“You know how he looks at you? With love and awe,” said Emily, her voice brimming with smug satisfaction.
James stepped out of the bathroom, a towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water glistened on his toned chest—not just a man, but a dream. A sweet, dull ache throbbed in Victoria’s heart.
He perched on the edge of the bed, reaching to kiss her. She turned her face away.
“Don’t. I’ll never leave if you do. I have to go. Sophie must be home by now.” Victoria nuzzled her cheek against his shoulder.
He sighed.
“Vic, how much longer? When are you going to tell your daughter about us?”
“Three months ago, you didn’t even know I existed, and you were perfectly fine,” she retorted, standing to dress.
“I wasn’t fine. I was waiting for you. I can’t go a single day without—”
“Stop breaking my heart. Don’t walk me out,” Victoria cut in, slipping from the room before he could argue.
Outside, she quickened her pace, ignoring the glances of passersby. It felt as if they all knew where she’d been. The men stared with curiosity, the women—with judgment.
And why wouldn’t they? Everything about her commanded attention—her figure, her poise, those deep-set eyes and full lips. Dark curls had escaped her haphazard bun. For once, she wished she were invisible.
***
She’d married young, at twenty, swept up in what she thought was mutual, enduring love. Almost immediately, she fell pregnant. Her husband urged her to terminate. *Too soon,* he argued. *We need to get on our feet first. There’s time.* But Victoria refused. She had Sophie, praying he’d change in time. He never did. Many men, she told herself, were indifferent to children.
Then came the phone call—an unknown woman rattling off an address where Victoria’s husband spent his evenings. She didn’t storm over. She waited, confronted him directly. He denied it first. Then justified. Then screamed:
“Some lunatic calls, and you believe her? You’re no better. I’m leaving, and you’ll regret this!”
The door slammed. Victoria didn’t want to live, but Sophie needed her. So she survived. Two weeks later, she crumbled. She went to the address, hid behind a tree, and waited. Soon, he walked past, arm-in-arm with a younger woman. They disappeared inside.
The next day, she filed for divorce. Forgiveness wasn’t in her nature. She enrolled Sophie in nursery and returned to work.
Men floated in and out of her life, but none sparked enough interest to risk her heart again—until James. Tall, handsome, her match in every way. Their affair burned bright and fast. One evening, Sophie asked why she was dressing up so carefully.
“Got a date,” Victoria teased, half-serious.
Sophie smirked. “Ah.”
She never pressed further.
Sophie had her mother’s figure but not her striking looks. People whispered—*how did two beautiful parents end up with such an ordinary daughter?* Victoria was glad. Beauty brought nothing but trouble.
She never had close girlfriends. Not because of her, but their envy. Afraid of paling in comparison. Maybe that’s why she’d married so young—hoping for companionship.
“He’s a bit plain for you, even if he’s handsome,” her mum had said.
***
“Sophie, I’m home,” Victoria called, stepping into the flat.
“Finishing homework,” came the muffled reply.
Victoria changed, then moved to the kitchen. Sophie soon joined her, tearing into a bread roll.
“Don’t spoil your appetite,” Victoria chided, setting plates on the table. “I need to talk to you.”
“Then talk,” Sophie said between bites.
“My birthday’s coming up.”
“I remember, Mum.”
“I… wanted to invite someone. A friend.”
“The one you’re sleeping with?” Sophie’s tone was breezy.
“We’re *dating*. And mind your tone.”
“Same thing at your age.”
“So, can I invite him? You don’t mind?”
“Whatever. Is Gran coming?”
Victoria exhaled. Fifteen was a tricky age, but Sophie seemed unbothered.
“Gran’s coming Sunday. I just want you two to get along.”
“Sure, invite him,” Sophie shrugged.
Saturday morning, Victoria cooked feverishly, determined to impress James. He arrived with roses, a ring. She faltered, overwhelmed by his fervor. Desperate to charm Sophie, he was loud, cracking jokes, telling stories. Sophie stayed quiet, watchful.
After he left, Victoria cleared the table, then perched on Sophie’s bed, reaching to hug her. Sophie twisted away.
“You didn’t like him?”
“Nope.”
“Why?” Victoria couldn’t hide her disappointment.
“Just didn’t.” A pause. “I get it—you’re young, you want love. But Mum… he’s using you. How can’t you see it?”
“Did Gran poison you against him?”
“Don’t blame Gran. I’ve got eyes.” Sophie’s gaze was pleading.
Victoria stood, moved to the door.
“Mum… do you love him?” Sophie asked softly. Victoria nodded without turning. “Then keep seeing him. Just don’t move him in.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Victoria got nothing else from her.
Strangely, relief washed over her. Things with James *had* moved too fast. That ring… And he’d shared so little about himself, yet talked endlessly of their future. Sophie was an afterthought, a footnote in her mother’s life.
The next day, James called. “Missed you. See you tonight?”
No mention of Sophie. Did he not care, or was he that arrogant?
“Gran’s coming. No time.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” she agreed, relieved.
With Gran, Sophie was lively—no mention of James. *Maybe she sees what I can’t,* Victoria thought.
Their routine resumed—furtive hours at his place. Then one evening, James snapped:
“Sophie’s selfish, robbing you of happiness!”
“She’s my *daughter*,” Victoria shot back.
“In a few years, she’ll have her own life. You’ll be alone!”
“So you’re done with me?”
“No, I just—” He backtracked.
They fought. Parted coldly.
Two days later, Sophie came home late.
“Where were you? Homework?” Victoria snapped.
“Done already. Listen—I found out about James.”
“Found what?”
Sophie’s eyes gleamed. “He doesn’t live where he says. He’s got a wife. A little boy.”
Victoria’s world tilted. She fled to the bathroom, muffling sobs. Later, she confronted James.
“This flat’s just for us, isn’t it?” Her voice was eerily calm.
He paled, then lashed out. “I thought you weren’t like other women—paranoid, suspicious—”
“Just say I’m crazy. I’ve heard that before.” She dropped the ring on the table. Left.
Wandering London’s streets, she grieved. But love, like gangrene, had to be cut out—fast.
Three weeks later, school ended. Before Sophie left for a class trip, she asked:
“Mum… what about Andrew? From downstairs?”
“Who?”
“You know. The one with the beard.”
Victoria recalled the unassuming neighbor.
“He *adores* you,” Sophie said.
“Does he?”
“See how he looks at you? Like you’re everything.”
Victoria smiled. Andrew had always been there—fixing her lock post-divorce (“Just in case—you’re alone now”), stepping in when her ex tried taking things.
The next day, she knocked. He opened instantly, as if waiting.
“My lock’s stuck. Can you check?”
“Let me grab my tools.”
When he arrived minutes later—clean-shaven, in a suit—she barely recognized him.
“You’re fixing locks in that?” she laughed.
He smiled, crow’s feet crinkling. “Seems fine to me.”
The kitchen table was set for two.
“Sit. Sophie’s away… Fancy some wine?”
“I don’t drink.” He hesitated. “But I’d love to stay.”
And just like that—love had been next door all along.
