Chapter 32
Pish Posh, Call Me Elizabeth
Christa
The tumble dryer clicks off in the kitchen and the flat drops back into its usual quiet. That soft, held-breath silence it gets when Geoff isn’t here, like the place knows it’s missing a body.
I pull the laundry out while it’s still warm.
His stuff, mostly. T-shirts, socks, one jumper I recognise because he always claims it’s too warm and then wears it indoors like a man bracing for winter.
I fold automatically, my hands doing the work while my brain pretends this is a completely reasonable thing to be doing.
It’s just washing. Calm down.
I carry the pile into his bedroom and pause in the doorway.
His room smells like him. Not in an overpowering way. Just… present. Clean cotton, soap, coffee, something warmer underneath that I can’t name but feel immediately behind my ribs.
I swallow and step inside.
I hang his shirts in the wardrobe, lining the hangers up neatly because this is who I am now. Domestic. Helpful. Dangerously comfortable. My fingers brush the fabric, and I don’t pull away straight away.
The bed is made. Pillows straight, the duvet pulled tight. He could get a job in housekeeping in any hotel with those bed making skills.
I sit down. Tell myself it’s only for a second.
Then I lie back.
The mattress dips under my weight and I freeze, half-expecting the universe to shout at me. It doesn’t. The ceiling stares back, bland and unjudging. I turn my face slightly and breathe in.
Him.
It’s ridiculous how fast my body reacts. My shoulders loosen. My chest softens. Like my nervous system has decided this is safe without bothering to ask me.
And then my brain, traitor that it is, takes me straight there.
His joy that the overly dramatic dick decided to give up his sulk and return to the land of the living.
A fantasy did it for him.
I stare at the ceiling and let the memory play without touching it. His laugh, a bit too quick. His hands braced like he needed the support. The way the air changed when I teased him and he went very still.
He never said it was me.
But he also didn’t deny it.
I shift slightly on the bed and the bedding rustles. My stomach flips, sharp and unwelcome. It’s not arrogance. It’s pattern recognition. The way his body reacted when I moved closer afterwards. The way his breath caught when I swallowed the cream.
I roll onto my side and pull one of his pillows against my chest before I can stop myself. It fits there far too easily. My cheek sinks into the fabric; the scent is stronger now, intimate in a way that makes my throat tighten.
If it was me.
If, somewhere in his head, without permission or planning, his mind went there with me.
My fingers curl into the pillowcase. I don’t smile. I don’t panic. I just lie there and feel the weight of it settle, warm and dangerous.
A noise outside makes my heart jump. Nothing comes of it. Just the building settling. A car passing. Life continuing to mind its own business.
I exhale slowly and sit up, pulse loud in my ears.
I place the pillow back exactly where it was, smooth the duvet until there’s no sign I’ve been here at all. I straighten the shirts once more, unnecessarily.
At the door, I pause and glance back at the bed.
I don’t look long.
Some spaces aren’t meant to be lingered in. Some thoughts don’t need saying yet.
And some men leave their scent in places that make it very hard to pretend nothing is happening.
I’m chopping fruit like it’s preventative medicine.
Apple. Banana. Grapes, because Geoff will absolutely notice if none of the fruit has been eaten. He does this infuriatingly casual glance at the bowl when he comes in, like he’s checking the vibe, then later asks if I’ve had any fruit today. As if it’s a coincidence.
I tip everything into a bowl and rinse the knife.
See. Balanced. Thriving. Nothing to discuss.
The doorbell rings.
I glance at the clock. Too early for Geoff. Ivy would’ve texted.
I wipe my hands and open the door.
“Christa! It is so lovely to meet you in person, my dear.”
I blink.
That’s all I get before she’s inside the flat, handbag already on the console like it’s always lived there, coat halfway off, smile wide and triumphant.
A mountain of shopping bags discarded in the middle of the room.
Mrs Corbin moves with the confidence of a woman who considers front doors a polite suggestion.
“Oh,” I manage. “Hello, Mrs Corbin.”
“Pish posh, call me Elizabeth. I’m Mrs Corbin when commanding the WI. For family, I’m Elizabeth… or Mum.” I nearly choke.
She cups my face immediately. Both hands. Warm. Maternal. Decisive.
“Yes,” she says, nodding to herself. “Much better than a video call. Screens flatten people. And I don’t trust them. You can’t tell if someone’s eating properly through a phone.”
Before I can reply, her attention drops.
Straight to my stomach.
Her hand follows, gentle but unmistakable, resting on my bump like it has been personally invited.
“Well,” she says softly. “There you are.”
I make a noise that might be a laugh or might be a system reboot.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should probably—”
“Nonsense,” she says briskly. “You should be sitting down.”
She steers me toward the kitchen like this has been rehearsed, one hand still hovering protectively at my side. She lowers me onto a stool with great ceremony, as if I might float away if not thoroughly anchored.
“Rest,” she instructs.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“Yes,” she agrees. “You all say that.”
She turns, surveying the counter, and her eyes land on the fruit bowl.
“Oh good,” she says, delighted. “You’re eating fruit.”
“Yes,” I say. “I was just chopping some.”
“Excellent,” she replies. “Very important. Fibre. Vitamins. Your body’s doing an enormous amount of work right now.”
She nudges the bowl closer to me. Then nudges it again. “Eat.”
I hesitate.
She watches me.
Not aggressively. Just calmly. Patiently. Like a woman who has outwaited many toddlers and at least one stubborn son.
I pick up a piece of apple and take a bite.
“Good girl,” she says, satisfied.
I choke slightly. “Sorry?”
She waves it away. “Habit. I say it to everyone. Don’t make it weird.”
I chew obediently while she bustles about, opening cupboards she already seems to know, peering into the kettle.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask, once I’ve swallowed.
“Yes,” she says. “But I’ll make it. You need to rest.”
“I’m literally sitting.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Stay that way.”
She fills the kettle and flicks it on, then turns back to me.
“Eat another grape.”
I do.
She nods approvingly and leans back against the counter, arms folded, eyes on me. Not unkind. Just… supervisory.
“This is a very important phase,” she continues conversationally. “People underestimate it. Think you can carry on as normal. You can’t. You need fuel.”
I glance down at the bowl. “I promise I eat.”
“I’m sure you do,” she says. “But promises don’t grow babies. Apples do.”
I laugh, mouth full, because there is absolutely no arguing with that logic.
She smiles, softening now, and reaches out to pat my knee.
“You’re doing beautifully,” she says. “Even if you don’t realise it yet.”
The kettle clicks off.
She pours the tea, slides a mug toward me, and only then finally sits down opposite, satisfied, like a general reviewing a well-executed manoeuvre.
“Now,” she says. “You can tell me everything. Slowly. After you finish your fruit.”