Scene 42¶
From 25.01.05¶
✨ No Gossip, No Project ✨
Scene Forty — “No Gossip, No Project” (Celeste POV)
Wardrobe after hours was a different building.
By day it was a machine: steam, voices, feet on timber, scissors biting through cloth with that soft, confident snick. By night it went still in a way that felt intentional, as if the worktables were holding their breath until morning.
I didn’t turn on all the lights. I never did. I left the room in its half-lit honesty—the tall lamps over the cutting table, the small task light by the machine, the rest in shadow. Enough to see clean lines. Not enough to invite drama.
Lauren arrived the way she always arrived: not rushing, not apologising for taking up space, not asking permission from a room she’d paid rent in a hundred times over by being the only adult in some situations. Canvas tote on her shoulder. Keys in her hand. That calm, measured face that said I have already decided what matters.
She looked past me, into the workroom, as if Charli might be hiding behind a dress form.
“He’s gone?” she asked.
“Home,” I said. “I made sure.”
Lauren’s mouth twitched—approval, disguised as neutrality. “Good.”
She came in and set her tote on a chair without moving anything else. Lauren never disrupted a system. She noted it, learned it, worked around it.
Then she finally looked at me properly.
“It’s not subtle,” she said.
I didn’t pretend not to know what she meant. “Lauren.”
“No.” She lifted her hand, palm out—not a shush, not a scold. A halt sign. “Let me finish. It’s not subtle, and it’s not nothing. He changes around you.”
The words weren’t accusatory, not exactly. But there was an edge to them, the way there was always an edge when someone was about to say I’m worried you’re not seeing what you’re doing.
My first impulse was irritation. Not at her. At the universe. At how quickly anything tender got interpreted as manipulation the moment a girl was the centre of it.
“He doesn’t need my permission to exist,” I said.
Lauren’s gaze didn’t wobble. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what people mean.” I moved to the cutting table and picked up the chalk that had been left out. I didn’t need it. I just needed my hands occupied, because otherwise my face would give me away. “Eventually. They always land there.”
Lauren walked a few steps farther in, stopping beside the table like she belonged there—because she did. “Alright,” she said quietly. “Then say it plain. What’s going on?”
I set the chalk down with more precision than necessary.
“I’m telling you,” I said, “because I’m not letting this become gossip.”
Lauren’s expression softened by a fraction. “Okay.”
“And I’m not letting it become a project.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Whose project?”
“Anyone’s. Even yours. Especially mine.” I exhaled, slow. “I can feel the room gearing up for a narrative. And if it turns into a narrative, Charli will get flattened under it.”
Lauren didn’t argue. She waited. That was one of her gifts: she could go still and make space without turning it into a performance.
I said, “He’s… oriented toward my standard.”
Lauren’s mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again. She tried another angle. “What does that mean, in English?”
“It means he watches me,” I said, “and he adjusts.”
“Because he likes you?”
I glanced up at her. “Don’t be simplistic.”
Lauren’s eyes narrowed—not offended, just sharpening focus. “Then don’t be vague.”
Fair.
“He thinks he’s doing it for me,” I said. “Little things. How he stands. How he speaks. How careful he is. Like he’s trying to be the version of himself that won’t disappoint me.”
Lauren’s gaze flicked toward the doorway that led to the staff room, to the world where other people would take those words and turn them into something uglier. “And is he?”
I didn’t answer immediately. I considered the truth, the way it behaved in my mouth.
“I think,” I said slowly, “he’s doing it because it works.”
Lauren stared at me.
I continued, because once I’d started, stopping would be cowardice. “He’s calmer. He’s… steadier. He moves through the day like his nervous system isn’t being dragged by the throat.”
Lauren’s shoulders shifted, a subtle change—less suspicion, more understanding. “So it’s not… theatre.”
“No.” The word came out flat. “He isn’t putting on a show. He’s… finding an equilibrium.”
Lauren’s face did that thing it did when she was piecing together a pattern. “And you.”
I didn’t like how softly she said it. Like she was careful not to spook me.
“I have feelings,” I said. I made myself say it without flinching, without dressing it up. “That’s not the point. The point is that I’m not going to let those feelings set the terms.”
Lauren’s stare held. “Whose terms do you want?”
“His,” I said, immediately. “And ours. The workplace. The culture. The standards that keep people safe.”
Lauren’s eyes stayed on mine for a long moment. “Celeste,” she said, “do you understand how easily this gets misread?”
“Yes.” I didn’t even have to think. “That’s why I’m talking to you.”
Lauren nodded once, almost imperceptibly. “Good.”
I turned my head slightly, listening without meaning to. The building’s old pipes made soft ticking noises as they cooled. Somewhere outside, a car passed on wet asphalt. Quiet. Ordinary. Nothing dramatic.
Lauren said, “So let me ask you the only question that matters.”
I looked at her.
“Is he doing it,” she said, “because he wants to be seen as good… or because it makes him feel like himself?”
My chest tightened—because that was it. That was the dividing line, and she’d found it without being told.
“He looks like he can breathe,” I said.
Lauren’s face shifted again, and this time it was unmistakable. She got it. Not in a sentimental way. In a structural way. Like a load-bearing beam had been moved into place.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Then we do this properly.”
“We do this quietly,” I corrected.
Lauren’s mouth twitched. “Quietly,” she agreed. “And with boundaries.”
I nodded. “And no one gets to treat him like content.”
Lauren’s gaze sharpened. “Including you.”
That would have been an insult from anyone else.
From Lauren, it was respect.
“I’m not stupid,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m here.”
I let myself look away for a second, toward the dress forms lined up in the half-light—silent bodies waiting for meaning.
“He doesn’t know I can tell,” I said.
Lauren’s voice softened. “Of course he doesn’t.”
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Lauren said, “he’s young. And you’re a girl who notices everything. He thinks he can tuck his heart under his sleeve and you won’t see the shape of it.”
My throat tightened again, but I refused to let it become softness.
“So what do we do?” I asked. “Operationally.”
Lauren exhaled. “I’m going to speak to someone,” she said. “Professionally. Not to diagnose him without him. To get a framing. To make sure we don’t accidentally harm him by doing the wrong right thing.”
I studied her. “And you’re going alone.”
Lauren nodded. “Yes. Because if you go, it becomes your story. And it can’t.”
I didn’t like how correct that was.
“Fine,” I said. “Go.”
Lauren reached for her keys again, then paused. “And Celeste?”
“Yes.”
“If your feelings are real,” she said carefully, “you’ll prove it by not taking anything from him that he hasn’t offered.”
My jaw tightened. “I don’t take.”
Lauren’s eyes didn’t move. “Good. Keep it that way.”
When she left, the door clicked shut with a quiet finality that felt like a vow.
I stayed where I was, in the half-lit workroom, and I did the only thing that ever calmed me: I straightened what didn’t need straightening, made the world tidy, made the boundaries visible.
Because if Charli was going to name himself, he needed space to do it.
And I—whatever I wanted—was not going to be the reason he couldn’t.
Yes — crystal clear now.
In this scene, every “he / him / his” that refers to Charli should be she / her / hers, because in your newer continuity Charli is socially/workplace-identified as she/her.
And no, you don’t need to go back for a context summary just for this fix. I can do the conversion cleanly from what you pasted. (If later you want me to check timeline placement or continuity beats, then a summary helps — but for pronouns alone, we’re fine.)
Below is your scene with Charli fully she/her throughout, while keeping Celeste and Lauren as she/her as well (so the whole scene is now “she/she/she” — which is fine, but it does mean clarity matters, and I’ve preserved your Charli name anchors where you already had them).
Scene Forty — “No Gossip, No Project” (Celeste POV) — Charli set to she/her¶
Wardrobe after hours was a different building.
By day it was a machine: steam, voices, feet on timber, scissors biting through cloth with that soft, confident snick. By night it went still in a way that felt intentional, as if the worktables were holding their breath until morning.
I didn’t turn on all the lights. I never did. I left the room in its half-lit honesty—the tall lamps over the cutting table, the small task light by the machine, the rest in shadow. Enough to see clean lines. Not enough to invite drama.
Lauren arrived the way she always arrived: not rushing, not apologising for taking up space, not asking permission from a room she’d paid rent in a hundred times over by being the only adult in some situations. Canvas tote on her shoulder. Keys in her hand. That calm, measured face that said I have already decided what matters.
She looked past me, into the workroom, as if Charli might be hiding behind a dress form.
“She’s gone?” she asked.
“Home,” I said. “I made sure.”
Lauren’s mouth twitched—approval, disguised as neutrality. “Good.”
She came in and set her tote on a chair without moving anything else. Lauren never disrupted a system. She noted it, learned it, worked around it.
Then she finally looked at me properly.
“It’s not subtle,” she said.
I didn’t pretend not to know what she meant. “Lauren.”
“No.” She lifted her hand, palm out—not a shush, not a scold. A halt sign. “Let me finish. It’s not subtle, and it’s not nothing. She changes around you.”
The words weren’t accusatory, not exactly. But there was an edge to them, the way there was always an edge when someone was about to say I’m worried you’re not seeing what you’re doing.
My first impulse was irritation. Not at her. At the universe. At how quickly anything tender got interpreted as manipulation the moment a girl was the centre of it.
“She doesn’t need my permission to exist,” I said.
Lauren’s gaze didn’t wobble. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what people mean.” I moved to the cutting table and picked up the chalk that had been left out. I didn’t need it. I just needed my hands occupied, because otherwise my face would give me away. “Eventually. They always land there.”
Lauren walked a few steps farther in, stopping beside the table like she belonged there—because she did. “Alright,” she said quietly. “Then say it plain. What’s going on?”
I set the chalk down with more precision than necessary.
“I’m telling you,” I said, “because I’m not letting this become gossip.”
Lauren’s expression softened by a fraction. “Okay.”
“And I’m not letting it become a project.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Whose project?”
“Anyone’s. Even yours. Especially mine.” I exhaled, slow. “I can feel the room gearing up for a narrative. And if it turns into a narrative, Charli will get flattened under it.”
Lauren didn’t argue. She waited. That was one of her gifts: she could go still and make space without turning it into a performance.
I said, “She’s… oriented toward my standard.”
Lauren’s mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again. She tried another angle. “What does that mean, in English?”
“It means she watches me,” I said, “and she adjusts.”
“Because she likes you?”
I glanced up at her. “Don’t be simplistic.”
Lauren’s eyes narrowed—not offended, just sharpening focus. “Then don’t be vague.”
Fair.
“She thinks she’s doing it for me,” I said. “Little things. How she stands. How she speaks. How careful she is. Like she’s trying to be the version of herself that won’t disappoint me.”
Lauren’s gaze flicked toward the doorway that led to the staff room, to the world where other people would take those words and turn them into something uglier. “And is she?”
I didn’t answer immediately. I considered the truth, the way it behaved in my mouth.
“I think,” I said slowly, “she’s doing it because it works.”
Lauren stared at me.
I continued, because once I’d started, stopping would be cowardice. “She’s calmer. She’s… steadier. She moves through the day like her nervous system isn’t being dragged by the throat.”
Lauren’s shoulders shifted, a subtle change—less suspicion, more understanding. “So it’s not… theatre.”
“No.” The word came out flat. “She isn’t putting on a show. She’s… finding an equilibrium.”
Lauren’s face did that thing it did when she was piecing together a pattern. “And you.”
I didn’t like how softly she said it. Like she was careful not to spook me.
“I have feelings,” I said. I made myself say it without flinching, without dressing it up. “That’s not the point. The point is that I’m not going to let those feelings set the terms.”
Lauren’s stare held. “Whose terms do you want?”
“Hers,” I said, immediately. “And ours. The workplace. The culture. The standards that keep people safe.”
Lauren’s eyes stayed on mine for a long moment. “Celeste,” she said, “do you understand how easily this gets misread?”
“Yes.” I didn’t even have to think. “That’s why I’m talking to you.”
Lauren nodded once, almost imperceptibly. “Good.”
I turned my head slightly, listening without meaning to. The building’s old pipes made soft ticking noises as they cooled. Somewhere outside, a car passed on wet asphalt. Quiet. Ordinary. Nothing dramatic.
Lauren said, “So let me ask you the only question that matters.”
I looked at her.
“Is she doing it,” she said, “because she wants to be seen as good… or because it makes her feel like herself?”
My chest tightened—because that was it. That was the dividing line, and she’d found it without being told.
“She looks like she can breathe,” I said.
Lauren’s face shifted again, and this time it was unmistakable. She got it. Not in a sentimental way. In a structural way. Like a load-bearing beam had been moved into place.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Then we do this properly.”
“We do this quietly,” I corrected.
Lauren’s mouth twitched. “Quietly,” she agreed. “And with boundaries.”
I nodded. “And no one gets to treat her like content.”
Lauren’s gaze sharpened. “Including you.”
That would have been an insult from anyone else.
From Lauren, it was respect.
“I’m not stupid,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m here.”
I let myself look away for a second, toward the dress forms lined up in the half-light—silent bodies waiting for meaning.
“She doesn’t know I can tell,” I said.
Lauren’s voice softened. “Of course she doesn’t.”
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Lauren said, “she’s young. And you’re a girl who notices everything. She thinks she can tuck her heart under her sleeve and you won’t see the shape of it.”
My throat tightened again, but I refused to let it become softness.
“So what do we do?” I asked. “Operationally.”
Lauren exhaled. “I’m going to speak to someone,” she said. “Professionally. Not to diagnose her without her. To get a framing. To make sure we don’t accidentally harm her by doing the wrong right thing.”
I studied her. “And you’re going alone.”
Lauren nodded. “Yes. Because if you go, it becomes your story. And it can’t.”
I didn’t like how correct that was.
“Fine,” I said. “Go.”
Lauren reached for her keys again, then paused. “And Celeste?”
“Yes.”
“If your feelings are real,” she said carefully, “you’ll prove it by not taking anything from her that she hasn’t offered.”
My jaw tightened. “I don’t take.”
Lauren’s eyes didn’t move. “Good. Keep it that way.”
When she left, the door clicked shut with a quiet finality that felt like a vow.
I stayed where I was, in the half-lit workroom, and I did the only thing that ever calmed me: I straightened what didn’t need straightening, made the world tidy, made the boundaries visible.
Because if Charli was going to name herself, she needed space to do it.
And I—whatever I wanted—was not going to be the reason she couldn’t.
If you’d like, I can also do a second pass that reduces the “she/she/she” density by swapping in Charli’s name in a few strategic places (so readers never have to do pronoun math). That’s optional — your current version is consistent now, but it’s pronoun-heavy by nature when all three are she/her.
Notes26-01-22e¶
was Scene 40¶
[26-01-22]
Scene 40 — “No Questions First” (Lauren POV)
When Sarah rings you at night, you answer.
Not because she’s fragile—Sarah is many things, but fragile isn’t one of them.
You answer because women who don’t ask for help until they have to are the ones who end up in trouble when they finally do.
I was in the kitchen when the call came in, rinsing a mug and thinking about nothing in particular. The sound of my phone was ordinary.
The reason for it wasn’t.
“Lauren?” Sarah’s voice was careful—too careful. Tight at the edges. Like she was trying to keep her pride from spilling into the call.
“Sarah,” I said. “Where are you?”
There was a pause, a swallow. “Near—” she named a street. A venue. A landmark. Bree’s name followed like a relief valve. “Bree’s with me.”
Good. One woman, at least.
“Stay where you are,” I said. “Sit down. Don’t go anywhere alone. I’m coming.”
“Thank you,” she said, as if she hated the words.
“No thanks,” I replied. “Just wait.”
I hung up, grabbed my keys, and sent one text to Celeste.
Going to pick up Sarah + Bree. Will update.
No explanation. Celeste didn’t need a story. She needed the fact.
On the way out I glanced at Charli’s shoes by the door—neatly placed, toes aligned—and felt the small, familiar pinch in my chest that came with seeing my child’s life overlapping someone else’s home.
Not my home. Not quite yet.
But safe enough.
That was the point.
I drove through the city with my jaw set and my hands steady on the wheel. Not because I was calm. Because I had practice. Motherhood trains you to turn panic into logistics.
I thought, briefly, of the folder on my phone—screenshots, dates, times. The unromantic evidence of a woman being asked to manage a man’s feelings.
I didn’t need the details to know the shape of it.
You could tell the shape from the call alone.
Help, but don’t make me beg.
When I pulled up, I spotted them immediately.
Bree on a bench, arm around Sarah’s shoulders, posture angled outward like a shield. Sarah sitting upright, chin lifted, eyes too bright in the streetlight. She looked… competent and unwell at the same time, which is a particular kind of danger.
I parked, got out, and walked over without running. If I ran, it became drama. If it became drama, Sarah would recoil.
“Hi,” I said, as if this were nothing more than a late pick-up from the airport.
Bree stood first. “Hey,” she replied, brisk and grateful. “She’s okay. Just… overloaded.”
Sarah’s eyes flicked to my face, assessing. Expecting judgement. Expecting mum voice.
She got something else.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get you home.”
Sarah’s mouth tightened. “I can—”
“No,” I said, not unkind. “You can’t. Not tonight. Not safely.”
The word safely wasn’t a reprimand. It was a standard. Something you either met or you didn’t.
Sarah swallowed. Then she nodded once, small.
Bree opened the back door. Sarah moved toward it, but her steps weren’t as precise as her pride wanted them to be. Bree steadied her without fuss.
I waited until Sarah was seated before I spoke again.
“Seatbelt,” I said, calm.
Sarah clicked it, cheeks flushing.
Bree slid into the front passenger seat. I got in, shut the door, and took a breath.
Only then did I ask the first question.
“Is he contacting you right now?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the road as I pulled away.
Sarah’s laugh was dry. “That’s your first question.”
“Yes,” I said. “Because that’s the only one that matters this minute.”
Bree angled her phone toward me. “Blocked calls,” she said. “A few.”
I nodded once, already making a mental list.
“Good,” I said. “We’ll document. You don’t answer.”
Sarah leaned her head back against the seat, eyes closed for a moment. “I didn’t,” she muttered. “I didn’t answer.”
“I know,” I said. “You called me.”
That, apparently, was the right thing to say, because Sarah’s throat moved and she didn’t speak for a few seconds.
Bree glanced at her, then looked forward again, jaw tight.
“He’s not Ethan,” Bree said. “Tonight was… a different one.”
I felt my stomach go cold.
“Different one,” I repeated, keeping my voice steady.
Bree nodded. “Some bloke. Grabby. The usual. We left.”
Sarah spoke then, voice low. “I said no. He acted like I’d flirted.”
Of course he did.
I kept my eyes on the road. There were two things I could do right now: give empathy, or give stability.
Sarah needed stability.
“Okay,” I said. “So: two problems. One, the ex. Two, the world.”
Bree barked a laugh. Sarah’s mouth twitched, almost despite herself.
“Lucky me,” Sarah muttered.
“Not luck,” I said, and let the steel in my voice come through. “Patterns. We deal with patterns.”
I pulled up at Bree’s building, because that’s where Sarah needed to be tonight: somewhere she wouldn’t feel hunted, somewhere she wouldn’t have to walk from car to door alone while her brain did ugly arithmetic.
Bree got out first, opened Sarah’s door, offered an arm.
Sarah hesitated, pride flaring.
I cut it off clean.
“Sarah,” I said, quiet. “Don’t be brave at the wrong time.”
She stared at me for a beat. Then, grudgingly, she took Bree’s arm and stepped out.
Inside, Bree’s place was small and warm—women’s clutter, shoes kicked off, a throw blanket draped like an afterthought. Bree guided Sarah to the couch and handed her a glass of water with the calm authority of someone who has done triage.
I sat opposite them and opened my phone.
“All right,” I said. “We do boring now.”
Sarah squinted. “Boring.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Screenshots. Dates. Times. Building manager log. One clean statement. No essays.”
Bree hovered behind the couch, arms folded. “I love you,” she told me, deadpan.
Sarah groaned. “Please don’t.”
I ignored both of them and held my phone out.
“Sarah,” I said. “Send me the message thread.”
Sarah stiffened. “Why?”
“Because if you’re rattled,” I said evenly, “you might answer by accident. Or delete something out of shame. Or forget a detail you’ll need later. I’m not letting your nervous system do admin.”
Sarah stared at me, then exhaled sharply.
“Fine,” she muttered. “God.”
“Thank you,” I replied, and waited.
Sarah unlocked her phone, scrolled, and began forwarding screenshots. Each one landed in my messages like a pebble in a jar—small, ordinary, cumulative.
Ethan’s language was exactly what I expected.
You can’t do this to me. Stop being dramatic. I just need to talk. I’m outside.
None of it technically violent.
All of it coercive.
A man trying to turn “no” into “not yet.”
I felt my mouth go tight.
I made a folder.
Sarah — Ethan — Jan
Then another:
Venue incident — notes
Not because I wanted to build a case tonight.
Because I wanted Sarah to know—without me saying it—that this wasn’t chaos.
It was manageable.
Sarah watched my hands moving with a kind of exhausted relief that made my chest ache. She didn’t want to be mothered.
She wanted the world to be structured again.
Bree crouched beside her on the couch and spoke softly.
“You did the right thing calling Lauren,” Bree said.
Sarah snorted. “I called someone’s mum.”
Bree grinned. “Better than becoming someone’s mum.”
Sarah’s laugh cracked into something almost real. Then she rubbed her face with both hands, sudden vulnerability slipping through.
“I’m so tired,” she said, and the words were barely audible.
I didn’t soften into pity. Pity makes women smaller. Sarah would rather crawl out of her skin.
So I gave her something else.
A plan.
“Okay,” I said. “Tonight: you sleep here. Bree stays with you. Phone on Do Not Disturb. If he calls, you do nothing. If he shows up, you do not engage. You call police. Period.”
Sarah’s eyes flashed. “That’s dramatic.”
“It’s not dramatic,” I said. “It’s procedure.”
The word procedure landed like a handrail. Sarah’s shoulders lowered by a fraction.
“Tomorrow,” I continued, “we update your building manager. We confirm he’s not allowed entry. We take your documentation and we file what needs filing. And if he appears at Wardrobe, you do not handle it alone.”
Sarah blinked. “He wouldn’t—”
“He might,” I said. “Men like this confuse public space with entitlement space. We don’t assume good behaviour.”
Bree nodded sharply. “Mara will eat him.”
“With a fork,” I said.
Sarah’s mouth twitched again. Then, finally, her voice went small—rare for her.
“Okay,” she said.
Not “fine.”
Not “whatever.”
Okay.
I stood.
“I’ll check on you in the morning,” I said. “And Sarah?”
She looked up.
I held her gaze and made the sentence as plain as a ledger entry.
“This isn’t your fault.”
Sarah’s eyes sharpened, reflexively allergic to comfort.
“I know,” she said.
I didn’t let it slide.
“No,” I repeated, quiet and firm. “Really know.”
Something in her face shifted—anger, grief, exhaustion—then settled.
“I know,” she said again, and this time it sounded like she was trying to believe it.
“Good,” I said. “Because you’re not going to carry his behaviour like it’s your responsibility.”
Sarah swallowed. She nodded once.
Bree reached for her hand and squeezed it.
I left them there—two women on a couch, one holding, one being held—because that was the whole point of the network.
Not rescue.
Not melodrama.
Just women refusing to let another woman be alone in a moment that could have tipped her into danger.
On the drive home, my phone buzzed once.
A text from Celeste.
All okay?
I replied without stopping at a red light, because some things mattered more than traffic etiquette.
Sarah safe. Bree with her. Ex escalating; we’re going formal. Will brief Mara tomorrow.
I put the phone down.
The streetlights slid past.
And I felt, with a strange, steady clarity, the way all of this rhymed.
Charli. Sarah. Bree. Celeste. Mara.
Different stories, same pattern: women tightening the net under one another, quietly, methodically, refusing to let male entitlement be the unchallenged weather of their lives.
Tomorrow, we’d do the boring things again.
Paperwork. Logs. Rules.
The unglamorous machinery of women making the world safe enough to live in.
And I would do it without apology.
Notes26-02-04evA1¶
¶
[26-02-04]
Scene 43A — “Morning, With Clean Edges” (Lauren POV, past tense)
Lauren woke to the smell of toast and something sharp—lemon, maybe.
For a moment she didn’t remember where she was. The spare room looked too calm. The curtains were drawn in a way that kept the light soft. The air felt cooler than it had any right to in the middle of a Queensland heat wave, as if Sarah’s house had been trained to behave.
Then memory arrived in a rush: Roger’s face, the study, the sound of drawers being yanked open, Sarah’s text—I’m offering you a door that locks—and the weight of Sarah’s arms around her in the living room.
Lauren sat up slowly.
Her body felt strange: not relaxed exactly, but less braced. Like a muscle that had been clenched for years and had, finally, been allowed to let go a fraction without being punished for it.
She padded down the hall and paused at the doorway to the kitchen.
Sarah was there, hair clipped up messily, wearing a t-shirt and shorts, moving with brisk confidence in the small space—kettle on, toast popping, a plate already set. The radio played low in the background, something talky, not music. Information, not emotion.
Sarah glanced over her shoulder.
“Morning,” she said, as if Lauren had simply slept over because it was convenient.
Lauren’s throat tightened anyway.
Sarah pointed with the knife she was buttering toast with. “Sit.”
Lauren sat at the small table.
A glass of water appeared beside her hand before she’d even thought to ask for it.
Sarah slid a plate across: toast, a bit of fruit, a smear of something that looked like marmalade. Not fancy. Not fussy. But prepared as if Lauren was worth preparing things for.
Lauren stared at it.
Sarah lifted an eyebrow. “Eat.”
Lauren tried. Her mouth felt dry. She took a sip of water first, then a cautious bite.
The first swallow made her eyes sting—an absurd physical reaction to being fed like someone expected her to still be here in an hour.
Sarah sat opposite with her own toast and took a bite, watching Lauren over the rim of her mug without staring.
“You sleep?” Sarah asked.
“A bit,” Lauren said. Then, because honesty felt less dangerous here, she added, “More than I thought I would.”
Sarah nodded once. “Good.”
Lauren tried for a smile and it came out wobbly. “You’re… very organised.”
Sarah’s mouth twitched. “I’m allergic to chaos.”
Lauren’s eyes dropped to Sarah’s hands—capable hands, practical hands. Hands that had held her and not demanded anything back.
The thought made her chest ache.
Sarah followed her gaze, misread it deliberately, and slid a small box across the table.
“What’s that?” Lauren asked.
“Spare phone charger,” Sarah said. “And a tiny toiletry kit. And a hair tie. I don’t know what you lot do with hair, but you always need something.”
Lauren’s lips parted, a laugh caught halfway between gratitude and shock.
“You didn’t have to—”
Sarah cut her off with a look. “I did. Because you’re here.”
There it was again: Sarah’s stubborn refusal to let care be optional.
Lauren ate another bite. The toast sat heavier in her stomach than it should have, like it was anchoring her to the day.
Sarah’s phone buzzed on the counter.
Sarah didn’t flinch. She glanced at the screen, face going still in a way Lauren recognised instantly now: predatory calm.
Lauren’s pulse jumped.
Sarah didn’t touch the phone for a moment. She finished her sip of tea first, as if demonstrating that urgency did not run this house.
Then she stood, took the phone, and looked at the screen properly.
Lauren watched Sarah’s mouth flatten.
“It’s him,” Sarah said.
Lauren’s fingers tightened around her mug. “Roger?”
Sarah nodded.
Lauren could feel her body start to do its old thing—the panic, the urge to get ahead of the explosion by fixing it.
“I should—” she began.
Sarah held up a hand.
“No,” Sarah said. “You shouldn’t do anything. Eat your toast.”
Lauren stared at her, bewildered. “But—”
Sarah walked to the window, lifted the edge of the curtain an inch, and glanced out like she was checking weather.
“He’s not here,” Sarah said. “He’s just trying to get you back on the hook. Sit. Breathe. Don’t volunteer yourself for stress.”
Lauren swallowed.
Sarah returned to the table, set the phone down—screen facing away from Lauren, a small courtesy—and said, “You want to see what he’s doing?”
Lauren hesitated.
Sarah’s eyes sharpened. “I’m asking because you’re allowed to decide what you can handle. Not because you owe me transparency.”
Lauren nodded, once, cautiously.
Sarah turned the phone so Lauren could see, then kept her own hand over the device, controlling how long Lauren had to look.
A string of messages.
ROGER: Where are you. ROGER: This is ridiculous. ROGER: You can’t take my wife away from me. ROGER: Tell her to come home. ROGER: This is between me and her. ROGER: I’m coming over.
Lauren felt her stomach drop.
Sarah’s thumb tapped once and the next message appeared.
ROGER: You always fill her head with crap. ROGER: She’s not thinking straight. ROGER: I’ll speak to you like a man if I have to.
Lauren’s throat tightened so hard she couldn’t speak.
Sarah’s expression didn’t change much. But the air around her did.
Sarah picked up her mug again, took a calm sip, then said, “Classic.”
Lauren found her voice. It came out faint. “I’m sorry.”
Sarah’s eyes snapped to her.
“No.” Sarah said it like a rule. “Don’t apologise for a man being a man.”
Lauren flinched at the truth in it.
Sarah stood, walked to the door, and checked the lock with a practiced hand. One click. Then the second click.
She came back and sat down like nothing had happened.
Lauren stared. “What are you going to do?”
Sarah leaned forward, elbows on the table, and said, “I’m going to respond once. Only once. Then I’m going to ignore him. That’s how you teach a man he doesn’t own your time.”
Lauren’s breathing went shallow.
Sarah’s eyes softened just slightly.
“And you,” Sarah added, “are going to finish breakfast.”
Lauren tried. Her hands shook.
Sarah typed with fast certainty.
Lauren watched the screen.
SARAH: She’s safe. She’s not speaking to you today. Do not come here. If you arrive, I will call the police.
Sarah hit send. Then—without drama—she blocked the number.
Lauren blinked. “Just like that?”
Sarah looked at her. “Just like that.”
“But what if he—”
“He’ll try,” Sarah said. “He’s used to you managing his feelings. He’ll escalate until he finds a new lever.” She took another sip of tea. “He won’t find it here.”
Lauren’s eyes stung again. It was humiliating, how close she was to tears all the time.
Sarah reached across the table and pressed her hand over Lauren’s for a moment—firm, warm, grounding—then let go as if she’d only been checking temperature.
“You’re doing the hardest part,” Sarah said, voice lower. “You’ve left.”
Lauren swallowed.
Sarah held her gaze, unflinching.
“And if you go back,” Sarah added, “it won’t be because you’re weak. It’ll be because he frightened you into forgetting who you are. I won’t let him do that.”
Lauren’s chest tightened.
A thought rose—dangerous, private: No one has ever spoken to me like that.
Not even Celeste, with her quiet authority.
Not even Lauren herself.
Lauren’s mouth trembled. “I don’t want to go back.”
Sarah nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”
And then, because Sarah couldn’t tolerate too much tenderness without deflecting, she stood and picked up the empty plate.
“More tea?” she asked briskly. “Or are you one of those people who pretends coffee is personality?”
Lauren let out a shaky laugh.
Sarah’s mouth curved.
The day, somehow, had begun.
End Scene 43A.
Notes26-02-04evB1¶
¶
[26-02-04]
Scene 43B — “He Shows Up” (Lauren POV, past tense)
(If you want higher stakes, here’s the escalation version—Roger actually arrives. It’s still grounded and not melodramatic. Sarah handles it like a woman who has dealt with blokes like him before.)
By late morning Lauren’s body had started to believe, briefly, that the worst was behind her.
That was when the knock came.
It wasn’t polite.
It wasn’t friendly.
It was three hard raps—commanding, male, familiar.
Lauren froze mid-step, a tea mug in her hand.
Her heart slammed.
Sarah’s head lifted from where she was sorting something at the dining table—bills, maybe, or patterns, or the steady detritus of a woman who ran her life like a well-kept ship.
Sarah’s expression changed into something coldly lucid.
She didn’t look at Lauren first.
She looked at the door.
Then she stood.
“Stay here,” Sarah said.
Lauren’s throat tightened. “Sarah—”
Sarah cut across her gently, not unkind. “Lauren. Kitchen. Now.”
The tone wasn’t bossy—it was protective command.
Lauren obeyed before her pride could intervene.
Sarah walked to the front door and did not open it.
She didn’t call through with Who is it? as if she needed confirmation.
She spoke clearly through the wood.
“Roger,” Sarah said. “Leave.”
Silence. Then his voice—too loud, pitched for intimidation.
“I need to speak to my wife.”
Sarah’s reply was immediate. Flat.
“She’s not speaking to you.”
“I know she’s in there,” Roger snapped. “Open the door.”
Sarah’s voice didn’t rise to meet him. It stayed calm, which somehow made it worse—for him.
“No.”
Lauren stood in the kitchen, hands shaking so hard the mug sloshed. She set it down before she dropped it.
Roger’s voice sharpened.
“This is none of your business.”
Sarah’s laugh was brief, incredulous.
“She’s in my house,” Sarah said. “That makes it my business.”
Roger tried another strategy—the one that always worked on women trained to be reasonable.
“Tell her I just want to talk. This is all a misunderstanding.”
Sarah waited a beat—just long enough that the pause felt like judgement.
Then she said, “Roger. Leave. Or I’m calling the police.”
Lauren heard movement—footsteps closer, a body leaning toward the door.
“You don’t get to threaten me,” he said, low, intimate.
“Oh, I do,” Sarah replied. And there it was: steel. “Because I’m not scared of you.”
Lauren’s breath hitched.
Roger spoke again—now angry, now exposed.
“You’re poisoning her against me.”
Sarah’s voice remained calm. “You did that yourself.”
A harsh exhale.
Then: “Lauren! Open the door!”
Lauren’s whole body flinched at her name coming like that, through someone else’s house. Like a hook.
Sarah’s voice cut in instantly, hard.
“Do not shout her name in my house.”
Silence.
Lauren’s eyes stung.
Sarah continued, slower now, as if speaking to a child who’d missed the lesson.
“She’s safe. She’s leaving you. You don’t get an argument. You don’t get a scene. You don’t get closure on your timeline.”
Roger made a sound like a scoff, but it shook at the edges.
“You can’t keep her from me.”
Sarah’s reply landed like a door closing.
“I’m not keeping her,” Sarah said. “I’m giving her a moment to remember she has legs.”
Lauren’s knees went weak.
Roger swore—quiet, vicious—then thumped the door once, hard enough that Lauren jumped.
Sarah didn’t.
Sarah said, clear as a bell, “That’s assault. I’m calling now.”
And then, for the first time, Roger hesitated. You could hear the calculation—risk, consequence, witnesses.
His voice shifted into wounded outrage.
“This is unbelievable.”
Sarah’s tone sharpened, almost bored.
“Then be unbelievable somewhere else.”
There was a pause, and then the sound of footsteps retreating.
A car door. An engine starting.
Sarah waited until the sound of the vehicle faded.
Only then did she turn the lock twice, as if sealing the last inch of safety back into place.
Two clicks.
Final.
She came into the kitchen.
Lauren was standing very still, as if any movement would break her.
Sarah looked at her—properly—eyes steady.
“You alright?” she asked, and it was the first time her voice had softened all morning.
Lauren’s mouth opened. Nothing came.
Sarah exhaled and stepped close, not crowding—present.
“You did not do anything wrong,” Sarah said. “He came here because he thought fear would bring you back.”
Lauren’s voice emerged in a whisper. “It used to.”
Sarah nodded once, grim.
“I know.”
Lauren’s eyes filled.
Sarah didn’t wait for permission this time. She pulled Lauren into a hug—strong, anchoring—and held her until Lauren’s shaking eased.
When Sarah finally released her, she kept her hands on Lauren’s shoulders.
“You’re learning,” Sarah said. “That’s why it feels like this. Your body is unlearning the lie.”
Lauren sniffed, wiped her cheeks.
Sarah’s mouth twitched.
“And,” Sarah added, dry as ever, “for the record, he’s not coming back today. Men like him don’t like police reports. They like private rooms and plausible deniability.”
Lauren let out a tiny, broken laugh.
Sarah’s expression softened—briefly.
“Tea,” Sarah said. “Then we call Celeste. And Mara, if you want. And we do this in a way that doesn’t leave you alone with paperwork.”
Lauren nodded.
The fear in her chest didn’t vanish.
But it no longer had the whole house to itself.
End Scene 43B.
Notes26-02-06ev1¶
A&B 1st Person¶
[26-02-06]
Scene 43 — “Morning, With Clean Edges” (Lauren POV, 1st person, past tense)
I woke to the smell of toast and something sharp—lemon, maybe.
For a moment I didn’t remember where I was. The spare room had an unfamiliar calm. The curtains were drawn in a way that kept the light soft. The air felt cooler than it had any right to in the middle of a south Victoria heat wave, as if Sarah’s house had been trained to behave.
Then memory arrived in a rush: Roger’s face in the study, the scrape of his chair, the sound of cupboard doors being slammed, Sarah’s message—I’m offering you a door that locks—and the weight of Sarah’s arms around me in the living room.
I sat up slowly.
My body felt strange: not relaxed exactly, but less braced. Like a muscle that had been clenched for years and had finally been allowed to let go a fraction without being punished for it.
I padded down the hall and paused at the kitchen doorway.
Sarah was there, hair clipped up messily, wearing a t-shirt and shorts, moving with brisk confidence in the small space—kettle on, toast popping, a plate already set. The radio played low in the background, something talky. Information, not emotion.
She glanced over her shoulder.
“Morning,” she said brightly, as greeting sleepy-faced women in her kitchen was a common occurence. I felt my pulse quicken at the sight of her messy updo. Sarah pointed with the knife she was buttering toast with.“Sit.”
I sat at the small table. A glass of water appeared beside my hand before I’d even thought to ask for it. Sarah slid a plate across: toast, fruit, a smear of confiture. Care on a plate, with marmalade. Like I was worth preparing things for.
I stared at it.
Sarah lifted an eyebrow. “Eat.”
I tried. My mouth was dry. I took a sip of water first, then a cautious bite. The first swallow made my eyes sting—an absurd physical reaction to being fed like someone expected me to still be here in an hour. Sarah sat opposite with her own toast and watched me over the rim of her mug without staring.
“You sleep?”
“A bit,” I said. Then, because honesty felt less dangerous in this house, I added, “More than I thought I would.”
Sarah nodded once. I attempted a smile and it came out wobbly.“You’re… so organised.”
Her mouth twitched. She shrugged. “I’m allergic to chaos.”
My gaze dropped to her hands—capable hands, practical hands. Hands that had held me and asked for nothing back. Sarah followed my gaze and, as if deciding to misread it on purpose, slid a small box across the table.
“What’s that?”
“Spare phone charger,” she said. “Tiny toiletry kit. Hair ties. I can’t remember what you do with your hair, but I reckon it never hurts to have a few air ties.”
A laugh tried to arrive and got tangled with gratitude.
“You didn’t have to—”
Sarah cut me off with a look.
“I don’t do things because I have to. I do because you’re here.”
There it was again: her stubborn refusal to let care be optional. I ate another bite. The toast sat heavier in my stomach than it should have, like it was anchoring me to the day.
Then Sarah’s phone buzzed on the counter. I felt my body do its old thing—spike, brace, steel yourself.Sarah didn’t flinch. She glanced at the screen, her face going still in a way I recognised now: predatory calm. She didn’t touch the phone immediately but slowly, deliberately finished her sip of tea first: urgency does not run this house.
Finally, she picked it up and looked properly.
“It’s him.”
My fingers tightened around my mug. “Roger?”
Sarah nodded.
“I should—” I began, the reflex loud in my mouth.
Sarah lifted a hand. Quick, defining shake of her head, her lips pursed.“No.”
The single syllable was a door slamming on an old habit.
“You should—” she continued. “—eat your toast.”
I stared at her, bewildered. Sarah walked to the window, lifted the curtain an inch, and looked out like she was checking weather.
“He’s not here,” she said, sitting back down and picking up her cup. “Look, he’s trying to get you back on the hook.” She pointed at my toast. “Sit. Eat. Breathe. Don’t volunteer yourself for stress.”
I briefly closed my eyes—breathed. I hated how easy it was to obey her, hated even more how much relief came with it.
Sarah came back, set the phone down screen-away—small courtesy—and looked at me.
“You want to see what he’s doing?” Her eyebrows rose with a side-long appraisal. “I’m asking because you’re allowed to decide what you can handle,” she said, before I could answer. “Not because you owe me transparency.”
I nodded once, cautious. Sarah turned the phone toward me and kept her own hand over the screen, controlling how long I had to look. A string of messages.
ROGER: Where is she. ROGER: This is ridiculous. ROGER: You can’t take my wife away from me. ROGER: Tell her to come home. ROGER: This is between me and her. ROGER: I’m coming over.
My stomach dropped.
Sarah’s thumb tapped once, and more appeared.
ROGER: You always fill her head with crap. ROGER: She’s not thinking straight. ROGER: I’ll deal with you like a man if I have to.
I swallowed hard. My voice came out faint. “I’m sorry.”
Sarah’s eyes snapped to mine.
“No,” she said, like a rule. “Don’t apologise for a bloke being… whatever this is.”
Heat rose behind my eyes. I blinked it back and hated myself for needing to. Sarah stood, went to the front door, and checked the padlock again.
A click. Unlock.
Then the clack. Locked.
She came back and sat down with a set look on her face, as if she’d just locked up the pub takings.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to respond once,” Sarah said. “Only once. Then I’m going to ignore him. That’s how you teach a man he doesn’t own your time.”
My breath went shallow. Sarah’s eyes softened, just a fraction.
“And you,” she added, “are going to finish breakfast.”
My hands shook so badly the toast tore instead of bit. Sarah didn’t comment. She picked up her phone and typed with fast certainty. I watched, my pulse racing.
SARAH: She’s safe. She’s not speaking to you today. Do not come here. If you arrive, I will call the police.
Sarah hit send. Then—without drama—blocked his number.
I blinked. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” she said.
“But what if he—”
“Oh, he’ll definitely try,” Sarah said. “He’s used to controlling you. So, he will escalate until he finds a lever.” She took another sip of tea. “He just won’t find it here.”
My eyes stung again. It was humiliating, how close I was to tears all the time. Sarah reached across the table and pressed her hand over mine for a moment—firm, warm, reassuring. Strength flowed from her.
“You’ve done the hard yards,” she said, quieter. “You’ve left.”
Something in my chest twisted.
“And if you were to go back,” she added, “it wouldn’t be because you’re weak. It would be because he was successful in frightening you into forgetting who you are.” Her eyes turned to steel. “I won’t let him do that.”
A thought rose I felt I had to swallow. Hard. No one has ever come to my defence like that.
Not ever.
“I don’t want to go back,” I whispered. It came out raw.
“Good. Because I wouldn’t let you.”
She was suddenly unable to look at me. She stood and picked up my empty plate.
“More tea?” she asked briskly. “Or are you one of those people who pretends coffee is personality?”
A laugh escaped me, shaky and startled. Sarah’s mouth curved. The day, somehow, had begun. I almost believed, there for a moment, that the worst was behind me.
That was when the knock came.
It wasn’t polite or friendly. Three hard raps—commanding, male, familiar. My whole body froze mid-swallow. My heart slammed like it was trying to get out first. Sarah’s head lifted from the sink.For a beat she didn’t look at me. She looked at the door. Then she stood.
“Stay here.”
“Sarah—” My voice cracked on her name.
She cut across me gently, not unkind but urgent.
“Lauren. Kitchen. Now.”
I obeyed before my pride could intervene. Sarah walked slowly to the front door.She did not open it, nor did she call through with a Who-is-it.
She spoke clearly through the wood.
“Roger,” she said. “Leave.”
Silence.
Then his voice—harsh, loud, pitched for intimidation: “I need to speak to my wife.”
Sarah replied immediately, flat. “She’s not speaking to you.”
“I know she’s in there,” Roger snapped. “Open the door.”
Sarah’s voice didn’t rise to meet him: it stayed calm. That calmness would have fueled his anger.
“No.”
In the kitchen my hands shook so hard my mug sloshed. I set it down before I dropped it.
“This is none of your business.”
Sarah’s laugh was brief, incredulous. “She’s in my house. That makes it my business.”
Roger tried the strategy that used to work—the one designed for women trained to be reasonable.
“Tell her I just want to talk. This is all a misunderstanding.”
Sarah waited a beat—just long enough that the pause felt like judgement. Then she said,“Roger. Leave. Or I’m calling the police.”
I heard him move closer to the door, a body leaning toward wood.
“You don’t get to threaten me,” he said, low, intimate.
“Oh, I do,” Sarah replied. And there it was again—steel. I’m not scared of you.”
My breath hitched.
“You’re poisoning her against me,” he snapped.
Sarah’s voice stayed calm. “You did that all by yourself.”
A harsh exhale. Then he shouted:
“Lauren! Open the door!”
My name through someone else’s house hit me like a hook. My body flinched before I could stop it. Sarah’s voice cut in instantly, hard.“Do not shout her name in my house.”
Silence.
My eyes burned. I stared at the kitchen tiles as if they could tell me what to do with my shaking hands. Sarah continued, slower, like she was teaching a child who’d missed the lesson.
“She’s safe. She’s leaving you. You don’t get an argument. You don’t get a scene. You don’t get closure on your timeline. Go away.”
“You can’t keep her from me.”
“I’m not keeping her from anything,” Sarah said. “I’m giving her a moment to remember she has legs.”
My knees went weak. I put a hand on the counter to stay upright. Roger swore—quiet, vicious—then thumped the door once, hard enough that I jumped.
Sarah didn’t.
“That’s assault,” Sarah said, clear as a bell. “I’m calling now.”
For the first time, there was a silence behind the door, Roger hesitating. I could hear the calculation in the silence: risk, consequence, witnesses.
“This is unbelievable,” he said, wounded outrage pretending it was moral principle.
Sarah sounded almost bored.
“Then be unbelievable somewhere else.”
A pause.
Then footsteps retreating. A car door. An engine. The squeal of tyres of his depature, in a hurry he’d arrived without. Sarah waited until the engine faded. Only then did she turn the lock twice—click, clack—as if sealing the last inch of safety back into place.
Final.
She came into the kitchen. I was standing very still, as if any movement would break me. Sarah looked at me steadily, eyes full of tenderness.
“You right, Lauren?” she asked, and it was the first time her voice had softened all morning.
My mouth opened. Nothing came. Sarah exhaled and stepped closer—not crowding. Present.
“You did nothing wrong, petal,” she said. “He came here because he thought he could control you with fear.”
My voice emerged as a whisper. “He used to be able to.”
Sarah nodded once, grim. “I know. I can tell.”
The tears I’d been holding back all morning finally slipped loose.
Sarah didn’t wait for permission. She pulled me into a hug—strong, anchoring—and held me until the shaking eased. When she released me, her hands stayed on my shoulders.
“You’re learning what it’s like to be free,” she said. “It feels like this. Scary, but wonderful. Your body will have to unlearn the lie, that’s all.”
I sniffed and wiped my cheeks. Sarah’s mouth twitched.
“And for the record,” she added, dry as ever, “I can guarantee he’s not coming back today. Blokes like him don’t like police reports. They like private rooms and plausible deniability.”
A tiny, broken laugh escaped me. Sarah’s expression softened—briefly. Then she straightened, brisk again, because that was how she kept the world in order.
“Tea,” she said. “Then we call Celeste. And Mara, if you want. And we do this in a way that doesn’t leave you alone with paperwork.”
I nodded. The fear in my chest didn’t vanish.
But it no longer had the whole house to itself.
End Scene 43.
Notes26-02-09ev1¶
ww¶
👭 💞 🖤 🍓 🌶 🚪 🔑 🛋 🫧 🌩 🌧 🧵 🪡 👗 👚 👜 👠 🩰 💄 💋 🎻 📒 ✂ 🩸 💧 🚺 ⚧ ♀ ⚜
Scene 43 — “Morning, With Clean Edges” (Lauren POV, 1st person, past tense)
[26-02-13]
[ Lauren ]
🚪 Morning, With Clean Edges 🚪
I woke to the smell of toast and something sharp—lemon, maybe.
For a moment I didn’t remember where I was. The spare room had an unfamiliar calm. The curtains were drawn in a way that kept the light soft. The air felt cooler than it had any right to in the middle of a Victorian heat wave, as if Sarah’s house had been trained to behave.
Then memory arrived in a rush: Roger’s face in the study, the scrape of his chair, the sound of cupboard doors being slammed, Sarah’s message—I’m offering you a door that locks—and the weight of Sarah’s arms around me in the living room.
I sat up slowly.
My body felt strange: not relaxed exactly, but less braced: like a muscle that had been clenched for years and had finally been allowed to let go a fraction without being punished for it.
I padded down the hall and paused at the kitchen doorway.
Sarah was sitting—one knee at her chin—at the table, hair clipped up messily, wearing a t-shirt and shorts, buttering her toast. The kitchen spelled alive correctly—kettle on, toast popping, a plate already set. The radio played low in the background, something talky.
She glanced over her shoulder.
“Morning,” she said brightly, as if greeting sleepy-faced women in her kitchen was an everyday thing. My pulse quickened at the sight of her messy updo. Sarah pointed with her free hand.
“Sit.”
I eased myself into the other chair. A glass of water appeared beside my hand. Sarah slid a plate across—toast, fruit, a smear of jam. Care on a plate, with marmalade. Like I was worth preparing things for.
I stared at it.
Sarah lifted an eyebrow. “Eat.”
I tried. My mouth was dry. I took a sip of water first, then a cautious bite. The first swallow made my eyes sting—an absurd physical reaction to being fed by someone who clearly expected me to still be here in an hour. Sarah sat opposite with her own toast and watched me over the rim of her mug with soft morning eyes.
“You sleep?”
“A bit,” I said. Then, because honesty felt less dangerous in this house, I added, “More than I thought I would.” I took in the toast and the jam and the tea and attempted a smile. It came out wobbly.“You’re… so organised.”
Her mouth twitched. She shrugged. “I’m allergic to chaos.”
My gaze dropped to her hands—capable hands, practical hands. Hands that had held me and asked for nothing back. Sarah followed my gaze and, as if deciding to misread it on purpose, slid a small box across the table.
“What’s this?”
“Spare phone charger,” she said. “Tiny toiletry kit. Hair ties. I can’t remember what you actually do with your hair, but I reckon it never hurts to have a few hair ties.”
A laugh tried to arrive and got tangled with gratitude.
“You didn’t have to—”
Sarah cut me off with a look.
“I don’t do things because I have to. I do because you’re here.”
There it was again: her stubborn refusal to let care be optional. I ate another bite. The toast sat heavier in my stomach than it should have, like it was anchoring me to the day.
Then Sarah’s phone buzzed on the counter.I felt my body do its old thing—spike, brace, steel yourself.
Sarah didn’t react. She glanced at the screen, her face going still in a way I recognised now: predatory calm. She didn’t touch the phone immediately but slowly, deliberately finished her sip of tea first—
urgency does not run this house.
Finally, she picked it up and looked properly.
“It’s him.”
My fingers tightened around my mug. “Roger?”
Sarah nodded.
“I should—” I began, the reflex loud in my mouth.
Sarah lifted a hand. A quick, defining shake of her head, lips pursed.
“No.”
The single syllable was a door slamming on an old habit.
“You should—” she continued, “—eat your toast.”
I stared at her. Sarah stood slowly and strode to the window. She lifted the curtain an inch and looked out like she was checking weather.
“He’s not here,” she said, sitting back down and picking up her cup. “Look, he’s trying to get you back on the hook.” She pointed at my toast. “Sit. Eat. Breathe. Don’t volunteer yourself for stress.”
I briefly closed my eyes—did as she said. Breathed. I hated how easy it was to obey her, hated even more how much relief came with it.
Sarah set the phone down screen-away—small courtesy—and looked at me.
“You want to see what he’s doing?” Her eyebrows rose with a sidelong appraisal. “I’m asking because you’re allowed to decide what you can handle,” she added before I could answer. I nodded, cautious. Sarah turned the phone toward me.A string of messages.
ROGER: Where is she. ROGER: This is ridiculous. ROGER: You can’t take my wife away from me. ROGER: Tell her to come home. ROGER: This is between me and her. ROGER: I’m coming over.
My stomach dropped. And at the question in her eyes, nodded again.
Sarah’s thumb scrolled, more appeared.
ROGER: You always fill her head with crap. ROGER: She’s not thinking straight. ROGER: I’ll deal with you like a man if I have to.
I swallowed hard. My voice came out faint.“I’m sorry.”
Sarah’s eyes snapped to mine.
“Again with the 'sorry',” she said, a slight irritation in her voice. “Don’t apologise for a bloke being… whatever this is.”
Heat rose behind my eyes. I blinked it back and hated myself for needing to. Sarah stood, went to the front door, and checked the padlock again.
A click. Unlock.
Then, the clack. Locked.
She came back and sat down, a set look on her face, as if she’d just locked up the pub takings.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to respond once,” Sarah said. “Only once. Then I’m going to ignore him. That’s how you teach someone he doesn’t own your time.”
My breath went shallow. Sarah’s eyes softened, just a fraction.
“And you,” she added, “are going to finish breakfast.”
My hands shook so badly the toast tore instead of bit. Sarah didn’t comment. She picked up her phone and typed with fast certainty. I watched, my pulse racing.
SARAH: She’s safe. She’s not speaking to you today. Do not come here. If you arrive, I will call the police.
Sarah hit send. Then—without drama—blocked his number. I bit my lip.“What if he—”
“Oh, he’ll definitely try something, Lauren,” Sarah said. “He’s used to controlling you. And so he’ll escalate until he finds a lever.” She took another sip of tea. “He just won’t find it here.”
My eyes stung again. It was humiliating, how close I was to tears all the time. Sarah reached across the table and pressed her hand over mine for a moment—firm, warm, reassuring. Strength flowed from her.
“Look, you’ve done the hard yards,” she said, quieter. “You left.”
Something in my chest twisted.
“And if you were to go back,” she added, “it wouldn’t be because you’re weak. It would be because he was successful in frightening you into forgetting who you are.” Her eyes turned to steel. “I won’t let him do that.”
A thought rose I felt I had to swallow. Hard.No one has ever come to my defence like that.
Not ever.
“I don’t want to go back,” I whispered. It came out raw.
“Good. Because I wouldn’t let you.”
She was suddenly unable to look at me. She stood and picked up my empty plate. “More tea?” she asked briskly. “Or are you one of those people who pretends coffee is personality?”
A laugh escaped me, shaky and startled. Sarah’s mouth curved. The day, somehow, had begun. I almost believed, for a moment, that the worst was behind me.
And then, the knock came.
Three hard raps—commanding, male, familiar.My whole body froze mid-swallow. My heart slammed like it was trying to get out first.Sarah’s head lifted from the sink. For a beat she didn’t look at me. She looked at the door. Then she stood.
“Stay here.”
“Sarah—” My voice cracked on her name.
She cut across me gently, not unkind but urgent.
“Lauren. Kitchen. Now.”
I obeyed before my pride could intervene. Sarah walked slowly to the front door.
She did not open it, nor did she call through with a “Who is it?” She spoke clearly through the wood.
“Roger,” she said. “Leave.”
Silence.
Then his voice—harsh, loud, pitched for intimidation: “I want to speak to my wife.”
Sarah replied immediately, flat. “She’s not speaking to you.”
“I know she’s in there,” Roger snapped. “Open the door!”
Sarah’s voice didn’t rise to meet him—it stayed calm. That calmness would have fuelled his anger.
“No.”
In the kitchen my hands shook so hard my mug sloshed. I set it down before I dropped it.
“This is none of your business.”
Sarah’s laugh was brief, incredulous.“She’s in my house. That makes it my business.”
Roger tried the strategy that used to work, the one designed for women trained to be reasonable.
“Look, tell her I just want to talk. This is all a misunderstanding.”
Sarah waited a beat—just long enough that the pause felt like judgement. Then she said,
“Roger. Leave. Or I’m calling the police.”
I heard him move closer to the door, a body leaning toward wood.
“You don’t get to threaten me.” His voice was clenched, low.
“Oh, I do,” Sarah replied, and there it was again—steel. “I’m not scared of you.”
My breath hitched.
“You’re poisoning her against me,” he snapped.
Sarah’s voice stayed calm. “You did that all by yourself.”
A harsh exhale. Then he shouted:
“Lauren! Open the door!”
My name through someone else’s house hit me like a slap. My body recoiled before I could stop it.Sarah’s voice came instantly, hard.
“Do not shout her name in my house.”
Silence.
My eyes burned. I stared at the kitchen tiles as if they could tell me what to do with my shaking hands.Sarah continued, slower, like she was teaching a child who’d missed the lesson.
“She’s safe. She’s leaving you. You don’t get an argument. You don’t get a scene. You don’t get closure on your timeline. Go away.”
“You can’t keep her from me.”
“I’m not keeping her from anything,” Sarah said. “I’m giving her a chance to remember she has legs.”
My knees went weak. I put a hand on the counter to stay upright. Roger swore—quiet, vicious—then thumped the door once, hard enough that I jumped.
Sarah didn’t.
“Right. That’s trespass,” Sarah said, clear as a bell. “I’m calling now.”
For the first time, there was a silence behind the door, Roger hesitating. I could hear the calculation in the silence: risk, consequence, witnesses.
“This is unbelievable,” he said, wounded outrage pretending it was moral principle.
Sarah sounded almost bored.
“Then be unbelievable somewhere else.”
A pause.
Footsteps, retreating.A car door. An engine, complaining. The squeal of tyres as he tore off—leaving in the hurry he’d arrived without. Sarah waited until the sound faded. Only then did she turn the lock twice—click, clack—as if sealing the last inch of safety back into place.
Final.
She came into the kitchen. I was standing very still, as if stirring would break me. Sarah looked at me steadily, eyes full of tenderness.
“You right, Lauren?” she asked, and it was the first time her voice had softened all morning.
My mouth opened. Nothing came. Sarah exhaled and stepped closer—warmth.
“You did nothing wrong, petal,” she said. “He came here because he thought he could control you with fear.”
My voice emerged as a whisper. “He used to be able to.”
Sarah nodded, grim. “I know. I can tell.”
The tears I’d been holding back all morning finally slipped loose.
Sarah didn’t wait for permission. She pulled me into a hug—strong, anchoring—and held me until the shaking eased. When she released me, her hands stayed on my shoulders.
“You’re learning what it’s like to be free,” she said. “It feels like this. Scary, but wonderful. Your body will have to unlearn some lies, that’s all.”
I sniffed and wiped my cheeks. Sarah’s mouth twitched.
“And for the record,” she added, dry as ever, “I can guarantee he’s not coming back today. Blokes like him don’t like police reports. They like private rooms and plausible deniability.”
A tiny, broken laugh escaped me. Sarah’s expression softened—briefly. Then she straightened, brisk again, because that was how she kept the world in order.
“Tea,” she said. “Then we call Celeste. And Mara, if you want. And we do this in a way that doesn’t leave you alone with paperwork.”
I nodded.The fear in my chest didn’t vanish.
But it no longer had the whole house to itself.
End Scene 43.
Published¶
[26-02-12]¶
😄🧵💛👭 💞 🖤 🍓 🌶 🚪 🔑 🛋 🫧 🌩 🌧 🧵 🪡 👗 👚 👜 👠 🩰 💄 💋 🎻 📒 ✂ 🩸 💧 🚺 ⚧ ♀ ⚜
🚪 Morning, With Clean Edges 🚪
[ Lauren ]
I woke to the smell of toast and something sharp—lemon, maybe.
For a moment I didn’t remember where I was. The spare room had an unfamiliar calm. The curtains were drawn in a way that kept the light soft. The air felt cooler than it had any right to in the middle of a Victorian heat wave, as if Sarah’s house had been trained to behave.
Then memory arrived in a rush: Roger’s face in the study, the scrape of his chair, the sound of cupboard doors being slammed, Sarah’s message—I’m offering you a door that locks—and the comfort of Sarah’s arms around me in the living room.
I sat up slowly.
My body felt strange: not relaxed exactly, but less braced: like a muscle that had been clenched for years and had finally been allowed to let go a fraction without being punished for it.
I padded down the hall and paused at the kitchen doorway.
Sarah was sitting—one knee at her chin—at the table, hair clipped up messily, wearing a t-shirt and shorts, buttering her toast. The kitchen spelled 'alive' correctly—kettle on, toast popping, a plate already set. The radio played low in the background, something talky.
She glanced over her shoulder.
“Morning,” she said brightly, as if greeting sleepy-faced women in her kitchen was an everyday thing. My pulse quickened at the sight of her messy updo. Sarah pointed with her free hand.
“Sit.”
I eased myself into the other chair. A glass of water appeared beside my hand. Sarah slid a plate across—toast, fruit, a smear of jam. Care on a plate, with marmalade. Like I was worth preparing things for.
I stared at it.
Sarah lifted an eyebrow. “Eat.”
I tried. My mouth was dry. I took a sip of water first, then a cautious bite. The first swallow made my eyes sting—an absurd physical reaction to being fed by someone who clearly expected me to still be here in an hour. Sarah sat opposite with her own toast and watched me over the rim of her mug with soft morning eyes.
“You sleep?”
“A bit,” I said. Then, because honesty felt less dangerous in this house, I added, “More than I thought I would.” I took in the toast and the jam and the tea and attempted a smile. It came out wobbly.“You’re… so organised.”
She shrugged. “I’m allergic to chaos.”
My gaze dropped to her hands—capable hands, practical hands. Hands that had held me and asked for nothing back. Sarah followed my gaze and, as if deciding to misread it on purpose, slid a small box across the table.
“What’s this?”
“Spare phone charger,” she said. “Tiny toiletry kit. Hair ties. I can’t remember what you actually do with your hair, but I reckon it never hurts to have a few hair ties.”
A laugh tried to arrive and got tangled with gratitude.
“You didn’t have to—”
Sarah cut me off with a look.
“I don’t do things because I have to. I do because you’re here.”
There it was again: her stubborn refusal to let care be optional. I ate another bite. The toast sat heavier in my stomach than it should have, like it was anchoring me to the day.
Then Sarah’s phone buzzed on the counter.I felt my body do its old thing—spike, brace, steel yourself.
Sarah didn’t react. She glanced at the screen, her face going still in a way I recognised now: predatory calm. She didn’t touch the phone immediately but slowly, deliberately finished her sip of tea first—
urgency does not run this house.
Finally, she picked it up and had a proper look.
“It’s him.”
My fingers tightened around my mug. “Roger?”
Sarah nodded.
“I should—” I began, the reflex loud in my mouth.
Sarah lifted a hand. A quick, defining shake of her head, lips pursed.
“No.”
The single syllable was a door slamming on an old habit.
“You should—” she continued, “—eat your toast.”
I stared at her. Sarah stood slowly and strode to the window. She lifted the curtain an inch and looked out like she was checking weather.
“He’s not here,” she said, sitting back down and picking up her cup. “Look, he’s trying to get you back on the hook.” She pointed at my toast. “Sit. Eat. Breathe. Don’t volunteer yourself for stress.”
I briefly closed my eyes—did as she said. Breathed. I hated how easy it was to obey her, hated even more how much relief came with it.
Sarah set the phone down screen-away—small courtesy—and looked at me.
“You want to see what he’s doing?” Her eyebrows rose with a sidelong appraisal. “I’m asking because you’re allowed to decide what you can handle,” she added before I could answer. I nodded, cautious. Sarah turned the phone toward me.A string of messages.
ROGER: Where is she.
ROGER: This is ridiculous.
ROGER: You can’t take my wife away from me.
ROGER: Tell her to come home.
ROGER: This is between me and her.
ROGER: I’m coming over.
My stomach dropped. And at the question in her eyes, nodded again.
Sarah’s thumb scrolled, more appeared.
ROGER: You always fill her head with crap.
ROGER: She’s not thinking straight.
ROGER: I’ll deal with you like a man if I have to.
I swallowed hard. My voice came out faint.“I’m sorry.”
Sarah’s eyes snapped to mine.
“Again with the 'sorry',” she said, a slight irritation in her voice. “Don’t apologise for a bloke being… whatever this is.”
Heat rose behind my eyes. I blinked it back and hated myself for needing to. Sarah stood, went to the front door, and checked the padlock again.
A click. Unlock.
Then, the clack.
Locked.
She came back and sat down, a set look on her face, as if she’d just locked up the pub takings.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to respond once,” Sarah said. “Only once. Then I’m going to ignore him. That’s how you teach someone he doesn’t own your time.”
My breath went shallow. Sarah’s eyes softened, just a fraction.
“And you,” she added, “are going to finish breakfast.”
My hands shook so badly the toast tore instead of bit. Sarah didn’t comment. She picked up her phone and typed with fast certainty. I watched, my pulse racing.
SARAH: She’s safe. She’s not speaking to you today. Do not come here. If you arrive, I will call the police.
Sarah hit send. Then—without drama—blocked his number. I bit my lip.“What if he—”
“Oh, he’ll definitely try something, Lauren,” Sarah said. “He’s used to controlling you. And so he’ll escalate until he finds a lever.” She took another sip of tea. “He just won’t find it here.”
My eyes stung again. It was humiliating, how close I was to tears all the time. Sarah reached across the table and pressed her hand over mine for a moment—firm, warm, reassuring. Strength flowed from her.
“Look, you’ve done the hard yards,” she said, quieter. “You left.”
Something in my chest twisted.
“And if you were to go back,” she added, “it wouldn’t be because you’re weak, but because he was successful in frightening you into forgetting who you are.” Her eyes turned to steel.
“I won’t let him do that.”
A thought rose I felt I had to swallow. Hard.No one has ever come to my defence like that.
Not ever.
“I don’t want to go back,” I whispered. It came out raw.
“Good. Because I wouldn’t let you.”
She suddenly seemed unable to look at me. Stood and picked up my empty plate. “More tea?” she asked briskly. “Or are you one of those people who pretends coffee is personality?”
A laugh escaped me, shaky and startled. Sarah’s mouth curved. The day, somehow, had begun. I almost believed, for a moment, that the worst was behind me.
And then, the knock came.
Three hard raps—commanding, male, familiar.My whole body froze mid-swallow. My heart slammed like it was trying to get out first.Sarah’s head lifted from the sink. For a beat she didn’t look at me: she looked at the door. Then she stood.
“Stay here.”
“Sarah—” My voice cracked on her name.
She cut across me gently, not unkind but urgent.
“Lauren. Kitchen. Now.”
I obeyed before my pride could intervene. Sarah walked slowly to the front door.
She did not open it, nor did she call through with a “Who is it?” She spoke clearly through the wood.
“Roger,” she said. “Leave.”
Silence.
Then his voice—harsh, loud, pitched for intimidation: “I want to speak to my wife!”
Sarah replied immediately, flat. “She’s not speaking to you.”
“I know she’s in there,” Roger snapped. “Open the door!”
Sarah’s voice didn’t rise to meet him—it stayed calm. That calmness would have fuelled his anger.
“No.”
In the kitchen my hands shook so hard my mug sloshed. I set it down before I dropped it.
“This is none of your business.”
Sarah’s laugh was brief, incredulous.“She’s in my house. That makes it my business.”
Roger tried the strategy that used to work, the one designed for women trained to be reasonable.
“Look, tell her I just want to talk. This is all a misunderstanding.”
Sarah waited a beat—just long enough that the pause felt like judgement. Then she said,
“Roger. Leave. Or I’m calling the police.”
I heard him move closer to the door, a body leaning toward wood.
“You don’t get to threaten me.” His voice was clenched, low.
“Oh, I do,” Sarah replied, and there it was again—steel. “I’m not scared of you.”
“You’re poisoning her against me,” he snapped.
Sarah’s voice stayed calm. “You did that all by yourself.”
A harsh exhale. Then he shouted:
“Lauren! Open the door!”
My name through someone else’s house hit me like a slap. My body recoiled before I could stop it.Sarah’s voice came instantly, hard.
“Do not shout her name in my house.”
Silence.
My eyes burned.
I stared at the kitchen tiles as if they could tell me what to do with my shaking hands.Sarah continued, slower, like she was teaching a child who’d missed the lesson.
“She’s safe. She’s leaving you. You don’t get an argument. You don’t get a scene. You don’t get closure on your timeline. Go away.”
“You can’t keep her from me.”
“I’m not keeping her from anything,” Sarah said. “I’m giving her a chance to remember she has legs.”
My knees went weak. I put a hand on the counter to stay upright. Roger swore—quiet, vicious—then thumped the door once, hard enough that I jumped.
Sarah didn’t.
“Right. That’s trespass,” Sarah said, clear as a bell. “I’m calling now.”
For the first time, there was a silence behind the door, Roger hesitating. I could hear the calculation in the silence: risk, consequence, witnesses.
“This is unbelievable,” he said, wounded outrage pretending it was moral principle.
Sarah sounded almost bored.
“Then be unbelievable somewhere else.”
A pause.
Footsteps, retreating.A car door. An engine, complaining. The squeal of tyres as he tore off—leaving in the hurry he’d arrived without.
Sarah waited until the sound faded. Only then did she turn the lock twice—click, clack—as if sealing the last inch of safety back into place.
Final.
She came into the kitchen. I was standing very still, as if stirring would break me. Sarah looked at me steadily, eyes full of tenderness.
“You right, Lauren?” she asked, and it was the first time her voice had softened all morning.
My mouth opened. Nothing came. Lips quivered.
Sarah exhaled and stepped closer—warmth.
“You did nothing wrong, Lauren,” she said. “He came here because he thought he could control you.”
My voice emerged as a whisper. “He used to be able to.”
“I know. I can tell.”
The tears I’d been holding back all morning finally slipped loose.
Sarah didn’t wait for permission. She pulled me into a hug—strong, anchoring—and held me until the shaking eased. When she released me, her hands stayed on my shoulders.
“You’re learning what it’s like to be free,” she said. “It feels like this. Scary, but wonderful. Your body will have to unlearn some lies, that’s all.”
I sniffed and wiped my cheeks.
“And for the record,” she added, “I can guarantee he’s not coming back today. Blokes like him don’t like police reports. They like private rooms and plausible deniability.”
A tiny, broken laugh escaped me. Sarah’s expression softened—briefly. Then she straightened, brisk again, because that was how she kept the world in order.
“Tea,” she said. “Then we call Celeste. And Mara, if you want. And we do this in a way that doesn’t leave you alone with paperwork.”
I nodded.The fear in my body didn’t vanish.
But it no longer had the whole house to itself.