**Diary Entry**
The phone jolted me awake. Bloody ex-husband. Why didn’t I remember to silence it last night? Instead of a proper “Hello,” I yawned into the receiver—let him know he woke me. He droned on with pointless apologies, rambling about the weather, work, telly gossip—setting the stage for something. I didn’t hurry him, didn’t reply. Just nodded occasionally, as if he could see.
Fifteen years of marriage gave him bloody X-ray vision, I suppose. I shuffled to the kitchen in just knickers, put him on speaker, and dropped the phone on the counter. The fridge glared back—empty shelves, unwashed and resentful. A bottle of wine stood guard next to a triangle of plastic-wrapped supermarket cheddar.
“How’s Emily?”
My daughter’s name forced a reaction.
“You haven’t called her?”
“I did!” he rushed. “Last Thursday. Said she was blooming. Also mentioned you’re off-grid next week—some holiday. Come into money, love? Where you jetting off to? What about your students? Given them term break?”
I swigged straight from the bottle, pressed the phone to my ear so the mic wouldn’t catch the glass trembling against my teeth. Gulped. Mustered a playful smirk.
“Need a break, don’t I? Palm trees, sea breeze. Not yet, though. Got a month to kill. Jealous?”
“Course not.” Pause. Same old game.
“I’ll bring you back…” Pause. “Nothing.” My shoulders loosened. “What d’you want, then?”
Hesitation. “Bit skint till payday. Any chance of fifty quid? Unexpected bills…”
“Mmm.” I nibbled the cheddar like it was chocolate. “What sort of bills?”
“Met someone. Lovely woman. Very lovely.”
Jealousy—sudden, stupid—clawed my throat.
“Ask *her* for the bloody money, then!”
A flash: Him twenty years ago—lanky, floppy fringe splitting his face, that crooked grin with its sharp canine. But beside him, some tart in a miniskirt and red lipstick. Not me.
“Lily? You alright?” His voice shifted—warm, familiar. The concern prickled my eyes. Nearly cried.
“Fine. Just tired. I’ll transfer it. Have a nice day.”
Mid-transfer, a text from Gareth:
*Morning, darling! Fancy a lakeside picnic? Can fetch you at 3.*
“Piss off, the lot of you!” Anger shoved out tears. Poured wine properly this time, swallowed cheese. Faced the full-length hall mirror. Traced fingers where lace met skin—right at the edge—avoiding the tiny knot, no bigger than a pimple, tucked where razors go blind. Still there. Then: shower, scrubbed raw, double shampoo, face mask, blow-dry. Opened the laptop. Social media chimed like slot machines. Pulled on a tee.
First message:
*Hi! Want to learn German from scratch. Got slots? Payment options?*
My fingers auto-replied. Routine calcified me. Clicked his profile—saw my own exhaustion staring back. Stomach lurched.
*How many sessions weekly? Fair warning: No lessons 1st–10th. Might never resume. Might die.*
Deleted to: *No lessons.*
Instant reply:
*Thrice weekly. Flexible—work from home. Can adapt.*
*Tonight, 5 PM London time?*
*Perfect.*
Emily rang as I scraped the last of Thai takeaway—our old “hangover soup.”
“Mum? You okay?”
“Brilliant. Eating. You’re distracting me.” Fear curdled the words.
“We’re hitting the beach. Dad called. Proper rattled about you—”
Car horns, foreign chatter crackled through.
“I’ve rattled him for five years, love.”
“If you’re snarking, you’re fine. Right?”
“Miss you, kiddo.”
“Miss you more!”
We gabbed nonsense—pretended to share her train to Brighton, hunt for sun loungers. Salt air, Spanish sun, sea drowning everything sour. Hung up. Me forward, her on the edge. But clinging to the golden afterglow. Glanced at the clock. Nearly five. Still half-there with her, I logged on—plunged into the video call like an icy lake.
Those *eyes*. First dive inward. Gutted me. Babbled grammar, apologised for existing. Couldn’t look away. When the forty-five minutes bled out, I collapsed into the chair and wept. Rang Kat:
“No lectures. I’m in love.”
“Ooh! Who? What about Gareth?”
“Kat, *please*. What’s Gareth? I don’t even—” Realised I hadn’t caught his name. Just the eyes.
“Who’ve you fallen for, then?” Brutal.
“New German student. Thought I couldn’t feel this anymore. But—”
Kat—plump, six kids, married since Moses—puffed her fag on the balcony.
“Chuffed for you, Lil! After the divorce, then Em leaving… You went robotic. Never left flat. Thought Gareth might help. He’s decent. But just… functional. Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Irrational joy fizzed.
“Your voice is different. Can I meet him?”
“Oh—call waiting. Later!” Hung up. Scrubbed the fridge. Anything to fast-forward to Wednesday, 5 PM.
Slept in fitful snatches—chugged water, fussed with windows, spat into the dark like a teenager. Never once thought of the little killer with its gentle name: Melanoma.
Morning. A message:
*Counting till Wednesday. Can’t wait. Free today?*
—
His name was Mark. Cue mental chariots, swords, clichés. Didn’t ask where he lived. Marital status? Taboo. Terrified I’d scare this—digital, ephemeral, *alive*—thing making me want to *live*.
“Why learn German? Work?” I asked, desperate to balance the molten ball in my chest.
“No.” He looked straight at me. “Saw your face on the course ad. Looked like you needed saving.”
“So you’re a knight?” Sarcasm autopiloted.
“Suppose.” Shrugged.
“I’ll call you Knight. Mind?” Then—”Oh, another call!” Hung up. Whispered, then screamed: *”This doesn’t happen!”*
Needed air. London’s false summer had trees yellowing early. Supermarket’s arctic blast. Bought soup ingredients like a mourner—scarlet peppers, grainy cottage cheese, fiery salami. Hobbled home, shoulder aching under the weight. Waited till the pot simmered to check messages.
*Sorry if I offended. Bad with people. Forgive me.*
“Nothing to forgive. Just… rusty with honesty. Naming things.”
“Me too. But it happens.”
“Making soup. Fancy some?”
“Love to. Call you?”
“Five mins.”
Smeared on lipstick. The screen lit—fell into the abyss again. Peeling potatoes, we switched to *you*. Discussed books, films—elbowing space on a tiny imaginary kitchen. Only when staring at broth swirls did we remember: not together. Crashing back.
“Enjoy your soup.”
“Ta. Message tomorrow?” Ice-cold. Didn’t eat. Stormed out, bought wine, drank in dark. Hid phone. Died.
Woke parched to: *Morning! Sleep well?*
Messages carried me till the 18th. On the 17th—no goodbye. Why bother?
Taxi dragged. Ex rang first:
“Lily. You alright?”
“Peachy.” (*He bloody knows.*)
Then Kat. Pancake scent through the car window. Swallowed spit. Again:
“Lil, something’s off. You sure you’re okay?”
“Fine. Why?”
Emily called as I paid at the hospital doors:
“Mum! Miss you. Coming home?”
“No, love. Call you later.”
—
Inside: bright, un-scary. Half the ground floor a café. Green walls. Doors with plaques. Walked steady, bag clutched. Four lifts. One opened—plump mum pushing a pram, bald girl in a headscarf. The girl beamed gap-toothed at me.
Third floor. A cubicle with locker-room pegs. Waif-like nurse with clipboard helped me into a back-tie gown. Left me. Returned with a twin. Chirping, steering me to theatre.
Fast then—cannula in hand, weight check, mask. Lights out.
Woke alone. Window-wall showed construction ants. Watched three days, waiting to die. Didn’t. Discharged.
—
Taxi home. Hand pressed to stitches. Blind-old-woman shuffle. At the door—collided with a man. Felt shirt fabric, nearly fell. Heard:
“Knight at your service, miladyI looked up into those impossible eyes and whispered, “Prove it.”
