The phone jolted her awake—her ex-husband’s call. Why had she forgotten to silence it? Instead of saying “Hello,” she yawned pointedly, letting him know he’d woken her. He droned on with unnecessary apologies, rambling about the weather, work, TV news. Setting the stage for something. Lorraine didn’t rush him, didn’t answer. Occasionally she nodded, as if he could see.
Maybe he could. Fifteen years of marriage granted uncanny intuition. She padded to the kitchen in just her knickers, put him on speaker, and left the phone on the table while she opened the fridge. Its empty white shelves were grimy, neglected. A bottle of wine stood on the door, next to a wedge of shop-bought cheese in triangular plastic.
“How’s Emily?”
The mention of her daughter forced a reply:
“Haven’t you called her?”
“I have,” he said quickly. “We chatted Thursday. Said she’s fine—full of beans.” He chuckled. “Also said you’re vanishing for a week, off on holiday. Come into money, Mum? Going far? What about your students?”
She took a swig straight from the bottle, pressed the phone to her ear so the sensitive mic wouldn’t catch the tremor in her hand as glass clinked against glass. Another sip, then she mustered a playful grin:
“Had enough. I deserve a week under the palms with the sea. Not yet, though. Got a month to kill. Jealous?”
“Course not,” he lied, falling into their old rhythm.
“I’ll bring you back”—she paused—“nothing.” Lorraine relaxed. “What d’you want, then?”
“Hate to ask, but I’m skint. Could you lend me eighty quid? Unplanned expenses…”
“Mmm.” She sliced the cheese, placed it on her tongue like a sweet. “What expenses?”
“Met a woman. Nice one. Really nice.”
Unjustified, illogical jealousy clawed at Lorraine’s throat:
“Ask *her*, then!” An image flashed—her then-future husband twenty years ago: tall, thin, with that long fringe splitting his face like a knife; his lopsided smile, a sharp canine peeking through. Beside him, inexplicably, stood another woman in a miniskirt and red lipstick.
“Love, what’s wrong?” His voice softened into that familiar, tender tone. It prickled her throat, stung her eyes—she’d cry any second.
“Nothing. Didn’t sleep well. Sorry. I’ll transfer it. Have a good day.”
As she jabbed at her banking app, a message from Callum popped up:
“Morning, darling! Gorgeous day. Fancy a lakeside picnic? Can pick you up at 3.”
“Oh, *you* too? Sod off, the lot of you!” Anger pried loose stupid tears. Finally, she poured a proper drink, gulped it, chewed the cheese. Stood before the full-length hallway mirror, trailed a hand along the border of black lace and pale skin—too afraid to touch the tiny knot, no bigger than a pimple, tucked where no one looked. Still there.
Then, the shower: scrubbing furiously till her skin burned, shampooing twice, masking, patching, blow-drying. The laptop whirred to life, notifications chiming. She pulled on a T-shirt.
Opened the first message:
“Hello! I’d like to learn German from scratch. Do you have availability? Payment options?”
Her fingers knew the routine. Routine steadied her. Sending the reply, she accidentally clicked his profile—saw exhaustion and loneliness staring back. Her chest twinged.
“How many sessions weekly? Just to warn you, I’ll be away from the 1st to the 10th. Possibly forever, because I’ll be dead,” she typed, then backspaced to just “unavailable.”
He replied instantly:
“Thrice weekly. Flexible—I work remotely.”
“Today, 5 PM Berlin time?”
“Perfect.”
Emily called as she finished the last spoonful of pho—their old “hangover soup.”
“Mum? You okay?”
“Great. Eating. You’re distracting me,” she grumbled, fear simmering.
“Off to the beach. Dad called. You really irked him…” The hum of an unfamiliar city, traffic, unease.
“I’ve irked him for five years.”
“Sarcasm means you’re fine. Right?”
“Love, how *are* you? Miss you.”
“Miss you too!”
They chattered about nothing. Together, yet miles apart, they greeted friends, rode the Tube toward Brighton, hunted for sunbeds. Spanish sun broke through, waves lapped. The sea drowned every worry. They hung up, drifted—one forward, one to the brink. But both clung to the memory of careless joy.
Lorraine checked the clock. Nearly five. Still half in Brighton, golden and laughing with Emily, she mechanically started the call. Plunged into the frigid Zoom like an ice bath.
His *eyes*. That was the first dive. Deep. Gut-wrenching. Painful. Stunning. She babbled about German grammar, apologised—for what, she didn’t know. Couldn’t look up, couldn’t look away. When the 45 minutes ended, she slumped back, finally wept. Rang her friend Kate:
“No lectures—I’m in love.”
“Ooh, who? What about Callum?”
“Kate! Callum’s… *whatever*.” She realised she didn’t even know the other man’s name. Had he said it? Missed it. Only those eyes mattered. “Who *is* he?” Kate pressed, merciless.
“Just met. My German student. I—I forgot I could feel like this. Thought I was numb, but…” She stumbled, hoping Kate would get it. She did. Kate, plump mum of three, married forever, exhaled smoke (audibly, balcony-bound) and said:
“I’m *happy* for you! Truly, Lo! After the divorce, then Emily leaving… You were a ghost. Never left the house. Thought Callum might help. He’s… fine. But just ‘for health,’ yeah?”
“Yeah.” Irrational joy fizzed in Lorraine.
“You sound different. Introduce us?” Kate, unknowing, shattered the spell.
“Ah—call waiting! Later!” She hung up, scrubbed the fridge, busied herself till Wednesday—5 PM, Berlin time. Slept fitfully, gulped water, opened windows, spat into the inky courtyard like a teenager. Never once thought of the tiny killer with the gentle name: Melanoma.
Morning brought a message:
“Counting down to Wednesday, but it’s too far. Free today?”
×××
His name was Mark. Her mind conjured chariots, yellow dust, swords—clichés she rejected. So she didn’t ask where he lived. His marital status was taboo, though she barely cared. This—digital, ephemeral, but *alive*—was fragile.
“Why German? Work?” she asked, to temper the molten ball in her chest.
“No.” His gaze held hers. “I saw your face in the course ad. Thought you needed saving.”
“A knight, then?” Reflexive, teasing.
“Suppose so.” He shrugged.
“I’ll call you Knight. Mind? And—oh, sorry, gotta go!” She ended the call, jumped up. “This *doesn’t happen*!” she whispered, then screamed it.
She left the house. London’s false autumn—summer heat, yellowing leaves. The shop’s Arctic chill. She picked ingredients meticulously: stew meat, scarlet peppers, crumbly cottage cheese, cucumbers, her favourite fiery salami. The bag weighed heavy, weighed *real*.
At home, soup simmering, she checked her messages:
“Sorry if I offended you. I’m rubbish with people.”
“Nothing to forgive. This is just… strange. I’ve forgotten—no, never learned—honesty. Naming things.”
“Me neither. But it happens.”
“Making soup tonight. Fancy some?”
“Love to. Call you?”
“Five minutes.”
She touched up her hair, slicked on lipstick. The screen lit up—she stepped into the abyss again.
Peeling potatoes led to *tu*. They debated films, books, elbows bumping in the tiny kitchen. Only when admiring steam swirls did they remember—they weren’t together. Both faltered.
“Enjoy your soup.”
“Cheers! Tomorrow?” she said, icy.
Didn’t eat. Bought wine, drank in darkness, hid the phone, died a little. All to wake parched and read:
“Morning! Sleep well?”
Messages carried her till the 18th.
On the 17th, she didn’t say goodbye. Why bother?
The taxi ride dragged. Her ex called first:
“Lo, you alright?”
“Brilliant!” (*He knows,* she thought.) Then Kate. The cab smelled of pancakes—her mouth watered.
“Lorraine, somethingShe turned the key in her front door, stepped inside, and let the ordinary silence swallow her whole.
