The phone buzzed her awake—her ex-husband’s name flashing on the screen. Why had she forgotten to mute it last night? Instead of answering properly, she yawned into the receiver, letting him know he’d woken her. He droned on with pointless apologies, rambling about the weather, work, TV headlines—softening her up for whatever ask was coming. Charlotte didn’t rush him, didn’t reply. Sometimes she nodded, as if he could see her.
And he might as well have. Fifteen years of marriage gifted a man eerie intuition. Barefoot in just her underwear, she wandered to the kitchen, switched the call to speakerphone, and laid her mobile on the table while she cracked open the fridge. Its empty white shelves were crusted with old spills. A half-finished bottle of wine stood on the door beside a wedge of supermarket cheddar still in its plastic.
“How’s Emma?”
Her daughter’s name forced a reaction:
“You’ve not spoken to her yourself?”
“Course I have,” he said quickly. “Last Thursday. She said everything’s grand. Flourishing and happy—” He gave a short laugh. “Also mentioned you’re vanishing from reality for a week. Off on holiday, she said. Come into money, have you? Somewhere far?”
She swirled the wine bottle, took a swig straight from the neck, then pressed the phone to her ear so the sensitive mic wouldn’t catch her shaky hands clinking glass against glass. Another gulp, then she forced a playful lilt:
“Needed a break. Sun, sea, palm trees—earned it. Not for a while yet, though. Got a month left. Jealous?”
“Course not.” A pause. Then the old game flickered back. “I’ll bring you—nothing.” Charlotte relaxed. “So, what’d you want?”
“Awkward ask, but I’m skint. Could you lend me eighty quid? Just till payday—unexpected bills.”
“Mmm.” She sliced a sliver of cheese and let it melt on her tongue like chocolate. “What sort of bills?”
“Met this woman. Lovely, really lovely.”
Illogical jealousy razored her throat. “You ask her, then!” A flash in her mind: her then-future husband twenty years ago, tall and lanky, that ridiculous floppy fringe splitting his face like a jagged white feather. His lopsided smirk, that sharp canine. Beside him stood some stranger in a miniskirt, lips painted red.
“Charlie, what’s wrong?” His voice shifted—familiar, warm. The sudden care prickled her eyes.
“Nothing. Just tired. I’ll transfer it now. Have a nice day.”
Mid-tap on her banking app, a text from Gregory lit up her screen:
“Morning, love! Gorgeous day. Fancy a picnic by the lake? Can pick you up at 3.”
“Not you too! Just leave us be!” The burst of anger wrung stupid tears from her. She finally poured the wine, gulped it, chewed the last of the cheese. At the full-length hallway mirror, she traced the line where black lace met pale skin—daring not to touch farther down, where the tiny knot, no bigger than a pimple, nestled in the shaved crease of her thigh. Nothing had changed. It was still there.
Then the shower—scalding, scrubbing raw. Shampoo twice, hair mask, under-eye patches, blow-dry. The laptop chimed with notifications as she tugged on a T-shirt.
She clicked the first one:
“Hello! I’d love to learn German from scratch. Do you have availability? Payment options?”
Her fingers typed without her. Routine anchored her. Sending the reply, she accidentally clicked his profile—and saw exhaustion, loneliness. She flinched.
“How many sessions a week? Just to warn you—no lessons from the 1st to the 10th. Might not…” She backspaced, deleted the rest.
He replied immediately:
“Three times a week. Flexible—I work from home.”
“Today at 5? Berlin time.”
“Perfect.”
Emma called just as she was finishing her takeaway. They used to call it “hangover soup.”
“Mum? You okay?”
“Fine. Eating. You’re interrupting.” She spoke through clenched teeth, fighting the wobble in her voice.
“Off to the beach. Dad rang. Said you were off with him—” The bustle of a foreign city hummed behind her.
“I’ve been off with him for five years, love.”
“If you’re snippy, you’re alright. I’m not wrong?”
“Miss you, kiddo.”
“Miss you too!”
They talked of nothing—just filling the quiet. Together through the phone, they met friends, rode the Tube towards Brighton, hunted for a patch of sand. Sunlight broke through, waves lapped. The sea drowned everything else. They hung up, drifting apart—one forward, one to the edge. But both holding onto the bright, careless moment.
Charlotte checked the time. Nearly five. Still half in that golden hour, she mindlessly logged on—and plunged into the video call like a frostbitten swimmer diving into ice. His eyes hit first. A gut-deep plunge. She babbled about German grammar, apologised for nothing, couldn’t lift her gaze but couldn’t look away. When the lesson ended, she slumped in her chair and finally let the tears come.
She called her best friend.
“No lecturing. I’m in love.”
“Ooh! Who? What about Greg?”
“Kate! Greg’s just—” She faltered. She didn’t even know his name. Had he said it? All she remembered was his eyes.
“Who’d you fall for, then?” Kate pressed.
“Just met him. My new German student. I’d forgotten how it feels. I thought I couldn’t—” The words tumbled out.
Kate exhaled smoke. “I’ll step outside.” A pause. “I’m chuffed for you, love. Really. After the divorce, then Emma leaving, you shut down. Never left the house. Thought Greg might help, but he’s just… functional. Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Warmth fizzed in her chest.
“Now you sound alive. Introduce us?”
Kate shattered the spell.
“Oh—got a call. Chat later!” Charlotte hung up. She scrubbed the fridge, busied herself with a million tasks, willing Wednesday to come faster. That night, she drifted in and out of restless sleep, gulped water, spat from her window into the darkness, feeling fifteen again—and didn’t once think of the tiny killer lurking under her skin.
Morning brought a message:
“Counting down to Wednesday. Couldn’t wait—any time today?”
×
Mark. The name summoned clichés—golden chariots, dust, swords. She refused to indulge. Didn’t ask where he lived. “Married?” was forbidden, though she didn’t care. Scared to jinx this fragile, digital feeling that made her want to live.
“Why German?” she asked. “For work?”
“No.” His gaze pinned her. “Saw your course listing. Your face—looked like you needed saving.”
“My knight, then?” The jab came easy.
“Suppose.” He shrugged.
“I’ll call you Knight.” Another call beeped—she hung up, sprang to her feet. “This doesn’t happen!” she whispered, then shouted it. She stormed out. London’s heat-yellowed trees defied the calendar. Summer, but autumn. Winter inside the shop. She shopped methodically—peppers, cottage cheese, salami—hauling the weight one-armed, savouring the ache.
At home, with the soup simmering, she checked her messages.
“Sorry if I offended you. Not great with people.”
“Don’t be. I’m… out of practice with honesty. With saying things plainly.”
“Me too. But it happens.”
“Making soup. Want some?”
“Gladly. Call in five?”
She freshened her lipstick. The phone lit up. Over peeling potatoes, they slipped into first names, debated films, books—bumping elbows in the cramped kitchen of her mind. Only when the broth simmered did they remember the distance. The silence thudded.
“Enjoy.”
“Ta. Talk tomorrow.” Ice-cold.
She didn’t eat. Bought wine, drank it in the dark, buried her phone, mourned—only to wake parched to:
“Morning! Sleep well?”
The texts carried her through the day. Until the 17th, when she didn’t say goodbye.
The taxi ride dragged. Her ex called.
“Charlie, you alright?”
“Brilliant!” (The bastard always knew.) Then Kate. The car smelled of pancakes.
Emma rang as she paid the fare at the hospital doors.
“Mum! I’m coming home!”
“No, love. Sorry—got a call.”
×
Inside, it was bright. Unfrightening. A café sprawled across the ground floor. Green walls. Endless doors. The lift opened—a bald little girl in aShe stepped out into the sunlight, clutching the discharge papers, and for the first time in years, felt the weight of her own pulse—strong, stubborn, alive.
