I’m in the toilet cubicle washing my hands for the third time, staring at myself in the mirror above the sink. The soap smells like cheap lemons, and the fluorescent light is doing me no favours, but my outfit bolsters my confidence. I hope it is the kind of smart that says I’m not here to be sweet. A fitted sweater, black, with a crisp white collar poking out and a long, pleated skirt that hits just over the knee, nipping in at the waist. Feminine, but with an edge, I hope. I smooth the collar, pat the skirt and check my lipstick; preparing my war paint as I head into battle. Then I breathe out, one long, slow breath that does absolutely nothing to steady the churning in the pit of my stomach.
“Right,” I mutter to myself, turning to push the door open and striding out into the corridor, listening to the echoey sound of my heels clinking on the tiles in a way that assaults my ears.
The solicitor’s office is clinical, with glass partitions and muted colours; I feel like I’m in a spa designed by a psychopath. There is a jug of water on the table and two sad little glasses. I pour myself one, and even though my hands are finally steady, my stomach is not.
Robert sits upright in his chair like he is waiting for an interview, smart shirt, the one that he always wears when he’s making important deals at work. The one he wore to parents’ evening, mum’s funeral and that dinner with my dad where he talked about pensions all evening. He looks at me and smiles, it is the smile he uses when he wants to appear reasonable. My skin crawls.
It is a strange thing, realising you are repulsed by someone you once begged to touch you. Suddenly, every glance, every breath, every little movement feels wrong. The solicitor talks in a slow and patronising drawl, the words sliding across the table like snakes: assets, arrangements, the children, schools, holidays, the future.
My husband’s knee bounces under the table; it’s barely noticeable, but I know the rhythm of his stress. I know the way he tenses his jaw, chewing on his own anger. I sit with my hands folded, listening carefully, answering only when spoken to. My face is calm, but inside I’m screaming. He says something about stability and the children, I can actually taste the bitterness on the back of my tongue. Stability? From the man who walked out and then acted surprised when there was emotional fallout. He glances at me when he says it, checking the audience reaction. I want to slap his smug face.
The meeting drags, Robert remains charming, and the solicitor nods. I slowly suck in the air, trying to steady my rage; the room smells faintly of printer ink and some acrid cleaning spray. I catch myself staring at my husband’s hands. I used to know every freckle, every vein, used to lace my fingers through his without thinking. Now I can only think about where those hands have been when they were not holding mine. I feel nauseous. I also feel, and this is the part I hate admitting even to myself, furious at my past self for staying so long. For swallowing so much, for making myself smaller, so he could feel bigger.
The solicitor pauses and asks if we are both happy with the next steps. I glance at my reflection in the glass partition; my face is pale but composed.
“Yes,” I say, and I’m surprised at how steady my voice sounds.
Then it’s over, chairs scrape, hands are shaken, and I want to wipe mine on my skirt the second Robert lets go.
We walk out into the corridor together, and as we reach the lift, I bat his hand away to press the button. The lift arrives, doors open, and he steps in with that same reasonable smile, the one that makes strangers think he is a good man. The doors shut, trapped together, and the air is too close. He glances at me, casually.
“So,” he says.
I say nothing. He waits, then tilts his head. “Got plans?”
It is almost funny. Almost. I feel something hot rise up my throat: anger and disgust bloom with a sharp, bright clarity.
“Yes,” I say.
His eyebrows lift. “Oh?”
I watch the numbers tick down, and my heart ticks with them.
“Who with?” he asks, and he says it lightly.
My stomach twists.
“None of your business,” I say.
The lift hums, and he blinks, like he cannot quite process what I have just said. He laughs once, not amused, more like a warning.
“Well, it kind of is,” he says, “if it’s something I need to know about, you know, because it could affect the kids, I feel like I have the right to know.”
There it is, the children, always the children, his favourite shield; I stare at him, and something inside me snaps.
“Oh, fuck off,” I say, softly. It’s clean and satisfying.
His eyes widen, and he looks genuinely shocked.
“If you want to avoid any negative effect on the kids,” I continue, my voice still quiet, “then maybe you should think about your own behaviour first.”
I’d hoped to say something more cutting, but there it is; at least I said something and didn’t just stay mute. The lift doors open, and the air outside feels like freedom; he steps out, I step out, and he follows close.
“Ems,” he says sharply.
I stop and turn, and the corridor light catches his face. He looks angry now, not reasonable, not charming.
“Do not call me that,” I say, “my name is Emma.”
He takes a breath through his nose, trying to regain control.
“Are you seriously going on a date?” he says, and now there is contempt in it, as if I am doing something pathetic, and I feel my cheeks burn, not with shame, but with rage.
“Yes,” I say, “I am.”
His mouth tightens. “With who?”
I look at him, really look, and I see it so clearly it makes me dizzy. The entitlement, the ownership, the way he still thinks my life is his to comment on, to supervise and approve. I think of all the years I made myself easier to live with, easier to love, and easier to ignore. I think of the quiet nights, the lonely bed, and the way I learned to stop expecting. I smile, and it feels like baring my teeth.
“Have a lovely evening,” I say.
Then I turn sharply and walk away, heels clicking, skirt swishing, collar crisp. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop my keys.
…
I’m running ten minutes late, and a slight panic flutters in my chest. I’m the kind of woman who always arrives early to things, and this tardiness doesn’t sit right with me. Punctuality is one of my coping mechanisms.
The place we arranged to meet is in the top corner of the shopping centre, which is already bizarre. I walk past a nail salon glowing white under harsh strip lighting, the smell of acrylic and hairspray thick in the air, past Phase Eight, the headless glossy mannequins in the window adding to my sense of disquiet. A stretch of darkened windows leads to a set of double doors, one propped slightly open. For a second, I honestly think I’ve got it wrong, and I check my phone again; it’s definitely the right address, right time. My stomach tightens as I push the door wider and step through.
The contrast hits me immediately; it’s like walking into a different decade. Outside is bright, loud, sterile, but inside is low-lit and warm. It’s a different universe in here. The music is soft and thumping, a bass line that settles low in my ribcage. The room is full of curved lines, brass fixtures, and velvet curtains, geometric patterns that make my eyes slightly dizzy. Orange and teal, mustard, rich colours that look expensive. It’s… funky and retro, sixties? Or seventies? I never understood the difference.
I feel like I’m on a film set. I’ve walked out of the solicitor’s stale prison and into a place that wants me to loosen up and forget who I am for a while. My heart skitters as I scan the room, and then I spot him.
Daniel is slouched on a low sofa in the corner, legs spread in that careless way men do. He’s wearing wide-leg jeans and a blue half-zip jumper, head dipped as he scrolls on his phone. He looks young in a way that makes me almost recoil. He should be meeting his mates for pints and talking about football, not sitting here waiting for me.
I suddenly feel painfully aware of my outfit. My fitted black jumper with the crisp white collar that felt sharp and capable an hour ago now feels… stiff, corporate, and so wrong. I hover for half a second, debating if I should back out and pretend I got lost, but then Daniel looks up.
His eyes lock onto mine, and he reacts like I’ve shocked him, shooting upright so fast he knocks the little table in front of him, the glass on it wobbling precariously. His face tightens for a split second in panic, then breaks into a broad, boyish grin. He rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, laughing at himself as if he can’t believe he just did that. I stride over to join him.
“Hi,” he says, a little breathless. He stands properly now, and his hands hover uncertainly for a moment before settling one on my waist, gentle and warm through my jumper. He leans in and kisses my cheek, the contact sending a spark straight through my stomach.
“You look incredible,” he says, stepping back just enough to look at me, his eyes sweeping down the length of my body. It’s not crude, not lingering, but absolutely intentional. My pulse stumbles. How does he always know exactly what to say?
I clear my throat, pretending I’m not affected, which is a wasted effort because I can feel my face heating already.
“This place is very cool,” I manage.
His mouth quirks. “Isn’t it? It should be, for the cost of my drink.”
I laugh, grateful for something normal, and he gestures for me to sit. We drop down onto the low-slung sofa, and I immediately regret it. My skirt tightens over my knees, and my legs bend at an awkward angle. The table in front of us is far too close, and it nudges my knee as I adjust.
“You okay?” he asks, amused.
“Fine,” I lie, shifting again. “This is just… furniture made for people who don’t have kneecaps.”
He grins, the mischievous flicker back in his eyes. “It’s for style, not comfort.”
“Lovely,” I mutter, “so we suffer all for the sake of aesthetic purity?”
He leans closer, voice dropping, “worth it though.”
And as he says it, his gaze holds mine for a beat too long, and the air between us thickens. I swallow, telling myself to relax, but as usual, my body does not listen.
“I’ll get you a drink,” he says, standing slowly and striding over to the bar. I watch him go, my heart now thumping so hard I can feel it in my mouth. I watch him weave through the low light and curved furniture, slipping past couples tucked into booths. He glances back once, quickly, as if checking I’m still there.
I sit back and take in the room properly. There are brass ornaments shaped like large tropical leaves and warm orange glass lamp shades hanging from the ceiling, casting a sunset glow over every table. The walls are lined with deep navy patterned wallpaper, bold geometric gold lines criss-crossing, breaking up the darkness. It should feel tacky, all this forced “vibe”, and yet it doesn’t; it feels intentional, a space to forget yourself in.
A laugh bursts from somewhere behind me, loud and unrestrained. I flinch slightly, then realise, I’ve become so used to keeping my volume down, my presence small, that the sound of someone enjoying themselves feels like an intrusion. I shift on the sofa again, still battling the table, smoothing my skirt down over my thighs, trying to self-soothe.
Daniel returns with two drinks balanced in his hands. He places mine down carefully, then sits close enough that his knee brushes mine.
“Here,” he says. “I got you something a bit different.”
I glance at the glass. It’s pretty, pale, sparkling, and garnished with something green that looks more like it belongs in a floral arrangement.
“What is it?” I ask.
He smiles. “No idea. It sounded slightly aggressive.”
I huff out a laugh and take a sip; it’s sharp and citrusy. The taste punches through me, and Daniel watches my reaction, pleased with himself.
“Good?” he asks.
“Mmm, so good,” I say, taking another sip, “I love sour drinks.”
He leans back, arm stretching along the back of the sofa. “So,” he says lightly, “how’s your day been?”
The question is so normal, but my shoulders drop before I can stop them. The fitted sweater, the sharp collar, the war paint confidence, all of it deflates like a balloon with a pinprick hole.
“I met my solicitor,” I say.
Daniel’s expression changes, that playful flicker dims, replaced by something steadier and focused.
“Oh,” he says softly, “how did it go?”
I blow out a breath and stare into my drink, my eyes no longer blinking, glazed with disassociation.
“Robert was being… Robert,” I say.
Daniel tilts his head. “Which means?”
It’s ridiculous, this, how easily he pulls the truth out of me. I glance at him, his attention is rapt, face open, interested, and it makes my throat tighten.
“He sat there the whole time with that smile,” I say, voice low, “the reasonable one, the one that makes other people think he’s a good man, and makes me feel like I’m losing my mind.”
Daniel’s jaw tightens, and his hand shifts, sliding closer and hooking his arm around me, drawing me in.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is quiet now, all humour stripped away. “That sounds horrible.”
“It’s fine,” I lie automatically, because old habits truly die hard.
Daniel makes a sound, almost like a scoff, but softer.
“It’s not fine,” he corrects gently, “and your ex is a dick.”
I bark out a laugh, surprised at how much I needed his bluntness, the lack of diplomacy. He shifts again and his mouth brushes the side of my temple as he speaks.
“His loss,” he murmurs, “one thousand percent.”
I turn my face slightly, catching his eyes.
“And,” he adds, voice dropping, the corner of his mouth twitching, “my massive gain.”
A warmth blooms in my chest, small but real, and I try to smile, but it comes out weak.
“Careful,” I say, “you’ll make me believe you.”
Daniel’s grin flashes. “Good.”
We sit there, sipping our drinks, the room around us humming with quiet music and low conversations, and slowly, painfully slowly, the meeting begins to shrink in my mind. The glass partitions, the stale air, Robert’s smug smile, all of it slides into the edges like a bad dream dissolving in the daylight.
Daniel talks easily about nothing, scoffing again at the ridiculous drink prices, how the décor looks like it was chosen by someone who refers to barmen as ‘mixologists’. I laugh, properly this time, as his warm chatter seeps through, defrosting me from within.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
I blink, “huh?”
He nods towards the dark doorway.
“Go for a walk,” he says, “around the city, away from the glare?”
“Oh sure, sounds nice.”
I finish the last of my drink, feeling that warm rush settle in my limbs as my mind goes fuzzy at the edges. We stand and he takes my hand, guiding me out through the door.
The shopping centre outside feels even more artificial now, bright lights and stale air, the echo of footsteps. Daniel pulls me through it quickly to escape our discomfort, the jarring sensation of how wrong it feels to go from warm shadow and soft music into fluorescent reality. And then we’re outside, and the fresh air hits my face, cold and clean.
The city is old, with cobbled streets lined with buildings that have watched centuries pass. We walk along the river, the water dark and slow, reflecting the street-lamps, gold ribbons dancing across the water. Daniel stays close, his hand still linked with mine, and every so often, his thumb brushes my knuckle.
“Do you ever go into churches?” he asks, as we pass one, its door half open. I glance up at the stonework, the high arches, and the heavy door.
“I mean sometimes,” I admit, “I love the architecture.”
“I like them,” he says, “the quiet.”
Something in his voice makes me follow.
Inside, we escape the bustle of the street, and the world changes again. The air is cold and still, smelling faintly of dust and old stone, every sound swallowed and echoed. Our footsteps are too loud on the floor, so we instinctively slow our pace, softening the way our feet land. Daniel looks up at the ceiling, at the carved beams and stained glass.
“You religious?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head.
He smiles faintly, “Same.”
We walk along the edge, past rows of wooden pews, candle stands, plaques, and carved pillars, all worn smooth by time. Daniel stops near one of the pillars, half hidden from the entrance. He turns to face me, and for a second he just looks.
“What?” I whisper, because the silence makes everything feel louder.
His hand lifts, and his fingers slide gently up my spine, slow and careful, like he’s asking permission without words.
“I’ve wanted to do that all afternoon,” he murmurs.
My breath catches, and he steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through my sweater. His mouth meets mine, deep and soft at first, then more certain, more hungry, hands spreading accross my back, holding me there, anchoring me to him. My head tilts automatically, fingers catching his jumper, clutching as his lips break from mine for a fraction and he exhales against my cheek, a rough sound he tries to swallow.
“Emma,” he murmurs.
He kisses me again, slower now, and I feel this, right now, there is only this. The cold stone at my back, the warmth of him in front of me, his mouth moving against mine. I make a sound I don’t mean to, and Daniel’s hand tightens slightly at my waist, his forehead dipping to mine.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, barely audible.
I don’t, I can’t; so he doesn’t.
His hands slide from my waist to my hip, fingers splaying, firm, and the pressure pins me there, back against cold stone, his body close enough that there’s no space left for doubt. I feel the hard line of his erection through his jeans, pressing into my groin through the layers of fabric between us, a breath catching in my throat as my knees soften. I let myself sink into him as he makes a low growling sound deep in his throat.
“Fuck,” he murmurs against my mouth, pushing into me more firmly. The silky fabric of my knickers slides over my clit as he grinds, a fiery friction so exquisite I have to hold my breath to stop myself crying out.
His eyes are darker in here, his lips purse as he grasps my face, running his thumb along my lower lip. There is no sign of the bright, boyish grin from the bar. Now he studies my face as he pushes into me.
“You’re…” he starts, then stops, like the words have slipped away, lost only to feeling.
My hands find him, because I need to touch him too. I run my fingers over the solid slope of his shoulders, the warm thickness of his jumper, the hard shape of his chest beneath. He exhales sharply as my nails drag lightly, and his grip tightens again at my hip, possessive.
“Christ,” he breathes, and his mouth moves to my jaw, then my neck.
I tilt my head without thinking, offering, letting him.
He moves in harder, the pressure deeper, and I feel it everywhere, in my ribs and belly, low and hot. I close my eyes, lost in the sensation, forgetting where we are, just lost in him. His breath against my neck and the hardness of his dick pushing into me through my clothes. I pant as the pressure begins to gather, rising up through my groin, bright and burning. In my mind, I focus, reaching out catch it, as it pulls higher and higher through my body, pushing my face into him as I let out a loud moan, using his chest to muffle the sound as the orgasm spreads through me, an electric flame setting my skin alight. I let it seep into me as the tension falls away, like breathing out the longest breath I’ve ever taken. I’m warm, so warm.
“God Emma,” he murmurs, voice rough.
My laugh comes out as a tiny, broken sound; it’s not funny, it’s just the only release I have.
He sucks in a breath as my hips shift against his, and I feel him go still for half a second, like it nearly breaks him. His forehead drops to my shoulder and he exhales, a shaky sound, before lifting his head again.
“Emma,” he says again, quieter.
He kisses the corner of my mouth, then my cheek, then back to my lips, each kiss deliberate; his hands are on either side of me, bracketing me again against the pillar, and he’s leaning in, shifting to press his hard-on into my hips.
“God,” he whispers, “this is insane.”
“I know.”
He kisses me again.
“You should tell me to stop,” he adds painfully, voice low and rough.
“Don’t stop,” I answer.
So he presses in, the cold stone behind me, his warmth in front of me, and the echo of our breathing in this huge empty space. He pumps his body hard against me, grinding into my hip bone, the breath rattling in his throat. It should feel sordid, it should feel wrong, but it doesn’t; and as he pumps harder, fingers grasping at me, pinching my skin, I get the sense that I’m lifting up into the ether. Then he grunts, it’s low in his throat, guttural, and his body shudders against me in one final act of letting go, both of us complicit in violating this sacred space.
But here I feel satisfied, I feel blessed, like it’s something saintly, rather than sin.
