Oliver realised too late that standing on a stool with a rope in his hands might send the wrong message.
He sat on the edge of his bed in just his boxers, feet flat on the floor. Again, he thought he heard his mother calling his name.
“Oliver… love… Oliver…”
Nearly every night, her voice woke him. He knew it couldn’t really be her—she’d died three weeks ago. Still, he’d sit up, listening, waiting.
For the last six months, she hadn’t left her bed. Oliver worked from home to stay close, even tried hiring a carer once. The woman lasted three days before running off with all his cash and his mum’s gold jewellery. After that, he didn’t risk it again.
He’d work at his desk, straining to hear any noise from her room, jumping at the slightest sound. Exhaustion weighed him down until some nights he’d slump over the keyboard, asleep. That last night, he’d woken to her voice again, rushed in—but she was already gone. He’d wept, begging forgiveness for the relief tangled in his grief. She’d suffered enough. He was free.
Yet three weeks alone hadn’t brought joy—just crushing emptiness.
She’d been lively, always humming while ironing or cleaning. He never imagined her fading like that.
No point trying to sleep now. The clock read half six. Outside, a dull autumn haze pressed against the window, leaching colour from the room. Everything felt muted, hollow.
He dressed, hesitated outside her door. He’d only gone in once since the funeral, to pick her burial dress. Now, he yanked it open. The smell hit first—medicine, illness, stale air. Avoiding the crumpled sheets, he wrenched the curtains back and shoved the window wide.
Cold, damp air rushed in, carrying the sounds of Bristol waking up. Like magic, the room brightened. Energised, Oliver stripped the bed, bundling sheets, her dressing gown—left hanging like she might return—into a heap. He lugged it to the washing machine, then returned with a bin bag, sweeping pill bottles and a half-empty glass into it.
He remade the bed, dusted, mopped. The room didn’t transform, but breathing got easier. Spurred on, he cleaned the whole flat.
By the time the kettle boiled, sunlight had broken through the clouds. A jagged strip of blue peeked through the grey. His mood lifted.
The fridge was nearly empty. He couldn’t recall his last proper meal. Towards the end, his mum could only manage puréed slop. He’d eaten the same, too drained to cook for himself. Later, he’d picked at funeral leftovers. Now, only a jar of mould-specked pickles and sour milk remained. He binned them.
Black coffee churned his stomach. Shrugging on a jacket, he grabbed his card and took the rubbish out. On the way back, he stopped at Tesco for bread, milk, pasta, ham, apples. He could’ve bought half the shop but held back.
At home, he boiled pasta and wolfed down two ham sandwiches. The washing machine beeped.
No room on the drying rack in the bathroom, no balcony either. Scratching his head, Oliver decided on a clothesline strung across the lounge. Who’d see? No one visited. He rummaged through the hall cupboard where his mum kept odds and ends—the “just in case” stash she couldn’t bear to throw. A ball of twine lay buried under tools.
The memory hit then. Sarah. They’d dated two years. His mum had nudged for marriage, but Oliver dragged his feet. Loved her, but too much time together grated. Sarah planned their future down to the curtains. Maybe that was it—her relentless efficiency.
“Marry now or never,” his mum warned. Then she fell ill, and Sarah postponed the wedding. Who’d want a sick mother-in-law?
At first, she’d visited, helped cook. Then just calls—busy, always busy. The calls dwindled. He didn’t chase her. What was there to say?
He rang her after the funeral. She offered hollow condolences but didn’t come. Honestly? Good riddance.
Back to the twine. One end tied to the radiator, the other… He hammered a nail into the doorframe. Thank God they’d kept the old wooden doors instead of swapping for cheap laminate. Proud of his ingenuity, he climbed onto the stool.
“Would this even hold my weight?” He dropped his hands. “Bloody hell, where’d that thought come from?”
High heels clicked outside. The new neighbour—a young woman he’d glimpsed once. The flat used to belong to an elderly couple who’d retired to Dorset and rented it out.
Normally, he’d hear her leave, the front door slam, the click of the latch. Hours later, the reverse. No visitors, no evenings out. Just the faint trace of her perfume in the hallway.
Now, the heels stopped at his door. Oliver froze on the stool, listening. The door creaked open, and a slim, pretty woman peered in, eyes widening at the sight of him—rope in hand, stool wobbling.
“Your door was open,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt, but… could you help me?”
Oliver jumped down. She retreated a step. No surprise—he looked rough. Unshaven, hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes. His joggers were threadbare, T-shirt stained. The picture of a man at his wit’s end.
“What’s wrong?” he asked flatly.
“I… think I lost my keys.” She rummaged in her handbag, voice small.
Oliver frowned. How’d she get through the main door without them? Had he forgotten to lock it?
“Nope.” She met his gaze. “No keys. How do I get in?”
“Call the letting agent. Get a locksmith.”
“It’s Sunday.”
Sunday? He’d lost track of days.
“Fine. I’ll try.” He grabbed tools from the cupboard and jimmied the lock, sensing her eyes on his back.
“Mind giving me space? Wait in mine. Coffee’s still warm.”
She hovered, then retreated. An hour later, sweat-drenched and triumphant, he told her the door was open. Her thanks were curt, but she didn’t leave.
“Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead.” He opened the window wider.
As she dug for cigarettes, he heard the jangle of keys in her bag. The penny dropped. She’d faked losing them—thought he was about to off himself and sacrificed her lock to stop him. He said nothing, remembering the wet laundry. Back on the stool, he tied the line, hauled the basin over, and started hanging clothes. She watched, lingering.
“I heard about your mum. I’m sorry.”
“Three weeks ago. Miss her, but I wasn’t about to hang myself, if that’s what you thought.”
“Pretty much,” she admitted.
“Call a locksmith tomorrow. I wrecked that one.” He busied himself with socks to hide his blush.
“I made too much roast this morning. Fancy some?”
“Why’d you cook so much?” He snorted. “Weird woman. Yeah, alright.”
“Emily,” she said plainly. “My place or yours?”
“Yours. Need a change of scenery. Give me ten—need a shower.”
Once she left, Oliver shaved, showered (ducking under the damp laundry), and pulled on clean jeans and a shirt. The mirror showed a halfway decent bloke.
Emily’s flat smelled incredible. Roast beef, a salad, wine—proper Sunday dinner. His stomach growled. She smirked.
They ate, chatting about nothing, avoiding painful topics. First names came easily.
“When’s the last time you just… went for a walk?” Emily asked. “It’s warm out.”
“Dunno.”
“Let me clear up first.”
At the sink, Oliver noticed her arranging plates by size, cups with handles aligned. She hung the towel centre-perfect, then fidgeted it sideways.
“Why rent? You’re not a student.”
“Left my husband. Didn’t fancy moving back with Mum—she adores him. Would’ve nagged me to reconcile.”
“Ah. Couldn’t stand his neat-freak ways?”
“How’d you guess?”
“You lined the bowls up like soldiers.”
She laughed. “He had this thing—everything in its place. Discipline above all.” She deepened her voice. “‘A place for everything, Emily.’ Even sex was like… clockwork. No spontaneity.”
“Christ. Sounds thrilling.”
“Right? Mum called him ‘reliable.’ Then Sunday roast—his ritual. Old habits.”
Emily’s hand brushed his as they walked. The streets of Bristol passed in a blur. They returned late, lingering in the hallway, neither wanting to part.
“Your place or mine?” she murmured. “Or d’you need to call me ‘weird’ again first?”
Oliver grinned. “You are weird. Wonderful, though.”
The hallway smelled of her perfume—heady, intoxicating. He scooped her up, kicking the door shutThe next morning, sunlight spilled through the curtains, and Oliver realised—for the first time in months—he had something to look forward to.
