It hurt so much…
Emma was speaking on the phone when George peeked into the office. Olivia narrowed her eyes at Emma, signalling that the call was important and that they weren’t in the mood for interruptions. George’s head disappeared behind the closing door.
Ten minutes later, Emma ended the call and set her mobile aside.
“George came by for you,” Olivia said.
“Why me? Maybe he came for you?” Emma bristled.
“I’m married. Don’t you notice how he looks at you?”
“How?” Emma lifted her head from the screen.
“With interest,” Olivia said coyly.
Of course Emma had noticed. She wasn’t blind. Yes, he was handsome—exactly her type. If only he weren’t so much younger…
Work piled up so quickly that Emma declined Olivia’s lunch invitation. George entered the office and placed a cup of coffee on her desk.
“Take a break. Busy?” he asked.
“As always,” Emma smiled gratefully and took a sip.
“Fancy the cinema tonight?”
“Sorry, I have my little daughter.” She drank again, avoiding his gaze.
“I know. Couldn’t she stay with your mum for the evening?”
Emma looked up. Finally, he’d made a move instead of just lingering with looks. He was charming, always smiling. If he were a few years older, she wouldn’t have hesitated to return his advances.
She looked far younger than her age, but not enough to bridge the gap between them. After a painful divorce, she hadn’t glanced at men for years—too wary of repeating mistakes. Time dulls caution, though, and she felt ready to love again. But with George?
“Well? Did he come by?” Olivia asked upon returning.
“Who?” Emma pretended not to understand.
“Why run from him? He’s a decent lad. If I weren’t married…”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Emma cut in. “The age gap is terrifying.”
“So? You don’t look your age. And attention from men does any woman good, especially a lonely one. I see you fancy him too—your eyes light up, your cheeks flush. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Emma stayed silent.
“You’ve been alone for years. You said yourself it’s time. While you wait for someone your age, some beauty will snatch George up. Reciprocate. For your spirit, at least.”
Olivia was right, Emma admitted. Maybe she should go to the cinema with him.
That evening, after leaving her daughter Sophie with her mother, she met George. The night was lovely—she hadn’t been to the cinema in ages, nor enjoyed any real fun. It ended in bed. Why delay? She was free, so was he. For her spirit, then.
The next day, Olivia smirked. “Well? You’re glowing.”
Emma didn’t answer, refusing to discuss her private life. But secrecy didn’t last. George visited the office often, exchanging heated glances that made Emma’s pulse race. Olivia noticed but merely smiled knowingly.
Their affair deepened. They met daily—always at her flat, since George still lived with his mother. He arrived after Sophie slept, leaving before she woke. Sometimes he lingered. Sophie never questioned why he drank coffee in their kitchen. She liked him—Mum never raised her voice when he was around, never scolded her for dressing slowly.
Emma’s father had given her the flat before he died. Small, but life was unpredictable—now it proved useful. Yet with George in her life, she considered something bigger. Sophie was growing, understanding more. But after the divorce, Emma had bought a used car and was still paying off the loan.
“Have you thought about a mortgage?” George asked once.
“I have, but the car isn’t paid off yet.”
The question unsettled her. How long would this last? Time flew; a woman’s youth was short. Growing old together was one thing, but George was just entering his prime. Could she keep up? Cosmetic fixes were expensive, and chasing youth was futile. She’d seen films where women ruined themselves trying—only to be left anyway.
Yet she fell harder each day. When girls smiled at George, jealousy spiked like a thorn. How could she not love or envy when her heart was free and hungry? She was still young, after all.
Then George left for a two-day business trip. With no urgent work to distract her, Emma walked out at lunch. The air was crisp, though snow was forecast. She turned back after one stop, chilled, and entered a café.
There he was. A young blonde sat across from him, their hands clasped, heads nearly touching. Anyone could see—this wasn’t just friendship. He’d said he was away. Pain twisted in her chest, hot and suffocating. She fled before he noticed.
She’d known this would come, just not so soon. She’d imagined a light fling, an easy parting. But she’d gone and fallen for him. What now? A scene? Revenge? But the pain—oh, the pain…
That evening, she snapped at Sophie, then hugged her tight, both weeping. Could she never have a proper family, a love to grow old with?
Sleep came only at dawn. She woke groggy, Sophie fussing, and sent her to her mother’s before George returned.
He rang the bell that evening.
“Sophie’s at Mum’s? Good, I’ve missed you,” he murmured, leaning in.
Emma pulled away.
“I saw you today. With that blonde.” Her voice cracked. “Just tell me next time. I’d have let you go. But you lied. Get out.”
He protested, but she locked herself in the bathroom, drowning his words with the tap. When she emerged, he was gone.
Too shattered to cry alone, she called Olivia. They met at a pub. Wine loosened her tongue, dulled the ache.
Olivia hailed a cab. “Take her home. I’ve got your number,” she warned the driver.
“Thought you were in a hurry, not drunk,” he muttered.
“It’s been rough. Just get her home safe.”
Emma woke stiff, head pounding, in the parked car.
“You’re awake?” a man’s voice asked.
“Who—? Why am I here?”
“Your friend flagged me down. You fell asleep. Couldn’t leave you out here at night.”
Emma fumbled for her purse.
“Don’t bother. She paid. Your phone’s dead—couldn’t call anyone.” His tone was calm, patient.
She recognized her street.
“Come in for coffee. Least I can do,” she said, unsteady on her feet.
He followed her inside. While she freshened up, he brewed coffee and made sandwiches.
“Thanks,” she said, studying him—mid-forties, tired but kind.
Later, driving to fetch Sophie, she realised: she didn’t miss George at all.
The next evening, he called.
“How’d you get my number?” she asked, eyeing Olivia, who shrugged.
“Your address. I’m a detective. Free tomorrow?”
Emma hesitated, then laughed. “Why not?”
