**The Sharp Turn**
Charlotte had never lived alone. First, she lived with her parents, then she married, and two years later, she and her husband, Oliver, welcomed their daughter, Emily.
Even when Oliver left, she and Emily carried on together—until now. Wandering her empty flat, Charlotte felt lost. Why go on? Her life had crumbled; all that loomed ahead was lonely obscurity.
What had gone wrong? She and Oliver had never fought seriously—just petty squabbles. She never smothered him, let him go out with friends, kept the flat spotless. A pot of soup always waited in the fridge, dinner ready on the stove.
She’d stayed slim after childbirth, never had curves. Her breasts had swelled briefly during pregnancy—Oliver had been thrilled—but shrank back once she stopped breastfeeding. Surely that wasn’t grounds for divorce. Everyone said they were perfect together.
Still, she wasn’t blind. Oliver had changed. Not late nights—no. But now he fussed over his appearance: matching ties to shirts, getting trendy haircuts.
“Why don’t you wear dresses?” he asked one day.
“I do—on special occasions,” she replied, baffled. He’d never cared before.
“You look pale. Feeling unwell?”
“That’s just my complexion. Why nitpick?” she snapped.
Once, she caked on makeup, rouged her cheeks, and wore it to work.
“Wash it off. It doesn’t suit you,” Oliver said that evening.
“My colleagues loved it,” she muttered but obeyed.
“Thought you’d come in looking glamorous every day now,” a coworker teased the next morning.
“Oliver didn’t like it.”
“Probably terrified you’d turn heads,” the woman laughed. Charlotte let it slide.
Then her best friend, Isabelle, called—a café meetup after work. Isabelle was striking, vibrant; their friendship, unshaken since school.
“How do you stay so slim without dieting? I’d balloon if I didn’t starve myself,” Isabelle sighed.
“Don’t fish for compliments. Men trip over themselves staring at you,” Charlotte chuckled.
“They’d stare at you too if you gave them a chance. You’ve got killer legs—sin to hide them in trousers. A pencil skirt would work. And chop your hair, dye it auburn. For God’s sake, spruce up. You look like a pensioner.”
Charlotte stiffened. Isabelle never criticized unprompted.
“What’s really going on?”
Isabelle exhaled. “Saw Oliver with some girl. Early twenties, doe-eyed. The way he looked at her—”
“Stop!” Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut.
“I’m sorry. But you’ve been stagnant for years. Men have eyes. You’re dull as dishwater.”
“That’s not true!” She stormed out.
At home, she stared at the bathroom tiles until Emily knocked. “Mum, Dad’s here.”
Charlotte splashed her face and stepped out. Emily vanished into her room while Oliver sat at the kitchen table, hands folded like a schoolboy.
“Sorry, no dinner. I was with Isabelle,” she mumbled.
“Not hungry. Guess you know, then.”
“Know what?” But she did. Isabelle hadn’t lied.
“I’m in love with someone else. Tried to fight it—couldn’t. She’s half my age, but I’m helpless. I’ll pack and go.”
Charlotte didn’t beg. Then Emily betrayed her too—visiting Oliver, returning with gifts: skimpy dresses, makeup, perfume dregs from Oliver’s new flame, Lydia.
“Look what Lydia gave me! Isn’t she brilliant?” Emily twirled.
“Don’t take presents from her!”
“Why not?”
“Because she stole your father!”
“So? She’s fun. You’re just… dull. No wonder Dad left.”
It worsened. Emily dyed streaks green and pink, caked on makeup, skipped school. Teachers wrote complaints—she was rude, disruptive.
Reasoning with her was like stopping a train. Every retort: “Lydia says…”
Charlotte seethed at the name. She barred Emily from visiting—until the girl threatened to move in with Oliver.
“Fine. Go. But when Lydia has a baby, you’ll be tossed out.”
“Wait—really? I can live with Dad?”
“Just have him call me.”
He did.
“Emily says you’re sending her here.”
“She forced my hand. She’s out of control—rude, skipping school, all thanks to Lydia.”
“They get on well. You’re just bitter. She’s welcome here.” Click.
Emily left. Charlotte spiralled—barely eating, withering to bone. Calls from Emily only twisted the knife: “Lydia took me to a concert…”
A-level results came—abysmal. No university for Emily, who didn’t care.
Then Oliver called: Emily had moved in with some boy in a flat.
Charlotte choked. “You let her?!”
“She’s an adult. You raised her. Lydia’s expecting—I’ve got my hands full.”
“Now your own child’s disposable? This is your fault! Lydia poisoned her mind—”
Isabelle arrived with whisky. Charlotte spilled her grief between sobs.
“Enough,” Isabelle said at dawn. “First, a makeover. Then we’ll find you real men.”
A haircut, manicure, new wardrobe—Charlotte looked a decade younger. Isabelle dragged her to galleries, exhibitions. She barely understood art but loved it. Calls to Emily went unanswered—until:
“Mum, can we stay with you? Just till we find a new place.”
Overjoyed, Charlotte didn’t pry. “Of course!”
She scrubbed the flat, made up Emily’s old bed, cooked a feast. She’d tolerate the boy, just to have her back.
The doorbell rang. Charlotte beamed—then froze.
Emily stood there, hollow-eyed, clutching a bundle. Behind her loomed a lanky man with shoulder-length hair.
Silently, Emily thrust the baby at her, kicked off her trainers, and fled to her room.
“…Hi,” the man said.
“Who?”
“Boy,” he clarified. “Theo. Theodore.”
His name was Barnaby—”Barney.” He wolfed down food like a starving dog, mumbling between bites: evicted because of the baby, jobless, broke…
Theo’s wails saved Charlotte from screaming. Emily didn’t emerge.
She missed her solitude. Now she was a hamster on a wheel—work, shopping, cooking. Emily dumped Theo on her the second she walked in.
One evening, she returned to a raucous party. Music shook the building, drowning Theo’s shrieks. She kicked everyone out, cleaned until midnight.
“Emily, this can’t go on. You’ve a baby—inviting drunks over? Barney eats us out of house and home. Neighbors complain—”
“Kicking us out? This flat’s half Dad’s—he gave it to me. I’ll do what I want.”
Stunned, Charlotte called Isabelle, sobbing.
“I’ve an idea,” Isabelle said at their café meetup.
“What?”
“Remember that old film where the teacher tamed rowdy neighbors? You ‘go to a spa’—we’ll rent your room to ‘tenants.’”
“What tenants?”
“God, must you question everything? Actors. Barney will bolt, Emily will beg you back.”
Charlotte agreed. That night, she packed.
“You’re leaving?” Emily asked.
“Spa trip. Three weeks, maybe longer.”
“Have fun.”
Charlotte paused. “Forgot—my colleague’s relatives will stay in my room.”
“Mum, are you insane? We’ve a baby!”
“My room, my rules.”
She left—not to a spa, but Isabelle’s boyfriend’s cottage. Updates came daily: Barney fled within a week. Three days later, Emily called.
“Please come back.”
The flat gleamed. Emily, meek, flung her arms around Charlotte. “I’m sorry.”
Peace returned. Emily tended Theo; Isabelle dragged Charlotte to galleries, playing matchmaker. Charlotte demurred—”Find someone for Emily instead.”
Then Oliver reappeared. Lydia had lied—no baby, just a richer man. He begged forgiveness, to come home.
Charlotte refused. “You can live here with Emily and Theo—but you won’t like that.”
“You’ve changed,” he mused, eyeing her.
He left. Six months later, she remarried.
But that’s another story.
