**Never Again**
After work, Helen popped into the shop. She couldn’t be bothered to cook, but Lily still needed to eat. She grabbed a packet of pasta and some sausages—Lily had loved them since she was little. Plus, a loaf of bread and a carton of milk.
A small queue had formed at the till. In front of her stood a burly bloke in a black jacket and a knitted beanie with a pompom. *”A youngish man, and he’s wearing that ridiculous thing. Probably knitted by his doting wife. Typical. Women have this special talent for dressing their men like fools—keeps other women at bay, I suppose. Bet he’s got one of those baby faces too,”* she mused, glaring at the garish striped hat.
The man turned, catching her stare. Helen looked away instantly. *”Well, he’s no fool, at least,”* she conceded begrudgingly. He glanced at her again.
“You’ll burn a hole right through me with that look,” he said.
“Not much worth looking at. Nothing better to do, is there?” Helen muttered irritably.
The queue wasn’t moving. Her frustration bubbled. *That stupid hat…* She nearly dumped her shopping and walked out—but there wasn’t another shop nearby. *”Men in queues are always a nightmare. Next, he’ll pick his fags: ‘Oh, the blue pack with the red stripe—no? Then the white with the green sticker.’”* She mimicked his imagined indecision in her head. *”Then he’ll fumble for ages in his pockets. Heaven forbid he prepares like a normal person.”*
Sure enough, the man at the till hiked up his jacket and dug through his tight jeans for loose change. Helen sighed loudly—purely for effect.
“In a rush? Go ahead,” said Mr. Beanie, stepping aside.
Helen shrugged and took his place. Finally, he scraped together the right amount, bundled his modest haul into a bag, and left.
Her turn. The cashier rang up her items while Helen rummaged uselessly in her handbag for her card.
“Can’t you hurry up? Money should be ready,” snapped someone behind her.
“Lost your card?” Mr. Beanie asked, smirking.
Helen ignored him, still digging.
“I’ll pay,” he told the cashier.
“No need!” Helen flushed, finally pulling out her card. “Found it. Sorry.” She tapped the terminal, relieved.
She grabbed her bags and hurried out. *”What’s wrong with me? Who cares about his awful hat? If he likes it, fine. I’m such a grouch these days.”*
She scolded herself all the way home. *”All his fault. We had a good life—or was it just me who thought so? Ran off with some silly girl who got knocked up. Did the ‘honourable thing,’ married her. Didn’t spare a thought for Lily growing up without a dad. And me—nearly forty. Forty! God, that’s ancient.”*
The flat he’d left them was his ‘consolation prize.’ *Thanks for nothing.* *”Why do we put up with them? Same story, every time. A handful don’t cheat—or at least are clever enough to hide it. At forty, they all want someone younger. What’s left for us?”* Helen bit back tears.
She reached her building, pressed the lift button—only for the doors to screech open, releasing a wobbly drunk. Inside, the stench of cheap beer and fags hit her. *”All the same—boozing or womanising. Can’t stand them.”*
The lift shuddered to her floor. Helen fished for her keys, gloves snagging. Finally, the door opened.
Lily sat at her desk, homework spread out. She looked up, eyes sharp with something between impatience and indifference.
“Mum, I need money for the theatre. School trip on Saturday,” she demanded.
“I’ll cook dinner first,” Helen deflected, heading to the kitchen.
*”More money. Like I print the stuff. One income now—rent, food, every penny pinched.”* She filled a pan, griping to an invisible audience.
“Mum? The theatre?” Lily stood in the doorway, bookmarked with a finger.
“I’ll get cash tomorrow,” Helen sighed, not turning around.
Satisfied, Lily vanished.
*”Let’s see how long it lasts. She won’t be young and pretty forever. One baby, and it’s all downhill—no time for herself, sleepless nights… And him? Over forty. Serves him right. Should be thinking about grandkids, not starting over. God, why do I keep thinking about him? He’s not worth it.”*
After dinner, Helen turned on her desk lamp. It flickered, buzzed, then died. *”Brilliant. Bought it last week! What a day.”* She fiddled with the bulb—nothing. *”I’ll exchange it tomorrow. If I can find the receipt.”* She couldn’t. Likely binned it with the box.
Next evening, lugging the heavy lamp, she headed to the electronics shop across the road.
On the steps stood Mr. Beanie, smoking. Helen shot him a withering look and walked in.
He followed—then stepped behind the counter.
“Bought this last week,” she said icily, slamming the lamp down.
“Receipt?” He didn’t blink. “No wonder you’re single. With that temper.”
“Who said I’m single?” Helen choked.
“If you had a husband, he’d have fixed it.”
“He’s busy. Writing his thesis,” she snapped. “No receipt. So no exchange?” She turned to leave.
“Give me your address. I’ll fix it and drop it off. Or pick it up tomorrow.”
“Like I’ll drag it back. Flat 96, across the road.” She shoved the door open.
*”So that’s where I’d seen him. No hat then. Clever eyes. Actually decent.”* She walked home, oddly pleased—free repairs, after all.
In the hall mirror, she studied herself: hat pulled low, dull eyes, pinched mouth. *”No one at work mentioned how awful I look. Solidarity, eh?”*
*”My own fault he left. She’s probably all nails and heels. Men love that. And me? Stuck in joggers. Enough. Time to fix myself. Spite him. Let him think I’ve moved on too.”*
Next morning, Helen wore a dress, mascara applied. Lily gaped.
“About time. Now just change that hair.”
Helen turned.
“And your eyes are shining. Met someone?” Lily grinned.
“No one. Just me.” She checked the mirror. “Maybe a haircut?”
At work, compliments flowed. Her mood lifted.
At home, she swapped her dressing gown for jeans and a tee. Peeling potatoes, she thought—*he never ate onions or garlic. Worried about his breath. That ‘angel’ of his probably lives on air.*
The sizzle of frying potatoes filled the flat. Lily rushed in.
“What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion. Toss the laundry in, will you? Don’t forget the pod.” Helen grabbed pickled gherkins from the fridge.
As the potatoes simmered, the doorbell rang.
Mr. Beanie stood there—hatless, holding a lamp.
“You?” Helen blinked.
“Lamp’s fixed.” He handed it over, then swallowed hard, glancing past her.
“Come in. I’ve made dinner—least I can do.”
He didn’t argue. Inside, he rolled up his sleeves.
“Where’s the loo?”
“Bathroom.” She flicked on the light—then gasped. The floor was flooded.
“Step back.” He kicked off his shoes, rolled his trousers, and shut off the water. “Bucket and cloth.”
Helen obeyed, tearing an old dressing gown into rags. They mopped up quickly.
“Neighbours haven’t complained, so it’s not leaked yet. Hose must’ve split. I’ll call my mate—he fixes washing machines.”
As he phoned, Helen studied him. *Timing…*
“Sorted. He’ll come tomorrow,” he said, pocketing his phone.
“Thanks.” Helen smiled.
“You’re different now. Lovely smile. I’m Edward. Old-fashioned name.” He dried his hands, watching her.
“Helen.” She hung the towel up.
“Been years since I had spuds with gherkins,” Edward said between mouthfuls.
“Your wife only feeds you steak?” Lily asked bluntly.
“No wife. Married young—lasted six months. ‘Irreconcilable differences,’ as they say.”
“Who knit your hat then?” Helen blurted.
“My mum. She died last spring.”
“I’m sorry.” Helen exchanged a look with Lily.
Later, dishes cleared, Edward stood. “Her dad left?”
“Yes. Some younger woman. They’re expecting.” Helen didn’t know why she said it.
“You’”Then one summer day, as they strolled along Brighton Pier with Lily giggling between them and the sea breeze tangling her hair, Helen realized some stories—like broken lamps and leaky pipes—had a funny way of mending themselves after all.”
