Emily Taylor

Who Slept in My Bed and Left It a Mess… A Story About My Husband’s Lover, Our Daughter’s Favourite Mug, and How Twenty Years Went Down the Drain

Who Was Sleeping In My Bed and Messed It Up A Story My husbands mistress was barely older than our daughtera

La vida

The waiter hurried over, intent on removing the stray kitten. But a towering Englishman intercepted

La vida

011

Julia Steps Off the Bus with Heavy Bags and Heads to Her Family Home—“I’m Home!” She Calls, Opening the Door. “Julia, Darling!” Everyone Rushes to Greet Her—“We Knew You’d Be Here!” That Evening, Gathering at the Big Family Table, There’s a Knock at the Door. “Probably the Neighbours, Coming to Wish Us Well,” Her Mum Shrugs and Opens the Door, Returning Not Alone but with Unexpected Guests. Julia Looks at the New Arrivals and Can’t Believe Her Eyes

Tuesday, 24th December I stepped off the bus, arms aching from the weight of two shopping bags.

La vida

029

“So, is he going to live with us now?” he asked his wife, casting a glance at their son…

So, will he be living with us now? he asked his wife, glancing at their son… Margaret Taylor got

La vida

014

The Farmer Rode Out With His Fiancée… and Froze When He Saw His Pregnant Ex-Wife Hauling Firewood…

The farmer rode with his fiancée and stopped frozen at the sight of his pregnant ex-wife carrying firewood

La vida

022

Never Let Her Go. A Short Story.

My stepdad never treated us badly. At least, he never made us feel guilty for eating, and didnt yell

La vida

German Concert Pianist Called British Folk Music “Noisy and Unskilled”… Until a Young English Woman Made Him Weep The Grand Theatre of London sparkled beneath the city’s evening lights. It was the opening night of the International Festival of Classical Music, where the world’s most prestigious musicians gathered. Among the elegantly dressed audience, murmurs in several languages filled the air with anticipation. On stage, organisers had planned a night devoted exclusively to European classical music—Bach, Mozart, Beethoven. Klaus Friedrich Simmerman, a celebrated 60-year-old German pianist, had just concluded his masterful performance of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21. Thunderous applause echoed through the theatre. Klaus, dapper in his impeccable black suit and perfectly combed grey hair slicked back, bowed with the confidence of a man who’d conquered the world’s greatest concert halls—Vienna, Berlin, Carnegie Hall. But in the last row, almost hidden in the shadows, sat Lucy Bennett, a young 25-year-old woman from Devon. She wore a traditional English white dress with colourful embroidery, and in her hands she held something that seemed quite out of place in this temple of classical music. A tiny English mandolin—the heart of British folk tradition. No one could have imagined that tonight, perceptions about real music would be forever changed. Lucy had come to the theatre at the invitation of the local organisers, who wanted to include a brief tribute to England’s folk music at the end of the event. It was more a political gesture than an artistic one—a token 5 minutes after three hours of ‘serious’ music to show that Britain had culture too. Lucy had grown up in a small village on Dartmoor, where folk music wasn’t just entertainment—it was the way people lived, loved, celebrated, and grieved. Her grandfather, Mr Arthur Bennett, was one of the region’s most respected folk musicians. He had taught her to play since she was a toddler sitting on his lap, guiding her fingers over the strings. “You don’t play the mandolin with your fingers, my dear,” he’d always say, “you play it with your heart.” Each strum tells a story—a story of our people, our land, our ancestors who came from Africa, Europe, and the British Isles. Arthur had passed away six months ago, and on his deathbed had handed Lucy his mandolin—the very one she now gripped with trembling hands. “Take it out into the world, sweetheart. Show them our music isn’t lesser. It’s different, but just as worthy.” Lucy watched Klaus Friedrich Simmerman greet the crowd again and again… German Concert Pianist Called British Folk Music “Noisy and Unskilled”… Until a Young English Woman Made Him Weep

The Grand Theatre in Liverpool sparkled under the evening lights. It was the opening night of the International

La vida

How I Pretended to Be Happy for Nine Years, Raised Another Man’s Son, and Prayed My Secret Wouldn’t Be Discovered—Until the Day My Child Needed His Real Father’s Blood, and I Saw My Husband Cry for the First Time

The evening sun melted like honey over the rolling hills, dressing the small houses of the village in

La vida

A Late Gift The bus jerked, and Mrs. Anne Peterson gripped the rail with both hands, feeling the coarse plastic flex slightly beneath her fingers. Her grocery bag thumped against her knees, apples rolling dully inside. She stood by the door, counting down the stops to her own. Earbuds fizzed quietly—her granddaughter had asked her not to turn off her phone: “Just in case, Gran, I might call.” The phone sat in her coat’s outer pocket, heavy as a brick. Anne Peterson checked, all the same, to be sure the zip was fastened. She pictured entering her flat, setting the bag on the kitchen stool, changing her shoes, hanging up her coat and carefully folding her scarf. Then she’d unpack the groceries, put soup on the hob. Her son would stop by in the evening to pick up containers; he worked shifts and had no time to cook. The bus braked and doors parted. She eased herself down the steps, holding the rail, and stepped into her estate. Children darted around with a football—a girl on a scooter nearly clipped her before swerving at the last second. The entrance hall smelled of cat food and cigarette smoke. In the hallway, Anne set down her grocery bag, slipped off her shoes and pushed them toe-first to the wall. Coat on the hook, scarf folded neatly. In the kitchen, she sorted groceries: carrots with the veg, chicken in the fridge, bread in the bin. She filled a pan with water just until her palm could still touch the bottom. Her phone buzzed on the table. She dried her hands, pulled it closer. “Yes, Sasha?” she said, leaning in, hoping to hear her son better. “Hello Mum, how are you?” His voice was hurried, someone else speaking in the background. “I’m fine. Making soup. Will you drop in?” “Yes, in a couple of hours. Listen, Mum—there’s another collection at school, the nursery wants money for repairs. Could you… like last time?” Anne was already reaching for the drawer where she kept her little grey notebook of spending. “How much?” she asked. “If you can, three hundred. Of course, everyone’s chipping in, but you know…” He sighed. “It’s tough out there.” “I understand,” she said. “All right, I’ll give it.” “Thanks, Mum. You’re a star. I’ll stop by later for your famous soup.” As she rang off, the water in the pan was boiling already. Anne dropped in the chicken, sprinkled in some salt, added a bay leaf. She sat at the table and opened her notebook. “Pension” at the top, inked in ballpoint. Beneath: bills, medicine, “grandchildren”, “unexpected”. She wrote “nursery” and the amount, pausing a moment. The numbers shifted—less left than she wished, but not disastrous. “It’ll be fine,” she thought, closing the book. On the fridge, a magnet held a small calendar. Below the dates, an advert: “Community Arts Centre: Season Tickets—Classical Music, Jazz, Theatre. Senior discounts.” The magnet had been a birthday gift from her neighbour, Margaret, along with an apple pie. Anne often found herself rereading those words as she waited for the kettle. Again today, her eyes snagged on “season tickets”. She remembered years ago, before she was married, standing in queues for the symphony with her friend. Tickets were dirt cheap, if you braved the wind and joked to keep warm. Back then she’d had long hair in a bun, wore her best dress and only heels. Now, she pictured the auditorium—a place she hadn’t visited in years. Her grandkids dragged her to pantos and nativity plays, but that was different, all noise and confetti and shouting. Here… she didn’t even know what concerts they played nowadays—nor who went. She took the magnet down and flipped it over. On the back—a website address and phone number. The website meant nothing to her, but the phone… She put the magnet back. The thought didn’t go away. “Nonsense,” she told herself. “Better save up for a new jacket for Chloe. Kids grow, everything’s so dear nowadays.” She turned down the stove, sat again but left the notebook closed. Instead, she reached into a drawer and pulled out a battered old envelope, her “rainy day” fund. Not much inside, a handful of notes stashed over recent months—for the washing machine, for blood tests if she needed them. She fingered the money, counting, with that advert echoing in her mind. Her son arrived that evening, hung his jacket on the chair, unpacked the Tupperware. “Ooh, borscht!” he said, pleased. “You’ve done it again, Mum! Have you eaten?” “Yes, yes—help yourself. The money’s ready.” She counted out three notes from the envelope. “Mum, you need to keep track of what’s left,” he said, taking the cash. “What if you’re short?” “I keep records,” she said. “Everything’s in order.” “You’re the family’s accountant,” he grinned. “By the way, could you come by on Saturday? Tanya and I need to nip to the shops—no one to watch the kids.” “I can,” she nodded. “What else have I got to do?” He told her about his boss, about work, new policies. At the door, he turned: “Mum, do you ever buy anything for yourself? Or is it all for us and the kids?” “I have everything I need,” she said. “What more could I want?” He waved it off: “All right, all right. I’ll pop by next week.” When he closed the door, the flat was quiet once more. Anne did the dishes, wiped down the table. Then glanced again at the magnet. In her mind, his question echoed: “Do you ever buy for yourself?” Next morning, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Grandkids at school and nursery, son at work—no one expected till evening. The day looked free, but was full of little chores: water the plants, mop the floor, sort old newspapers. She got up, did the stretching her GP had suggested: slow arms up, gentle reach, turn the neck. Then kettle on, tea in the cup. As the water boiled she took down the magnet once more. “Community Arts Centre. Season Tickets…” She picked up the phone, dialled the number. Her heart thudded. Three rings, then a calm woman’s voice. “Community Centre Box Office, how can I help?” “Hello,” Anne said, her mouth dry. “I was calling about… season tickets.” “Yes, of course. Which series are you interested in?” “I’m… not sure. What do you have?” The woman listed: symphony, chamber music, “An Evening of British Song”, children’s theatre. “Seniors get a discount,” she added, “but a season ticket is still a fair bit. Four concerts.” “Can you buy them singly?” asked Anne. “Yes, but it works out dearer that way.” Anne pictured her notebook, her envelope. She asked the price. The number sounded heavy in her mind—doable, but leaving her “rainy day” fund thin. “Think about it,” the woman said. “They do sell fast.” “Thank you,” Anne replied, hanging up. The kettle shrieked. She poured her tea, sat down, opened the notebook. On a clean page, she wrote: “Season Ticket”. Next to it—the price. Underneath: “Four concerts.” “How much would that be monthly?” she calculated. Not too bad. She could buy less chocolate. Skip the hairdresser this month, cut her own fringe. Faces of her grandkids swam up: the youngest wanted a building set, the eldest dance trainers. Her son and daughter-in-law sighed about the mortgage. And then—her own wish, suddenly shameful, as if concerts were a secret vice. She closed the book, undecided, and set to scrubbing the floor, sorting the washing, draping laundry on the radiator. But the thought of the hall wouldn’t go. After lunch, the doorbell rang. It was Margaret from next door, clutching a jar of pickles. “Take these,” she said, bustling in. “Nowhere to keep them. How are you?” “I’m all right,” Anne smiled. “Just thinking…” She trailed off. It felt silly to say aloud. “Thinking what?” Margaret settled with her knitting. “A concert,” Anne admitted. “They’re selling season tickets at the Arts Centre. I used to love concerts. But it’s too expensive.” Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Why ask me? It’s your business. If you want it, get it.” “But the money…” Anne began. “Money, money,” Margaret scoffed. “You’ve helped everyone all your life. Gave your son money again, right? And presents to the grandkids? But yourself—look at you, same old shawl, same winter coat. What’s wrong with a treat for yourself?” “It’s not a one-off,” Anne protested. “I used to go.” “Used to? When ice creams were ten pence,” Margaret snorted. “Times have changed. This is your own money—not theirs.” “They’ll say it’s silly,” Anne said quietly. “That the kids need it more.” “Then don’t tell them,” Margaret shrugged. “Or say you were at the clinic. Though—why hide? You’re not a child.” The words “not a child” stung. Anne felt something inside—a mix of embarrassment and pride. “I go to the clinic anyway,” she said. “But still, it’s scary. What if I can’t manage it, what if there are stairs, what if my heart…” “There’s a lift,” said Margaret. “And you’ll be sitting, not running around. I went to the theatre last month—survived! Legs ached but it cheered me up for a year.” They chatted about the news, medicines. When Margaret left, Anne again picked up the phone. Before she could lose her nerve, she rang the box office: “I’d like a season ticket for ‘An Evening of British Song’, please.” She took down the address, ticket office hours, pinned the note to her fridge with the magnet. Her heart pounded. That evening her daughter-in-law called. “Anne, you’ll watch the kids Saturday, yes? We want to check the sales at the shopping centre.” “I can,” Anne replied. “Thank you! We’ll bring you something—tea? New towels?” “No need,” she said. “I don’t need anything.” She checked the fridge note. The ticket office closed at six. She’d need to leave early. That night she dreamed of the concert hall: plush seats, bright lights, people in dark clothes. She sat among them, clutching a programme, afraid to shift in case she disturbed her neighbours. Next morning she woke with anxiety. “Why did I get myself into this mess—so much trouble…” But the fridge note stayed put. After breakfast, she got out her best coat, dusted it off, checked the buttons. Chose a warm scarf, comfy shoes, packed her passport, purse, glasses, blood pressure tablets, and a bottle of water. Before she left, she sat on the hallway stool, listening to her body. No dizziness, no trembling. “I’ll get there,” she told herself, locking the door behind her. The bus ride was short, just a few stops. A young man gave her his seat, and she thanked him, sitting by the window with her handbag in her lap. The Arts Centre was only two stops from the High Street—a tall building with columns, bright posters across the front. Two women smoked outside, waving their arms as they chatted. Inside, the air smelled of wood polish and something sweet from the café. The ticket office was just in, a woman behind the glass with a kind voice. Anne handed over her passport and named her chosen series. “We have a seniors’ discount. There are still good seats in the middle,” the cashier smiled, pointing to a seating chart. Anne nodded, not sure what it all meant. When the price was given, her hand trembled. For a moment she almost said she’d come back next time. But the queue behind her rustled, someone cleared their throat, and she placed her notes on the counter. “There’s your season ticket,” the woman said, giving her the stiff cardboard pass. “First concert’s in two weeks. Arrive early to find your seat.” The ticket was beautiful: a picture of the stage on the cover, neat programme listings inside. Anne slipped it into her bag, wedged between her passport and the recipe notebook she always carried. She felt faint as she left, sat on a bench outside and took a sip of water. Nearby, two teens chatted about bands she’d never heard of. She listened, the words as remote as a foreign language. “Well then,” she thought. “I’ve bought it. No turning back now.” The next two weeks passed in chores. The grandkids caught colds; she stewed compotes, took temperatures. Her son delivered groceries, collected leftovers. She nearly confided in him about the concert, but switched topics each time. On the day of the first concert, she woke early, stomach fluttery as before an exam. She prepped dinner ahead, so she wouldn’t be stuck on the stove. She called her son: “I’ll be out this evening. If you need me, let me know beforehand.” “Out where?” he asked, surprised. She hesitated. She didn’t want to lie, but the truth felt awkward. “The Arts Centre. A concert.” A pause. “What concert? Mum, you need that? It’ll be full of young people, noise, all hustle.” “It’s not a disco,” she replied, keeping calm. “They’re performing English songs.” “Who asked you to go?” “No one,” she said. “I bought the season myself.” The silence stretched. “Mum… seriously? You know it’s not easy for us right now—those savings…” “I know,” she cut in. “But this is my money.” Her voice was firmer than expected, even to her own ears. She clenched the phone, bracing for an outburst. “Fine,” he sighed. “Your call. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you if you need it later. And be careful—don’t catch cold. Remember your age…” “At my age, I can sit and listen to some music. I’m not climbing mountains.” He sighed again, softly. “All right. Ring me when you get in, so I don’t worry.” “I will,” she promised. She sat for a while, looking at the ticket. Her hands shook. She felt reckless, almost improper. But she wasn’t backing down. By evening, she dressed in her best: navy dress, neat collar, ladder-free tights, sensible pumps. She brushed her hair longer than usual, smoothing the wisps. It was nearly dark when she went out. Shop windows glowed, people queued for the bus. She clutched her bag—ticket, passport, tissues, pills inside. The bus was crowded. Someone stepped on her foot and apologised. She gripped the pole, counting stops. At her destination, she squeezed out, careful not to bump anyone. Outside the Arts Centre, all sorts queued—older couples, younger women, a few lads in jeans. Anne relaxed a little; she wasn’t the oldest there. In the cloakroom, she handed over her coat, received a numbered tag. For a moment she hesitated, unsure of the way, then followed an arrow for “Auditorium”, clinging to the rail. Inside, it was dim, just pin lights above the rows. An usher checked tickets. “Row six, seat nine,” she said. “Just along here.” Anne made her way, mumbling “sorry” as people let her past. She found her seat, sat, placed her bag on her lap. Her heart pounded, now with anticipation. Around her, people chatted, rustled programmes. She opened hers, tracing unfamiliar titles. At the bottom she spotted the name of a composer she remembered from radio years ago. The lights went down. The compère spoke, but Anne barely heard—it mattered more that she was here, among these people, not at home beside the cooker. When the first music began, she shivered. The singer’s voice was rich and a little rough—songs of love, farewells, roads that led far away. Suddenly, they felt hers too; she remembered other towns, other times, sitting in just such a hall beside someone long gone. Her eyes stung, but she didn’t cry. She just sat, clutching her bag, and listened. After a while, her body relaxed, her breath slowed. Music filled the space—her life, for once, not just drudgery and counting pennies. At the interval, her back ached, legs stiff. She stretched in the foyer, people discussing the performance. Some bought cakes, some had tea. She allowed herself a small chocolate, though she usually skipped such things. “Lovely,” she said aloud, tasting a bite. A woman nearby, about her age, smiled. “Good concert, isn’t it?” “Yes,” said Anne. “I haven’t been in years.” “Me neither,” said the woman. “Always something—grandchildren, garden. But I thought: if not now, when?” They shared a few words about the singer. Then the bell rang, and everyone returned to their seats. The second half swept by. Anne forgot about the cost or her savings; she just listened. When the music ended, she applauded till her palms stung. Outside, the air was chilly, fresh. She walked to the stop, legs tired, but with a small warmth inside—not euphoria, but the sense she’d done something truly for herself. At home, she called her son. “I’m home,” she said. “All fine.” “How was it? Not too cold?” “It was… lovely,” she said. He paused, then: “That’s all right then. Just don’t overdo it. We need to keep saving, you know.” “I remember. But I’ve already paid for three more concerts.” “Three?” he said, surprised. “Well, since you have, you’d better go. Just be careful.” She hung up, set her coat and bag in their places. Made tea and sat down. The season ticket lay before her, corners a bit bent. She ran her fingers over it, then transferred the concert dates into her wall calendar, circling them in pen. Next week, when her son needed money for another appeal, Anne opened her notebook, stared at the figures, and said: “I can only give half. I need the rest.” “What for?” he asked, automatically. She looked at his tired face, the dark rings under his eyes. “For me,” she said quietly. “I need it myself.” He looked like he might argue, then waved it off. “All right, Mum. Whatever you say.” That evening, left alone, Anne took out an old photo album. In one was a much younger her, in a white dress, outside a different concert hall, holding a programme and smiling shyly. She studied the face, linking it to her reflection in the mirror. She returned the album to its place. On the fridge, beside the magnet, she pinned a new note: “Next concert—15th.” Underneath: “Leave early.” Life didn’t change overnight. Each morning, Anne made soup, washed up, visited the surgery, babysat the grandchildren. Her son still asked for help, and she helped if she could. But now, deep down, she had her own pocket of time, her own little plans that needed no explanation. Passing the fridge, she sometimes touched the note with her fingers. Each time, a private, stubborn feeling grew: she was still alive, she still had the right to want. One evening, reading the paper, she saw an advert for a free beginners’ English class for seniors at the local library. You just had to sign up. She tore it out and slipped it next to her ticket. Then poured another tea, wondering, was this one wish too many? “I’ll hear my songs out first,” she decided. “Then I’ll see.” She tucked the ad into her notebook, but the idea of learning something new no longer felt impossible. That night, before bed, she drew back the curtain. In the courtyard, the street lamps glowed; a teenager walked by with headphones, a boy thumped a football. Anne leaned on the window, feeling calm settle inside her. Life went on, full of chores and sacrifice, but somewhere within, there was room for four evenings in the hall, and perhaps a few new words in an unfamiliar tongue. She turned out the kitchen light, went to her room, and pulled the covers up neat. Tomorrow would be as always—shopping, calls, cooking. But a little ring was on her calendar, and that changed something precious, even if nobody else ever noticed.

A Belated Gift The bus jolted, and Margaret Bennett gripped the rail with both hands, the rough plastic

La vida

The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stevens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. A dull ache pressed at his temples—he’d finished the last of the holiday salads yesterday, and spent the morning taking down Christmas decorations and packing away ornaments. The house was too quiet. He pulled on his hat, slipped his phone into his pocket, and went downstairs, steadying himself on the banister as usual. In the pale January noon, the courtyard looked like a stage set: shoveled walkways, untouched drifts of snow, not a soul in sight. Victor Stevens brushed off the bench by the second entrance, letting the snow fall softly from the wooden slats. It was a good place to think, especially when it was deserted—you could sit for five minutes and go home refreshed. “Mind if I join you?” a man’s voice asked. Victor turned his head. Tall guy, navy blue jacket, mid-fifties. The face was vaguely familiar. “Have a seat, there’s plenty of room,” Victor said, sliding over. “Which flat are you from?” “Number forty-three, second floor. Three weeks since I moved in. I’m Michael.” “Victor Stevens,” he replied automatically, shaking the offered hand. “Welcome to our quiet corner.” Michael pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?” “Go ahead, by all means.” Victor hadn’t smoked in ten years, but the scent of tobacco unexpectedly reminded him of the newsroom where he’d spent most of his working life. He caught himself wanting to breathe in the smoke, then quickly pushed the feeling away. “You lived here long?” Michael asked. “Since ’87. The whole block was just built then.” “I used to work nearby, at the Metalmaker’s Community Centre. Sound engineer.” Victor started. “With Valery Zakharovich?” “That’s right! And you—how do you know him?” “Did a feature on him. Back in ’89, for the anniversary concert. Remember when ‘August’ played?” “I could tell you the whole concert, start to finish!” Michael grinned. “We lugged in a massive speaker; the power supply was sparking…” The conversation took on a life of its own—names, stories, some funny, some bittersweet. Victor found himself thinking he ought to go home, but every time, the talk drifted on—musicians, equipment, backstage secrets. He hadn’t talked like this in ages. In his later years at the paper, it was all deadline pieces, and since retiring, he’d withdrawn. He convinced himself it was easier, not to depend on anyone, not to get attached. But now something inside felt like it was thawing. “You know,” Michael said, stubbing out his third cigarette, “I’ve still got a whole archive at home. Posters, photos. Concert tapes I made myself. If you’re interested…” Why would I need that? Victor thought. Then you have to visit, keep talking. Maybe he’ll want to be friends, upend your routines. And what new things would I even see? “I’d like that,” he said. “When suits you?” “Tomorrow, say around five? I’ll be back from work by then.” “Let’s do it.” Victor pulled out his phone and opened contacts. “Take my number. If anything changes, just call.” That night, he couldn’t sleep. He replayed their talk, remembered details from old stories. He reached for his phone several times—to cancel, to make excuses. He didn’t. In the morning, he woke to a call. On screen: “Michael, neighbor.” “Still up for it?” Michael’s voice sounded a little uncertain. “Yes,” Victor replied. “See you at five.”

The Bench in the Courtyard Edward Thompson drifted into the courtyard just as the church clock tolled one.