After her divorce and the division of their flat, Emily found herself on the outskirts of London. She inherited a two-bedroom flat that hadn’t seen a lick of paint in decades—or so it seemed at first glance. But Emily was the sort of woman who couldn’t be easily rattled, hardened by years of marriage to a controlling husband.
She’d scoured listings for weeks, but everything was exorbitantly priced—until this one.
“Our gran used to live here,” the pretty young estate agent explained. “Mum and Dad took her in—she’s poorly now—so they decided to sell. Bit far out for my taste. Besides, Dad promised to chip in so I could buy somewhere closer to them.”
Emily studied her as the girl went on.
“I know it needs work, but take it or leave it. The price is negotiable.”
And so Emily took it. The flat practically begged for renovation, but at least her office was just three tram stops away—better than her old forty-minute commute.
Her ex-husband, James, had been a tyrant. She hadn’t realised it at first, not until five years into their marriage, long after their son was born. The thought of leaving had crept in after yet another explosive row. Emily was a homemaker by nature—her space was always tidy, warm, inviting. But when James stumbled in drunk, everything shattered: plates in the kitchen, vases in the lounge, her peace of mind.
“Don’t just sit there—clean this up!” he’d roar once his tantrum burned out.
He loved watching her scrub and dust, especially after he’d bought the neighbouring flat, knocking through to make it a spacious two-bedder. Emily had made it cosy, kept it spotless, cooked with pride. But those fits of rage? Unbearable. At least he never hit her—small mercies.
At first, they were rare. But over the years, they grew more frequent. When their son left for university in Edinburgh, she finally filed for divorce. She endured the ordeal, but now, at last, she was alone in her own flat. She took pains to ensure James wouldn’t find her. The settlement had covered the purchase, with enough left over for repairs. She even booked a fortnight off work to tackle them.
“I’ll manage on my own. The plumbing’s fine—looks recently done. I can handle wallpapering and painting. If I get stuck, I’ll call someone. Oh, but the ceilings… definitely need skimming.” She sighed, eyeing the peeling plaster.
She found a plasterer fast, and the work was done in days. Wallpaper, paste—she threw herself into it, humming as she worked. Her mate Lucy helped hang the paper. When they finished, they beamed.
“Blimey, Em, it’s gorgeous! So bright, so clean. Just needs new flooring—light laminate would do. I’ll ask my Dave; he’s a dab hand at it. Did ours proper cheap. He’ll sort the materials too.”
“Brilliant, Lu! But first, I need to paint the radiators. They’re ghastly—I’ll match them to the walls.”
“Right, I’m off. We’ll celebrate once it’s all done, yeah?” Lucy grinned.
There was a little DIY shop nearby—Emily hadn’t bothered before, but now it seemed handy for paint. Inside, it was dim.
“Do they pay the leccy bill?” she muttered.
The shopkeeper was hunched over a tin, stirring methodically.
“Hello,” Emily said.
He looked up.
Her breath caught.
Before her stood a strikingly handsome man—blond hair, blue eyes, like some film star. Even in the murky light, it was impossible to miss. She suddenly remembered her own thoughts on the walk over: *What could this dreary suburb possibly offer me?*
Turned out, it offered *him.*
“Hello,” he replied evenly. “What can I get you?”
“Paint… do you have anything in ivory?”
“What kind? Emulsion? Oil-based?”
“Oh, I’m not sure.”
He guided her to the shelves, pointing out tins with detached professionalism.
“This one’s for wood, that one’s good for pipes—”
“Oh! It’s for radiators,” she blurted.
He handed her a tin. She paid, then bolted, scolding herself all the way home.
“Typical. The minute I fancy someone, I clam up. Should’ve asked for help.”
She daydreamed about inviting him over to paint the radiators, but that’s all it was—a fantasy. By evening, she’d finished anyway.
On the kitchen fold-out bed (her temporary lodgings), she lay with the window wide open.
“It’s nice out here at night. Quiet. Not like central.” She yawned. “Just the kitchen left tomorrow.”
But next morning, her brush had hardened.
“Right, back to the shop.” She wasn’t even annoyed—another glimpse of *him*.
And there he was.
“How can I help?” he asked politely.
*Did he recognise me?*
“Why’s it so dark in here?” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Hard to see anything.”
“Just ask. I’ll explain whatever you need,” he replied coolly.
“My brush dried out.”
“You’ll need white spirit.” His tone was flat.
“Fine.” She paid and left, deflated but undeterred.
*He doesn’t know me yet. But I like him.*
She knew she’d be back. She’d think of something.
Oddly, she never considered he might be married. In her mind, he was free—though he looked about forty, same as her.
On day three, she returned.
“Hello!” She beamed. “Practically a regular now, aren’t I?”
“How can I help?”
“Two hundred-watt bulbs, please.” His indifference deflated her. She paid and fled.
“What is *wrong* with him? I rehearsed all that, and he’s like talking to a brick wall.”
Day four, she barged in.
“Hiya! Recognise me?” She ploughed on before he could answer. “I’ll be here loads—doing up my place, no help, all on my own. Oh, let’s be proper—I’m Emily.”
“Daniel,” he said, unreadable. “What do you need?”
“A scraper.”
He showed her a few, explaining mechanically which was best for what. She paid and left.
“Maybe I’m not his type?” She knew she was attractive—a great cook, a tidy homemaker, even had a first-class degree. And something in her bones whispered: *Daniel’s the one.*
Next day, back she went.
“Hello, Daniel.”
“Hello.”
“Paint roller, please.” She fiddled with it, then fled.
“Sod it. I’m done. Not going back.”
Her fortnight neared its end. The flat glowed. She arranged to meet Lucy at a café to celebrate.
“We’ll pop in after work. Yours or out?”
“Let’s go out. Dave wants in—he did your floors, after all.” Lucy winked. “So… how’s Mr Blue Eyes?”
“Dunno. Haven’t been in a week.”
“Don’t give up! Slow and steady, Em. Men like that don’t stay single.”
“Nah, he’s probably married.”
That Saturday, lugging groceries home, she meandered lazily.
“Back to work Monday. Good. Bored now.”
“Emily.”
She turned.
Daniel stood there, shifting awkwardly.
“Emily… hello.” His voice cracked.
Then—just like that—he dropped the formalities, as if they’d been mates for years.
“I’ve missed you. Walked past a few times.” He was nervous. “Why’d you stop coming?”
“Oh! Finished the flat. Back to work Monday.”
“Oh.” He scuffed his shoe. “Can I… see it?”
She nearly laughed. *Where were you a week ago?*
“All done. But… I could use a hand with something.”
His face fell. “So you just need help?”
“No! I mean—come up. I’ll make tea.” His eyes lit up. He blushed.
*Ah. He’s shy. Likes me too, just couldn’t say.*
“I don’t need *help*,” she clarified, grinning. “I need *you*.”
He laughed, warmth flooding his gaze. Her pulse leapt.
“I was scared to ask,” he admitted. “Thought you might be married. Then I remembered—you said no one was helping.” He exhaled. “Glad I ran into you. Thought I’d never see you again.”
Her heart pounded. She *wanted* him—his calm, his kindness, his quiet strength. Just like that, in this strange little dream of a life, she knew: he’d stay.
