Richard waited longer than he needed to before sending the message. Saturday afternoon hummed quietly around him, his children were out with their friends, the house was still, and he kept checking his phone like a man expecting news he had not actually asked for yet.
Finally, he typed.
Are you free on Monday? I was hoping you might spend the day with me.
He stared at the screen, his thumb hovering. Then he hit send.
The reply came so quickly he felt an involuntary smile tug at him.
On a weekday?
Do you not have a company to run, Mr Hale?
He let out a soft huff of laughter.
I do. But being the boss ought to come with a perk or two.
And I would like to use one of them to spend time with you.
There was a pause. A very long pause. Long enough that he worried he had overstepped, even though every word had been careful and gentle. He was not asking for anything more than time. Conversation. The simple comfort of her company.
When her reply finally arrived, it was hesitant, almost shy through the screen.
I don't know what to say.
And I… well, it has been a long time since anyone asked me to spend a whole day with them.
He smiled again, softer this time.
Is that a yes?
Another pause, and then her reply:
Yes. Alright. What did you have in mind?
He leaned back, thinking. He wanted to take her somewhere beautiful. Somewhere calm. Somewhere that did not require them to act or talk if she did not want to. He just wanted to spend time with her, to feel the comfort of her easy company, to admire her unassuming beauty quietly.
You tell me. What would you enjoy?
She wrote back almost immediately.
As long as we aren't in a crowded place or sitting down all day, I don't mind what we do.
He typed his reply without second guessing himself.
I know just the place. I'll pick you up at ten on Monday morning.
And then, inexplicably, he felt nervous. Monday suddenly felt very close.
Helene carried her phone into the kitchen, her cheeks warm from the conversation she had just had. She placed it on the worktop as if it might burn through her palm, then took a moment to breathe, smoothing her hair back with a thoughtful, almost self conscious gesture.
Isabelle was fixing a bottle for Michael, humming softly. A newlywed glow still clung to her in a way that made Helene's heart warm with mixed joy and nostalgia.
"Isabelle," Helene began carefully, "I need to talk to you for a moment."
Her daughter turned immediately, concern flickering. "Of course. What's wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong", Helene said quickly. "I just… well… "
She hesitated, then pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. The children were playing in the living room with Robert and wouldn't overhear.
"I want to tell you something."
Isabelle paused, eyebrows lifting as she sat opposite her, giving her mother her full attention.
"Richard has asked me to spend the day with him on Monday."
A beat. Then a bright smile spread across Isabelle's face.
"He did?"
"Yes," Helene murmured, twisting her hands together in a way she had not done since she was a teenager.
"He messaged me a little while ago. He's going to pick me up at ten on Monday."
"Where is he taking you?"
"I don't know. He said he wanted to spend time with me."
Helene looked down, her cheeks warming again.
"I feel… silly, I suppose. Flustered. It has been a very long time since anyone asked to spend time with me."
"Why silly?" Isabelle asked gently.
"I don't quite know what to do with the attention. It feels strange. I don't know what any of it means."
She swallowed, her voice quieter.
"And I feel I should tell you this as well. While you and Robert were away, he came to see us every afternoon... To help with the children after school. To keep me company."
She shook her head, embarrassed.
"I don't want you to think…"
"Mama."
Isabelle reached forward, touching her mother's arm.
"I noticed the connection between you two immediately. And I think he did too."
Helene blinked, thrown.
"You did?"
"Of course. The way he looked at you the first night you met. The warmth. The calm. And the way you looked back, even if you did not realise it."
Helene exhaled shakily.
"I just… it feels… very strange. To think about someone again. To want to spend time with someone my own age. I was not expecting it. Not after all these years."
"That doesn't make it wrong," Isabelle said softly. "You've done so much for me over the years. More than anyone could ever ask. You deserve happiness too. You are allowed to want companionship."
Helene's eyes stung unexpectedly, and she looked away, blinking.
"I don't even know if that's what this is. I just know I like talking to him. And he listens. And he makes me feel…" She stopped.
"Special?" Isabelle offered.
Helene nodded.
"Then let him," Isabelle said simply.
Helene let out a soft, slightly disbelieving laugh.
"I haven't been this nervous over a man since your father."
"Well," Isabelle grinned, "Richard is not exactly just any man."
"Isabelle…:"
"Mum, he is lovely. And kind. And respectful. You smile differently around him. You do."
Helene pressed her hand to her cheek, as if she might catch the smile before it appeared.
"Do I really?"
"Yes." Isabelle squeezed her hand. "And you have absolutely nothing to feel bad about."
Helene let herself lean into her daughter's reassurance for a moment, breathing through the fluttering in her chest.
Monday, she realised, suddenly felt very close.
And unexpectedly, she was looking forward to it.
After Helene's final message, Richard set down his phone and let the silence of the house settle around him. The afternoon light stretched long across the living room floor, and he sat for a while without moving, feeling something inside him loosen and tighten at the same time.
She had said yes.
It meant more to him than he dared admit, even to himself.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling into the stillness. He had imagined spending a day with her, of course he had, but imagining and asking were two different things. And her acceptance felt like a door opening gently, without pressure or expectation. Just possibility.
He needed to plan something thoughtful. Something beautiful. Nothing extravagant. Nothing that would make her retreat behind the soft reserve she wore like protective armour. No crowds. No pretence.
Kew Gardens. The thought had appeared in his mind like a quiet suggestion, and he knew almost instantly it was right. Beauty without noise. Space without demands. The kind of place where conversation could drift naturally or fall away into companionable silence. The kind of place she would appreciate.
But as he sat there, his hands folded loosely, another idea nudged him.
Flowers.
He pictured arriving with a small bouquet for her, something soft and understated, maybe carnations or pink roses. But as soon as the thought bloomed, it faltered. It felt too much. Too forward. Too symbolic. He did not want to make her feel awkward or pressured. Not on the first day they truly had to themselves.
Next time, perhaps. When there was less uncertainty. When he knew she would accept them with ease.
The idea fell away.
A scarf, though.
That felt different.
She had worn one every day he had seen her. Soft wool, handwoven in subtle colours. Always something gentle, nothing showy. He had noticed without meaning to, as if his eyes sought the details that framed her quiet elegance, her warmth.
A scarf would be thoughtful, not imposing. Something practical. Something that reflected the season. Something she might wear without feeling self conscious.
The idea took root before he even fully formed it. He checked the time. It was still early. He had time to make it to his favourite store to pick up something for her.
He stood, grabbed his coat, and slipped out.
In Harvey Nichols, the soft hum of refinement surrounded him. He moved quietly through the accessories section, hands tucked behind his back in a gesture of polite restraint. Scarves lined the displays in perfect, neat arrangements. Silks, cashmeres, wools, cottons. Patterns that shouted. Others that whispered.
He gravitated toward the whispering ones.
A saleswoman approached, smiling.
"Looking for something in particular, sir?"
He hesitated, then nodded.
"A scarf. For someone."
"Someone special?" she asked gently.
He didn't answer, but his slight smile must have given something away.
She guided him toward a display of finer pieces, and that was where he saw it. A scarf in a blend of purples, soft plum melting into lilac, lilac melting into lavender, lavender sinking into a deep twilight. The colours bled gently into one another, like the edge of a winter sunset.
He touched it lightly. It was soft. Exquisite. Beautiful without trying to be.
It reminded him of her immediately.
"I will take this one," he said.
The saleswoman folded it into a box with careful hands, tied it with a ribbon, and slipped it into a gift bag.
When he stepped back out onto the pavement, the sky above Knightsbridge had deepened into muted indigo. The cold air lifted his breath in small white clouds, and he found himself smiling at nothing in particular.
He imagined giving it to her. How she might look surprised. A little flustered. Maybe she would touch it the way she touched the world around her, gentle fingertips, thoughtful, appreciative. Maybe she would wear it immediately.
The thought warmed him more than the scarf could.
That night, he placed the box carefully on his dresser. He checked it twice, then shook his head at himself, amused and slightly bewildered by his own nerves.
He was fifty years old. He had run a company for two decades. He had weathered financial storms, boardroom tempests, late nights, early mornings. But this, the simple promise of a day with Helene, had him hovering in his own bedroom like a man trying to steady his heartbeat.
He wanted the day at Kew Gardens to feel effortless. He planned the route in his mind. Arriving at ten, walking her to the car with a polite smile, never rushing her.
They would enter through the Victoria Gate. Start with the Arboretum. She would like the wide paths. Then the Palm House for warmth. Then perhaps the Temperate House. Lunch in the Pavilion. Then the Japanese Garden.
But he wanted to leave room for spontaneity as well. To let her choose the pace. To follow what she enjoyed.
And beneath all of it, he simply wanted to be near her. Quietly. Gently. Without expectation.
Tomorrow was Sunday. He would have to wait one more day.
But Monday felt like the soft beginning of something he hadn't dared to imagine for a very long time.
He closed his eyes and thought of her, the warmth of her smile and the quiet strength she carried so naturally, and it filled him with comfort and surrounded him like a faint trace of perfume.
He felt inexplicably young.
Hopeful.
Alive.