**Diary Entry**
The phone rang—my ex-husband. Why did I forget to mute it last night? Instead of “Hello,” I yawned loudly, just so he’d know he woke me. He apologised endlessly, rambling about the weather, work, TV news—padding out the call, setting the stage for something. Laura didn’t rush him, didn’t answer. Sometimes she nodded, as if he could see her.
And maybe he could. Fifteen years of marriage—that’s a key to supernatural insight. She shuffled to the kitchen in just her knickers, put him on speaker, and dropped the phone on the table while she opened the fridge. Its empty white shelves were long unwashed and resentful. On the door sat a wine bottle and a half-eaten triangle of plastic-wrapped supermarket cheese.
“How’s Emily?”
Her daughter’s name forced a reaction:
“Ah, so you *haven’t* called her?”
“I did,” he said quickly. “Last Thursday. She said everything’s fine—‘blooming and booming,’” he chuckled. “Also mentioned you’re vanishing for a week. Off on holiday, Mum? Won the lottery? What about your students? Sent them packing for half-term?”
She took a swig straight from the bottle, pressed the phone to her ear so the sensitive mic wouldn’t catch the clink of glass against teeth. Swallowed, steadied herself, and grinned playfully:
“Had enough. I’ve earned a week under palm trees. Not yet, though—still a month away. Jealous?”
“Obviously,” he paused, “not.” He slipped back into their old rhythm.
“I’ll bring you back,” she paused, “nothing.” Laura relaxed. “So what did you want?”
“Awkward to ask, but I’m strapped. Can you lend me a hundred quid till payday? Unexpected expenses…”
“Mmm.” She bit into the cheese like it was chocolate. “What ‘expenses,’ pray tell?”
“Met a woman. A good one. Really good.”
Laura’s throat tightened with irrational jealousy:
“Then ask *her* for the bloody money!” A memory flashed—her then-future husband two decades ago, lanky, with a floppy fringe splitting his face like a paintbrush stroke, grinning crookedly, a sharp canine showing. But beside him, inexplicably, stood some stranger in a miniskirt and red lipstick.
“Laurie, what’s wrong?” His voice softened, familiar, almost tender. Her eyes pricked; she nearly cried.
“Nothing. Just tired. Sorry. Sending it now. Have a nice day.”
Tapping through the banking app, a message popped up from Callum:
“Morning, love! Gorgeous day. Fancy a lakeside picnic? Can pick you up at 3?”
“*Ugh*, not you too! Piss off, all of you!” Fury pried loose stupid tears. She finally poured wine, gulped it, chewed the cheese. Stood before the full-length hallway mirror, fingertips brushing the lace trim of her knickers, skirting the tiny knot—barely bigger than a pimple—near her groin, where shaving is blind. No change. Still there.
Shower next, scrubbing angrily till her skin burned. Hair washed twice, mask, eye patches, blow-dry. Laptop on. Social media pings. T-shirt on.
Opened the first message:
“Hi! Want to learn German from scratch. Any slots? Payment options?”
Her hands typed automatically. Routine fortified her. Sending the reply, she clicked his profile—exhaustion and loneliness stared back. Her stomach lurched.
“Preferred weekly schedule? *And heads-up—no sessions from the 1st to the 10th. Might never again, because I’ll be dead—*” Backspaced to just “no sessions.”
He replied instantly:
“Thrice weekly. Flexible—I work remotely. Can adapt.”
“Today at 5 Berlin time?”
“Perfect.”
Emily rang as Laura scraped the last of the ‘hangover soup’ (their old joke for this chicken broth).
“Mum? You okay?”
“Grand. Eating. You’re distracting me,” she grumbled around the fear.
“We’re hitting the beach. Dad called. Said you seemed ‘off’…” Traffic hummed in the background, edged with worry.
“I’ve been ‘off’ for him since the divorce.”
“Sarcasm means you’re fine. Right?”
“How’s my girl? Miss you.”
“You too!”
They chattered about nothing. Shared friends’ voices bubbled through the phone, subway rumbles, the hunt for a sunbed at Brighton Beach. Spanish sun, wave sounds—the sea drowned everything bad. Hung up, they drifted apart: one forward, one to the brink. But buoyed by a memory of weightless joy.
Laura checked the clock. Almost five. Still mentally gold-lit and laughing beside Emily, she booted the laptop. Like plunging into icy water, she entered the video call with her new student—the ‘flexible’ one. His *eyes* were the first dive. Deep, gutting. She babbled about German grammar, apologised reflexively. Couldn’t look away.
Post-lesson, she slumped and finally wept. Called her mate:
“No lectures—I’ve fallen in love.”
“Ooh! Who? What about Callum?”
“*Kate*, Callum’s just…” She realised she didn’t even know the other man’s name. Had he said it? All she’d absorbed were his eyes. “We met today. He’s my student. I thought I couldn’t feel this anymore, but—”
Kate—plump, married young, mother of four—exhaled a cigarette laugh:
“Stepping onto the balcony… *Good*. I’ve worried, Laurie. Since the divorce, then Emily left—you became a robot. Barely left the house. Thought Callum might help. He’s… fine. ‘Functional.’ But this?”
“This is *alive*.”
“Your voice is different. Can I meet him?” The magic shattered.
“Ah—someone’s calling. Later!” Laura hung up. Scrubbed the fridge, busywork to fast-forward to Wednesday at 5pm.
Slept fitfully, gulped water, spat into the dark courtyard like a teenager. Never once thought of the tiny killer with its gentle name: Melanoma.
Morning: a message.
“Counting down to Wednesday. Can’t wait. Any chance today?”
×××
His name was Mark. Her mind conjured chariots, yellow dust, swords—clichés she refused to entertain. So she didn’t ask where he lived. Marital status was taboo, though she didn’t care. Just didn’t want to scare this fragile, electric feeling—digital but *alive*.
“Why learn German? Work?” She asked to ground herself.
“No.” His gaze held hers. “Saw your course advert. Your face… looked like you needed saving.”
“So you’re a *knight*?” Sarcasm reflex.
“Suppose.” He shrugged.
“I’ll call you Knight. Unless you’d rather—” Her phone buzzed. “One sec—” She ended the call, leapt up. “*This doesn’t happen!*” First a whisper, then a shout. She needed air.
Outside, London’s false autumn—summer clinging, trees yellowing prematurely. The supermarket’s Arctic chill. She shopped meticulously: soup meat, scarlet peppers, crumbly white cheese, pickled jalapeños. The bag strained her shoulder—a forgotten, almost sweet ache.
Home, pan on the stove, she finally opened his message:
“Sorry if I offended you. Not great with people. Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive. This is… strange. I’ve forgotten how to be direct.”
“*Me too.* But it happens.”
“Cooking soup tonight. Want some?”
“Love to. When?”
“Five mins. OK?”
Lipstick, hair smoothed—phone lit up. She stepped into the abyss.
Peeling potatoes, they switched to first names. Discussed books, films, nudged elbows in a cramped kitchen. Only when staring at soup swirls did they remember they weren’t *together*. They sagged.
“Enjoy your meal.”
“Thanks. Text tomorrow?” Ice in his tone.
She didn’t eat. Bought wine, drank in darkness, buried her phone. Mourned. All to wake to:
“Morning! Sleep well?”
Messages carried her through the day. Until the 17th—when she didn’t say goodbye. Why bother?
×××
The taxi ride was torturous. Her ex called first:
“Laurie, you alright?”
“Brilliant!” *(He bloody knows.)*
Then Kate. Pancake smells through the car window. Then again:
“Laura. Something’s wrong.”
“Fine. Why?”
Emily rang as she paid the hospital fare.
“Mum! Miss you. Can I visit?”
“Not now, love. Got another call.”
×××
Inside: bright, quiet. The ground-floor café’s plastic chairs visible through the corridor. Green walls.And as the hospital doors swung shut behind her, she realised—sometimes the things we swear cannot happen are the very ones we’ve been waiting for all along.
