After her divorce and the division of the flat, Emily had to move to the outskirts of London. She ended up with a two-bedroom apartment that hadn’t seen a lick of renovation in years—at least, that was her first impression. But Emily wasn’t the type to be easily frightened. Years of marriage to a domineering husband had hardened her.
She’d looked at countless properties before settling on this one—most were far too expensive. But this suited her just fine.
“Gran used to live here,” said the young, attractive estate agent. “Mum and Dad took her in—she’s not well. They decided to sell. It’s a bit out of the way for me, though. Dad promised to chip in so I could get a place closer to theirs.”
Emily glanced at her as the agent continued, “I know it needs work, but I’ve priced it fairly. Open to offers.”
And so Emily bought the flat, desperate for somewhere to call her own. Another perk was that her office was only three tram stops away, cutting her commute to forty minutes.
Her ex-husband, James, had been a tyrant. It took her five years—and a son—to realise it. The thought of divorce only crossed her mind after yet another screaming match. Emily was a homemaker by nature—her place was always spotless, cosy. But when James came home drunk, plates flew, vases shattered, clothes were flung about.
“What are you sitting around for? Clean this up!” he would bellow once his rage had simmered.
He enjoyed watching her scramble to tidy, especially after he’d bought the flat next door, merging it into their two-bedder. Emily had made it beautiful, kept it immaculate, cooked with love. But those outbursts she couldn’t stomach. Thankfully, he’d never raised a hand—yet.
At first, they were rare. Then, as years passed, they became frequent. When their son left for university in Edinburgh, she finally filed for divorce. The process was gruelling, but at last, she had her own space. She made sure James wouldn’t find out where she’d moved.
The sale left her enough for the flat and some spare for renovations. She took two weeks off to tackle it.
“I’ll do it myself,” she thought. “The plumbing’s sound—looks recently replaced. Paper the walls, touch up the paint. Maybe hire a handyman if needed. And definitely get a false ceiling.” She sighed, eyeing the peeling plaster above.
She found a ceiling specialist quickly—done in days. Then came the wallpaper, the paste. She threw herself into the work—this was for *her*. Her friend Lily helped hang the paper. When they finished, they stood back admiring their handiwork.
“Em, it’s gorgeous! So bright, so fresh. Just needs new flooring—light laminate, I reckon. My Tom did ours—brilliant job. He’ll sort it cheap for you. He’ll even fetch the materials.”
“Oh, perfect! But first, I need to paint the radiators. They clash with the walls.”
“Right, I’m off. We’ll celebrate when it’s all done!” Lily laughed.
There was a small DIY shop nearby—Emily had never bothered with it. But paint was paint, no need to trek to a megastore. Inside, the lighting was dismal.
“Do they save on bulbs?” she wondered.
Behind the counter, a man stirred a paint can, head bowed.
“Hello,” Emily greeted.
He looked up.
She froze.
Before her stood a strikingly handsome man—blond, blue-eyed, like some film star. Even in the dingy light, she could see it. And suddenly, she remembered thinking, *What could this dull suburb possibly offer me?*
Turns out, *this*.
“Hello,” he replied. “Can I help?”
“Paint. Do you have ivory?”
“What kind? Enamel, oil-based…”
“Oh, I’m not sure.”
He guided her to the shelves, pointing out tins with quiet expertise.
“This one’s for wood, that’s best for pipes…”
“I need to paint radiators,” she said.
He handed her a tin. She paid and bolted.
Climbing the stairs, she cursed herself. *Why didn’t I talk to him?*
“It’s always like this. The second I fancy someone, I clam up.”
She fantasised about asking him to help paint—but that’s all it was. Back home, she worked furiously, finishing by evening.
Her kitchen doubled as a bedroom during renovations. The window was wide open.
“It’s lovely here at night. So quiet—not like central London,” she mused, drifting off.
Next morning, she grabbed a brush—only to find it rock-hard.
“Right. Back to the shop.”
She was almost glad for the excuse to see him again.
He was there.
“How can I help?” he asked politely.
*He doesn’t remember me*, she realised.
“Why’s it so dark in here? Hard to see the stock.”
“Ask me anything. I’ll explain,” he replied evenly.
“My brush dried out.”
“Buy some linseed oil,” he said, unfazed.
She paid and left, deflated.
His politeness was ice-cold. But she refused to be discouraged.
*He doesn’t know me yet. But I like him.*
She’d be back—she’d think of something. Strangely, it never crossed her mind he might be married. He seemed free—early forties, like her.
Day three, she returned.
“Hello!” she beamed. “Practically a regular now.”
“How can I help?” Same calm tone.
“Two hundred-watt bulbs.”
Her mood plummeted. He told her the price. That was it.
She paid and left.
*Is he serious? Does he *really* not recognise me?*
Day four, she marched in boldly.
“Hi! Remember me?” Before he could answer, she ploughed on. “I’ll be in and out—doing up my flat. No help, just me. Let’s at least introduce ourselves. I’m Emily.”
“Oliver,” he replied, steady as ever. “What do you need?”
“A trowel.”
He showed her options, explained which was best. She paid. Left.
*Maybe I’m not his type*, she fretted, though she knew she was attractive. *I’m a great homemaker. I make killer sausage rolls, graduated top of my class. And I just know—he’s my kind of man.*
Next day, back she went.
“Hello, Oliver.”
“Hello.”
“A paint roller,” she blurted, then fled.
*Forget him. I’m done.*
Her fortnight was nearly up. The flat transformed. Plans were made with Lily to celebrate over coffee.
“Let’s meet after work. Your place or a café?”
“Café. Tom’s coming—he did your floors, after all.”
“Oh! How’s Mr Blue Eyes?” Lily asked.
“Nothing. Haven’t been in a week,” Emily mumbled.
“Don’t give up! Persistence pays. And he’s *fit*.”
“Probably married. Men like that don’t stay single.”
That Saturday, lugging shopping home, she heard—
“Emily!”
She turned.
Oliver stood there, nervous.
“I’ve walked past a few times,” he admitted, voice unsteady. “Why’d you stop coming?”
“Hi! Finished the flat. Back to work Monday.”
“Oh. I thought… Can I see it?” He shifted awkwardly.
She bit back *Where were you earlier?*
“Done now. Though I could use a hand…”
His face fell. “So you just needed help?”
*Oh god.*
“Not *help*,” she laughed. “Come for tea. See the place.”
His eyes lit up. He blushed.
*So he’s shy. And he likes me.*
“What I need,” she teased, “is *you*.”
He laughed, meeting her gaze. Her pulse skipped.
“I was scared to ask,” he admitted. “Thought you might be married. Then I remembered—you said you were doing the flat alone.” He grinned. “Glad I ran into you. Thought I’d lost my chance.”
Emily’s heart soared. She wanted him near—calm, kind, steady. His strong shoulders, just what she needed.
**Lesson:** Love often finds us when we least expect it—and sometimes, in the most ordinary places. Courage to speak up can turn a flicker of hope into something lasting.
