It was anything but accidental.
Lara breezed toward the disco as if she were floating.
Her outfit was pure confidence—a denim skirt cut high, leggings in shimmering silver, pristine white trainers, and a crop top stamped with a runway model’s likeness. Her hair swept into a sleek ponytail, tied with a chunky scrunchie. Pink gloss on her lips, lids dusted with rainbow shadow. Every inch a star.
Everyone said Lara was a wonder. She knew it too. The pride of the estate. Got into university in London—on her own. No connections, no favours.
Remember what Joan Peters used to sneer?
*”You, Sinclair? You’ve as much chance at uni as walking to the moon! Best settle for college, and even then, only if your stepdad pulls strings. Otherwise, street sweepers will be weeping for you.”*
Oh, right. The stepdad. Her real father had vanished long ago. And her stepfather? Hardly the type to lift a finger for *”a waste of space like her.”*
Joan had waited for the tears. But Lara stood, locked eyes, and tossed back coolly:
*”We’ll see who ends up where.”*
Joan had squinted, vowing sweet revenge at exams. But Lara passed. Got in. Alone. No *”help from above.”* That’s how it was.
*”Fancy a bit of proper romance?”*
*”With you? Cartwright, have you lost the plot?”*
*”Lara, come off it. How’s life?”*
*”Better than yours.”*
*”You’re fit, though…”*
*”Want to borrow the look?”*
*”Wouldn’t say no.”*
*”Pop round. I’ll dress you up—might even pass for decent.”*
*”Bloody hell, you’re vicious, Sinclair. Might be in love with you.”*
*”Piss off. Gran blessed me with a rowan cross—keeps away your sort and the bogeyman.”*
*”That’s a bit harsh…”*
*”That’s precaution.”*
They ambled through the evening streets, tossing quips like confetti. Young. Free. Untouchable.
*”Listen, fancy crashing school on Monday?”* Cartwright asked.
*”You mad? Why?”*
*”Imagine Joan choking when she hears you got into uni. On your own.”*
Lara smirked.
*”Couldn’t care less. You?”*
*”Lazing through summer, then basic training. You’ll wait for me?”*
*”Oh sure. Perched on a bench, knitting you socks in me headscarf. Mile-long.”*
*”Bog off…”*
*”Yeah, yeah.”*
*”Oi, look—it’s Marlene! She went vocational, didn’t she?”*
*”Yeah. Each to their own. Right, Mike, I’m off. There’s my lot. You sniffing round Marlene now?”*
*”Nah, just… hanging.”*
*”She’s nice. She’ll wait. I won’t.”*
*”So… no chance?”*
*”None.”* Clear. Final. She walked.
Uni came easy to Lara. Not because it was simple—because she never whinged.
*”How d’you manage it all?”* her flatmate asked.
*”What?”*
*”Going out, clubbing, and still grades like yours…”*
*”Dunno.”* Lara shrugged. *”I just live. Don’t mope. Don’t bother with blokes. Uni’s my shot. Fun? Now’s the time.”*
*”I just want to marry rich.”*
*”I don’t.”*
She met Dean at the disco. Too pushy—she bolted. Next day, he turned up at halls. Flowers. Chocolates. She slammed the door. He tried cinema dates. She dodged.
By the third attempt, her eye twitched with irritation. Near loathing. Then Cartwright started writing from basic. Rambling letters—not about the drills, about *feelings*.
As if she didn’t remember him racing about in brown tights under shorts at fourteen. His nan dragging him to a wise woman for bed-wetting.
Dean roared up on a motorbike, loitered like some film hero. Then… he crashed. Right in front of her. And she sprinted to him—not for Dean, but for a soul in trouble.
And somehow… she agreed to a date.
Six months in. No butterflies. No grand love. Just… warmth. He became family.
Then Cartwright’s letter came—venom, slurs. Someone had snitched. Not that she hid it.
Dean was easier. Steady. Safe. With him, she dreamed. Of weddings. Futures.
*”Lucky you,”* her flatmate mused.
*”How?”*
*”Dean. You know who he is?”*
*”Meaning?”*
*”His dad’s loaded. Bought him the bike. Now a car. Only child. Parents are minted—older, too.”*
*”And?”*
*”Rumour is… he’s got a fiancée. Lillian. Fathers merging businesses.”*
That night, she asked Dean. He fidgeted.
*”Dad’s idea. I don’t want Lillian. I want you. We’ll leave.”*
*”I’m visiting my folks this weekend.”*
*”Alright…”* She could’ve sworn he sighed in relief.
When she returned, the air shifted. Girls eyed her oddly. Lads smirked.
*”What’s happened?”*
*”Sit down… Lara… Dean… He—”*
*”Spit it out.”*
*”He’s married.”*
Not a tremble. Not a tear. Inside—a landslide. Outside—stone.
*”That’s it?”*
*”You’re so calm…”*
*”What else should I be? I knew. Left to test it. He chose. I let him. Makes sense.”*
She leaned in:
*”Don’t say his name. Ever. To me, he’s dead.”*
After graduation, Lara didn’t go home. She went to the maternity ward.
Little Alfie was born. Tough. Tenacious.
*”Lara… will you tell the father?”*
*”Mum, never. Don’t ask.”*
*”Alright, just… I hoped you’d escape my mistakes.”*
*”I have. You married Dad. I won’t.”*
*”You’ll stay with us?”*
She saw it—her mother’s fear. Her stepfather’s resentment.
*”Got it. Won’t even collect me from hospital?”*
*”Don’t be silly… of course we will…”*
They came. Her stepdad shook her hand stiffly.
*”Dad says you’ve got a month or two.”*
*”Thanks. We’ll be quick.”*
Alfie barely cried. As if sensing—they weren’t wanted.
A month later, she moved to Gran’s. The old woman clutched them close, whispering, *”You’re home now.”*
Then, a knock.
*”Cartwright?”* Lara blinked. *”How’d you find us?”*
*”Got the address from Mum…”*
They sat at the kitchen table. Gran narrowed her eyes.
*”Not the boy’s dad. Just Mike. Childhood friend.”*
*”Hmph. Get the little one dressed—we’ll take air.”* Gran vanished.
*”Lara…”* He began once the door clicked shut. *”I’m here. For you. I want this.”*
*”Pity, then?”*
*”No! I love you. Always have.”*
*”And my kid’s not a problem?”*
*”No, I—”*
*”Your mum’s face when she heard I had a baby? Like I was gutter trash.”*
*”That’s past…”*
*”Get out. Don’t ever look at me again.”*
*”Who’d want you with baggage?!”*
*”Who’d want you without a brain?”*
The door slammed. She stood shaking. Tears hot.
*”Old friend?”* Gran asked softly.
*”Schoolmate. Fool. Followed me about for years.”*
*”Came courting?”*
*”Gran—”* Lara laughed wetly. *”He wet himself till thirteen!”*
Gran cackled. Then, quieter:
*”But what if…”*
*”No *what ifs.* I lived with a stepdad. I know.”*
Lara rose again. For Alfie. For herself.
Because none of this was accidental. It was her path. Her fight. Her strength.She straightened her shoulders, kissed Alfie’s forehead, and stepped into the future—one where she, and only she, held the reins.
