The late morning sun streamed through the tall windows of Frances’s study, pouring warm light across the polished wood of her desk. Papers were scattered in lazy piles, but the space held its usual elegance a balance of lived-in comfort and quiet creative mess.

Nicole sat across from her, impeccable as always in a navy blouse and pressed trousers, her legs crossed neatly, a small stack of manila portfolios on her lap. Frances, by contrast, was still in her robe, barefoot and armed with coffee, cigarette and reading glasses. Her hair, though hastily pinned up, somehow still looked deliberate. She looked like someone who never had to try and didn’t care if she didn't.

Nicole opened the first folder with a practiced hand.

“First up, Marta Vargas. Thirty-five. Recently moved here from Mexico City. She managed a household of six, plus two poodles, and apparently cooks like a dream.”

Frances took the folder and flipped through it idly. “She looks capable.”

Nicole gave a small nod and set it aside, moving on to the next.

“Sheila Garvey. Irish, forties, very tidy. Little intense, though...not sure if you want that. Asked me if your baseboards were clean.”

Frances laughed into her coffee. “Sounds like she’d scold Lily for breathing too loud...pass."

“That’s what I thought.” she laughed

Her tone shifted subtly as she reached for the third folder ,this one slightly thicker, the edges more worn. She laid it carefully on the desk and tapped a manicured finger against the cover.

“And then there’s this one. Perl James.” Nicole’s expression softened, a rare flicker of something gentler almost reverent. “Before lose your shit...I think she’s the one who fits this house best.”

Frances took one look at the folder and raised a brow. She looked up sharply.

“Nicole, you know my rule. I won’t be another rich white woman with a black maid, sipping lemonade while she scrubs the floor.”

Nicole didn’t flinch. She gently nudged the folder closer.

“I know, Frances. I do. But just look. Please. You’ll see why I chose her.”

Frances hesitated, then opened the folder.

Inside were a few neatly arranged pages, a concise résumé, handwritten references, and a candid photograph clipped at the corner. A woman stood in front of a plain stucco wall, tall and composed, with a faint smile. Next to her was a little girl, maybe five or six, expression fierce and suspicious of the camera.

“She’s warm. Smart, glowing references,” Nicole said. “Has a daughter around Lily’s age. Single mother. Grew up in Mississippi, but she’s been in L.A. for the past three years. Most recently worked with a family in Laurel Canyon until the husband… well. Made things impossible.”

Frances’s brow furrowed as she read, then slowly eased. Her fingers grazed the photograph.

Nicole went on. “She just wants work. A place to land. Somewhere decent. Somewhere her daughter’s safe, and she doesn’t have to look over her shoulder.” A pause. “Look… I just think she might be good with Lily. You’ll see when you speak with her. Isn’t that’s your priority over who washes your underwear?”

Frances didn’t respond right away. She kept staring at the child in the photo.

“She’s beautiful,” she said at last, barely above a murmur. "What’s her name?"

“Grace. Six years old. Loves dinosaurs and Snow white.” Nicole allowed herself a rare smile. “Perl doesn’t have relatives nearby, so sometimes her daughter comes with her when she’s not in school. Not many places allow that...I told her this place has space. Also, you want weekends to yourself, it suits her....Look...She's not asking for charity, that's not why I suggested her...just a place that will accommodate her needs. You're actually a great match."

Frances closed the folder, but her hand lingered on the cover, fingertips brushing it. She leaned back in her chair and exhaled slowly. The silence in the room thickened not with doubt, but with something heavier. Responsibility. Thoughtfulness.

“Honestly, Fran,” Nicole said gently, “I think she’s the right lady for you."

Finally, Frances spoke. “Alright. Let me speak to Yaz first. If she agrees, let’s invite her to the house.” Her voice was quiet, but firm. “No uniforms.”

Nicole nodded, lips twitching faintly at the corners. “Okay. Let me know, and I’ll set it up.”

.....


Susan pulled her car up to the curb in front of the house, the late afternoon sun slanting across the drive. She turned off the engine, reached across the passenger seat, and picked up a ribbon-tied cake box from the bakery

With a small smile, she stepped out of the car, cakes in hand, and made her way down the path toward Yaz’s studio. She knocked at the door once, then again, a little louder.

Nothing.

From inside, she could hear the steady thrum of sewing machines and the faint murmur of voices, laughter, chatter and music from the radio.

She smiled to herself and pushed the door open.

“Hellooo?” she called gently, stepping into the quiet front room of the studio. It was bright and airy, smell of fresh coffee filled the room, a box with threads neatly arranged sat on the coffee  table next to the vase of fresh flowers from the garden, soft blanket neatly thrown over pastel blue sofa, some fabric rolls stacked in the corner and sketches pinned along one wall like a gallery of dreams.

The sewing room lay beyond, and the whirring was louder now, punctuated by the occasional clatter of scissors or soft exclamations. She followed the sound, walking through until she reached the back of the studio.

All three girls were at work, Mildred at the cutting table, Barbara bent over a machine, and Shirley hand-finishing a hem of an elegant skirt. They didn’t notice her right away.

Then Barbara looked up and blinked. “Oh!”

Mildred followed her gaze. “Susan!”

The machines stilled. Shirley grinned and stood up from her stool.

“Oh my goodness, we didn’t hear you at all,” Mildred said, leaving her scissors on the table. “We thought you were Yaz coming back early.”

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” Susan said brightly, holding up the box. “Just popped in to bring you something. Figured you could use a little sugar to keep you going.”

Barbara’s eyes lit up. “Is that from your bakery?”

Susan gave her a wink. “You bet. Yaz may or may not have placed a suspiciously large order this morning. I may or may not have added a few extras.”

“You absolute gem,” Shirley said, already reaching for a clear patch of table.

“You really didn’t have to,” Mildred said, though she was already smiling as Barbara took the box from Susan’s hands with reverence. "Thank you"

“I won’t lie,” Susan said, hands on hips, eyes scanning the space. “It’s also an excuse to come have a nosey.”

“Fair enough,” Shirley laughed. “Most people knock just to drop something off and end up staying for a tour.”

Susan took a slow walk around the room, admiring the light that poured in through the long glass panes. “It’s darling in here. All this light, it’s like a little sunroom made for gowns.”

“Sometimes it feels like one of those,” Mildred said. “Especially on sunny days.”

“Oh, don’t you melt in here?” Susan asked, raising a brow.

“We open the whole back up,” Barbara said, moving to the wide glass doors. With a quick slide, she pushed them aside to reveal the garden beyond, warm and breezy. "See...we have our own garden back here. Isn’t it charming?"

Susan stepped closer to the open threshold and let out a contented sigh. “Now that’s clever. No wonder Yaz loves it back here.”

“She barely comes,” Mildred said, her voice filled with light disappointment. “Poor girl's working really long hours at the studio, she doesn't have time to breathe lately.”

“Sounds like her,” Susan said, her tone warm. “I won’t keep you, just wanted to drop these off and say hello.”

“You’re always welcome,” Shirley said, breaking apart the ribbon on the box. “But you’ll never be allowed to leave without a cup of tea and a bit of gossip.”

“Dangerous offer,” Susan teased, already backing toward the door. “You might find me moved in by next week.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to threaten it,” Mildred said with a grin.

Susan gave them a wave and turned to head back, the sound of laughter and rustling pastry boxes following her
as she stepped out into the sunlit garden.

She made her way along the stone path toward the main house. The hedges were freshly trimmed, and the late afternoon light cast soft golden streaks across the lawn. Reaching the front steps, she smoothed a hand over her skirt, lifted her chin, and rang the doorbell.

Moments later, the door opened and there was Betty, in her usual crisp blouse and slightly too-tight smile.

“Oh, hello...” But she never got the chance to finish. Like a shot, Lily came charging between her and the doorframe with a squeal of pure joy.

“Susan!”

Susan’s face transformed in an instant, her mouth stretching into a radiant smile, eyes crinkling with delight. She bent swiftly and gathered Lily into her arms, wrapping her in a tight hug.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, peppering Lily’s cheeks with a flurry of short, doting kisses. “God I missed you so much. My darling girl. Look at you, you're even taller!”

Lily giggled and squirmed a little, not truly trying to escape, her arms locked around Susan’s neck.

Betty, still at the door, gave a polite cough. “Would you like to come in?”

Susan straightened, one arm still curled protectively around Lily’s back, and gave Betty a cool glance. Her tone was pleasant, her smile fixed, but something flickered in her expression, something just a touch frosty, just enough for someone paying close attention.

“Of course,” she said smoothly, stepping past her and into the foyer. “Thank you.”

As she and Lily crossed into the house hand in hand, Susan’s gaze flicked briefly toward Betty, a sidelong glance, subtle and brief, gone in an instant. Almost invisible. But it was there.

Betty’s smile faltered, just slightly.

She let Lily lead her toward the hallway, but paused just inside the doorway, turning her head slightly over her shoulder toward Betty.

“I just spoke with Frances,” she said, her tone polite but unmistakably firm. “You’re free to go home.”

Betty blinked, caught off guard. “Oh. Well, Lily still needs to get dressed...”

“That won’t be necessary,” Susan interrupted, her voice clipped now. “Lily is my responsibility this evening. As I said, you’re free to go.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, she turned to Lily with a warmth that seemed lit from within. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you ready, shall we?”

Lily grinned and gave a small excited hop, her hand still firmly tucked in Susan’s as they started toward her room.

Halfway there, Susan turned back again, all pleasantness gone from her eyes now.

“Oh, and I’ll need Lily’s emergency kit,” she said with quiet authority. “You know the one. The box with the paraldehyde and the syringe. I trust it’s where it should be?”

Betty gave a stiff nod. “Yes. I’ll bring it right out.”

Susan didn’t thank her. She simply turned again to Lily, brushing a bit of hair from her cheek and smiling softly.

“Let’s find that new dress and the cardigan your mummy bought you, hmm? It might get chilly later.”

....

The studio cafeteria was too far and too bright, so most of the actors had gathered outside the sound stage near the lot’s shaded western wall, where the light caught just right and the breeze off Melrose cut the heat. A folding table was set with a silver urn of lukewarm coffee, a few chipped cups, and a plate of uninspired doughnuts courtesy of someone’s assistant. No one touched them.

Frances leaned against the wall, her blouse sleeves rolled to the elbow, looking  for her cigarette case. Two actresses flanked her, Vera Lorne, a statuesque redhead who’d built her career off B-pictures and sass, and Miriam Lane, a wide-eyed ingénue who played dumb better than she was.

“I swear to God, if that director tells me to ‘soften it’ one more time,” Vera muttered, dragging hard on her cigarette, “I’m gonna fucking scream.”

“You’re playing a secretary, dear,” Miriam said with a wink. “You’re not meant to be smarter than him.”

“I’m smarter than his entire bloodline,” Vera shot back.

Frances laughed, flicking her lighter few times, “Remember...this is the same studio that wanted me to giggle more during the courtroom scene.”

“Oh Lord,” Vera groaned. “Justice, but make it flirtatious.”

Miriam was mid-giggle when a voice cut through the air. “Need a light, Frances?”

They all turned. Clark Dunley, tall, smooth, handsome enough in the way a poster boy from Kansas always was. He held out a match, struck it with a flick of his wrist like he was born doing it.

Frances arched a brow but leaned in, letting him light her cigarette. Her eyes didn’t quite meet his.

“Always the gentleman,” she murmured, lips just brushing the smoke.

Clark grinned, stepping a little closer than necessary. “Well, when the lady’s this lovely, it’s a pleasure.”

Frances gave a small smile, a rehearsed one, pretty and impenetrable. “Careful, Clark. That line’s old enough to vote.”

Vera turned to hide her smirk in her coffee. Clark chuckled, half-charmed, half-dismissed. "Ladies" He gave a nod and wandered off, lighting his own cigarette as he went.

The moment he was out of earshot, Miriam leaned in, whispering, “He tried the same routine on Jean at the Christmas party. She told him she’d rather date the punch bowl.”

Vera snorted. “He thinks just because he’s got cheekbones and a car, the rest of us will faint dead away.”

Frances took a long drag and flicked ash toward the gravel. “Well, I’ve got cheekbones and taste, so I’ll be alright.”

Miriam laughed out loud. “You know, I keep waiting for you to fall for one of them. Just once.”

“Oh, I don't think so,,” Frances said with a shrug. “It would take years to wash off the aftershave.”

Vera leaned in, grinning. “You always get that look when a man like Clark come sniffing around"

Frances smirked, tilting her head. “Darling, it usually ends with someone crying and someone changing their phone number. I just made sure neither of them was me.”

Miriam snorted into her coffee cup, then lowered it to whisper conspiratorially, “So what’s the story, then? I’ve never seen you turn that kind of attention into anything… personal.”

Frances let her gaze linger on the burning tip of her cigarette for a beat too long. Then, smoothly, she looked back up at them with a faint smile.

“Well, some of us are just more discreet.”

Miriam narrowed her eyes playfully, her voice hushed. “Frances Louise … are you telling me there’s a great romance hiding in those Monroe curls?”

Frances tapped her ash delicately into the tray and gave the faintest shrug. “I’m just saying that my private life is very well-curated, and I intend to keep it that way. But between us three and the walls of this miserable green room... let’s just say I prefer my suits tailored, not pinstriped.” Frances laughed, tilting her head to exhale smoke into the sky.

There was a split second of silence before Vera burst out laughing. "Oh my God," she gasped, laughing behind her hand.

Frances gave a small laugh, amused by her reaction. “It’s all in the fit.”

The other actress, Miriam, meanwhile, didn’t seem to pick up on it. She blinked, her expression still a little confused. “I don’t get it. What does his suit have to do with it?”

Vera snorted and shot her a look that was almost too sweet. “Miriam, darling, don’t worry about it. You’ll learn.”

Frances dissolved into laughter just as the assistant director poked his head out of the door, calling them back in. She ground out her cigarette in the ashtray, her smile lingering.

"Back to work."

.....

Susan and Lily stood in line beneath a sun-bleached awning at the entrance to the Los Angeles Zoo, the air warm with the scent of eucalyptus and hot pavement. A nearby ice cream vendor jangled the little brass bell on his cart, and somewhere in the distance, a peacock cried like a siren.

Lily clutched Susan’s hand, nearly bouncing in place. Her eyes were wide with wonder, scanning the old stuccoed walls of the entrance, the painted wooden signs showing lions, elephants, and flamingos.

“May I have ice cream please?” she asked, already halfway to pleading.

Susan smiled and squeezed her hand. “You may. After we see the giraffes.”

Lily grinned, the deal sealed.

Once they reached the booth, Susan bought two tickets from a bored teenager in a cap, then ushered Lily inside. The zoo opened up in front of them like a storybook, sun-dappled paths, low stone walls, tall cages, and little plaques with animal facts. A pair of chimpanzees hooted from somewhere nearby, and Lily’s head snapped toward the sound.

“Oh! What's that? Susan, did you hear that?”

“I did,” Susan laughed, watching her try to look everywhere at once. "It's monkeys darling"

Just ahead, a man with a red balloon stand stood under a parasol, holding a bouquet of colorful balloons tied with string. Next to him, a cart displayed little trinkets, glittery plastic rings, tin wind-up toys, and simple charm bracelets with painted beads.

Lily stopped dead in her tracks.

“Susan…” she whispered, pointing with reverence. “Look!”

Susan followed her gaze. “What did you see?” she couldn’t help but laugh

“Balloons and bracelets,” Lily breathed, like she’d stumbled on buried treasure.

“Well, I suppose a little zoo treasure never hurt anyone,” Susan said, pulling her coin purse from her handbag.

Moments later, Lily stood with a sunny yellow balloon in one hand, and a dainty blue-beaded bracelet on her wrist. She lifted her arm like royalty, letting the beads catch the sunlight.

“I feel like a princess.”

“You look like one,” Susan said warmly, and gently tucked a loose curl behind Lily’s ear. “Now… shall we go find some lions?”

Lily gave an enthusiastic nod, her balloon bobbing overhead like a crown in the wind.

The zoo seemed to come alive for Lily in bursts of color, sound, and smell. Every turn brought something new, the squawk of parrots in the aviary, the long stretch of a lazy alligator sunbathing beside a still pond, the rhythmic pacing of a black panther behind thick iron bars.

Her hand was still in Susan’s when a low, rumbling growl echoed from a nearby enclosure.

The lion.

Lily gasped and then bolted, her balloon bouncing behind her as she raced toward the sound.

“Lily!” Susan called, half laughing, half worried, jogging to catch up.

Lily was already pressed against the stone railing, peering through the bars at the massive lion lounging beneath a bit of shade, his golden mane tousled like he’d just come from a film set.

“He’s real,” she whispered.

Susan arrived at her side, breath light but eyes amused. “I should hope so. It’d be a terrible zoo otherwise.”

Lily barely heard her, too entranced. “He’s huge. And sleepy....Is that the lion from mummy’s movie?" Lily turned over her shoulder
Susan burst put laughing "No darling, that’s the other one"

Lily grinned.

They wandered further, ice cream in hand now, strawberry for Lily, mint chocolate chip for Susan and stopped to watch the flamingos, the chimps again, and a black bear rubbing its back on a tree trunk. But it was the giraffe that truly stunned her.

The creature bent its impossibly long neck toward the visitors, curious and calm. Its large, dark eyes blinked slowly, and its tongue, like a ribbon of blue velvet, curled around a branch of leaves offered by a zookeeper.

Lily took a step back, nearly hiding behind Susan’s skirt.

“It’s... looking at me,” she whispered.

“He’s just saying hello.”

“He’s too tall.”

Susan chuckled and crouched beside her. “It’s alright to be a little nervous. But look,  he’s gentle. See how soft his eyes are?”

Lily peeked around her, still wide-eyed. “He’s kind of funny-looking.”

“He’d probably say the same about us.”

That earned a quiet giggle.

They carried on, and soon came to the elephant enclosure. A small crowd was gathered, mostly children, and a man in a cap stood beside a thick-skinned elephant with kind eyes and long, graceful lashes.

He waved a hand to the children. “Anyone have a coin? Big Ella here is feeling helpful.”

The children giggled. A few stepped forward.

Susan leaned down to Lily and handed her a shiny coin. “Want to try?”

"Yes" she nodded

Lily hesitated. The elephant’s trunk waved gently in the air, curling and uncurling like a slow-motion ribbon. She clutched the coin tightly, stepping forward with caution, her bracelet clinking lightly at her wrist.

The trunk reached for her, and Lily let out a tiny squeak but held her ground.

With trembling fingers, she held out the coin. The trunk wrapped around it, gentle and warm, and lifted it toward the trainer.

“Good girl,” the trainer said. “And good girl, Ella.”

He slipped the elephant a large carrot, which she crunched loudly with satisfaction.

Lily stood frozen for a moment. Then turned to Susan, eyes round with awe.

“She took it from me.”

“She did,” Susan said softly, smiling. “Braver than me.”

“She was… soooo big.”

“Yes,” Susan said, brushing a bit of hair from Lily’s cheek. “Big gentle giant.”

Lily looked back at the elephant as it swayed in the sun, then slipped her hand back into Susan’s, holding tight this time.

“I love the zoo,” she whispered.

Susan’s heart tugged. “I love it with you.”

They strolled on, the warm wind carrying the scent of popcorn and eucalyptus, the balloon still bobbing above them like a tiny sun.
They wandered until the crowds thinned and the sounds quieted, the animals dozing in the early afternoon warmth. Susan led them down a gently shaded path, past cypress trees and ivy-covered fences, until they came to a little clearing near a low wooden fence. Beyond it, a tranquil pond shimmered in the sunlight, lily pads drifting across its surface and ducks gliding lazily in little flotillas.

Lily gasped, clutching the balloon’s string in one hand and the remnants of her popcorn in the other. “Susan! Ducks!”

Susan smiled and lowered the picnic bag she’d slung over her shoulder. “Go on then, sweetheart. Make their day.”

In her yellow summer dress, Lily looked like a buttercup in bloom. She hurried toward the edge, crouching down on the grassy bank just shy of the fence. She tossed a few pieces of popcorn, giggling as the ducks paddled over, flapping their wings and quacking eagerly.

Susan sat herself on a bench nearby beneath the dappled shade of a tall tree. She opened the canvas bag and pulled out a neat bundle wrapped in wax paper, sandwiches cut into tidy triangles. She unwrapped them carefully and spread a soft cloth napkin across the bench beside her.

Out came a small glass bottle of juice, a folded napkin, and finally a tiny tin containing Lily’s afternoon tablets. She opened it, carefully placing the tablets beside the sandwiches with a practised calm. Her movements were steady, routine but her eyes remained fixed on the little girl crouched by the water.

“Don’t get too close to the edge, darling,” she called out softly.

“I won’t!” Lily shouted without looking back, tossing one last piece of popcorn and watching a duck dive with enthusiastic ripples.

Susan smiled, brushing a leaf off the bench, then raised her voice again. “Come on now, it’s time for a snack.”

Lily turned, beaming, and came skipping over, shoes scuffed, cheeks flushed pink from the sun, a little strand of hair stuck to her forehead.

“Did you see the little one with the funny feet?” she asked breathlessly. “He's so cute!”

“I think you two have that in common,” Susan teased gently, patting the spot beside her.

Lily climbed up and tied her balloon string to the bench before taking a sandwich. “What’s it with?”

“Ham, cheese and tomato. And a bit of apple for after.”

She nudged the napkin with the tablets toward Lily without a word. Lily eyed them, then popped them in her mouth and chased them with a gulp of juice like a small soldier. No fuss today.

Susan reached to tuck a strand of hair behind Lily’s ear. “Well done, sweetheart.”

Lily took a big bite of sandwich, legs swinging off the edge of the bench. “This is the best day.”

Susan exhaled softly, the summer breeze warm and full of birdsong. She looked down at Lily’s contented face and felt something settle in her chest, peace, maybe, or something awfully close.

“It really is,” she said.

As they made their way toward the exit, Susan gently steered Lily toward the little wooden gift shop nestled near the front gates, its painted sign swaying in the breeze. The shop smelled faintly of sawdust and lemon wax, the inside cool and dim after the brightness of the zoo.

"Now, look around, and if you see something you like let me know" Susan said fixing a little bow hairclip on Lily’s head.

"Okay" the little girl nodded exited

"Stay where I can see you darling"

"I will be over there" she pointed twards the row of shelves

"Alright sweetheart"

Lily wandered between the shelves, wide-eyed once again. She passed up a plastic lion and a plush monkey, until her gaze landed on a stand of colourful magnets, each one shaped like an animal, with "Los Angeles Zoo" stamped in cheerful lettering.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, "Susan! I think I found it" she said pointing at two small ones, a giraffe with a wobbly neck and a lion with a painted grin. “Can we get one for Mummy and one for Yaz? They don’t have any!”

Susan smiled, already reaching into her handbag. “Of course we can. You pick which one for whom.”

Lily thought for a long moment, brow furrowed, then held up the lion. “Mummy likes lions, I think.”

“I imagine she does,” Susan said with a laugh. “And Yaz?”

“The giraffe. ‘Cause it was scary but it didn’t mean to be.”

“Just like Yaz sometimes?”

Lily giggled, eyes twinkling. “Nooo!”

As Susan went to pay, she caught sight of a straw hat displayed on a rotating rack by the counter. It was pale and summery, with a wide brim, tiny embroidered flowers, and a soft yellow ribbon tied neatly at the back. She plucked it down and turned toward Lily.

“Come here, let’s try something.”

Lily stood still, amused, as Susan placed the hat gently on her head. It fit perfectly, sitting over her curls like it had been waiting just for her.

“What do you think?” Susan asked, tilting Lily’s chin up to see her face better.

Lily looked up with a small, bashful nod. “It’s like something a lady wears in a painting.”

“Alright then...” Susan said, brushing her shoulders, " ... a lady it is!"

Moments later Lily’s eyes widened to a stuffed  giraffe she saw on the shelf. She didn’t ask for it, but her eyes glistened with that child's wonder in a way Susan couldn't resist. So she added it to the pile at the register and paid, slipping the little bag with the magnets inside her satchel.

Outside, the afternoon heat had risen again, casting long golden shadows across the pavement. Before heading to the car, Susan paused by a leafy corner near a low brick wall topped with a stone carving of a resting lion.

“Go stand by the lion, sweetheart,” she said, already digging in her bag for the little Kodak camera she’d brought with her. “One last picture.”

Lily skipped over, holding the brim of her hat so it wouldn’t fly away in the breeze. She stood proudly next to the lion statue, chest out, hand gripping a balloon string, a giraffe tucked under her armpit trying her best to be elegant.

As Susan raised the camera and lined up the shot, a voice behind her spoke up kindly.

“Excuse me ma'am. Would you like me to take one with both of you?”

She turned to see a man in his mid-forties, neatly dressed in slacks and a pale blue shirt. His wife stood nearby with two children, both finishing melting cones. Susan hesitated just a moment, then smiled.

“That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

She handed him the camera, then crossed quickly to crouch beside Lily, resting one arm around her back. Lily leaned into her without thinking, hat slightly askew but smile radiant. The camera clicked.

“Got it,” the man said, “Came out nicely.”

Susan thanked him warmly, taking back the camera and giving Lily’s arm a little squeeze. As the family moved on, the man’s wife leaned in to whisper something.

“Don’t you think that’s Frances Louise’s daughter? From the pictures? That must be her nanny.”

He gave a soft laugh, adjusting his hat. “You read too many magazines.”

But she wasn’t convinced, glancing back once more as they walked away. “It’s her. I’m sure it is.”

Susan never noticed. She was far too focused on reapplying a little cream to Lily’s cheeks and nose, the heat lingering even in the shade.

“Alright, my love,” she said, tucking the bottle away and brushing Lily’s hair off her forehead, “how about one more ice cream?”

Lily gasped delightedly. “Really?”

“Really,” Susan nodded, eyeing a shaded refreshment stand tucked beneath a canopy of palms. “It’s really hot and I could do with some cold lemonade"

Hand in hand, they strolled across the plaza, the air rich with birdsong and the distant trumpeting of an elephant. It had been a very good day.

.....

 

The bell above the loading door jingled sharply, followed by the familiar rattle of the delivery cart. Yaz looked up from her pattern board, charcoal pencil stilled mid-sketch, as a young assistant wheeled in the first of four large bolts of fabric wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

“Delivery from Wolff & Co.,” the assistant called out, slightly breathless.

Charlie was already making his way across the studio, clipboard in hand. Yaz wiped her hands and joined him at the trestle table where the parcels were being unwrapped.

Tim, sleeves rolled to his elbows and a pencil behind his ear, appeared from the dyeing room, face smudged with indigo. He leaned on the edge of the table, frowning as the wrappings came off.

Yaz scanned the labels. “This should be the damask, the green shot silk, and the brushed wool for the guards’ doublets,” she murmured.

Charlie flipped through the paperwork. “Let’s check it bolt by bolt.”

They unfurled the first length. Yaz’s brow furrowed immediately.

“This isn’t our green,” she said, voice tightening. “It’s jade. Ours was a darker, forest green, Moss Twelve-B.”

"Fuck" Tim swore under his breath. “That throws off the entire Anne Boleyn sequence.”

Charlie double-checked the invoice. “It says Moss Twelve-B, but this....this is Jade Five. They’ve sent the wrong dye lot. Damn!”

Yaz stepped back, pulse rising. “And the damask? Please  tell me it's  there or I'm gonna pop a vain”

More paper torn, more bolts unfurled.

“Missing entirely,” Charlie said grimly. “Not on the cart.”

Yaz looked over the remaining fabrics, too much linen, not enough wool. Several bolts weren’t even part of the original order.

"Tell me I'm bloody dreaming" Her stomach dropped.

“Fuck...This will delay the first build by at least five days,” Tim muttered. “And we’re already stretched.”

A silence fell over the room, heavy with tension and the hum of fluorescent lights. Stitchers paused. A cutter turned around from her bench.

Yaz straightened. She felt the weight of her position fully settle across her shoulders, not as a talented assistant, not even as a rising star. But as the lead.

“No,” she said firmly, voice cutting clean through the air. “No, we’re not letting this throw us off.”

She turned to Charlie. “Get Wolff & Co. on the phone. Tell them I want the correct bolts re-sent today. We’ll have a runner meet the train if we have to.”

"On it kiddo" Charlie gave a brisk nod and moved toward the telephone.

“Tim,” Yaz said, turning to him, “can you take the swatch cards and check what we’ve got in backup? Maybe the south store has a roll of Moss Twelve-B tucked away.”

“I’ll call now,” he said, already heading for the office.

Yaz turned back to the studio floor. “We’ll adjust the order of builds. Start with the linens for Katherine’s ladies-in-waiting and the roughs for the yeomen. Push the guards’ tunics until next Thursday. Everyone reassign accordingly.”

The studio crew sprang into motion. Cutters opened new layout sheets. Assistants moved tailors to alternate prep.

As the room returned to life, Yaz exhaled, but it was tight, focused. This was her show now. Her name was attached to every stitch.

She walked back to her office and jotted a note in the margins of her design board:
RECONFIRM EVERY ROLL BEFORE SIGN-OFF. NO ASSUMPTIONS.

Then, more quietly, she added underneath
Never again.

She walked over to her desk and picked up the phone cradling the receiver between her shoulder and ear, fingers drumming anxiously against the edge of her desk. The stack of fabric swatches fanned out before her like a crime scene, every bolt a shade too pale or too thick, every texture wrong for the camera. It wasn’t just a mishap. It was a full-blown catastrophe. And it would take her all night to fix it.

She checked the clock on the wall, nearly five. She turned ‘O’  on her rotary.

The MGM switchboard operator came on almost immediately. “Operator, how may I help you.”

“Yes, can you connect me to Paramount Studios, please?” she said, trying to keep the edge out of her voice.

“Right away, Miss.”

There was a soft click, followed by a long pause, then another voice, brisk and polished. “Paramount Pictures.”

“This is Yasmin Khan from MGM Studios,” she said. “I need to leave a message for Miss Frances Louise. She’s in a table read, I understand, but it’s time-sensitive.”

The pause on the other end was almost suspicious. “One moment.”

The line clicked again, and she was passed to someone else, young male, a little too casual. “Stage 12 production office.”

“Hello. I’m calling for Miss Frances Louise,” she repeated. “I’m with MGM. Could you please pass on a message? It’s personal.”

“Go ahead.”

“Please tell her Yaz called, she’ll know who I am. And that I’m working late at the studio, possibly until midnight. She needs to speak with Susan about Lily. It’s important.”

A rustle of paper, a scratch of a pencil. “Got it. I’ll get it to her as soon as there’s a break.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

She hung up gently, exhaling for what felt like the first time all day. There were costumes to salvage, a production schedule to keep. But with any luck, Frances would get the message in time.

....

The long conference table in Stage 12 was cluttered with water pitchers, open scripts, half-eaten sandwiches, and the occasional ashtray tipped at a careless angle. The air was thick with voices, actors reading lines, the director interjecting with notes, laughter as someone tripped over a word.

Frances sat relaxed, a soft cashmere cardigan over her blouse, her script neatly marked. She read her lines with quiet precision, nodding along to the director’s notes and occasionally  laughing to a random joke someone made.

A stagehand slipped into the room mid-scene, ducking low as he moved behind the table. Frances didn’t notice him until he paused just beside her, leaned down, and wordlessly placed a folded slip of paper beside her glass.

She kept reading, but her eyes flicked to the paper. She waited for the director to finish a note, waited for the room to shift focus. Then, with a glance down, she unfolded it beneath the table.

She didn’t move for a moment. Her eyes scanning the note once more. She folded it again with care, tucking it beneath her script.

Her chest tightened slightly, not from worry, from something else. The quiet kind of bond that threaded through the ordinary chaos of their lives. Yaz, buried in fabric and stress, thinking far enough ahead to make sure Lily wouldn’t be alone.

Frances looked up, eyes a little softer than before.

“Let’s go again from page twelve,” the director called.

She nodded, lifting her script. “Page twelve,” she echoed.

.....


The last rays of sunlight slipped behind the horizon, giving way to the soft amber glow of the streetlamps. The ever-bustling city had begun to ease into its evening rhythm, the steady hum of traffic no longer frantic but unhurried, almost languid. The salt-tinged air drifting from the ocean mingled with the faint scent of blooming jacaranda, brushing against Frances’s face through the open window as she drove. A mellow tune from the radio filled the car, its warmth cushioning her tiredness, and though her body longed for rest, her heart felt lighter than it had in years.

At a red light, she paused and let her gaze wander. A young couple strolled hand in hand across the boulevard, laughing as though the world belonged only to them. A paperboy in a flat cap darted between cars, hollering headlines, his bundle under one arm. Further down the sidewalk, a woman in a smart skirt-suit tugged her little boy along, the child stubbornly clutching a toy airplane. Frances found herself smiling at these small, ordinary rituals of life, the city carrying on in its familiar way while she sat still, watching. The light flicked green, and she eased her foot to the accelerator, the simple joy of the moment lingering with her as the road opened up before her.


The key turned in the front door with a soft clack, and Frances stepped into the cool hush of the house exhaling a long breath. She dropped her handbag onto the console table in the hall, unfastened the pearl button at the top of her blouse, and pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. Another day of script revisions, charm-laced meetings, and smiling just enough but not too much. Her back ached. Her jaw, too. Smiling could be exhausting work.

The scent of garlic and tomatoes drifted in from the kitchen, warm and welcoming. She padded toward it, the house quiet except for the occasional hum of a ceiling fan and the muffled clink of cutlery. She turned the corner and there she was.

Susan stood at the stove, stirring something in a wide pan, sleeves rolled up and a kitchen towel slung over her shoulder like she'd lived there forever. Frances’s heart lifted.

“Smells like heaven,” she said with a grin.

Susan looked over and beamed. “There’s the working woman herself,” she said, opening one arm as Frances stepped into a hug. They held each other for a long, comfortable beat before Frances pressed a grateful kiss to her cheek.

“Where’s Lily?” Frances asked as they parted.

“She’s just down for a little nap now, completely knocked out. I think the giraffes did it,” Susan chuckled.

Frances laughed, her shoulders easing, then her expression softened into something more serious. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Susan turned toward her, instantly attentive. “What’s up, hun?”

“We have a bit of a problem...Yaz had a crisis at the studio, wrong fabrics got delivered for the production,” Frances said, brushing her hair back. “She called during the table read. Said she might be there until midnight.”

Susan’s brows rose. “Midnight? Lord.”

“I know,” Frances sighed. “And honestly... I’m not sure how late I’ll be either. It's director and producer...can't just get up and leave...”

She paused, clearing her throat, a little sheepish. “Would it be... could you possibly...?”

“Yes. Of course." Susan cut her off with a warm laugh, already waving her hand. "Don’t need to ask.”

Frances exhaled, relieved. “Thank you. I owe you big time. I swear, once this film’s on its feet, I’m taking a full week to sit in the garden and not speak to a soul.”

“Just make sure to warn me,” Susan said with a wink, “so I can stock up on gin.”

They both laughed, and Frances reached out to hug her again. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice quiet now. “Really. I don’t know what I'd do without you.”

“Don’t mention it, honey,” Susan smiled, tapping Frances’s arm.

“The guest room’s ready, I’ll leave out some fresh towels and find something comfy for you to sleep in.”

“Don’t worry,” Susan laughed, turning back to the pan she’d been tending “it’s so hot I might just stay in my undies.”

“Your scandal, not mine!” Frances laughed pouring herself a small glass of water, and leaned on the counter. “So... how was your day?”

“I had the best day. And so did Lily, I think."

“Was she okay?”

“She was an angel. And completely starstruck by the zoo.” Susan wiped her hands and gestured toward the refrigerator. “Oh, and someone picked out a present for you and Yaz.”

Frances turned and followed her eyes, then gasped.

There on the fridge, between Lily’s drawing and the photo of them three, where two tiny magnets, one shaped like a lion with big eyes, and the other a giraffe with a funny face. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Oh my God,” she whispered dramatically. “This is the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Susan laughed. “She was very serious about picking the right ones. Lion is yours and a Giraffe is Yaz’s.”

Frances traced her finger over it gently. “Of course she was....sweetheart.” She looked back at Susan, all warmth. “Thank you for giving her this day.”

“You’re welcome, darling.” Susan gave her a fond glance and turned back to her cooking. “Now go get changed. Don’t you have some boring dinner thing?”

Frances sighed and drained the rest of her water. “Ugh. Yeah. With the producer and the director. Shame, cause I rather stay here and eat your lasagna.”

Susan waved a spoon in her direction. “That’s because you have taste.”

Frances laughed on her way out


On her way to the bedroom, she paused by Lily’s room. The door was ajar, and she nudged it open softly.

There, bathed in the golden light of the dipping sun, lay Lily, curled up under her light summer blanket, one arm cradling a stuffed giraffe. Her small mouth hung slightly open in sleep, and tied carefully to the side table beside her was a yellow balloon, swaying gently with the movement of the fan.

Frances stood in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame. Something tugged deep inside her. Something tender and aching. This, this was a life she always wanted for her daughter. Joy and sweet exhaustion, sticky fingers, balloons and small surprises on the fridge.

She lingered for another quiet moment before tiptoeing away.

......

'Romanoff’s' was all quiet glamour and closed-door power plays. Mahogany-paneled walls soaked in cigar smoke and whispers, while plush leather banquettes lined the room like a gentlemen’s club for the silver screen. The chandeliers hung low, casting soft light over crystal glasses and the occasional diamond bracelet. White-jacketed waiters moved efficiently between tables, discreet and unreadable. A few studio heads leaned close over their steaks, voices low, while across the room, someone from 'Variety' pretended not to eavesdrop from behind a menu.

Frances sat poised at a round table near the back, flanked on her right by Elliot Miles, a Paramount executive with a tan as deep as his pockets, and hands that didn’t know how to stay on his own side of the table. To her left, Herb Winston, a cigar-chomping co-producer with a comb-over and opinions, while Dennis Hart, one of the film’s financial backers, handsome in a forgettable way, all confidence and cologne, held court across from her.

At the far end, half in shadow, sat Paul Jackson, the director, soft-spoken, thoughtful, and the only man at the table who hadn’t refilled his bourbon glass. His thick-framed glasses kept slipping down his nose as he nodded along to the chatter, quietly nursing a soda water.

Her wine glass was still mostly full. She didn’t dare finish it. She needed her wits about her.

“—and then I tell the guy, ‘That’s not your wife, buddy, that’s your agent!’” Elliot roared, palm slapping the table.

Laughter followed, too loud, too eager. Frances smiled politely, her hand resting lightly near her fork.

“Jesus, I miss Vegas,” Herb chuckled. “Nothing like a good drunk agent joke.”

“Nothing like drunk agents period,” Frances said smoothly, lifting her water instead. “Especially when they forget which end of the contract you sign.”

The men chuckled. Dennis gave her an impressed nod, like a teacher rewarding a precocious student.

Elliot leaned in a little too close, the scent of bourbon on his breath. “I like a gal with a sharp tongue,” he said, brushing his knee against hers under the table. “You’ve got bite.”

She shifted just enough to move her leg away without looking obvious, eyes still on her plate.

“Only when cornered,” she said sweetly. “Or when bored. Sometimes hard to tell the difference.”

Dennis snorted. “You always this quick at table reads, too?”

“Only if the script gives me something to work with.”

Herb guffawed. “She got you, Dennis.”

Frances smiled again, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her hand reached down casually, tugging her dress over her knees, and out of reach of Elliot’s wandering fingers.

“You know what’s really gonna sell this picture?” Elliot said, leaning in again, his hand brushing against her arm under the pretense of reaching for his drink. “That pretty face of yours. The way you look at the camera, hell, the audience won’t stand a chance.”

Frances raised her brow “I thought it was the story that might sell it.” she laughed

Frances gave a small, polished smile and reached for her water. “Well, let’s hope they stick around for the second act... I do start talking eventually.”

Herb burst out laughing and slapped the table. “Christ, Elliot....She shut you down so smooth, I almost feel sorry for you.!”

Dennis cut in quickly. “We just wanna make sure you're comfortable, sweetheart. If there’s anything you need changed, we can talk to the writers.”

Frances smiled thinly. “I’m fine, Dennis. Just looking forward to working. Once we’re done with the dinners and down to the doing.”

There was a pause. Then Elliot laughed again, too loudly. “You’re a piece of work, Louise.”

She raised her glass. “Takes one to know a piece.”

Her eyes darted to the clock behind the bar. Almost midnight.

When a waiter passed with the dessert menus, she reached out and gently waved it away. “None for me, thank you. I should be heading home soon.”

“Come on,” said Elliot, giving her arm a squeeze that lingered just a second too long. “You’ve got an early call?”

“I’ve got an early life,” she said, cool and light. “Some of us don’t switch off when the lights go down.” She stood, smoothing the front of her skirt.

“Aw, come on, Louise,” Elliot drawled, already getting up. “One more drink. We’re just getting started.”

Before she could step away, he leaned in and slumped an arm around her shoulder, casual in a way that wasn’t. The weight of it pressed in like a trap, his fingers brushing the edge of her upper arm.

Frances smiled, soft as satin, and reached up to gently remove it as if it were nothing more than a misplaced scarf.

“Now Elliot, don’t make me pretend I’m flattered,” she said, the sweetness never leaving her voice. “We both know I’d win that game.”

The men laughed, but there was an edge to it now.

She stepped back, coat in hand. “Thank you for dinner, gentlemen. Truly. I’ll see you all at the studio, with a full night’s sleep and not a drop of bourbon in my veins.”

There was a small chorus of half-hearted protests, “You’re no fun...It’s still early...Come on Louise”, but they died off quickly, softened by forced chuckles and the clink of ice in glasses. Elliot gave a dramatic sigh, lifting his drink in a lazy toast.

“All right, darlin’. Can’t say we didn’t try.”

“Goodnight, Miss Louise,” Herb muttered, already lighting another cigar.

Frances smiled, the same way she had on camera a hundred times, cool, flawless, unreadable.

And with that, she turned and walked toward the exit, shoulders squared. Not hurried but relieved it was finished.

....

Back at the studio, Yaz was fighting her own battle with fatigue. The clock on the wall clicked over to 12:23 am.

They were still at the long, battered worktable in the back of the design office, surrounded by bolts of fabric, empty coffee cups, and half-eaten licorice someone had unearthed from a drawer. The worst was hopefully behind them. The correct shipment was on the overnight train. A runner was set to collect it. Now, all that was left to do was wait and try not to combust from exhaustion.

Tim raised his glass of something amber and foul-smelling. “To surviving another glamorous night in Hollywood’s golden age,” he toasted, eyes bloodshot but still twinkling.

Charlie gave a low grunt and tipped his glass. “If by glamour you mean panic and wool dust in every crevice, then yes. Pure gold.”

Yaz sat cross-legged in her chair, nursing a glass of apple juice like it was whiskey. Her hair was coming loose in wisps, and someone’s measuring tape was still draped over her neck like a wilted scarf. “Don’t mind me,” she murmured, swirling the juice like it might suddenly ferment. “Just living the dream.”

Tim leaned back dramatically, exhaling a puff of cigarette smoke like he was on the stage at the Globe Theatre. “Darling, one day we’ll look back on this and laugh.”

“I’m already laughing,” Yaz said dryly. “It’s either that or cry into the linings.”

Charlie, more composed but just as frayed, pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You know what kills me? It’s not just the wrong shade. It’s the confidence. Like they thought we wouldn’t notice Jade Five is basically British racing green.”

“That fabric is a war crime,” Tim muttered. “Anne Boleyn would rise from the grave and slap us.”

“Oh God,” Yaz groaned, resting her forehead on the table. “She’d haunt me personally. In Tudor French.”

Tim grinned and wagged a finger. “That’s what you get for being a perfectionist, madam head of project.”

Yaz lifted her head enough to glare at him. “It’s my job to be a perfectionist.”

“It’s your job to sleep, too, eventually,” Charlie pointed out, flicking ash into the tin they used as an ashtray.

“I’ll sleep when the Boleyn gowns are swishing properly,” Yaz said, reaching for a stale biscuit and examining it like it might betray her.

There was a beat of silence before Tim suddenly broke into a mock-serious whisper.

“What if the runner gets mugged? What if someone intercepts the train like a heist and holds the Moss Twelve-B for ransom?”

Yaz snorted. “Oh God. We have your brocade. Leave ten gold buttons in a sack by the fountain or the velvet gets it.’”

Charlie burst out laughing. “No, even better. They send us a ransom note embroidered in the wrong dye lot. Passive-aggressive and stylish.”

“They’ll mail us a single swatch,” Yaz added, pretending to shudder. “Just one perfectly cut rectangle to let us know they’re serious.”

"Proof of life" Tim snorted

Charlie wiped a tear from under his glasses. “We’ll get a telegram: ‘Do not involve the milliners. This is between us and the haberdashers.’”

“Oh no,” Tim gasped. “The milliners are already involved. They've got a mole in Trims. Been feeding the brocade bandits intel for months.”

Yaz leaned against the table, wheezing. “This is what happens when we don’t sleep.”

Charlie shook his head, chuckling. “No, this is what happens when theatre kids grow up and get jobs.”

Tim struck a dramatic pose. “This summer… one shipment. One studio. Three tired costume designers... and a train full of lies.”

Yaz raised a brow. “Brocade Heist The Wrinkle of Doom.”

Charlie laughed pointing a finger at her. “You’re not allowed to name movies anymore.”

They laughed again, and for a moment, the tension cracked open just wide enough for the silliness to pour through, tired, loopy, ridiculous, but exactly what they needed.

Charlie sighed and poured another splash of bourbon.

Tim lit another cigarette and offered it to Yaz, who declined with a wave.

“No thanks. I already reek like wool and despair.”

He held the cigarette between his teeth and poured himself another drink. “We’re the unsung heroes of cinema,” he declared. “They’ll give the Oscar to the lead actress and thank the director. Meanwhile, I’ll be buried in a pauper’s grave clutching a roll of velvet and a thimble.”

Charlie raised a brow. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Have you met me?”

Yaz chuckled and leaned back,

A knock sounded on the door, sharp, urgent.

A young runner poked his head in, eyes wide and hair windswept from the night air. “They’re here,” he said breathlessly. “The bolts just came in off the train. Shipping dock’s unloading now.”

Tim’s cigarette hit the ashtray so fast it bounced and nearly took flight. “Saints above, we live!” he shouted, leaping up like a man revived.

Yaz shot up too, adrenaline snapping her out of the fog. “Where? The south entrance?”

“Yep, crates and all.”

She was already halfway to the door, Tim close behind. The doorway, however, was not designed for two frantic adults simultaneously.

They wedged in tight with a cartoonish thud.

“Oi, move your arse!” Yaz barked, laughing.

“I can’t, your elbow's in my ribs!” Tim squealed, flailing.

In front of them, Charlie stood with his hands on his hips, completely unbothered. “Honestly. You two are like overexcited Labradors.”

Yaz managed to untangle herself and shot him a grin over her shoulder. “Come on, Grandpa, we’re burning moonlight!”

Charlie rolled his eyes, grabbed his clipboard, and followed. “I’m coming to supervise. God forbid you lot start a turf war with the dock boys over a crate of moss-green brocade.”

They barreled down the corridor, laughter echoing through the deserted studio. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead like something out of a Hitchcock film, casting long shadows over bolts of fabric and unused props.

Tim slowed for dramatic effect, whispering, “You know… someone was murdered in Stage 6 back in ’48. Still unsolved. They say his ghost wanders these halls, looking for a thimble…”

“Oh please,” Yaz said flatly, not even glancing his way. “The only spirit I’m scared of is the one who reordered the damask.”

Charlie snorted. “She’s not wrong.”

“I’m serious,” Tim insisted, eyes wide with mock terror. “He was stabbed with tailor’s shears. Tragic. Bloody. And he still haunts the linen storage.”

“Then he’s got terrible taste in afterlife real estate,” Yaz said, stepping around a stack of wardrobe crates.

“You’ve no imagination,” Tim sighed dramatically, then yelped as a broom toppled behind them with a crash. “SEE? THIMBLE MAN!”

Yaz didn’t even blink.

They reached the dock doors, and Yaz skidded to a stop, heart pounding, "Please let it be right this time. Please."

Tim peered over a crate already half-opened and gasped. “Oh my God, Yaz...it’s the Twelve-B. It’s actually Twelve-B!”

Charlie raised a brow, glancing at the invoice pinned to the crate. “Well, I be damned. Someone upstairs finally read the memo.”

Yaz grinned wide, the relief crashing over her like a warm tide. “Let’s get it checked in before something cosmic interferes.”

Tim slapped the top of the crate like it was an old friend. “Welcome home, sweetheart.”

.....


It was just after two when Yaz slipped into the dark bedroom, quiet as a shadow. Exhausted so much she undressed by feel and went straight to the bathroom. Muscles aching from the long night relaxed q bit under warm water. Once done she patted barefoot and eased under the covers with a soft sigh. Frances was already asleep, curled toward the edge of the bed, her breathing slow and deep.

Yaz reached across the space between them, wrapped an arm gently around Frances’s waist, and pressed close.

Frances jolted awake.

In an instant, she twisted away with a cry, elbow jerking hard, it caught Yaz across the shoulder, sharp and unintentional.


“Hey—hey!” Yaz backed off fast, both hands up.

Frances scrambled up, back against the headboard, chest heaving.

“It’s okay...It’s me love. Just me. You’re okay.” her voice was low, urgent but calm.

Frances blinked, wild-eyed and breathless, still halfway trapped in whatever place her mind had yanked her from. Her hand came to her mouth. Then, recognition landed sudden and awful.

“Jesus,” she she cried out, her voice cracking. “Yaz I...” Her hand found Yaz’s forearm, gripping tightly for a moment like she needed the grounding. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered hoarsely, swallowing hard. “I didn’t mean...”

“I’m alright,” Yaz said quickly, kneeling beside her on the bed. “You didn’t hurt me.”

Frances dropped her face into her hands with a long, shaking breath. “I hate when I do that."

“Don’t be daft,” Yaz murmured, already moving closer again, careful this time, slow. “Just old ghosts. Didn't mean to scare you.”

Frances looked up, her eyes rimmed with tears. She reached for Yaz hand , pulling her into a gentle kiss. Her fingers still trembling slightly where they held Yaz’s face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered rubbing her nose into her cheek.

“You don’t have to be,” Yaz replied, forehead resting against hers, her hand tracing Frances’s arm, soothing and tender.

That broke something soft in Frances. She exhaled, body loosening, curling slowly into Yaz like the storm had passed.

"Hey...C'mere" Yaz lay back opening her arms, and Frances slid into them without hesitation, her head resting over Yaz’s heart. "It's okay" Yaz whispered holding her tight.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Frances’s voice came again, smaller now, vulnerable. “What time is it?”

“Just gone two.”

Frances groaned, her voice muffled as she nestled deeper into Yaz’s chest. “Oh, darling… it’s so late.”

“I know.” she exhaled, tired.

Frances turned fully in her arms, their legs tangling, arms finding each other in the dark like second nature. “Did you sort it out?”

“I did,” Yaz whispered. “Eventually. Moss Twelve-B is where it’s supposed to be, and no one died.”

Frances chuckled sleepily, threading their legs together “Remind me to send you to a spa"

“I might take you up on that.” Yaz chuckled kissing her temple.

She snuggled closer, her body warm and pliant now, the fear fully dissolved, curling into Yaz like she belonged there “Love you.” she whispered.

Yaz kissed the top of her head "Love you too " she murmured. "So much"

.....

 

Early morning sun broke through the branches of the tree outside the bedroom window bathing the room in a soft light.

Frances stirred to the sound of small feet padding down the hallway, followed by comforting murmur of Susan’s voice, a gentle “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you some breakfast” barely carrying through the closed door.

Frances let out a soft sigh and turned onto her side, reaching for the warm shape beside her. Yaz was on her stomach, sheets tangled low around her waist. Sunlight crept in around the edges of the curtain, golden and lazy, stretching long across her bare back, dark hair tousled across the pillow. Her face was soft with sleep, her long lashes closed, one arm tucked beneath the pillow. She was the most beautiful woman she ever saw, and she was hers.

Frances smiled quietly and leaned in, brushing a soft kiss to her bare shoulder.

“Mmm.” Yaz shifted slightly but didn’t open her eyes.

Frances scooted closer, wrapping herself around her. Arm around Yaz’s waist, forehead resting against her spine. “I wish it was Saturday,” she murmured, voice still scratchy from sleep. “I’d bribe Susan to keep Lily busy all morning and never get out of this bed.” she chuckled dropping kisses down her spine. Her hand tracing the length of her, slow and tender.

Yaz gave a soft huff of agreement, barely lifting her head. “I'll give hundred quid if she keeps her till noon.”

Frances laughed, the sound low and fond. “That might actually work.”

Yaz shifted onto her side with effort, eyes heavy, smile faint. Frances brushed her cheek with a thumb and kissed her, slow, warm, lingering.

Yaz’s fingers trailed down her spine, back up again, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “You okay?” Her voice was rough.

Frances nodded. “Mmm. Am now.”

She tugged her close, tucking her against her chest. “Good.”

They stayed wrapped together, the outside world distant. Frances traced lazy circles on her back. Yaz dropped soft kisses on her lips, then her nose. “Go back to sleep,” she murmured.

“Can’t,” Yaz mumbled. “Your legs are too warm. I’ll overheat and perish.”

“What a way to go.” she smiled

Yaz chuckled. “You’d just keep cuddling my corpse.”

“Absolutely. I’d knit you a blanket.”

“Love you, weirdo.” Yaz pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Love you more.” Frances rolled her gently on top.

They stayed tangled in sheets and each other. Frances’s fingers skimmed her spine; Yaz nuzzled closer, kissing her slow, then slower still.

“You taste like a bad idea on a Thursday morning,” Frances whispered, smiling against her lips. “Wrapped in a pretty package.”

“You taste like adorable smug.” she grinned

“Mmm. Comes naturally.”

Their mouths met again, deeper this time. The kind of kiss that said let the world wait.

“I really wish it was Saturday,” Frances murmured. “Or that the world ran on cuddle time.”

“We’d be thriving,” Yaz chuckled.

Then the alarm clock on the bedside table buzzed its cruel, metallic scream into the stillness.

Frances groaned into Yaz’s shoulder. “Absolutely not.”

Yaz reached out for it lazily “That thing is my enemy.” she smacked it off, and flopped back down.

“Let’s quit everything. Run away. Live in a cabin.” Frances said making Yaz laugh

“Here she goes again...You’d hate the outdoors within five minutes,” she murmured into her cheek, eyes closed. "No stores, high heels, fancy dresses. You would shrivel up and die."

Frances chuckled into her shoulder. “I’d have you, you’d make it bearable.”

They lay there for one more indulgent moment, then Yaz sighed. “We should get up. Before Lily comes flying in.”

Frances ran her hand down Yaz’s sides, her tone soft and hopeful. “We should plan a date night. Just us. Dinner, something romantic... Bribe Susan.”

Yaz grinned, "Deal.”

Frances leaned in for one last kiss, slow and warm. “It’s a date.”

They finally moved, groaning like old women as they sat up, hair wild, eyes squinting toward the daylight.

Yaz rubbed her face. “I hate Thursdays.”

Frances chuckled getting up.

.....

The kitchen was already warm with the scent of toasting bread and sizzling eggs when Yaz shuffled in, hair mussed, robe wrapped tightly around her as she yawned. She rubbed at one eye, her other hand trailing behind her, still holding Frances’s. Frances followed groggily, her robe slipping slightly off one shoulder, her steps slow and resistant to the day.

“Morning,” Yaz managed, voice still scratchy with sleep.

Susan looked up from the stove. “Morning, lovebirds.”

Before she could finish, the scrape of a chair pushed back fast, and Lily hopped off it with the energy only a child could possess before 8am. She launched herself across the kitchen.

"Morning sweetheart" Frances blinked, a bit startled, then grinned wide and bent to scoop her up in a warm hug. “There’s my girl!”

"Morning poppet" Yaz leaned in, kissing Lily’s cheek as she clung to Frances’s neck, both women wrapping their arms around the little whirlwind in a shared cuddle.

“I have presents,” Lily declared proudly, twisting in Frances’s arms to point at the fridge. "Lion is for Mummy and giraffe for you."

“Oh, I saw it last night,” Frances said, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “Right next to the shopping list. Thank you darling.”

Yaz blinked, stepping toward the fridge and spotting her present, a bright giraffe magnet with silly face. Her face lit up.

“Oh my God, Lil. That's so cute love.” She popped a dramatic kiss onto Lily’s cheek. “Thank you. This is going on my side of the fridge. Giraffe territory only.”

Lily grinned, arms stretching out toward Yaz.

Frances chuckled and gently passed her over. Lily wrapped herself around Yaz’s shoulders like a sleepy koala, head tucked beneath her chin.

Susan turned from the stove with a wooden spoon in one hand. “Alright, alright, come on now, sit yourselves down before I start charging you for breakfast.”

Frances, smiling, leaned in to peck Susan on the cheek before peering into the frying pan, "I could definitely get used to this.”

Susan rolled her eyes with a smirk. “You darling are still honeymooning. You'd be getting board of me in a 24 hours."

Frances laughed, making her way to the cupboards and beginning to pull down plates and glasses. “Noted. I'll ask again in few months time”

Meanwhile, Lily was enthusiastically describing her zoo adventure from yesterday into Yaz’s shoulder. “And there was a lion, a real one... and he was sleeping, and I saw a flamingo, it is really pink you know"

"Nooo really?" Yaz faked surprise

Lily nodded and continued "And the monkey was doing a wee on the rocks!”

“Oh no,” Yaz said, eyes wide. “Not on the rocks? How rude.”

Lily nodded seriously. “On the rocks.”

Yaz giggled, carrying her over to the table. “That’s so cheeky of him."

Frances laughed kissing Lily’s temple as she passed by whilst setting the table. She brushed her hand across Yaz’s back with a soft smile.

Susan flicked the pan slightly and stared at it like it had spoken to her. “I still don’t understand this thing. Nothing’s sticking. Not sure if I trust it.”

Frances burst into laughter. “I'll add it on my Christmas list, then. ‘One suspiciously perfect Teflon frying pan for Susan"

"Careful, she’ll probably keep it under lock and key, doesn’t trust it one bit,” Yaz said with a wink. “Those Teflon pans are well dodgy if you ask me"

Susan swatted her with a tea towel, which only made her laugh harder

....

The clink of cutlery and soft hum of morning conversation filled the kitchen. Lily was mid-sentence, telling Frances how the giraffe at the zoo had a blue tongue, while Susan carefully topped off everyone's orange juice.

Then came the sound of the front door opening. Frances stilled mid-sip of her coffee. The noise was unmistakable.

Betty.

She gently set down her mug, dabbed the cigarette into the ashtray and murmured, “Excuse me.”

"Where are going?" Lily asked

"I'll be right back bug" she kissed the top of her head

Yaz looked up. Susan, without turning, gave a small sigh. As Frances left the kitchen, Yaz caught Susan’s eye. No words passed between them, just a quiet, knowing glance.

Frances crossed the hallway to find Betty carefully hanging her cardigan on the hook near the door.

“Morning Miss,” Betty said, voice polite, though there was a stiffness to it.

“Morning Betty,” Frances replied evenly. Then, after a pause, “Would you mind stepping into my office?”

Betty turned, faltered just for a heartbeat, and then nodded. “Of course.”

The office was quiet, the morning light stretching across the dark wood desk. Frances gestured for her to sit, and Betty took the seat slowly. Frances remained standing for a moment before moving to the chair opposite. Her expression was calm, but there was a steely line to her mouth.

"Is there a problem Miss?" Betty asked tense.

Frances sighed, then started, her voice calm but steady. “Betty, about this situation... I’ve thought long and hard about it,” she began. “And I’ve come to the decision that this arrangement between us just isn’t working anymore.”

Betty blinked, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I don’t understand?”

“I’m sorry,” Frances said, “but I can’t let my daughter live in a home where there’s no empathy, no kindness... her needs and happiness comes first,  no matter what. So....as of today, your employment is ending.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Betty’s face crumpled, her eyes filling with tears. She reached into her handbag, pulled out a handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes in quiet misery. Still, she said nothing.

Frances waited, then went on. “I’m truly sorry it’s come to this. This isn’t ’t easy for me. You’ve been with me a long time, and I wish things were ending on better terms.”

Betty sniffed, her voice hoarse. “What about my notice period?”

“I’ll pay you in full for the cancellation period,” Frances said gently. “And for the days you’ve already worked this month. You don’t need to come back. Take that time to find a new placement.”

“Thank you,” Betty murmured with a small, devastated nod, her shoulders shaking.

Frances hesitated, then leaned forward a little. “And about the reference,” she said, “I’ve given that a lot of thought, too. You’ve been here two years, and you handled your duties thoroughly. I’ll be fair in saying that.”

Betty looked up, a flicker of hope in her tear-reddened eyes.

“But,” Frances added, her tone firmer now, “I’ll also make it clear that I don’t believe you should be working with children.”

The sob that escaped Betty’s lips was sharp and loud. She bent forward slightly, clutching the handkerchief to her face, now crying in earnest. Frances sat very still, her chest tight with pity and anger all tangled together.

“I'm sorry Betty,” she said again, more quietly. “But I won’t let what happened to Lily happen to another child. I won’t carry that weight. And you should be honest with yourself that you're just not cut out for it. You're a good worker and the reference should still help you get a new position. There’s plenty of work out there in homes without kids.”

A long silence followed. Eventually, Betty sat upright again, pulling herself together. Frances opened the top drawer of her desk and took out a small envelope.

“This is your final paycheck,” she said, sliding it across the table. “And I’ll provide your reference if anyone contacts me directly. You won’t have to worry about that.”

Betty nodded numbly, took the envelope, and rose to her feet.

“The keys, please,” Frances added gently.

With trembling fingers, Betty reached into her bag and laid the house keys on the desk.

“I wish you the best,” Frances said. “I really do.”

Betty only nodded again, then turned and left the office without another word.

Frances exhaled once the door clicked shut. She turned her chair looking at the garden, her jaw tensed. She’d done what needed doing, but it didn’t feel like triumph.

In the kitchen, Yaz and Susan heard the muted shuffle of steps and then caught a glimpse of Betty walking past the doorway, her face blotchy with tears, her mouth pulled tight in humiliation. She didn’t look at them as she left.

Yaz glanced at Susan again, and this time the older woman raised an eyebrow.

Lily looked up from buttering her toast, her mouth full. “Why’s Betty crying?”

“Well,” she said with a soft chuckle, “Sometimes grown-ups get a bit leaky when they realise they’ve messed things up.”

Yaz snorted into her juice. “Subtle as a brick.” she whispered.

Susan smiled sweetly. “She’ll be fine. Bit of fresh air and a conscience might do her some good.”

A moment later, Frances returned. She stepped into the kitchen with a breath and a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She leaned down, kissed the top of Lily’s head, and tousled her hair.

“Well,” she said with a soft chuckle, “guess we’ll be washing the dishes ourselves today.”

Susan lifted her coffee cup and gave a mock toast. “Back to the trenches.”

Yaz reached over and gave Frances’s hand a gentle squeeze. Frances squeezed back, grateful for the silent comfort.

Lily, unaware of the undercurrents swirling around her, went back to describing a bear she’d seen at the zoo that looked “just like a fuzzy rug.”

And life, as it always did, moved on.

.....