**Diary Entry – 14th January**
Why does love fade? It was there, wasn’t it? I was so happy I didn’t see anything else around me. Loved him, lived for him. And I missed the moment he changed. A naive fool. Serves me right. I let my guard down. But you can’t afford to relax.
Emily gazed out the window at the treetops swaying in the wind. The icy pavements were gritted with salt. A few snowless days, and the yard had turned a dirty grey.
All I thought about was laundry, ironing, cooking something nice for him. And what did he want? Passion. A younger body. Midlife crisis. I noticed him trying to look younger—thought he just wanted to hold onto time. I wonder, does she cook well? Or do they eat out? God, what am I thinking? It’s been months, and I still can’t settle. I’ll never get used to this.
What’s the date today? Emily hesitated. The 14th, I think. Old New Year. And here I am, cooped up at home like some old woman. Right, I’ll tidy myself up and go shopping.
She left her empty coffee mug in the sink and headed to the bathroom. She turned on the tap, slipped off her dressing gown, and stepped into the tub. When she tried to switch the shower on, the lever stuck. She pressed harder—it snapped off, clattering into the bath as water gushed from both the tap and showerhead. She struggled to turn it off, but it was no use.
She had to climb out and shut off the mains. The flow reduced to a trickle, but it didn’t stop completely. Emily didn’t bother with the soaked robe. Still damp, she pulled on joggers and a T-shirt. “Well, that’s my wash done. Just my luck. New year, same old problems. How many times did I tell him the shower switch was faulty? But he never got round to it, too busy with other things…” she muttered, mopping the floor.
She rang the housing office—surely someone was on call. The endless ringing grated on her. What if no one answered? Should she call her ex? No, she wouldn’t humiliate herself. Finally, a tired woman’s voice crackled through the receiver.
*Yes?*
Emily pictured a scowling, overweight woman worn down by complaints.
“My shower’s broken—water’s everywhere!” she blurted, louder than necessary.
*Did you turn off the water?*
“Yes.”
*Plumber’s in on Monday.*
“Monday? Am I meant to go two days without water? The pipes run through the bathroom, kitchen, and loo!”
An exasperated sigh.
*He’s on another job. Once he’s free, he’ll come. I’ll call him now.*
“How long’s the wait?” Emily raised her voice, afraid the woman would hang up. “It’s still leaking! What if a pipe bursts?”
*Love, you’ll have to wait. He’ll come when he can.*
Before Emily could argue, the line went dead. “Fine. I’ll wait. God, what did I do to deserve this?” She cursed her ex again for leaving her with faulty plumbing, but what good did it do?
A soap opera played on the telly. Soon, she was engrossed, forgetting the leak entirely. When the doorbell rang, it took her a moment to remember who she’d called. She checked her watch—just an hour and twenty minutes. Quick.
She opened the door. A distinguished man in his late fifties stood there—salt-and-pepper hair, well-dressed.
“You called for a plumber?”
“You’re the plumber?” Emily eyed him skeptically.
“Don’t look the part?” He smiled, tiny wrinkles fanning from his eyes.
“Not really. They’re usually…” She waved a vague hand.
“Fair point. I’m not. But I can fix your shower.”
“Then who are you?”
“His neighbour. He’s… unfit for work today. Celebrated Old New Year a bit too hard. His wife asked me to cover—they’ll sack him otherwise. She’s disabled, two kids…” He paused, waiting for an invitation inside, but Emily hesitated. “So, shall we wait till Monday, or do I take a look?”
“Oh—yes, come in.” She stepped aside.
He set down a worn toolbag and inspected the shower. “You’ve turned the water off? Good. The diverter’s knackered. The whole mixer’s rusted—won’t last long. Best replace it.”
“You’d know best,” Emily said flatly.
“Don’t worry, I’ll sort it. Just need to pop to the shop and get the part.”
“Expensive?” She mentally counted the cash in her purse.
“I’ll bring the receipt. Trust me.” He waited for her nod.
“Suppose I’ve no choice. Fine.”
“Mind if I leave my bag?” He stepped out.
*Should’ve waited till Monday,* Emily thought glumly. *Two days without water? No chance.* She boiled the kettle. Halfway through her tea, the doorbell rang again. The man was back, slightly out of breath.
“See? Quick, wasn’t I?” He beelined for the bathroom.
Emily lingered in the kitchen, staring out the window. *I should offer him tea. He rushed over, probably ran here.*
“All done. Have a look, love.”
She turned. He stood there, grinning.
The bathroom was spotless—no mess, just a gleaming new tap. She tested it. A strong jet hit the tub. The switch moved smoothly.
“It works! How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. Emergency call-out. Here’s the receipt for the mixer.”
She fetched her purse, counted out the money, and added an extra twenty.
“I can’t accept this. You’ve gone out of your way.”
He pocketed it. “I’ll pass it to the neighbour. Wife’s disabled, kids to feed.”
“Thank you. Fancy a cuppa? Unless you’re needed elsewhere?”
“No calls yet. Don’t mind if I do.” He washed his hands while Emily put the kettle on.
She watched this stranger sip tea at her table. Twenty-two years her ex had sat there, eating her pies, then left for some younger woman. *Traitor.*
The man noticed her shift in mood.
“Something wrong?”
“No.” She forced a smile. “Just… funny, isn’t it? A bit awkward.” Her voice wavered. “What do you do?”
“Retired army. Back in my hometown—parents’ old flat.”
“Family?” Why did she ask? None of her business.
“Ex-wife. Son. She got sick of moving garrisons, left twenty years ago, took the lad. Done up the flat. Now… dunno what’s next.” He shrugged. “You?”
“Me?”
“You’re on your own. If you had a husband, he’d have sorted the shower. Left you, did he? For someone younger?”
“Finished your tea?” Emily snapped. *Who does he think he is, prying?* “Thanks again, but—” She stopped, ashamed of her tone. Mention of her ex still stung. *Like a bull to red—wait, bulls charge at movement, not colour.*
“Sorry. Overstayed my welcome.” He stood abruptly, winced, and clutched his back.
“What’s wrong?”
“Old injury… Bent too much…” He gritted his teeth.
“Should I call an ambulance?” She grabbed the phone.
“No. Got any painkillers?”
“Paracetamol?” She handed him tablets and water.
“Ta. Mind if I sit till it kicks in?”
She helped him to the sofa. “You served?”
“Aye. Had to.”
His name was Robert. Medically discharged, lost in civilian life.
“Thanks, Emily. Easing up now. Call if you need me.” He gave her a crumpled business card. “Made these for job hunting.” He left his tools—too heavy to carry.
Next day, the real plumber arrived—unshaven, bleary-eyed.
“Came for me tools. All working?”
“Yes. Your neighbour fixed it. How is he?”
“Good bloke. Laid up, though. Got shot in the back overseas. Me missus gives him injections—she’s poorly herself, knows the drill.” He left.
Outside, snow fell, covering everything in clean white. Emily pulled warm mince pies from the oven.
The key turned. Her daughter.
“Just baked these. Want one?”
“Mum, I’m in a rush—friends’ wedding. We’ll visit soon, promise.” She grabbed her camera. “You okay?” Spotting pliers on the side: “What’s this?”
“Plumber left them. Shower broke yesterday.”
“Right. Tom’s waiting in the taxi.” A quick kiss. At the door,She hesitated, then picked up Robert’s business card and dialed his number, her heart fluttering with something she hadn’t felt in years—hope.
