Unflappable
After her divorce and splitting the flat with her ex-husband, Emily found herself moving to the outskirts of town. The two-bedroom flat she ended up with hadn’t seen so much as a lick of paint in decades, judging by the state of it. But Emily wasn’t the sort to be easily intimidated—years with a domineering husband had toughened her up.
She’d looked at a dozen places before this one, all wildly overpriced. This, at least, was something she could afford.
“Gran used to live here,” chirped the young estate agent, flashing a bright smile. “Mum and Dad moved her in with them—poor thing’s not well—so they’re selling. Bit far out for my taste, though. Dad said he’d chip in if I found somewhere closer.”
Emily studied the girl, who rambled on, “I know it needs work, but honestly, the price is negotiable.”
And so Emily bought it, flat-out begging for a place just like this—one that actually needed doing up. Plus, her office was only three tram stops away, cutting her commute to a neat forty minutes.
Mark, her ex, had been a proper tyrant—though it took her five years of marriage and a son to realise it. She’d thought about leaving him after yet another row. Emily was a homebody, the sort who kept everything spotless. But when Mark came home drunk, plates flew, vases shattered, clothes were strewn everywhere.
“Don’t just sit there—clean this up!” he’d bellow, once his storm had passed.
He loved watching her tidy up, especially after he’d expanded their place by buying the neighbour’s flat. Emily had made it cosy, cooked with love—but those sudden rages of his? Unbearable. At least he’d never raised a hand.
At first, the outbursts were rare. Over the years, they grew worse. When their son left for uni in Edinburgh, she finally filed for divorce. It was rough, but now she had a place of her own—and she’d made sure Mark had no clue where. The sale left her enough for the flat and even some for renovations. She took two weeks off to crack on with it.
“I’ll do most myself. Plumbing’s fine, looks new. Wallpaper, paint—easy. Might hire a handyman for the fiddly bits. Oh, and definitely those stretch ceilings,” she sighed, eyeing the peeling plaster above.
She found a ceiling fitter quickly, and the job was done in days. Wallpaper, glue—she was on a roll, doing it all for herself. Her mate Lucy helped hang the paper. Once finished, they stood back admiring their work.
“Em, it’s gorgeous! So light, so fresh. Just the floors now—light laminate, yeah? I’ll get my Dave to sort it. Did ours himself, saved a fortune.”
“Oh, brilliant! Though first, I need to paint the radiators—ugh, they’re awful. Maybe match the wallpaper?”
“Right, I’m off. We’ll celebrate properly once it’s all done,” Lucy laughed.
There was a little DIY shop nearby, though Emily hadn’t bothered till now. Easier than trekking to a superstore. Inside, it was dim, like they were rationing the light bulbs.
Behind the counter, a bloke was stirring something in a tin, half lost in thought.
“Hello?” she said.
He looked up—and Emily froze. Fair hair, blue eyes, like some actor from a telly drama. Even in the rubbish lighting, he was unfairly handsome. She’d been grumbling about how dull the suburbs were, and yet—here he was.
“Hello,” he replied evenly. “Need something?”
“Paint. Um, ivory?”
“What kind? Enamel, oil-based…”
“Er, dunno?”
He guided her to the shelves, pointing at tins. “This one’s for wood, that’s better for pipes…”
“Oh! It’s for radiators,” she blurted.
He handed her a tin, she paid, and bolted. Climbing the stairs, she cursed herself.
“Classic me. Spot a fit bloke, turn into a nervous wreck. Should’ve asked for help!”
She daydreamed about him offering to paint the radiators—then scoffed at herself and got on with it. By evening, the job was done.
Her makeshift bed (a fold-out on the kitchen floor) squeaked as she flopped onto it, window wide open.
“It’s actually nice out here. Quiet, not like the city centre,” she mused, drifting off. “Just the kitchen left tomorrow.”
Morning came, and she grabbed her brush—only to find it rock-hard.
“Right. Back to the shop,” she thought, weirdly pleased at the excuse to see him again.
He was there.
“Help you?” he asked politely.
He didn’t recognise her. Deflated, she muttered, “Why’s it so dark in here? Can’t see a thing.”
“Ask away. I’ll explain anything,” he said, deadpan.
“My brush dried out.”
“Try linseed oil,” he said, just as monotone.
She bought it, left, and sighed. Polite, but frosty. Still, she wasn’t deterred.
“Doesn’t know me yet,” she thought. “But I like him.”
She’d be back—she’d think of something. Oddly, it never crossed her mind he might be married. He had to be single. Had to be.
Day three. Back to the shop.
“Hello again,” she beamed. “Practically a regular now!”
“Help you?” Same flat tone.
“Two hundred-watt bulbs,” she said. His price, her money, zero banter. She left scowling.
“Is he serious? Didn’t even recognise me? I rehearsed lines!”
Day four. She marched in grinning.
“Hi! Remember me?” She steamrolled on before he could reply. “Gonna be in and out—big renovation. Doing it all alone, see. Anyway, let’s get acquainted. I’m Emily.”
“Stephen,” he said, like he was reading a manual. “Need something?”
“A spatula.”
He showed her a few, explained which was best, she paid, left.
“Maybe I’m not his type?” she pondered. Not that it made sense—she knew she was attractive. Great cook, even had a first-class degree. And somehow, she just knew: Stephen was her kind of man.
Next day, another trip.
“Hi, Stephen.”
“Hello.”
“Paint roller,” she said, fiddled with it, fled.
“Sod this,” she fumed. “Pride intact, never setting foot in there again.”
Her fortnight off was nearly up. The flat looked brilliant. Plans were set to celebrate with Lucy at a café.
“Meet after work,” she told her. “Come round or go out—whatever.”
“Let’s do the café. Dave wants in—he did your floors, after all,” Lucy said. Then, slyly, “So. Blue-eyed shop bloke. Any progress?”
“None. Haven’t been back.”
“Em! You can’t quit halfway. Slow and steady wins the race—and that’s a whole man!”
“Yeah, well. Bet he’s married. Blokes like that don’t stay single,” Emily declared.
Saturday evening, she trudged back from the supermarket, laden with bags.
“One more day, then back to work. Good. Bored stiff now the flat’s done,” she thought.
“Emily!”
She turned. Stephen stood there, looking uncharacteristically flustered.
“Hi,” he said, voice trembling. “You… you stopped coming. I’ve walked past a few times, hoping to see you.”
“Hi!” She grinned. “Renovation’s done. Back to work Monday.”
“Oh. I thought… Could I see it? Your flat?” He shifted awkwardly. “Maybe help with anything?”
She nearly laughed. Where was this energy before?
“Actually, I could use a hand with a few bits,” she teased.
His face fell. “Right. So you just need a handyman?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, you daft thing. Come see the flat. I’ll make tea.” His eyes lit up, cheeks pink.
Aha. So Stephen was shy. And he fancied her.
“Truth is, I don’t need a handyman,” she said lightly. “I need you.”
He laughed, warm and relieved, eyes crinkling. Her heart raced.
“Was terrified to ask,” he admitted. “Thought you might be married. Then I remembered—you said no one could help with the flat.” He chuckled. “So glad I bumped into you. Thought I’d blown it.”
Emily’s pulse skipped. This calm, steady man—his quiet strength, his solid presence—was exactly what she wanted. And now, he was here.
