I found myself standing by the hall mirror, slipping on my blue coatrain spat down from a slate sky, drumming a message only I could hearand I wondered if I shouldve just stayed in. My feet ached, heavy as buckets, after hours behind the till at the Sainsburys, then a trudge home, boots sodden, because the last bus had ghosted straight past, lights winking like the worlds most mocking joke. My phone, too warm from all the checking, rested in my pocket with our thread openhis last message still pulsing faintly.
David, forty-one, civil engineer. His photo: leaning casually against an Audi, pale shirt, not an ounce of tension in his smile. Hed messaged out of the blue three weeks back: Noticed you like to readI do too. Whats on your nightstand? No alright, gorgeous, no fire emojis, just that. Id replied.
Wed written every night since. Sometimes Id be up until two, laughing at his stories about scaffolding mishaps, grateful for his thoughtful questions, even for that one time he recommended a book and Id gone ahead and devoured it by Sunday evening. He remembered I despised coffee, that cat hair left me sneezing, and that Mum was up in Manchester, our Sunday phone ritual never skipped.
Tonight was The Night. Seven-thirty, corner café on Market Street.
I frowned at my reflection. Forty-two. Shadows blooming under my eyes, determined as roots. Id coloured my hair that Fridaya decent job, all things considered. The blue dress, dusted off from an old staff party, looked fine. Not out of place.
A ping. His name, blinking:
On my way. Will you be there?
I snorted to myself. God, seven dates in the last year and a half. Just seven. The first had told me over mochasmarried, dont worry, wifes cool with it apparently. The second had moped over an ex-wife so heartbreakingly that by pudding I felt sorry for her too. The third had expected me to split the billagain, fine by mebut sulked when I wouldnt take him home. Number four texted Nice, but youre not my type. Number five ghosted. Six phoned to borrow seven hundred pounds. Seven, bless him, was so dull I caught myself daydreaming my Tesco shopping list halfway through his tales about supply clerks.
Well I told my reflection. Eighth time lucky.
And out I stepped.
***
Warm cinnamon filled the café, the condensation blurring the lanes outside. I was earlythree minutesand took a seat by the window. Watched as umbrellas bobbed by, a dog dragged her owner, the animal halting at every puddle.
Annabelle? he said, approaching.
David matched his photo. A reliefsurprises can be cruel in dreams. He was a little taller than Id expected, flecks of silver at his temples, coat damp from his walk from the Tube.
Yes, I said, standing clumsily. Hello.
He shook my hand, an easy squeeze, took the seat opposite. Rushed, yet still late by two minutes. Sorry.
Ive only just sat down.
Nonsense. I watched you come in, you were early.
I laughed. Dream logic, you seesomething about the world outside, the puddle dog, the blue of my coat.
Were you watching?
I was at the crossings. Saw the blue coat, figured it had to be you.
The waitress dropped off menus; he barely glanced at his.
Hungry? he ventured. Lets get some proper food, not just coffee.
Alright, I agreed.
He ordered steak and ale pie, I had classic carrot and coriander soup, fresh sourdough. He ordered Earl Grey, I went for orange juice. Menus away, we faced each other like mismatched chess pieces.
So, he said, bit awkward, isnt it.
Oh, terribly.
Easier online.
Much.
Maybe we should pretend were still chatting, he said, poker-faced. Hide behind our phones, tap away across the table.
Whyd we bother coming, then?
Exactly, he grinned sheepishly. Terrible idea.
The strangeness eased away without me noticing. At some point, I simply found myself talking.
We rambled for two and a half hours. Started with the novel hed recommended, wandered through work taleshe told me of builders misreading plans, nearly tearing down a crucial wall. I cackled; he joined in. I spun the saga of Mrs. Harrington, who visited my till every Friday for the same loaf, bottle of milk, and a battered pack of custard creamsshed inspect the expiry dates, always choosing the one three days fresher.
Three days matters, he nodded.
Shes right, I agreed.
He studied me. Not in that waylike a man trying to impressbut properly, attentively, as if words were notes in a piece of music.
Youre tired tonight, he suddenly observed.
Is it that obvious?
A bityou keep rubbing your shoulder, he said, demonstrating.
I dropped my hand, startled. Left shoulder throbbed, and I hadnt even noticed touching it.
Eight hours on my feet, I admitted. Standard.
Doesnt mean its not hard, he replied, gently.
I paused. Youre the first to say that.
To say what?
That just because youre used to something, doesnt mean its not tough.
He nodded. Nothing more. It was enough.
***
Rain now hammered the streets. We hovered under the awning, fumbling with coats and umbrellas.
Which way home? he asked.
Stockwell. Bus round the corner.
Ill drive you.
No need, I repliedmuscle memory now. After seven dates, you get cautiousnever say yes until it feels safe.
He understooddidnt seem hurt, didnt push.
Ill walk you to the bus stop, thenif thats alright?
Alright.
Beneath the umbrellahis, one big enough for bothwe drew close. I felt his arm, a quiet presence.
Annabelle, he said at the stop. Can I askdo you think we could meet again? Not in some distant fortnight. Maybe this weekend? I know a placetheres pie and you can sit for hours.
The bus ghosted toward us in the haze. I looked at him, not the busthought of those seven dreary dates, the married man, number six asking for a loan, the one with his endless office tales.
Saturday? I asked.
Saturday.
Alright.
Bus doors gaped open. I jogged across, caught his voicecouldnt hear it, really, but as I turned in the doorway, he called:
Two o’clock! Ill send the address!
Deal! I called back.
The bus rolled off. I watched him through the misted windowstill waiting, umbrella raisedhe waved. I returned the gesture, not sure if he saw through the rain-streaked glass.
No matter. Let him.
***
I grinned uncontrollably all the way home. An old man sat across with a carrier bagregarded me with mild curiosity. I turned to the window. London blurred past in ribbonsshiny black tarmac, yellow halos of street lamps, shopfronts glowing like strange underwater lanterns.
I thought about the umbrellasuch a small thing, held for the both of us. Last year, one of those men had left me to sog under his own brolly, keeping it defiantly to his side as if rain might seep through any willingness to share. And Id walked beside him, pretending not to mind. He hadnt noticed.
An umbrella over two people. Sounds so easy.
A message plinged as my key turned in the lock.
Did you get home alright?
I beamed again. The old man with the carrier bag gone; this smile was for me alone.
Yes, thanks. You too.
Goodnight, Annabelle.
Night.
I made myself a cup of tea. Hung up my blue coata little soaked from the shoulder down. Five years itd been with me. Id nearly tossed it last autumn, but kept it for no reason at all. Thank goodness.
I lay in bed, unable to sleepinstead, I thought about how easy it had felt to speak with David. Easy: that was the word for it. No stop-starting, no exam-room tension, no sense of measuring ones worth. Just easy. Like wed known each other for years instead of weeks.
And if three weeks of typing every night means anything, maybe we almost had.
***
Saturdays pie shop was tinyhardly ten tables, wooden benches, window boxes frothing with pink geraniums. The pies were as promised: beef and ale, apple and cinnamon, a spiced chicken and leek. He ordered three, mugs of tea as big as soup bowls.
Tell me about your mum, he said. Shes in Manchester, right?
You remember?
I remember it all.
I looked at himhalf afraid, half grateful.
Its a bit scary, I admitted, when someone actually listensreally listens, I mean.
Whys that?
Because then you want to keep talking. Then you get used to it. Then its scary, thinking you might lose it.
He thought a moment.
Have you lost it before?
I have.
Me too. He cradled his tea. My wife left six years ago, after twelve together. I thought Id done something wrong, for ages. But sometimes people just dont fit.
I nodded. It happens.
Were you married?
I was. Divorced nine years ago. No kids. He moved away, we lost touch. All fine now.
Are you lonely? he asked, direct as sunlight.
It caught me off-balance. Id meant to say, No, not really, or quip, or swerve. But I said, Yes. Sometimes very.
Me too, he said. Thats why I joined that website. Four months. Youre the first I wanted to meet.
Really?
Truly. You listed Virginia Woolf and George Orwell on your profile and I thought, Therethats a person.
I laughed. Just for that?
It was how you wrote it. Brief, honest: Brontë. Woolf. I like sincerity. I thought, heres someone who knows her mind.
I dont know what Im looking for, I confessed.
Who does? he shrugged. Its alright.
We lingered until closing. The ownergrey-haired, kindlybrought us the last pie, Take it, itll only grow stale by morning. David thanked her by name. Turns out hed been coming here for years.
Often come here, do you? I asked.
Used to with a mate. Hes in Edinburgh now. So nowon my own, sometimes.
Thats a bit sad.
It is, he said, but not tonight. Tonight Im here with you.
I asked the owners name.
Mrs. Willis. Her daughters up in Leeds, couple of grandkids. Every Friday, she rings them: Ive heard her, always stays on for ages.
You really notice people, I observed.
I try. He nibbled pie crust. Dad always said, judge a person by how they treat someone they owe nothing. Thats real character.
Sounds wise.
He was. A faint tremor in his voice. Died seven years ago. Heart attack. I wasnt there in time.
Im sorry, I said quietly.
Its alright. Imused to it, I think. Or not used to it, maybe just learned to live around it. He paused. Youd have liked him.
Why dyou think that?
You both see people.
I caught Mrs. Willis humming by the counter, wiping down trays. Something old, half-familiar.
David, I said. Youre not like most.
Not like who?
The words danced, hard to catch.
Not like the ones who show up trying to impresssaying all the right things. You just talk.
Whats wrong with trying? he asked, without bristling.
Nothing, but it always showsand then it feels cramped.
He nodded. After my divorce, I tried dating properlysmiles, what I thought people wanted. It didnt work. Wasnt me.
It never works, I agreed.
Got easier once I stopped pretending. Ill be myself. Those who like it, fine. If not also fine.
Thats wise.
Its not wisdom, he said with a small smile. Just tiredness, I think. Tired of masks. His grin flickered, quiet. You fit me, Annabelle. Sorry if its too soon.
Maybe. But thats alright.
Mrs. Willis refilled our teapot, unasked.
Stay as long as you please, she said. No hurry here.
We took our time. Time itself seemed to stretch around our tablecozy, unlikely.
Im used to everything going wrong, you know, I admitted.
I know.
You cant know.
You never came out and said it. But I heard.
I was silent for a while.
What did you hear?
That youre tired of hoping. You come to meet people expecting it to fall apart. Youre good at being alone; its both your defence and your strength.
I watched him. Said nothing.
Its not a criticism, he added softly. Its justsomething I see.
Outside darkness thickened; Mrs. Willis stacked plates, humming. My mug had gone cold.
Im scared, I whispered.
So am I, he replied, but Im here anyway.
***
He rang the next nightnot texted, rang.
Are you in? he asked.
I am.
Hows the leg? The day before Id mentioned Id bashed it on the kitchen table. Better?
Fine now, I laughed. David, you rang just for my leg?
And to hear you. Hope thats alright?
Its alright, I smiled.
We spoke for half an hournothing weighty, just his site visit, my Sunday call to Mum. Mum had asked if there was anyone. Id told hermaybe. Shed said, At last.
Your mother sounds clever, said David.
How would you know?
I hear it in how you talk about her.
I sat in my kitchen, Sunday evening air blue at the window, the scent of someone elses stew wafting up from below. I held my phone and thoughtthis call didnt even exist just last week. One week ago my reflection had wondered if I should just stay home.
David, I said.
Yes?
Thank you for being firstto message, three weeks ago.
A pause.
Thank you for replying, he said.
***
My evenings changed colour. Before, theyd been stitchings of routinework, bus, telly, bed. But now the night belonged to ussometimes a call, sometimes just scattered messages. But always us.
One night, half ten:
Still up, he wrote. Reading. Are you awake?
Yes.
Doing what?
Staring at the ceiling.
A pause.
Is that bad or good?
Tonight its good.
Then thats alright, he wrote. That alone meant more than any sonnet.
Sunday, Mum rangas ever.
How are you, she declared. Mum always made it sound like a statement, not a question.
Im fine, Mum.
Fine, she echoed. You sound different.
How?
Softer, somehow.
I was quiet.
Theres someone, I admitted.
From work?
No. Met him online.
She was silent a moment.
Well, why not? Where else would you meet folk these days? A pause. Hes decent?
I think so.
Do you? Or you hope?
Mum.
Im just asking.
Hes decent, I confirmed.
Thats alright, she saidand I heard the unsaid: finally. Just be careful.
I always am.
I know. Too careful, sometimes. Let people in.
Im trying, Mum.
I know you are. Clever as anything. A pause. Whats his name?
David.
Good name.
I smiled.
***
A month slipped by.
We met every weeksometimes more. Hed text at lunch: Im near your work, job site two streets down. Fancy twenty minutes?
Wed perch on a bench next to a mute fountainhim in his hi-vis, me in my store tabard. He drank coffee, I had juice.
Hows the site? I asked.
Refurb, he said. More interesting than new buildsyouve got to keep what matters.
Respecting an old vision?
Yes, exactly. He caught my eye. Youre good with words.
Hed leave after twenty minutes, wave from the crossing. Id head back in, grinning. My younger colleague, Ellie, always in the know, watched me.
Hes tall, she said.
Hush, Ellie.
Youre smiling, Annabelle.
She was right.
David came when the kitchen tap started leakingbrushing away my protests with, I can fix it, honestly. Took him twenty minutes, then he handed me a small baggie.
Spare washer. Just in case.
You brought spare washers?
A few sizes, in case, said without a hint of pride.
I showed him photos of my old moors triphe studied every one.
You went hiking?
Three times. Stoppedno one to go with.
I go every summer. This year Im heading to the Lake District. Want to come?
Youre inviting me camping?
Yes.
Weve only known each other a month.
I know, he said, gentle. If its too soon, it can wait. Offers open.
I stared, heart steady.
Ill think about it.
Alright.
Come April, I said yes.
***
It wasnt the candlelit dinner moment people expect. No speech, no flowers, no rehearsed declarations. We were just walking along the Embankment, snow gone but the river wind still nipping. He held my handhad been, since our third or was it fourth walk?and talked as we passed under lamps.
He stopped sharply.
Annabelle.
I stopped too. People flowed around us, glancing, indifferent.
I dont do speeches well, he began, but I know thisbeing with you feels right. I think of you every day. Im glad I messaged that first night.
David
Im not asking for anything grand, he rushed, shy. Just so you knowIm here. Not rushing. Not going anywhere.
I looked at him. The river, Thames muddy and restless below us.
Youre not going anywhere, I said back.
Nowhere.
I squeezed his hand. We walked on. That was plenty. Enough for both of us.
***
Come July, we hiked the Lake District.
Five days, packs and bootsclouds snagged on hills, rain lacing the air with secrets. I hadnt camped in years, afraid my legs wouldnt hold up, but they did. The third day found me lagging, panting up a slope, pausing. He stopped too; no words, just presence.
Go ahead, I said. Ill catch up.
Ill wait.
You dont have to.
I want to, he answered.
We stood, wind tickling our jackets, a blue-black tarn far below like a jewel in an old dream. I drew breath, and we climbed on, together.
That trip was rhythmsup, breakfast, packs, walk, break, walk. My body achedpleasantly, like after a day well spent. He was a good walking partnernever hurrying, never bossing. Steep bits, hed reach for my hand without comment. I tripped on a slippery stone, skidding down a littlehe was at my side before Id finished swearing.
You alright? Calm as a stone.
Just my hand.
He examined, cleaned the graze, bandaged it quick and neat.
Can you carry on?
Of course.
Take your time, he said. And that was that. No drama. Suddenly, trust had a new shape.
That evening, with dusk sifting in through tent canvas, he asked:
Are you glad you came?
Pardon?
All thisthe hills, the walking. Regrets?
I thought for a second.
None, I said. Havent felt so alive in years.
Its the hills, he said.
Its not just the hills, I answered.
He said nothing, but I knew he heard me.
On the ridge, sipping tea, I watched the valley belowthe lake, an impossible blue. I realised just how far Id come from that night in the hallway, coat-wrapped, doubtingwondering if an eighth try was just more of the same. Id been so certain Id forever be alone.
Turns outno. Sometimes you just have to put on your coat and step out, even when your feet thrum, even when the forecast says rain, even when none of the other nights worked.
The eighth time, things can be different.
What are you thinking about? David asked, perching beside me.
My coat, I told him.
Which one?
The blue one, from our first date.
Ah, he grinned. I remember. Saw it through the café window and thought, Thats a smashing coat.
You never said.
Didnt want to be odd.
I laughed.
Its old. Five years or more.
Makes no odds. Its about whos wearing it.
I gazed down at that lake, bluer than anything in waking life, belonging to a world Id thought I would never enter.
David, I said.
Yes?
Im glad I replied to your message.
He squeezed my hand.
So am I.
There, at the top of the world, with blue lake below, mountains circling us, and a hush only the wild givesthere, I saw what it meant for things to finally be all right.
Not with fanfare. Not with grand declarations. Justsomeone next to you, shared tea, a blue lake far below, and the sense that somehow, unexpectedly, youre home.
Though at homeStockwell, third floor, gasworks as your viewyour world is unchanged. Or is it? Because something *is* different. Theres his book waiting on your desk, two mugs on your shelf, not one. In the coat pocketa tiny scrap you found this morning, written by hand while you dreamed, left without waking you: All is well, Annabelle.
I read it three times.
All is well.
Exactly what I needed to read. Not I love younot yet, we both knew that. Not Youre perfectthose are just words. But simply, All is well. Meaning: Im here, I see you, youre not alone, theres nothing to fear.
My life changed that very night, putting on my coat, wondering, rain on the window, if I should really leave the house.
And Im so glad I did.
