wipe-down, grimy and neglected. A bottle of wine stood on the door, a wedge of supermarket cheese in triangular plastic beside it.
“How’s Emily?”
Her daughter’s name forced a reaction:
“You haven’t called her yourself?”
“I did,” he said quickly. “Last Thursday. Said she was fine. ‘Blooming,’ she told me.” He chuckled. “Also mentioned you’d be ‘off the grid’ for a week—going on holiday? Come into money, have you? Where to? And what about your students? Sent them on early break?”
She took a swig straight from the bottle, then lifted the phone to her ear before the sensitive mic could pick up the tremor in her hand as the glass neck clinked against her tumbler. She swallowed, steadied herself, then forced a playful grin into her voice:
“Had enough of it all. I deserve a week under palm trees with my toes in the sand. Not for another month, though. Plenty of time to plan. Jealous?”
“Course not,” he said after a pause, falling into their old rhythm.
“I’ll bring you back…” Another pause. “Nothing.” Lucy relaxed. “So what did you want, then?”
“Hate to ask, but I’m skint till payday. Any chance of a fifty-quid loan? Unexpected expenses…”
“Mmm.” She sliced off a bite of cheese and let it melt on her tongue like a sweet. “What sort of expenses?”
“Met a woman. Lovely, she is. Really lovely.”
A hot, irrational jealousy pricked Lucy’s throat:
“Ask *her* for the money, then!” A memory flashed—him twenty years younger, tall and lanky, that ridiculous fringe splitting his face like a curtain. Grinning lopsidedly, a sharp canine showing, but next to him wasn’t her—some other woman in a miniskirt and red lipstick.
“Lu, what’s wrong?” His voice shifted, tender in a way she remembered too well. It made her throat ache, eyes stinging.
“Nothing. Just tired. Sorry. I’ll transfer it now. Have a good day.”
While tapping through her banking app, a text came in from Charles:
*Morning, love! Gorgeous day. Fancy a lakeside picnic? Can pick you up at 3.*
“Oh, *now* you lot show up!” Anger choked her with stupid tears. She finally poured a proper glass, gulped it, chewed the cheese. Stood before the full-length hallway mirror, tracing the line where black lace met pale skin, afraid to touch further—the tiny knot, no bigger than a pimple, nestled where no one looked twice. Still there. Unchanged. Then the shower, scrubbing viciously till her skin burned. Hair washed twice, mask, patches, blow-dry. Pulled on a t-shirt.
The laptop chimed with notifications. She clicked the first:
*Hello! Looking to learn German from scratch. Do you have availability? Payment options?*
Her fingers moved on autopilot. Routine was strength. Sending the reply, she accidentally clicked his profile—tired eyes, lonely smile. Her stomach lurched.
*How many sessions weekly? Just to warn you, no lessons from the 1st to the 10th.* She deleted the rest—*Might be never, because I’ll be dead.*
He replied instantly:
*Three times a week. Flexible—I work from home. Can adjust to your schedule.*
*5 p.m. Berlin time today?*
*Perfect.*
Emily called as she finished her takeaway pho. They used to call it “hangover soup.”
“Mum, you okay?”
“Fine. Eating. You’re distracting me,” she muttered around the lump in her throat.
“We’re off to the beach. Dad rang. Sounded rattled…” Traffic and city hum bled through the line.
“I’ve not ‘ratted’ him in five years.”
“Sarcasm means you’re alive. So I’m right?”
“How’s my girl? Miss you.”
“Miss you more!”
They chatted about nothing. Together, yet apart, they found sunloungers on some Spanish beach through pixels and voices. The sea drowned out the rot. Hanging up, they split—one forward, one on the edge. But the memory lingered: golden and weightless. Lucy checked the clock. Nearly five. Still half in that sunlight, she opened the laptop and plunged into the video call like an ice bath.
His *eyes*. That was the dive—deep, gutting. She babbled about German conjugations, apologising for nothing. Couldn’t look away. When the forty-five minutes ended, she collapsed into her chair and sobbed. Dialled her best mate:
“No lectures. I’ve fallen in love.”
“Ooh! Who is he? What about Charles?”
“Kate, *Charles*?!” She realised she didn’t even know the stranger’s name. “Met him today. My new student. I thought I’d forgotten how to feel—”
Kate—plump, settled, married forever—exhaled smoke into the phone:
“Stepping onto the balcony… Love, I’m *happy* for you! After the divorce, then Em leaving… You turned robotic. Never left the flat. Thought Charles might help, but he’s just ‘vitamins,’ yeah?”
“Yeah.” Her chest fizzed with absurd joy.
“You sound different. Introduce us?” The spell shattered.
“Oh—call waiting! Later!” Lucy hung up, scrubbed the fridge, did a million tasks to hurry Wednesday along. That night, she floated in half-sleep, gulped water, spat into the dark like a teenager, and never once thought of the tiny killer with its gentle name: Melanoma.
Morning brought a message:
*Can’t wait till Wednesday. Free today?*
×××
His name was Mark. It conjured chariots, dust, swords—cliches she refused to entertain. So she didn’t ask where he lived, didn’t dare mention partners. Fear of scaring this *feeling* away, digital but alive, thrashing in her chest.
“Why German? Work?” She asked to distract herself from the heat.
“No.” His stare pinned her. “Saw your photo on the tutoring ad. Looked like you needed saving.”
“So you’re a *knight*?” She couldn’t stop the edge in her voice.
“Suppose.” He shrugged.
“I’ll call you Knight. Mind?” Then— *Sorry, call waiting!* She hung up, leapt to her feet. “This doesn’t happen!” First a whisper, then a shout. Outside, trees yellowed too soon in the London heat. Summer clinging to autumn. The supermarket was arctic. She picked groceries with care—peppers like rubies, grainy cottage cheese, salami ringed with spice. The bag dug into her shoulder, a forgotten ache.
Home again, soup simmering, she texted:
*Sorry if I seemed off. Not used to honesty.*
*Neither am I. But it happens.*
*Making soup. Fancy some?*
*Love to. Call now?*
*Five minutes.*
She touched up her lips. The screen lit up. Peeling potatoes, they switched to first names, skirting elbows in the cramped kitchen of their imaginations. Only when admiring the broth’s swirls did they remember—separate rooms, separate lives.
“Enjoy your soup.”
“Cheers. Text tomorrow,” he said, too cool.
She didn’t eat. Bought wine, drank in darkness, buried the phone, died a little. All to wake dry-mouthed to:
*Morning! Sleep well?*
The texts powered her through the day. Till the 18th. On the 17th, she didn’t say goodbye. Why bother?
The cab ride was endless. First, her ex called:
“Lu, you alright?”
“Brilliant!” *He always knows.* Then Kate. Through the window, pancake scent taunted her. Then:
“Lucy, something’s off. You sure you’re okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Emily rang as she paid the fare outside the hospital:
“Mum! Miss you. Can I visit?”
“No, love. Sorry—got to go.”
×××
Inside, it was bright and quiet. Half the ground floor was a café. Green wallsShe reached for his hand, and for the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like something she had to face alone.
