Okay, so Evelyn’s love life had just gone up in flames, but at least she had a great friend to fall back on. Oh, and a couple of bottles of vino.
Life could be worse. Right?
2
Wine, Thongs, and Reorganization Therapy
Evelyn
Back at Evelyn’s penthouse, the first thing she did was go to the wine fridge, deposit the bottle of white she’d picked up at Bargain Booze, and grab an already chilled Pinot Noir she’d been saving for an occasion that never arrived. Well, if not now, when? She popped the cork with a vengeance usually reserved for opening board meetings.
Maggie planted herself on a kitchen stool, surveying the enormous, chrome-and-glass open-plan kitchen like she was trying to find a reason to hate it. She landed on the barstool’s faux leather, gave it a suspicious poke, and then spun herself with a gentle push. “This place is disgustingly clean,” she said, “even for you.”
“I like things tidy,” Evelyn replied, filling two stemless glasses with more wine than the NHS recommended as a weekly allowance. “Besides, Mindy has a cleaner.”
“No, Mindy hiredyoua cleaner. This isn’t her house anymore,” Maggie corrected.
Evelyn set Maggie’s glass in front of her and drained half of her own in a single, practiced tilt. She set it down so hard a droplet leapt out and ran down the glass, a wine tear. “Had,” she agreed.
For a moment, the only sound was the light hum of the fridge and the occasional clink of glass as Maggie swirled her wine, eyes narrowed. Then, without any buildup: “Do you want to throw her things off the balcony? We could film it. I’ll add slow motion.”
“Too melodramatic,” Evelyn said, already reaching for the bottle to refill her glass. “I’m not giving her the satisfaction.”
“What about a bonfire? The Christmas market opens tomorrow. We could stage an effigy and toast marshmallows over it.”
“Indoor bonfire,” Evelyn deadpanned. “Very on-brand for a lesbian breakup, but I just had the upholstery cleaned. Smoke smell lingers, you know.”
Maggie saluted the logic with her wine glass, eyes still sharp. “Well, what do you want to do then? We need a ritual. Otherwise, you’ll just be haunted by the scent of her shampoo and the sound of her clomping about in those hideous mules.”
“They’re not even real leather,” Evelyn muttered.
“Even worse! My God. She’s an abomination.” Maggie topped off both their glasses. “So, what’s our move?”
Evelyn considered the question, her gaze settling on the bedroom. “I suppose I should pack her things.”
Maggie made a scoffing noise. “Oh, come on. At least stick to your word and let me cut some of her thongs in half first.”
“Only the ones she left on the bathroom floor. If they’re in a drawer, they’re safe.”
Maggie grinned, wide and sharp, the sort of grin that once got them both thrown out of a Wetherspoons for “antisocial behaviour” during fresher’s week. “I’ll need scissors.”
“Top drawer in the office.”
Maggie jumped off her stool and went on the hunt, leaving Evelyn alone with the Pinot and a growing sense of anticlimax. She should feel something—anger, grief, even relief. Instead, she felt only the cloying, familiar numbness she got after marathon budget sessions.
She tried to summon anger, to feel the betrayal properly, but all she could muster was a vague disappointment. Not in Mindy—she’d never expected much there—but in herself. She’d known, hadn’t she? Known that Mindy was wrong for her from the start. Known that the late nights at work were as much about avoiding home as they were about the business. The numbness wasn’t shock. It was relief dressed up as indifference.
There had been a moment, early on, when Mindy had asked her what she wanted from the relationship. Evelyn had said something vague about companionship, about not wanting to be alone. Mindy had laughed and said, “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” She’d been right. Evelyn had settled for a warm body in her cold penthouse, and now she didn’t even have that.
But the apartment didn’t feel colder. If anything, it felt lighter.
She finished her glass, poured another, and drifted to the living room. The city lights glared through the penthouse windows, garish and cold. Evelyn’s mother had always decorated with soft lamplight and lush houseplants. Evelyn preferred the clean lines and hard edges. It made it easier to breathe, somehow.
Roslyn would have hated this flat. “Too cold, darling,” she’d have said, running her hand along the chrome countertops. “Where’s the life?” Evelyn had chosen every fixture, every piece of furniture, with surgical precision after her mother died. Clean. Minimal. Nothing that required care or attention. Nothing that could wilt or fade or remind her of loss.
Mindy had tried, once, to bring in a potted fern. “It’ll brighten the place up,” she’d said, setting it on the kitchen windowsill with the confidence of someone who’d never been told no. Evelyn had it removed within a week, citing allergies she didn’t have. The truth was simpler: she didn’t want anything in this space that could die.
Her mother’s house had been full of life—orchids on every surface, trailing ivy in the bathroom, a fiddle-leaf fig in the hallway that Roslyn talked to like a pet. “Plants need love, Evie,” she’d say. “Just like people.” Evelyn had rolled her eyes then, but now, standing in her sterile penthouse, she wondered if her mother had been trying to tell her something.
