**Diary Entry – Emma Whitmore**
*How it hurts…*
I was on the phone when Oliver peeked into the office. Sophie, my colleague, shot me a look as if to say, *Not now—this call is important.* Without a word, Oliver disappeared behind the closing door.
Ten minutes later, I hung up and set my mobile aside.
“Oliver stopped by for you,” Sophie said.
“For me? Maybe for you?” I snapped back.
“I’m married. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how he looks at you.”
“How?” I lifted my gaze from the monitor.
“Like he’s interested,” Sophie teased.
*Of course I’ve noticed.* I have eyes. He’s handsome—exactly my type. If only he weren’t so much younger.
Work piled up, so I skipped lunch with Sophie. Later, Oliver walked in and set a cup of coffee on my desk.
“Take a break. Swamped?”
“Always,” I said, sipping the hot drink gratefully.
“Fancy a film tonight?”
“Sorry, I’ve got my little girl, Lily.” I avoided his eyes, taking another sip.
“I know. Couldn’t your mum look after her?”
I finally met his gaze. *About time he made a move instead of just lingering glances.* Charming, smiling—if he were a few years older, I wouldn’t hesitate.
I look young for my age, but not young enough to hide the gap between us. After my painful divorce, I avoided men for years—too wary of mistakes. But time dulls caution. I *do* want love again. Just… not with *him*, surely?
“Well?” Sophie prodded at lunch. “Did he ask you out?”
“Who?” I pretended not to understand.
“Why are you avoiding him? He’s lovely. If I weren’t married—”
“Don’t be daft,” I cut her off. “I’m *years* older.”
“So? You don’t look it. And a bit of male attention never hurt anyone—especially not a single woman. I’ve seen how you light up around him. Admit it, you like him too.”
I stayed silent.
“You’ve been alone too long. You *said* you were ready. While you wait for some ‘suitable’ man, another woman will snatch him up. Just go for it—if not for love, then for fun.”
She wasn’t wrong. Maybe a film wouldn’t hurt.
That evening, after dropping Lily at Mum’s, I met Oliver. The cinema was a rare treat—I hadn’t been in ages. It ended in bed. Why wait? I’m free; so is he. *For fun,* as Sophie said.
The next day, Sophie grinned. “Well? You’re glowing.”
I brushed her off, but secrets don’t last. Oliver kept stealing into the office, throwing glances that made my pulse race. Sophie noticed, smirking knowingly.
Our fling escalated. We met daily—always at my place. He lived with his mum. At first, he’d come after Lily was asleep, leave before dawn. Then he stayed longer. Lily never questioned why “Mum’s friend” was drinking coffee in our kitchen. She liked him—when he visited, I didn’t rush her through breakfast.
After my divorce, my ex wanted us to sell both our flats for a bigger one. I refused—mine was a gift from Dad before he died. Small, but security. Now, with Oliver around, I reconsidered. Lily needed space. But I still had car payments.
“Ever thought of a mortgage?” Oliver asked once.
“I’m still paying off the car.”
The question unsettled me. How long would this last? Years fly by—a woman’s prime is short. Oliver’s just hitting his stride. How long before age *shows*? Beauty treatments cost a fortune. And chasing youth never ends well—I’ve seen enough films.
Yet I grew fonder of him. Every smile he gave another girl twisted jealousy in my chest. How could I *not* fall for him? My heart’s still young—but so is *he*.
I stalled, uncertain.
Then Oliver left for a “work trip.” With no distractions, loneliness gnawed at me. At lunch, I walked out for air—cold but dry, though snow was forecast. Half-frozen, I ducked into a café. And there he was.
Opposite him sat a young blonde. Their heads nearly touched, hands clasped, oblivious to the world. *That look*—you don’t mistake it. He’d lied. A dull ache twisted in my chest. Heat rushed to my face; I bolted before he saw me.
*I knew this would happen.* Just not so soon. I thought we’d part lightly. I never meant to *love* him. What now? A fight? Revenge? But oh, it *hurts*.
That night, I shouted at Lily over some trifle. She cried; I held her, sobbing into her hair. Would I *ever* have a proper family? Someone to grow old with?
I barely slept. If Oliver came tonight—lied he’d returned early—I’d forgive him. *Maybe I was wrong.* But no—I’d ironed that shirt myself. If I confronted him, I’d say things I’d regret.
By morning, I was a wreck. Lily dawdled; I snapped. She cried, refusing nursery. Before Oliver’s “return,” I took her to Mum’s.
He rang the bell after work. “Hi. Lily at your mum’s? Good—I missed you.” He kissed me; I pulled away.
“What’s wrong?” he frowned.
“Headache. Didn’t want Lily catching it. You got back today?” I stared hard.
“An hour ago. Came straight here.” He nuzzled my hair—and I caught the faintest trace of *her* perfume.
“I saw you. With that blonde.” I shoved him. “How long? Just *tell* me next time. I’d have let you go. Now *leave*. I’ll bring your things to work.”
He tried to hold me. I locked myself in the bathroom, drowning his pleas with the tap. When I emerged, he was gone.
I couldn’t face the empty flat. I rang Sophie.
“Meet me. I’m a mess. *Not* here.”
We drank wine at a pub. I confessed everything. The alcohol—or just speaking—eased the pain.
“I never thought I’d feel like this,” I admitted. “I know it’ll pass, but right now…”
Sophie handed me another glass. I drained it. In public, I held back tears. The wine helped—the betrayal felt less crushing. Sophie listened, offering no advice. What *was* there to say?
Standing, the room spun. Sophie hauled me outside just in time.
“I need to fetch Lily,” I slurred.
“Like *this*? Tomorrow. Call your mum.” She checked her watch. “Blimey—my husband’ll kill me.” She flagged down a cab, shoving me in.
“Take her home. Green Street, number fifteen. I’ve got your plates,” she warned the driver.
“Thought you were in a hurry, not pissed,” he muttered.
“She’s had a rough night. Here.” Sophie paid upfront. “Just get her home safe.”
I woke cramped, head throbbing. A man’s voice made me jump.
“Who—where am I?”
“Cabbie. Your mate got you in. You conked out—couldn’t leave you. No ID, dead phone.”
I fumbled for my purse.
“Don’t bother—she paid. Recognised your street. Been waiting hours.” His tone was calm, unbothered.
Peering out, I saw my building. Only a few lights still on.
“Right address?” He rubbed his stubble. “If you *really* want to thank me… coffee?”
Memories flooded back—Oliver, Sophie, the pub. I rubbed my temples.
“Come up.”
Inside, I splashed water on my face. The mirror showed dark circles. *Pathetic. Oliver’s seen worse.* Then—*why care?*
I touched up my mascara, changed into jeans and a jumper. In the kitchen, coffee and toast waited.
“Helped myself,” he said.
“Thanks.” I studied him—mid-forties, tired but kind eyes. “Bathroom’s there if you want a shave.”
“Cheers.”
Over coffee, I admitted, “You’ve lost sleep because of me.”
“Napped in the car. Not my business, but any bloke who walks out on you’s a fool.”
“Probably.”
“You said ‘bloke,’ not ‘husband.’ Why?”
“No men’s stuff here. But there’s a razor.”
“Ex-wife left me for someone younger. Drank myself stupid. Then got my act together. Nights are long—that’s why I drive.”
Later, he dropped me at Mum’s. Lily rushedLily rushed into my arms, and as I held her tight, I realized that sometimes the kindest stranger can mend a heart faster than time ever could.
