Scene 45¶
From 25.01.06¶
Scene 41¶
✨ smsmsm ✨¶
Yes — this is very plausible, and it neatly solves the “all men are jerks” flattening without backing away from your theme (male entitlement as ambient weather, not every individual bloke as a cartoon villain) 💛🧵
What I love about your new shape is that it gives Sarah a clean comparative experiment:
- She sees women-love-women happiness up close (Bree + Lily), and it lands in her body before it lands in her brain.
- She then meets a genuinely decent man (Carl) who behaves well — and the story shows that decency isn’t the issue. Attraction is.
- The painful honesty of ending it (and her guilt) pushes her into a familiar coping mechanism (drink), which sets up the spiking incident without moralising: it’s not “Sarah is irresponsible,” it’s “Sarah is tired and lonely and misreading her own needs.”
- Lauren as the rescuer the second time becomes the hinge: the morning after, Sarah realises the truth isn’t “Lauren is safe,” it’s “Lauren is wanted.”
That is a gorgeous pivot into romance that doesn’t require any man-bashing. Carl can even become a quiet proof-point: men can be kind; Sarah still wants women.
A tiny craft caution (so it doesn’t feel contrived)¶
The “spiked drink” beat will land best if you make it uncertain and sensory rather than declarative:
- Sarah feels an abrupt, wrong shift: dizziness too fast for her intake, nausea, heat/cold, trembling, time-skips.
- She suspects spiking (and later Lauren might say: “You should get checked” / “We can report it”), but you don’t need to prove it on-page.
- Keep the focus on Sarah’s fear + decision-making, not the perpetrator.
That keeps it grounded and avoids turning the story into a crime procedural.
Suggested scene packaging (so it flows)¶
If you like numbering continuity, I’d do:
- Scene 41 — “Radiant” (Sarah POV): Wardrobe day, Faire actresses arrive; Lily on Bree’s arm; Sarah’s quiet awakening.
- Scene 42 — “Carl” (Sarah POV): meet-cute + first dates; Carl as genuinely decent.
- Scene 43 — “Honest” (Sarah POV): Sarah tries, realises it’s not attraction; ends it clean; guilt.
- Scene 44 — “Not a Blanket” (Sarah POV): solo night out → too much drink → sudden illness → calls Lauren → sleeps at Lauren’s → morning realisation.
To get momentum, I can write Scene 41 fully now, then keep going. Here’s Scene 41 👇
Scene 41 — “Radiant” (Sarah POV)¶
Wardrobe gets a particular kind of busy when the Faire women come in.
It’s not the everyday rhythm—steam and pins and Mara’s shears making their soft, confident threats. It’s something more theatrical: colour arriving, laughter arriving, the faint perfume of other lives. Actresses bring a kind of light with them. Not always pleasant, but undeniable.
They came in after lunch, a cluster of them, skirts and tote bags and big opinions. The room tightened into competence automatically: stations ready, fittings scheduled, tape measures uncoiled like quiet authority.
I was on my stool with a coffee, watching the threshold the way I always did—half habit, half sport—when Bree walked in with someone on her arm.
Not literally. Bree’s not a Victorian gentleman. But the posture was the same: the subtle lean toward, the easy angle of her shoulder, the way her body said this person belongs with me without needing to announce it.
Lily.
I’d seen Lily before. Everyone had. Lily was one of those women who made a room adjust itself—hair like a promise, laugh like she’d never once asked permission to take up space. She’d always been charming in a way that made me roll my eyes because I don’t trust charming.
But today she wasn’t performing.
Today she was… lit.
She walked in beside Bree and the two of them had that private, bright current running between them—little glances, tiny touches, the kind of unforced coordination you only get when two people have stopped negotiating whether they’re allowed to want each other.
Bree’s grin was wide and unashamed.
Lily’s hand brushed Bree’s wrist as they crossed the room, not coy, not possessive. Just… natural. Like reaching for warmth.
And it hit me—harder than I expected—that they looked happy.
Not “posting online” happy.
Not “prove something” happy.
Happy like a body that has stopped bracing.
I watched them as they moved toward the fitting area. Bree said something under her breath and Lily laughed—real laughter, head tipping back, eyes closing for half a beat. Bree’s face softened in response, like her whole nervous system had learned the shape of that sound.
I felt a strange, unwelcome thought rise up in me:
That looks… nice.
Then another one, even worse, because it arrived with zero moral framing and no permission slip from my brain:
And she’s beautiful.
I didn’t mean it as competition. I didn’t mean it as envy. I meant it as a fact my eyes observed, the way my eyes observe fabric quality.
Lily was objectively gorgeous.
But that wasn’t what made my stomach tilt.
It was the way Bree looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth orienting toward.
Bree — who could be loud, chaotic, generous, irritating, wonderful — looked quietly devoted.
It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a phase. It wasn’t a “girls being silly” interlude before returning to a man-shaped life.
It was… real.
I swallowed and made myself take a sip of coffee, because I needed my hands to do something that wasn’t betraying me.
Lily spotted Charli at the cap table and waved.
“Oh my god,” she called, delighted. “Look at you! You’re… you’re so proper now.”
Charli flushed, smiling in that bashful way she still had even with all her new steadiness.
“Hi,” Charli said, and didn’t apologise for the attention. Didn’t duck. Didn’t shrink.
She took the compliment like a girl who had learned she didn’t have to throw gifts back into people’s faces for safety.
Celeste glanced up from the ledger, calm as ever, and nodded once at Lily—polite, controlled, adult.
Then her gaze flicked to Charli for half a beat, and I caught it: the softness she tried so hard to hide.
Wardrobe saw everything. Even when people pretended it didn’t.
Mara clapped her hands once—sharp, decisive.
“Right,” she said. “You. Fitting room. You. Table. Stop talking and start standing still.”
The actresses laughed and obeyed, because Mara was the closest thing this room had to gravity.
Lily stepped closer to Bree and said, low but not private enough for my sharp ears not to catch it:
“You’re coming over tonight, yeah?”
Bree’s grin went lazy and warm. “Obviously.”
No apology. No awkwardness. No “if you want.” No “unless you’re busy.” No negotiation.
Just yes.
And in my chest, something shifted.
Not jealousy.
Not longing, not yet.
Something more uncomfortable:
recognition.
A kind of internal data point landing with a quiet thud: that’s what it looks like when the wanting isn’t a problem.
When the wanting isn’t shameful.
When the wanting doesn’t turn you into someone’s domestic function.
When it’s just… two women, deciding.
I sat there on my stool, coffee cooling, and watched Bree and Lily disappear into the fitting area together—Bree stepping aside to hold the curtain, Lily’s hand brushing her shoulder as she passed—and I realised, with faint annoyance, that I’d been holding my breath.
I let it out slowly.
Then I did what I always did when something hit too close:
I made it a joke in my own head.
Well, I thought, dryly, that’s inconvenient.
Because once you’ve seen a kind of happiness up close—real, radiant, unforced—it becomes very difficult to pretend you don’t know what you’re missing.
If you want, I’ll write Scene 42 (“Carl”) next — and I’ll make Carl genuinely likeable, respectful, emotionally literate… and still wrong for her, in a way that hurts because he’s decent. That’s the exact antidote to the trope you’re worried about. 💛
Notes26-01-23e¶
was Scene 41¶
[26-01-23]
Scene 41 — “Radiant” (Sarah POV)
Wardrobe gets a particular kind of busy when the Faire women come in.
It’s not the everyday rhythm—steam and pins and Mara’s shears making their soft, confident threats. It’s something more theatrical: colour arriving, laughter arriving, the faint perfume of other lives. Actresses bring a kind of light with them. Not always pleasant, but undeniable.
They came in after lunch, a cluster of them, skirts and tote bags and big opinions. The room tightened into competence automatically: stations ready, fittings scheduled, tape measures uncoiled like quiet authority.
I was on my stool with a coffee, watching the threshold the way I always did—half habit, half sport—when Bree walked in with someone on her arm.
Not literally. Bree’s not a Victorian gentleman. But the posture was the same: the subtle lean toward, the easy angle of her shoulder, the way her body said this person belongs with me without needing to announce it.
Lily.
I’d seen Lily before. Everyone had. Lily was one of those women who made a room adjust itself—hair like a promise, laugh like she’d never once asked permission to take up space. She’d always been charming in a way that made me roll my eyes because I don’t trust charming.
But today she wasn’t performing.
Today she was… lit.
She walked in beside Bree and the two of them had that private, bright current running between them—little glances, tiny touches, the kind of unforced coordination you only get when two people have stopped negotiating whether they’re allowed to want each other.
Bree’s grin was wide and unashamed.
Lily’s hand brushed Bree’s wrist as they crossed the room, not coy, not possessive. Just… natural. Like reaching for warmth.
And it hit me—harder than I expected—that they looked happy.
Not “posting online” happy.
Not “prove something” happy.
Happy like a body that has stopped bracing.
I watched them as they moved toward the fitting area. Bree said something under her breath and Lily laughed—real laughter, head tipping back, eyes closing for half a beat. Bree’s face softened in response, like her whole nervous system had learned the shape of that sound.
I felt a strange, unwelcome thought rise up in me:
That looks… nice.
Then another one, even worse, because it arrived with zero moral framing and no permission slip from my brain:
And she’s beautiful.
I didn’t mean it as competition. I didn’t mean it as envy. I meant it as a fact my eyes observed, the way my eyes observe fabric quality.
Lily was objectively gorgeous.
But that wasn’t what made my stomach tilt.
It was the way Bree looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth orienting toward.
Bree — who could be loud, chaotic, generous, irritating, wonderful — looked quietly devoted.
It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a phase. It wasn’t a “girls being silly” interlude before returning to a man-shaped life.
It was… real.
I swallowed and made myself take a sip of coffee, because I needed my hands to do something that wasn’t betraying me.
Lily spotted Charli at the cap table and waved.
“Oh my god,” she called, delighted. “Look at you! You’re… you’re so proper now.”
Charli flushed, smiling in that bashful way she still had even with all her new steadiness.
“Hi,” Charli said, and didn’t apologise for the attention. Didn’t duck. Didn’t shrink.
She took the compliment like a girl who had learned she didn’t have to throw gifts back into people’s faces for safety.
Celeste glanced up from the ledger, calm as ever, and nodded once at Lily—polite, controlled, adult.
Then her gaze flicked to Charli for half a beat, and I caught it: the softness she tried so hard to hide.
Wardrobe saw everything. Even when people pretended it didn’t.
Mara clapped her hands once—sharp, decisive.
“Right,” she said. “You. Fitting room. You. Table. Stop talking and start standing still.”
The actresses laughed and obeyed, because Mara was the closest thing this room had to gravity.
Lily stepped closer to Bree and said, low but not private enough for my sharp ears not to catch it:
“You’re coming over tonight, yeah?”
Bree’s grin went lazy and warm. “Obviously.”
No apology. No awkwardness. No “if you want.” No “unless you’re busy.” No negotiation.
Just yes.
And in my chest, something shifted.
Not jealousy.
Not longing, not yet.
Something more uncomfortable:
recognition.
A kind of internal data point landing with a quiet thud: that’s what it looks like when the wanting isn’t a problem.
When the wanting isn’t shameful.
When the wanting doesn’t turn you into someone’s domestic function.
When it’s just… two women, deciding.
I sat there on my stool, coffee cooling, and watched Bree and Lily disappear into the fitting area together—Bree stepping aside to hold the curtain, Lily’s hand brushing her shoulder as she passed—and I realised, with faint annoyance, that I’d been holding my breath.
I let it out slowly.
Then I did what I always did when something hit too close:
I made it a joke in my own head.
Well, I thought, dryly, that’s inconvenient.
Because once you’ve seen a kind of happiness up close—real, radiant, unforced—it becomes very difficult to pretend you don’t know what you’re missing.
Notes26-02-04ev1¶
¶
[26-02-04]
Scene 45 — “A House Can Burn, A Woman Doesn’t” (Lauren POV, past tense)
The workroom was already hot by eight-thirty.
Not just the weather—though the Queensland air had been thick from dawn, all bright sun and humid promise—but the heat of an order that had arrived like a challenge and refused to be small.
Les Misérables.
It sat on the central table in printouts and reference images and rough sketches that multiplied like rabbits: nineteenth-century silhouettes, worn hems, patched elbows, bodices that had to look lived-in without looking sloppy. Fabrics chosen not just for accuracy but for survival—breathable, light, forgiving under stage heat.
And the numbers.
The numbers were the part that made you swallow.
Mara had taken one look at the quantity list and said, “Right,” in that calm voice she used when she was about to do something difficult without drama.
Celeste had gone still for half a second—then leaned forward, eyes bright, like the sheer scale had flicked a switch in her. The switch that turned stress into focus.
“This is doable,” she said, and it wasn’t optimism. It was a decision. “We just don’t do it the way we’ve always done it.”
Sarah had arrived with her hair pinned up and a coffee that looked lethal. She glanced at the fabric swatches and said, “Thank God. I’m sick of pretending everyone in the eighteenth century was comfortable.”
And Charli—
Charli was at the cutting table with pattern paper spread out like a map, pencil in hand, brow furrowed in concentration.
Lauren watched her for a moment longer than she meant to.
Charli moved differently now.
Not flamboyantly, not in a way you could point at and announce. Just… softer at the edges. Less braced. More present. Her hands were steady, and when Celeste leaned in to murmur something—an adjustment, a suggestion—Charli’s shoulders didn’t jump. She didn’t flinch away from attention. She absorbed it like sunlight.
It still startled Lauren sometimes, how much safety changed a person.
How quickly.
“How many Fantines?” Bree called from the other side of the room, voice bright with mischief.
“Not enough,” Sarah called back. “We’ll do a whole chorus of suffering, it’s Queensland, everyone’s already sweating.”
Bree laughed. Lily’s laugh followed—lower, closer—like the two of them shared a private frequency.
Lauren took a breath and moved into the rhythm of the workroom, clipboard in hand, brain shifting into logistics. Measurements. Material. Labour hours. Triage. Who could do what fastest without sacrificing quality.
She was halfway through writing “linen blend, breathable, midweight” when Celeste looked up.
“Lauren,” Celeste said, and even her voice sounded different when she was in leadership mode: calm, exact. “Can you confirm the supplier lead times? If we’re short on yardage, I want options by lunch.”
Lauren nodded. “On it.”
She turned toward the desk, already reaching for her phone, when the front bell chimed.
It was a bright little sound, usually cheerful.
Today it landed like a warning.
Lauren looked up and saw Roger in the doorway.
For a moment her mind refused to process it. The sight of him felt wrong in this space, like a muddy shoe on clean fabric. He stood just inside, scanning the room with that same proprietary look he used in their house—as if the world was made of things he could walk into and claim.
He had remembered to put on the polite face. That was what made Lauren’s stomach tighten.
Polite faces meant performance.
Sarah saw him too. Her whole posture changed—shoulders squared, chin slightly lifted, eyes sharpening to a point.
Mara didn’t look flustered. She simply set her scissors down and stood, very still, very solid.
Celeste’s gaze flicked to Lauren—not asking permission, not seeking direction. Simply checking, Are we safe? What do you want?
Lauren’s heart hammered.
But she was not alone.
That was the difference.
Roger took a step forward. “Lauren.”
Hearing her name in his voice, in this room, made something in her recoil. She felt the old reflex—smooth it over, contain it, manage the optics—rise like a ghost.
Sarah moved first.
“Hi,” Sarah said, tone flat, unfriendly in the most civil way. “No.”
Roger’s eyes snapped to her. He tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“This is between me and my wife,” he said.
Sarah’s mouth twitched. “Everything men do is apparently between them and their wives.”
Roger’s jaw tightened. He turned back to Lauren as if Sarah wasn’t worth engaging. That dismissiveness—so automatic, so entitled—made Lauren’s hands curl around the clipboard.
“Lauren,” Roger said, voice dropping into that intimate threat that had worked for years. “We need to talk.”
Lauren’s mouth went dry.
Mara stepped forward—not aggressively, just occupying space like a fact. “This is a workplace,” she said. “You can state your business or you can leave.”
Roger looked at Mara like he was surprised she existed.
Lauren felt something in her chest cool into clarity.
She was in Wardrobe.
He could not trap her here.
Lauren took one step forward, just enough to be seen as the one speaking. She didn’t go too close. She didn’t offer him proximity.
“What do you want, Roger?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed. He’d expected fluster. Tears. Pleading.
He didn’t get it.
He leaned into anger instead.
“I want you to understand what you’ve done,” he said. “You’ve embarrassed me. You’ve made me look like—”
Lauren held up a hand, calm.
“I’m not discussing your feelings,” she said. “Speak to the point.”
Roger’s nostrils flared. He swallowed, then delivered the weapon he thought would work every time.
“Fine,” he snapped. “I’m selling the house. I’ll pocket the proceeds. You’ll get nothing. You’ll be ruined.”
There it was.
Financial ruin as punishment.
Control as sport.
Lauren felt, to her surprise, a small laugh threaten at the back of her throat. Not because it was funny—but because it was so predictable.
She looked at him steadily.
“You think that’s a win?” Lauren asked, voice quiet.
Roger blinked. “What?”
Lauren could feel the women behind her—not crowding, not hovering, simply present. The workroom’s air was warm and busy and full of competence. Fabric lay in orderly stacks. Pattern paper waited like a plan.
The house, suddenly, felt very far away.
“You think selling the house hurts me more than what you’ve already done?” Lauren said. She kept her tone calm on purpose. “Roger, that’s just property. It’s… bricks.”
Roger’s face reddened. “It’s everything we have.”
Lauren’s eyes didn’t flicker.
“It’s everything you have,” she corrected. “Because you made sure of that.”
Roger’s mouth opened, and Lauren saw the moment he realised she wasn’t frightened.
That was when his anger sharpened.
“I’ll make sure you regret this,” he said.
Lauren felt her heart thud once. Then settle.
She spoke slowly, like she was choosing each word for maximum accuracy.
“You’ve lost what’s actually most precious in life,” she said. “You’ve lost your child.”
Roger scoffed immediately—dismissive, reflexive. “Don’t be dramatic.”
Lauren didn’t rise to it. She didn’t explain. She didn’t offer detail.
He didn’t deserve it.
She continued, colder now—not cruel, just finished.
“And you lost me,” Lauren said. “Ages ago.”
For a fraction of a second Roger looked genuinely wrong-footed—as if he’d expected her to fight, to bargain, to claw for his approval like she used to.
Then his face changed.
A flash of something ugly crossed it—rage, humiliation, a sense of being unmasked in public.
Lauren saw it in his shoulders. In his hands. In the way his body coiled forward like a spring.
The women behind her moved without a word.
Mara stepped slightly to one side, blocking his line.
Sarah shifted closer to Lauren, not touching her but close enough that Lauren could feel the protective intent like heat.
Celeste’s voice came, low and controlled.
“Lauren,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. It was a directive. “Inside.”
Lauren didn’t hesitate.
She stepped backward—one step, then another—retreating into the workroom’s bright safety, into the circle of women who did not negotiate with men who tried to explode.
Roger took a step after her.
Sarah’s voice cut like a blade.
“Do not follow her.”
Roger’s eyes snapped to Sarah. “You can’t stop me—”
Mara’s voice was calm, the kind that made police feel inevitable.
“Yes,” Mara said. “We can.”
Roger’s breathing went harsh. His hands flexed. For a moment Lauren truly thought he might do something stupid.
Then, as if some part of him remembered consequences existed when women weren’t alone, he spat a final line—something about lawyers, about regret, about being ungrateful.
Lauren barely heard it.
Because she had already turned away.
She walked back to the central table where the Les Mis patterns were spread, where Charli stood with pencil poised mid-line, eyes wide but steady.
Charli looked at Lauren—question in her face, compassion held back so it wouldn’t overwhelm.
Lauren realised, with a small shock, that she was not shaking.
Her hands were steady on the clipboard.
The confrontation hadn’t stolen her competence.
That was new.
Sarah came back in and let the door close behind her with firm finality.
The bell chimed again—bright, almost cheerful.
Outside, Roger’s car door slammed.
Then the engine started. Then it faded.
Inside Wardrobe, the women exhaled as one organism.
Celeste turned to the table and tapped the pattern paper once, crisp.
“Right,” she said. “Back to work.”
Mara nodded. “We do not let him steal our day.”
Sarah lifted her coffee and took a calm sip. “Let him sell his precious house,” she said. “He can live in it alone and talk to the walls.”
A small laugh went around the room—not cruel, not triumphant. Just… relief.
Lauren looked down at the sketches again.
Nineteenth-century seams. Hardship made costume. A chorus of women on stage wearing garments Wardrobe would build.
She felt, unexpectedly, the faintest hint of satisfaction.
Roger could sell the house.
Roger could pocket his proceeds.
He could keep every physical thing he’d collected as proof of power.
But he could not reach her here.
And that—Lauren thought, as her pen moved across the page again—was the first real wealth she’d ever owned.
End Scene 45.
Notes26-02-06ev1¶
yy¶
[26-02-06]
Scene 45 — “A House Can Burn, A Woman Doesn’t” (Lauren POV, 1st person, past tense)
The workroom was already hot by eight-thirty.
Not just the weather—though the Queensland air had been thick since dawn, all bright sun and humid promise—but the heat of an order that had arrived like a dare and refused to be small.
Les Misérables.
It sat on the central table in printouts and reference images and rough sketches that multiplied like rabbits: nineteenth-century silhouettes, worn hems, patched elbows, bodices that had to look lived-in without looking sloppy. Fabrics chosen not just for accuracy but for survival—breathable, light, forgiving under stage heat.
And the numbers.
The numbers were the part that made you swallow.
Mara had taken one look at the quantity list and said, “Right,” in that calm voice she used when she was about to do something difficult without drama.
Celeste had gone still for half a second—then leaned forward, eyes bright, like the sheer scale had flicked a switch in her. The switch that turned stress into focus.
“This is doable,” she’d said, and it hadn’t been optimism. It had been a decision. “We just don’t do it the way we’ve always done it.”
Sarah arrived with her hair pinned up and a coffee that looked lethal. She glanced at the fabric swatches and said, “Thank God. I’m sick of pretending everyone in the nineteenth century was comfortable.”
And Charli—
Charli was at the cutting table with pattern paper spread out like a map, pencil in hand, brow furrowed in concentration. I watched her for a moment longer than I meant to. Not because I was sentimental. Because my brain kept doing that quiet recalibration it had been doing for months now.
Charli moved differently these days.
Not flamboyantly. Not in a way you could point at and announce. Just… softer at the edges. Less braced. More present. Her hands were steady, and when Celeste leaned in to murmur something—an adjustment, a suggestion—Charli’s shoulders didn’t jump. She didn’t flinch away from attention. She absorbed it like sunlight.
It still startled me sometimes, how much safety changed a person.
How quickly.
“How many Fantines?” Bree called from the other side of the room, voice bright with mischief.
“Not enough,” Sarah called back. “We’ll do a whole chorus of suffering. It’s Queensland, everyone’s already sweating.”
Bree laughed. Lily’s laugh followed—lower, closer—like the two of them shared a private frequency.
I took a breath and moved into the rhythm of the workroom, clipboard in hand, brain shifting into logistics. Measurements. Material. Labour hours. Triage. Who could do what fastest without sacrificing quality.
I was halfway through writing linen blend, breathable, midweight when Celeste looked up.
“Lauren,” she said, and even her voice sounded different when she was in leadership mode: calm, exact. “Can you confirm the supplier lead times? If we’re short on yardage, I want options by lunch.”
I nodded. “On it.”
I turned toward the desk, already reaching for my phone, when the front bell chimed.
It was a bright little sound, usually cheerful.
Today it landed like a warning.
I looked up and saw Roger in the doorway.
For a moment my mind refused to process it. The sight of him felt wrong in this space, like mud on clean fabric. He stood just inside, scanning the room with that same proprietary look he used in our house—as if the world was made of things he could walk into and claim.
He’d remembered to put on the polite face.
That was what made my stomach tighten.
Polite faces meant performance.
Sarah saw him too. Her whole posture changed—shoulders squared, chin slightly lifted, eyes sharpening to a point.
Mara didn’t look flustered. She simply set her scissors down and stood, very still, very solid.
Celeste’s gaze flicked to me—not asking permission, not seeking direction. Just checking: Are we safe? What do you want?
My heart hammered.
But I was not alone.
That was the difference.
Roger took a step forward. “Lauren.”
Hearing my name in his voice, in this room, made something in me recoil. I felt the old reflex—smooth it over, contain it, manage the optics—rise like a ghost.
Sarah moved first.
“Hi,” she said, tone flat, unfriendly in the most civil way. “No.”
Roger’s eyes snapped to her. He tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“This is between me and my wife,” he said.
Sarah’s mouth twitched. “Everything men do is apparently between them and their wives.”
Roger’s jaw tightened. He turned back to me as if Sarah wasn’t worth engaging. That dismissiveness—so automatic, so entitled—made my hands curl around the clipboard.
“Lauren,” he said, voice dropping into that intimate threat that had worked for years. “We need to talk.”
My mouth went dry.
Mara stepped forward—not aggressively, just occupying space like a fact. “This is a workplace,” she said. “You can state your business or you can leave.”
Roger looked at Mara like he was surprised she existed.
Something in my chest cooled into clarity.
I was in Wardrobe.
He could not trap me here.
I took one step forward—just enough to be seen as the one speaking. I didn’t go too close. I didn’t offer him proximity.
“What do you want, Roger?” I asked.
His eyes narrowed. He’d expected fluster. Tears. Pleading.
He didn’t get it.
So he leaned into anger instead.
“I want you to understand what you’ve done,” he said. “You’ve embarrassed me. You’ve made me look like—”
I raised a hand, calm.
“I’m not discussing your feelings,” I said. “Speak to the point.”
His nostrils flared. He swallowed, then delivered the weapon he thought would work every time.
“Fine,” he snapped. “I’m selling the house. I’ll pocket the proceeds. You’ll get nothing. You’ll be ruined.”
There it was.
Financial ruin as punishment.
Control as sport.
To my surprise, a small laugh threatened at the back of my throat. Not because it was funny—but because it was so predictable. Like a child picking up the same blunt object and insisting it was a sword.
I looked at him steadily.
“You think that’s a win?” I asked, voice quiet.
He blinked. “What?”
I could feel the women behind me—not crowding, not hovering, simply present. The workroom’s air was warm and busy and full of competence. Fabric lay in orderly stacks. Pattern paper waited like a plan.
The house, suddenly, felt very far away.
“You think selling the house hurts me more than what you’ve already done?” I said. I kept my tone calm on purpose. “Roger, that’s just property. It’s… bricks.”
His face reddened. “It’s everything we have.”
My eyes didn’t flicker.
“It’s everything you have,” I corrected. “Because you made sure of that.”
His mouth opened, and I saw the moment he realised I wasn’t frightened.
That was when his anger sharpened.
“I’ll make sure you regret this,” he said.
My heart thudded once. Then settled. As if some part of me had finally recognised the pattern and stopped flinching at the first beat.
I spoke slowly, choosing each word for maximum accuracy.
“You’ve lost what’s actually most precious in life,” I said. “You’ve lost your child.”
He scoffed immediately—dismissive, reflexive. “Don’t be dramatic.”
I didn’t rise to it. I didn’t explain. I didn’t offer detail.
He didn’t deserve it.
I continued, colder now—not cruel, just finished.
“And you lost me,” I said. “Ages ago.”
For a fraction of a second he looked genuinely wrong-footed—as if he’d expected me to fight, to bargain, to claw for his approval the way I used to.
Then his face changed.
A flash of something ugly crossed it—rage, humiliation, the visceral shock of being unmasked in public.
I saw it in his shoulders. In his hands. In the way his body coiled forward like a spring.
The women behind me moved without a word.
Mara shifted—just a half-step, just an angle—blocking his line like a door that didn’t need hinges.
Sarah came closer to my side, not touching me but close enough that I could feel the protective intent like heat.
Celeste’s voice came, low and controlled.
“Lauren,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. It was a directive. “Inside.”
I didn’t hesitate.
I stepped backward—one step, then another—retreating into the workroom’s bright safety, into the circle of women who did not negotiate with men who tried to explode.
Roger took a step after me.
Sarah’s voice cut like a blade. “Do not follow her.”
Roger’s eyes snapped to Sarah. “You can’t stop me—”
Mara’s voice was calm, the kind that made police feel inevitable.
“Yes,” Mara said. “We can.”
Roger’s breathing went harsh. His hands flexed. For a moment I truly thought he might do something stupid.
Then—because even men like him remember consequences when women aren’t alone—he spat a final line. Something about lawyers. Something about regret. Something about being ungrateful.
I barely heard it.
Because I had already turned away.
I walked back to the central table where the Les Mis patterns were spread, where Charli stood with pencil poised mid-line. Her eyes were wide, but steady. She looked at me—question in her face, compassion held back so it wouldn’t overwhelm.
And I realised, with a small shock, that I was not shaking.
My hands were steady on the clipboard.
The confrontation hadn’t stolen my competence.
That was new.
Sarah came back in and let the door close behind her with firm finality.
The bell chimed again—bright, almost cheerful.
Outside, Roger’s car door slammed.
Then the engine started. Then it faded.
Inside Wardrobe, the women exhaled as one organism.
Celeste turned to the table and tapped the pattern paper once, crisp. “Right,” she said. “Back to work.”
Mara nodded. “We do not let him steal our day.”
Sarah lifted her coffee and took a calm sip. “Let him sell his precious house,” she said. “He can live in it alone and talk to the walls.”
A small laugh went around the room—not cruel, not triumphant. Just… relief.
I looked down at the sketches again.
Nineteenth-century seams. Hardship made costume. A chorus of women on stage wearing garments Wardrobe would build.
And I felt, unexpectedly, the faintest hint of satisfaction.
Roger could sell the house.
Roger could pocket his proceeds.
He could keep every physical thing he’d collected as proof of power.
But he could not reach me here.
And that—my pen moving across the page again as if nothing had happened—was the first real wealth I’d ever owned.
End Scene 45.
Oh, Robyn 🥹 I’m so glad it landed.
Lauren’s steadiness there is everything—not loud, not performative, just that clean, unarguable “you don’t own me anymore” energy. And I really like how Wardrobe functions as a system of women: Mara as the immovable fact, Sarah as the blade, Celeste as the calm directive, Charli as the quiet witness who doesn’t collapse—and Lauren getting to feel her own competence stay intact. That’s such a potent kind of victory. 🧵✨
If you want, the natural next step is to let the aftermath echo in small, practical ways rather than a big emotional debrief (which would feel like Roger still taking oxygen):
- Lauren making two calls: bank + solicitor, brisk as a checklist.
- Celeste saying something minimal but loaded, like: “He doesn’t get to re-write your day.”
- Charli doing one small, wordless kindness (tea placed beside Lauren’s clipboard, no fuss), which hits harder than dialogue.
- Sarah slipping one viciously funny line only once, then moving on—because the real flex is work continues.
Whenever you’re ready, tell me what Scene 46 is meant to do (plot beat + emotional beat), and I’ll match the tone. 💛
Notes26-02-09rv1¶
1st Revision¶
😄🧵💛👭 💞 🖤 🍓 🌶 🚪 🔑 🛋 🫧 🌩 🌧 🧵 🪡 👗 👚 👜 👠 🩰 💄 💋 🎻 📒 ✂ 🩸 💧 🚺 ⚧ ♀ ⚜
[26-02-13]
Scene 45 — “Do Not Follow Her” (Lauren POV, 1st person, past tense)
✂ Do Not Follow Her ✂
[ Lauren ]
The workroom was already hot by eight-thirtyhot by eight-thirty. It was a hot day in Australia, not just here in Victoria.
The Les Misérables. Faire in Queensland had dropped the order like Victoria doesn’t get what combining heat and humidity can do. It sat on the central table in printouts and reference images and rough sketches that multiplied like rabbits: nineteenth-century silhouettes, worn hems, patched elbows, bodices that had to look lived-in without looking sloppy. Fabrics chosen not just for accuracy but for survival—breathable, light, forgiving in heat and moisture.
And the numbers.
The numbers were the part that made you swallow. Mara had taken one look at the quantity list and said, “Right,” in that calm voice she used when she was about to do something difficult without drama.
Celeste had gone still for half a second—then leaned forward, eyes bright, like the sheer scale had flicked a switch in her. The switch that turned stress into focus.
“This is doable,” she’d said, and it hadn’t been optimism. It had been a decision. “We just don’t do it the way we’ve always done it.”
Sarah arrived with her hair pinned up and a coffee that looked lethal. She glanced at the fabric swatches and said, “Right then. I’m sick of the pretence that everyone in the nineteenth century was comfortable.”
And Charli—Charli was at the cutting table with pattern paper spread out like a map, pencil in hand, brow furrowed in concentration. I watched her for a moment longer than I meant to. My brain kept doing that quiet recalibration it had been doing for months now. A daughter. My daughter.
Charli moved differently these days. There was nothing theatrical about her: there never had been. Still, she was more… open, less braced. More present, and definitely softer at the edges. Her hands were always steady now, and when Celeste leaned in to murmur something—an adjustment, a suggestion—Charli’s shoulders no longer clenched. She no longer shied away from attention, but absorbed it like sunlight.
It still startled me sometimes, how much safety can change a person.
And, how quickly.
“How many Fantines?” Bree called from the other side of the room, voice bright with mischief.
“Not enough,” Sarah called back. “We’ll do a whole chorus of suffering. They’re up in Queensland, where everyone’s already sweating.”
Bree laughed. Lily’s laugh followed—lower, softer—like the two of them shared a private frequency.
I took a breath and moved into the rhythm of the workroom, clipboard in hand, brain shifting into logistics. Measurements. Material. Labour hours. Triage. Who could do what fastest without sacrificing quality.
I was halfway through writing linen blend, breathable, midweight when Celeste looked up.
“Lauren.” Her voice always sounded different when she was in leadership mode: calm, exact. “Can you confirm the supplier lead times? If we’re short on yardage, I need options by lunch.”
“On it.”
I turned toward the desk, already reaching for my phone, when the front bell chimed. It was a bright little sound, usually cheerful. Today it landed like a warning.
I looked up and saw Roger in the doorway.
For a moment my mind refused to process it. The sight of him felt wrong here, like a muddy boot on clean fabric. He stood just inside, scanning the room with that same proprietary look he used in our house, as if the world was made of things he could walk into and claim.
He had remembered to put on the polite face. That was what made my stomach tighten. Polite faces meant performance.
Sarah saw him too.Her whole posture changed—shoulders squared, chin slightly lifted, eyes sharpening to a point.
Mara didn’t look flustered. She simply set her scissors down and stood, very still, very solid.
Celeste’s gaze flicked to me, not seeking direction but checking:Are you safe, mum? What do you need?
My heart hammered.
I was not alone: it made all the difference. But my body hadn’t absorbed that truth, yet.Roger took a step forward.“Lauren.”
Hearing my name in his voice, in this room, made something in me recoil. I felt the old reflex—smooth it over, contain it, manage the optics—rise like a ghost.
Sarah moved first.
“Hi,” she said, tone flat, unfriendly in the most civil way. “No.”
Roger’s eyes snapped to her. He tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“This is between me and my wife.”
Sarah’s mouth twitched. “Everything men do is apparently between them and their wives.”
Roger’s jaw tightened. He turned back to me as if Sarah wasn’t worth engaging. That dismissiveness—so automatic, so entitled—made my hands curl around the clipboard.
“Lauren,” he said, voice dropping into that intimate threat that had worked for years. “We need to talk.”
My mouth went dry.
Mara stepped forward—not aggressively, just occupying space like a fact.
“This is a workplace,” she said. “You can state your business or you can leave.”
Roger looked at Mara like he was surprised she existed. Something in my chest cooled into clarity. I was in Wardrobe. He could not trap me here. I took one step forward—just enough to be seen as the one speaking. I didn’t go too close. I didn’t offer him proximity.
“What do you want, Roger?”
His eyes narrowed. He’d expected fluster. Tears. Pleading. He didn’t get any of that, so he leaned into anger instead.
“I want you to understand what you’re doing,” he said with ill-concealed fury. “You’re embarrassing me. You’re making me look like—”
I raised a hand, calm.
“I’m not interested in your feelings,” I said. “Come to the point.”
His nostrils flared. He swallowed, then delivered the weapon he thought would work every time.
“Fine,” he snapped. “I’m just warning you: I’m selling the house. You’re getting nothing.” His face shone with triumph. “And you can’t do anything about it.”
Still in control, with a vengeance—financial ruin as punishment. A small laugh threatened at the back of my throat. He it was so predictable, like a four-year old brandishing a stick and insisting it was a sword. I looked at him steadily.
“I suppose you think that’s a win?”
His triumphant look clouded over. “Sorry, what?”
I could feel the closeness of women behind me—strong, silent, fiercely present. The workroom’s air was warm and busy and full of competence. Fabric lay in orderly stacks. Pattern paper waited like a plan.
The house, the past, his dominance—all of it suddenly, felt quite insignificant.
“You think selling the house will hurt me more than what you’ve already done?” I said. I kept my tone calm on purpose. “Roger, that’s property. It’s… bricks, glass and a lawnmower that won’t start.”
His face reddened.
“It’s everything we have.”
My eyes didn’t flicker.
“It’s everything you have,” I corrected. “You made sure of that. And now, it’s all you have. I’m making sure of that!”
His mouth opened, and I saw the moment he realised his strategy—the one that had always worked—of holding goods as security over my head was failing. Epically. In front of witnesses.
His anger sharpened.
“I’ll make sure you regret this!”
My heart thudded once—then settled, as if some part of me recognised a flawed pattern and stopped recoiling. I spoke slowly, choosing each word for maximum accuracy.
“You know what you’ve really lost?” I said, still calm. “Your relationship with your child.”
He scoffed immediately—dismissive, reflexive.“Don’t be dramatic.”
I didn’t rise to it. I didn’t explain. I didn’t offer detail. He didn’t deserve it.
I continued, colder now—not cruel, just finished.
“And you lost me,” I said. “Ages ago.”
For a fraction of a second he looked genuinely wrong-footed—as if he’d expected me to fight, to bargain, to claw for his approval the way I used to.
Then his face changed.
A flash of something ugly crossed it—a blend of rage, humiliation, the visceral shock of being unmasked in public. He went very still in the way angry men do when they’re deciding what they can get away with. The women behind me didn’t speak, but the room rearranged itself—Mara’s shoulder, Sarah’s step.
Celeste’s voice found my name.
“Lauren.” It wasn’t a question. It was a directive. “Inside.”
I didn’t hesitate. I stepped backward—one step, then another—retreating into the workroom’s bright safety, into the circle of women who did not negotiate with men on the verge of detonating.
Roger took a step after me. Sarah’s voice cut like a blade.
“Do not follow her.”
“You can’t stop me—”
“Yes,” Mara said. “We can. And we will.”
Roger’s breathing was harsh. His hands flexed. Then—because even men like him remember consequences when women aren’t alone—he spat a final line. Something about lawyers. Something about regret. Something about being ungrateful.
The bell chimed again—bright, cheerful.
Roger’s car door slammed.
The engine started.
The sound faded.Gone.
Inside Wardrobe, the tension unhooked. Celeste turned to the table and tapped the pattern paper, crisp.“Right,” she said. “Back to work.”
I walked back to the central table where the Les Mis patterns were spread and looked down at the sketches again. Nineteenth-century seams. Hardship made costume. A company of women among the Faire-goers, wearing what we’d cut and stitched here.Charli stood with pencil poised mid-line. Her eyes were wide, but steady. She looked at me—question in her face, compassion held back so it wouldn’t overwhelm.I realised, unexpectedly, that I was not shaking. My hands were steady on the clipboard. The confrontation hadn’t stolen my competence.
Sarah lifted her coffee and took a calm sip.
“Let him sell his precious house,” she said, “or not. He’ll need somewhere to keep pretending objects are love.”
A small laugh went around the room.Relief, and a reset.And I felt fulfillment: the assurance of woman-fashioned solidarity. Roger could sell the house and pocket the proceeds. He could keep every possession he had ever collected as proof of power.
But he no longer possessed me.
End Scene 45.
Published¶
[260213]¶
😄🧵💛👭 💞 🖤 🍓 🌶 🚪 🔑 🛋 🫧 🌩 🌧 🧵 🪡 👗 👚 👜 👠 🩰 💄 💋 🎻 📒 ✂ 🩸 💧 🚺 ⚧ ♀ ⚜
🪡✂ Do Not Follow Her ✂🪡 [ Lauren ]
The workroom was already hot by eight-thirty. It was a hot day in Australia, not just here in Victoria.
The Les Misérables Faire in Queensland had dropped the order like Victoria doesn’t get what combining heat and humidity can do to a person. It sat on the central table in printouts and reference images and rough sketches that had multiplied like rabbits: nineteenth-century silhouettes, worn hems, patched elbows, bodices that had to look lived-in without looking sloppy. Fabrics chosen not just for accuracy and durability but for survival of the wearer—breathable, light, forgiving in heat and moisture.
And the numbers.
The numbers were the part that made you swallow. Mara had taken one look at the quantity list and said, “Right,” in that calm voice she used when she was about to do something challenging.
Celeste had gone still for half a second—then leaned forward, eyes bright, like the sheer scale had flicked a switch in her. The switch that turned stress into focus.
“This is doable,” she’d said. It wasn’t false optimism but a decision. “We just don’t do it the way we’ve always done it.”
Sarah arrived with her hair pinned up and a coffee that looked lethal. She glanced at the fabric swatches and said, “Right then. I’m sick of the pretence that everyone in the nineteenth century was comfortable.”
And Charli—Charli was at the cutting table with pattern paper spread out like a map, pencil in hand, brow furrowed in concentration. I watched her for a moment longer than I meant to. My brain kept doing that quiet recalibration it had been doing for months now. A daughter.
My daughter.
Charli moved differently these days. There was nothing theatrical about her: there never had been. Still, she was more… open, less braced. More present, and definitely softer at the edges. Her hands were always steady now, and when Celeste leaned in to murmur something—an adjustment, a suggestion—Charli’s shoulders no longer clenched. She no longer shied away from attention, but absorbed it like sunlight.
It still startled me sometimes, how much safety can change a person.
And, how quickly.
“How many Fantines?” Bree called from the other side of the room, voice bright with mischief.
“Not enough,” Sarah called back. “We’ll do a whole chorus of suffering. They’re up in Queensland, where everyone’s already sweating.”
Bree laughed. Lily’s laugh followed—lower, softer—like the two of them shared a private frequency.
I took a breath and moved into the rhythm of the workroom, clipboard in hand, brain shifting into logistics. Measurements. Material. Labour hours. Triage. Who could do what fastest without sacrificing quality.
I was halfway through writing linen blend, breathable, midweight when Celeste looked up.
“Lauren.” Her voice always sounded different when she was in leadership mode: calm, exact. “Can you confirm the supplier lead times? If we’re short on yardage, I need options by lunch.”
“On it.”
I turned toward the desk, already reaching for my phone, when the front bell chimed. It was a bright little sound, usually cheerful.
Today it landed like a warning.
I looked up and saw Roger in the doorway.
For a moment my mind refused to process it. The sight of him felt wrong here, like a muddy boot on clean fabric. He stood just inside, scanning the room with that same proprietary look he used in our house, as if the world was made of things he could walk into and claim.
He had remembered to put on the polite face. It made my stomach clench. A polite face meant performance.
Sarah saw him too. Her whole posture changed—shoulders squared, chin slightly lifted, eyes sharpening to a point.
Mara simply set her scissors down and stood, very still, very solid.
Celeste’s gaze flicked to me, not seeking direction but checking:Are you safe, mum? What do you need?
My heart hammered. I knew I was not alone: it made all the difference. But my body hadn’t absorbed that truth, yet.Roger took a step forward.“Lauren.”
Hearing my name in his voice, in this room, made something in me recoil. I felt the old reflex—smooth it over, contain it, manage the optics—rise like a ghost.
Sarah moved first.
“Hi,” she said, tone flat, unfriendly in the most civil way. “No.”
Roger’s eyes snapped to her. He tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“This is between me and my wife.”
Sarah’s mouth twitched. “Everything men do is apparently between them and their wives.”
Roger’s jaw tightened. He turned back to me as if Sarah wasn’t worth engaging. That dismissiveness—so automatic, so entitled—made my hands curl around the clipboard.
“Lauren,” he said, voice dropping into that quiet, practiced menace that had worked for years. “We need to talk.”
My mouth went dry.
Mara stepped forward—not aggressively, just occupying space like a fact.
“This is a workplace,” she said. “State your business or leave.”
Roger looked at Mara like he was surprised she existed. Something in my chest cooled into clarity.
I was in Wardrobe. He could not trap me here.
I took one step forward—just enough to be seen as the one speaking—without offering proximity.
“What do you want, Roger?”
His eyes narrowed. He’d expected fluster. Tears. Pleading.
He didn’t get any of that, so he leaned into anger instead.
“I want you to understand what you’re doing,” he said with ill-concealed fury. “You’re embarrassing me. You’re making me look like—”
I raised a hand, calm.
“I’m not interested in your feelings,” I said. “Come to the point.”
His nostrils flared. His nostrils flared. He swallowed, then went straight for that thing he’d always held over my head, and which he counted on to work now.
“Fine,” he snapped. “I’m just warning you: I’m selling the house. You’re getting nothing.” His face shone with triumph. “And you can’t do anything about it.”
Still in control, with a vengeance—financial ruin as punishment. A small laugh threatened at the back of my throat. He it was so predictable, like a four-year old brandishing a stick and insisting it was a sword. I looked at him steadily.
“I suppose you think that’s a win?”
His triumphant look faded. Utter confusion took over. “Sorry, what?”
I could feel the closeness of women behind me—strong, silent, fiercely present. The workroom’s air was warm and busy, filled with competence and industry. Fabric lay in orderly stacks. Pattern paper waited like a plan.
The house, the past, his dominance—all of it suddenly, felt quite insignificant.
“You think selling the house will hurt me more than what you’ve already done?” I said. I kept my tone calm on purpose. “Roger, that’s property. It’s… bricks, glass and a lawnmower that won’t start.”
His face reddened.
“It’s everything we have.”
My eyes didn’t flicker.
“It’s everything you have,” I corrected. “You made sure of that. And now, it’s all you have. I’m making sure of that!”
His mouth opened, and I saw the moment he realised his strategy had failed.
Epically.
In front of witnesses.
His anger sharpened.
“I’ll make sure you regret this!”
My heart thudded once—then settled, as if some part of me recognised a flawed pattern and stopped recoiling. I spoke slowly, precisely selecting each word.
“You know what you’ve really lost?” I said. “Your relationship with your child.”
I didn’t offer details: he didn’t deserve any. He scoffed immediately—dismissive, reflexive.“Don’t be dramatic.”
I continued, colder—finished.
“And you lost me,” I said. “Ages ago.”
For a fraction of a second he looked genuinely wrong-footed—as if he’d expected me to fight, to bargain, to claw for his approval the way I used to.
Then his face changed.
A flash of something ugly crossed it—a blend of rage, humiliation, the visceral shock of being unmasked in public. He went very still in the way angry men do when they’re deciding what they can get away with. The women behind me didn’t speak, but the room rearranged itself—Mara’s shoulder rising, Sarah’s step advancing, Bree’s jawline hardening.Celeste’s voice found my name.
“Lauren.” It wasn’t a question. It was a directive. “Inside.”
I didn’t hesitate. I stepped backward—one step, then another—retreating into the workroom’s bright safety, into the circle of women who did not negotiate with men on the verge of detonating.
Roger took a step after me. Sarah’s voice cut like a blade.
“Do not follow her.”
“You can’t stop me—”
“Yes,” Mara said. “We can. And we will.”
Roger’s breathing was harsh. His hands flexed. Then—because even angry men like him remember consequences when women aren’t alone—he spat a final line. Something about lawyers. Something about regret. Something about being ungrateful.
The bell chimed again—bright, cheerful.
Roger’s car door slammed.
The engine started.
The sound faded.Gone.
Inside Wardrobe, the tension unhooked. Celeste turned to the table and tapped the pattern paper, crisp.“Right,” she said. “Back to work.”
I walked back to the central table where the Les Mis patterns were spread and looked down at the sketches again. Nineteenth-century seams. Hardship made costume. A company of women among the Faire-goers, wearing what we’d cut and stitched here.Charli stood with pencil poised mid-line. Her eyes were wide, but steady. She looked at me—question in her face, compassion held back so it wouldn’t overwhelm.I realised, unexpectedly, that I was not shaking. My hands were steady on the clipboard. The confrontation hadn’t stolen my competence.
Sarah lifted her coffee and took a calm sip.
“Let him sell his precious house,” she said, “or not. He’ll need somewhere to keep pretending objects are love.”
A small laugh went around the room.Relief, and a reset.
I had women at my back.
Roger could sell the house. He could keep every possession he had ever collected.
But he no longer possessed me.