The air was thick with the scent of roses and something unspoken.
“Y’know how he looks at you?” Lottie mused, stretching lazily on the sofa. “Like you’re the sun and he’s just a man who forgot his sunglasses.”
James stepped out of the shower, a towel slung low on his hips. Water glistened on his chest, tracing the lines of muscles honed by time and effort. Not just a man—an absolute dream. Something in Charlotte’s chest fluttered, sweet and aching.
He perched on the edge of the bed, reaching for her. She tilted her head away.
“Don’t,” she murmured. “Or I’ll never leave. I’ve got to go. Lottie’s probably home already.” She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, breathing him in.
James sighed. “Char—how much longer? When are you going to tell her about us?”
“Three months ago, you didn’t even know I existed. You were fine.” Charlotte stood, reaching for her blouse.
“I wasn’t fine. I was waiting for you. I can’t go a single day without—”
“Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t make it harder. Don’t walk me out.” And then she was gone, slipping through the door like a shadow.
The street outside pulsed with invisible eyes. Strangers glanced her way—men curious, women sharp with judgement.
She had all the usual weapons—a figure that turned heads, sharp cheekbones, lips that needed no paint. Dark curls escaped her clip, unruly. She wanted, suddenly, to vanish.
***
She’d married young. Twenty, dizzy with love. Pregnant almost at once. He’d begged her to reconsider—too soon, too much, they’d have time. But Charlotte refused. A daughter arrived, pink and perfect. She’d hoped, foolishly, that fatherhood might soften him. It didn’t. Many men, she learned, were indifferent to children.
Then the call came. A woman’s voice, smooth as poison: an address, a time. She waited for him to come home, asked him straight.
Denial first. Then excuses. Then shouting.
“Some madwoman whispers in your ear, and you believe her? You’re just as unhinged. I’m leaving—you’ll regret this.”
The door slammed. For days, she didn’t eat. But her daughter’s small hands pulled her back. Two weeks later, she stood under a birch tree, watching as he strolled past, arm in arm with a younger woman. They vanished into the building.
Divorce papers followed. Nurseries, part-time work, the slow reconstruction of a life.
Men came and went. None tempted her enough to risk it—until James. Tall, golden, everything she’d once dreamed of. A whirlwind affair.
Then one evening, Lottie asked where she was off to, dressed so carefully.
“A date,” Charlotte teased—half-joke, half-truth.
“Ohhh,” Lottie drawled, eyes dancing. She never asked again.
Lottie had her mother’s frame but not her face. People whispered—how could two beautiful people produce an ordinary girl? Charlotte was relieved. Beauty brought nothing but trouble.
She’d never had close girlfriends. Envy, she supposed. No one wanted to stand beside a flame. Perhaps that’s why she’d married so young—hoping for friendship in a husband.
“He’s a bit… simple for you,” her mother had said. “Pretty, though.”
***
“Lottie, I’m home,” Charlotte called, stepping inside.
“Homework,” came the muffled reply.
She changed, then padded to the kitchen. Lottie wandered in, tore off a hunk of bread.
“Don’t spoil your appetite,” Charlotte chided, setting plates down. “We need to talk.”
“Then talk.” Lottie chewed, unfazed.
“My birthday’s coming.”
“I remember.”
“I’d like to invite… someone.” The words stumbled out.
“The one you’re sleeping with?” Lottie didn’t blink.
“Seeing. And watch your tone.”
“What’s the difference? At your age, it’s the same thing.”
“So—can I invite him? You don’t mind?”
Lottie shrugged. “Whatever. Is Gran coming?”
Relief. Fifteen was a tricky age—but this? Almost easy.
“Gran’s here Sunday. I just want you two to get along.”
“Yeah, yeah. Invite him.”
Saturday morning, Charlotte cooked like her life depended on it. James arrived with roses, a ring. She froze. The weight of it—too fast, too much.
He clowned for Lottie, loud jokes, booming laughter. She sat silent, watching.
Later, in her room, Charlotte tried to hug her. Lottie ducked away.
“You didn’t like him.”
“No.”
“Why?” The hurt leaked through.
“Just didn’t.” A pause. “Mum… he’s using you. How can’t you see it?”
“Did Gran put you up to this?”
“Gran? I’ve got eyes.” Lottie’s gaze was desperate.
Charlotte stood.
“Mum—do you love him?”
She nodded, back turned.
“Then see him. Just don’t bring him here.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Strangely, the words brought relief. James had been moving too fast. The ring, the future-talk—yet he’d shared nothing real. Lottie was an obstacle, not a person.
When he called next, she lied—her mother was coming, no time.
“Tomorrow, then?” Hope in his voice.
“Tomorrow.” Her own voice light with relief.
With Gran, Lottie was bright, chattering. James went unmentioned. Maybe her daughter saw what she couldn’t—blinded by love.
Things continued. Stolen hours at his flat. Then one day, he snapped—called Lottie selfish, stealing her happiness.
“In a few years, she’ll fall in love, and you’ll be alone!”
“Are you breaking up with me?”
“No, I just—” He backtracked fast.
A cold goodbye. Two days later, Lottie came home late.
“Where were you? Homework?”
“Done. Listen—” She quivered with news.
“Hands. Dinner.”
“You’ll hate this.”
“Money for another school trip?”
“Mum. We found your James.”
“Found him?”
“You don’t know the truth.” Lottie’s eyes burned. “He lives on Maple Crescent. With a woman. And a kid—four, maybe.”
Charlotte laughed. “His sister? Ex?”
“No. We watched. He kissed her. Stayed all night.”
The kitchen tilted. She locked herself in the bathroom, muffling screams.
Later, she stood on the balcony, staring at city lights. Lottie was right. His flat had always felt staged—no clutter, no photos. The fridge: empty. Even a bachelor kept beer.
She’d ignored it. Blinded.
A hand yanked her back. “Mum!”
“I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“Sorry. I didn’t think you’d—”
“Of course I would.” She hugged her. “No more spying.”
Next day, she marched to James’s flat, flung open the wardrobe. Two shirts. Nothing else.
“You rent this for me. You don’t live here alone.”
He paled, then attacked. “I thought you weren’t like other women—paranoid, petty—”
“Just say I’m mad. I’ve heard it before.” She slid the ring onto the table. “Are you married?”
Silence. She left.
Streets blurred under her feet. Love was a limb rotting—sometimes you had to cut it off to survive.
Three weeks later, term ended. Lottie left for a weekend trip.
“Mum,” she said before leaving, “what about Arthur?”
“Who?”
“Downstairs. The quiet one.”
Charlotte pictured him—bearded, unremarkable.
“He loves you.”
“Oh?”
“Looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Lottie, always watching. James repelled her; Arthur didn’t.
She remembered things—how he’d helped with the pram years ago, always “accidentally” bumping into her. How he’d fixed her lock post-divorce.
“Why?” she’d asked.
“Burglars,” he’d mumbled.
Only later did a neighbour confess—her ex had tried to loot the flat. Arthur stopped him.
Always there. Never seen.
Next evening, she knocked. He opened instantly—as if waiting.
“My lock’s stuck.”
“I’ll get tools.”
Fifteen minutes later, he returned—clean-shaven, in a suit.
“You’re fixing a lock like that?”
“Seems fine to me.” His smile crinkled his eyes.
The kitchen table was set for two.
“Sit. Lottie’s gone.They talked long into the night, and for the first time in years, Charlotte felt the heavy weight in her chest begin to lift, as if love had been waiting patiently in the shadows all along.
