Unshaken
After the divorce and splitting the flat, Emily had to move to the outskirts of town. She ended up with a two-bedroom flat that hadn’t seen a lick of renovation in years—or so it seemed at first glance. But Emily wasn’t the sort to be easily rattled. Years of marriage to a tyrannical husband had hardened her.
She’d looked at countless flats before settling on this one, but they were all far too expensive. This one, though, suited her just fine.
“Nana lived here,” explained the young, pretty estate agent. “Mum and Dad took her in—she’s not well. They decided to sell. Bit out of the way for me, though. Dad’s promised to chip in so I can buy something closer to them.”
Emily studied the girl as she prattled on.
“I know it needs work, but take it or leave it. The price is negotiable.”
And so, Emily bought the flat, which practically begged for a makeover. One perk was that her office was just three tram stops away, cutting her commute to about forty minutes.
Her ex-husband, James, had been a proper tyrant. She hadn’t realised it at first—not until five years into the marriage, after their son was born. The thought of divorce had struck her after yet another blazing row. Emily was a homebody, the sort who kept everything tidy and cosy. But when James came home drunk, plates flew in the kitchen, vases shattered in the living room, clothes were flung everywhere.
“Don’t just sit there—clean this up!” he’d bellow once the storm had passed.
He loved watching her scramble to tidy the flat—a big one, too. He’d once bought the neighbouring two-bedder, knocking through to expand theirs. Emily had made it lovely, keeping it spotless, cooking with care. But his fits of rage were unbearable. At least he’d never hit her—yet.
At first, the outbursts were rare. Over time, they grew more frequent. When their son left for university in Edinburgh, she finally filed for divorce. It had been gruelling, but at last, she was alone in her own flat. She’d made sure James wouldn’t find out where she’d moved. The divorce settlement covered the flat and left enough for renovations. She even took a fortnight off work to get it done.
“I’ll manage on my own. Plumbing’s fine—looks like it was redone recently. I can hang wallpaper, paint a bit. If I’m stuck, I’ll find a handyman online. A stretch ceiling first, though,” she mused, eyeing the peeling plaster overhead.
She found a ceiling fitter quickly, and the job was done in days. She bought wallpaper and paste, rolling up her sleeves. Her mate, Sophie, helped hang the paper. When they finished, both were chuffed.
“Blimey, Em, it’s proper lovely now. Bright, clean, cosy. Just needs new flooring—light laminate, I reckon. I’ll ask my Tom; he’s dead good at laying it. Did ours himself, looks smashing. And it’ll save you a packet. He’ll fetch everything, too.”
“Oh, spot on, Soph! But before the floors, I’ll paint the radiators. Hate the colour—I’ll match them to the walls.”
“Right, I’m off. Talk to Tom. We’ll do housewarming once it’s all sorted,” Sophie laughed.
There was a small hardware shop nearby—one Emily hadn’t bothered with. But paint was paint, no need to trek to a big DIY store. Inside, the lighting was dismal.
“Skimping on the electric bill?” she thought.
Behind the counter, a shopkeeper bent over a tin, stirring methodically.
“Hello,” Emily greeted him. He looked up.
And she froze.
Before her stood a striking man—fair-haired, blue-eyed, like some film star. Even in the dim light, she could see him clearly. She’d earlier wondered what this dull suburb could possibly offer her. Turns out, quite a bit.
“Hello,” he replied. “What can I get you?”
“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 explanations.
“This one’s for wood; that’s good for pipes—”
“I need it for radiators,” Emily cut in.
He handed her a tin. She paid and bolted. Climbing the stairs, she cursed herself for not striking up conversation.
“Typical. The moment I fancy someone, I clam up. Had the perfect opening!”
She daydreamed about asking him to help paint the radiators, but that’s all it was—a daydream. She threw herself into the work, finishing by evening.
On the kitchen fold-out bed (her temporary digs during renovations), she lay with the window wide open.
“Nice and quiet out here—not like the city centre,” she thought, drifting off. “Kitchen paint tomorrow.”
After breakfast, she grabbed the brush—now rock-hard. She’d left it out, forgotten.
“Right… back to the shop.” Strangely, she was pleased at the thought of seeing that shopkeeper again. He was there.
“How can I help?” he asked politely.
“Didn’t recognise me,” Emily noted, then blurted, “Why’s it so dark in here? Hard to see anything.”
“Just ask. I’ll explain everything,” he replied evenly, unruffled.
“My brush dried out.”
“Try some linseed oil,” he said in the same calm tone.
“Cheers,” she muttered, paid, and left.
His politeness was icy, but Emily wasn’t deterred.
“You don’t know me yet… but I like you.”
She knew she’d be back. She’d think of something. Oddly, it never crossed her mind that he might be married with kids. She just knew—he was free. Though he looked mid-forties, like her.
On day three, she returned.
“Hello,” she beamed. “Practically a regular now,” she joked.
“How can I help?” Same calm reply.
“Two hundred-watt bulbs,” she said, her cheer fading as he named the price. That was that.
She paid and left.
“What’s wrong with him? Didn’t recognise me again? I rehearsed that chat, and he’s like a brick wall.”
On day four, she marched in breezily.
“Hiya, it’s me again. Remember?” Not letting him answer, she ploughed on. “I’ll be in and out—big renovation. Doing it solo. Fancy introducing yourself? Can’t keep calling you ‘mate.’ I’m Emily.”
“Daniel,” he replied, voice steady. “What do you need?”
“Show me a scraper.”
Again, he patiently explained the options. She paid, left.
“Maybe I’m not his type,” she pondered, though she knew she was attractive. “I’m a cracking homemaker, make mean stuffed vine leaves, even got a first at uni. And I just know—Daniel’s my sort.”
Next day, back she went.
“Hello, Daniel.”
“Hello.” No warmth.
“Paint roller, please.” She fiddled with it, then fled.
“Sod him,” pride snapped. “I’ll live. Never setting foot in there again.”
Her fortnight was nearly up. The flat looked grand. She even arranged a housewarming with Sophie at a café.
“Day I’m back at work, we’ll meet. Yours, mine, or a café.”
“Let’s do the café. Tom’s keen—he laid your floors, so he’s earned a toast,” Sophie said. “Oh, and how’s Mr. Blue-Eyes?”
“Nowhere. Haven’t been in a week,” Emily sighed.
“Give up too easy. Water wears down stone—and he’s flesh and blood!”
“Please. Bloke like that’s not single,” Emily declared.
Saturday evening, she ambled back from the supermarket, laden with bags.
“One more day, then work Monday. Good—bored stiff now the flat’s done,” she mused.
“Emily.” A voice called. She turned.
“Emily, hello.” Daniel stood there—flustered.
Then, suddenly, it was “you,” like they were old pals.
“Missed you. Walked past a few times.” His voice trembled. “Why’d you stop coming?”
“Hi!” she grinned. “Renovation’s done. Back to work Monday.”
“Oh? I thought… Could I see it?” He shifted awkwardly. She ached to ask where he’d been earlier.
“All done, though I could use a hand with a few bits.”
“Really?” He stiffened, dead serious. “You fancied me from day one, and now you just want help?”
“God, no—you’ve got it wrong! Come see the place. I’ll put the kettle on,” she said, watching his eyes light up, cheeksAs they walked to her flat, their hands brushed, and Emily finally dared to take his, realizing that beneath his quiet exterior, Daniel had been waiting for her just as long as she’d been waiting for him.
