Isabelle was sitting on her bed, surrounded by ribbons and rolls of gold paper, the faint sound of laughter drifting in from the living room where her mum was keeping the children entertained. The flat smelled of pine and cinnamon; the kind of warm, lived-in scent that came only in December.
She was halfway through wrapping Luke's last present when her phone buzzed beside her.
Robert:
Are you free for lunch today?
She stared at the screen for a moment, the question sitting there — simple, unassuming — and yet it sent a small current through her.
Clive would be collecting the children at noon. They'd spend the day with him, and she'd have the rest of the afternoon to help her mum with Christmas preparations. A few hours to herself wasn't impossible.
She typed, then paused before hitting send.
Isabelle:
I have some time at one.
The reply came almost immediately.
Robert:
Would you join me for lunch, Isabelle? It'd be nice to see you. We didn't really get to talk yesterday.
She hesitated, thumb hovering above the screen. Why was he asking her to lunch? Was it simply work related, or something else — something quieter, more deliberate?
She caught herself smiling, small and unbidden.
Before she could think about it too much, she typed back:
Isabelle:
Alright. Tell me where to meet you.
London moved like a tide that Christmas Eve — streets alive with hurried footsteps and the blur of red buses, the air cold and bright. The city had that washed-clean look, pale skies stretched thin over the Thames, its surface a ribbon of dull grey winding through the chill.
Robert had chosen a small restaurant tucked along the riverbank — all dark wood and soft amber light. It was nearly empty, the few patrons speaking in low voices over their lunches.
She arrived on time, wrapped in her wool coat, nerves fluttering faintly under her ribs.
He was already there, seated by the window, a glass of something dark in front of him. When he looked up and saw her, he smiled — a small, unhurried smile that reached his eyes.
"You found it," he said.
"It wasn't hard," she replied, slipping into the chair opposite him. "It's beautiful here."
"It's also quiet," he said. "I thought you'd prefer that."
He was right.
He watched her as she settled, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the small sigh of relief as she took in the view of the river.
No pretense today. No high heels or careful office armour. Just her; simple, composed and somehow luminous in the winter light.
He found himself wanting to say something that would keep that look on her face a little longer. Instead, he reached for the safer ground.
"How's work been since… everything?"
Her gaze flicked down to her napkin. "Since Sienna was found out, you mean."
He nodded.
"Calmer," she said. "Simpler. I get to leave at half past five and not feel like I've forgotten something." A faint smile. "But I'd rather not dwell on it."
He inclined his head. "Fair enough."
There was a pause, not awkward, just thoughtful. The hum of the city was distant, softened by the thick windows.
Then he said quietly, "Do you ever think about what's next? Beyond being Richard's assistant, I mean."
She looked surprised. "You think I should?"
"I think you're capable of more."
Her brow furrowed, faintly defensive. "I'm happy doing my job."
He leaned back, watching her. "Happiness and purpose aren't always the same thing."
That earned him a small, wry smile. "You sound like someone who's been reading too many self-help books."
"Not my style," he said, returning her smile. "But I'm curious. Surely you've got a dream beyond spreadsheets and schedules."
She hesitated, toying with her fork. It wasn't something she'd planned to say out loud.
"I suppose…" she began slowly, "if things were different — if I didn't have to think about bills and school uniforms — I'd like to do something... with heart."
He tilted his head. "With heart?"
"Something that means something. Not corporate politics and damage control. I like the precision of what I do, the organisation… but the world I work in feels so cold. Everyone chasing the next title, the next number. What's the point besides money? It wears you down."
He said nothing, just watched her with quiet attention.
"But it pays well," she added quickly. "And Richard's good to me. I'm not looking to leave anytime soon."
Robert smiled faintly. "You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."
She looked at him, sharp, assessing and then laughed softly. "Maybe I am."
He liked that sound. It did something to the air between them.
"I imagine you doing something amazing," he said. "You just don't see it yet."
Her eyes softened, and for a moment, she looked almost… vulnerable. "I don't have time to dream. I have responsibilities."
He nodded, the warmth in his chest tightening slightly.
He changed the subject, not to escape it, but because he could sense she needed to.
"Tell me about your children," he said.
Her whole face brightened. "Becca's six, Luke's five. They're good kids. Funny, and a little too smart for their own good."
"Sounds like their mother."
She laughed again, softer this time. "You don't know me well enough to say that."
"Maybe I'd like to."
It slipped out before he could stop it, and for a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. Then she glanced down, cheeks faintly flushed.
"What about you?" she asked after a moment. "Any children?"
He shook his head. "No. Never worked out that way."
"Did you want them?"
He looked out at the river. The light caught on the water, fractured, fading. "Once. Maybe. Hard to say now."
"And PR?" she pressed gently. "Was that always the dream? Managing the image of corporations?"
He gave a low laugh. "Hardly. I've had a few lives before this one. Some better, some worse. This one pays well. That's the point of it, I suppose."
She studied him, her expression soft, but unflinching. "What's the point in money if you aren't happy?"
He looked back at her, a slow smile curving his lips. "You sound like someone who still believes happiness is something you can achieve."
"And you sound like someone who's stopped trying."
That silenced him, not with offense, but with the quiet recognition of truth.
They left the restaurant as the afternoon light began to fade, the air crisp and faintly scented with woodsmoke from somewhere upriver.
They walked for a while without speaking, their footsteps in rhythm on the damp pavement.
When they reached the bridge, she stopped and looked out at the water, her hair lifting in the wind.
He came to stand beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him through her coat.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"For what?"
"For lunch. For not making it feel like…" She searched for the right word. "…a mistake."
He looked at her then, his eyes steady and unreadable, yet, she could see something there. Something unguarded.
"It wasn't a mistake," he said.
The world seemed to still around them — the hum of cars, the distant sound of church bells — and for a fleeting moment, she thought he might reach for her hand.
He didn't. But the air between them felt charged, fragile, alive.
She smiled faintly, stepping back. "I should go. Thank you for lunch, Robert."
"Thank you for joining me," he said as he watched her turn and walk away.
As she walked off down the riverbank, her figure slowly disappearing into the city's pale light, he found himself thinking, not for the first time, that he'd never met anyone quite like her.
And that thought lingered long after she was gone.