Selene

Chapter 1

Most mornings begin the same way. I creep downstairs before anyone else stirs, flick the coffee machine on, and enjoy those few rare moments when the house is entirely still. No shouting, no toast catastrophes, no one asking where their cricket kit is. Just me, the quiet hum of the kitchen, and the faint smell of lavender from last night's candle.

It's a lovely house, if I'm honest. Grade II listed, tucked down a gravel drive just on the edge of Winchester. Old beams, original stone floors, sash windows that rattle in the wind. That sort of thing. It looks terribly romantic in the estate agent photos, and frankly, itis--when you're not the one scrubbing mud out of the hall runner or fending off mice in the old pantry.

David's in IT consultancy. Something senior, mostly incomprehensible, with a salary that allows me to play the capable stay-at-home mother while pretending I'm not slightly bored out of my mind. It was my choice after all. I had a promising career in business, but now I do the school run, sit on the PTA, organise all the various sport activities for the males in the house and generally bring order to the chaos. People seem to find this deeply aspirational.

This morning I threw on a old denim skirt and a soft white top--one of those ones that dips slightly at the neckline, just enough to suggest I haven't completely given up. My dark chestnut hair was damp, so I twisted it up and clipped it with one of those big tortoiseshell things I buy in packs of six and always lose. No makeup, unless you count a swipe of tinted moisturiser and the mascara I keep in the car.

Other mums turn up to drop-off like they're filming a skincare commercial. Full war paint. Curling tongs. That desperate gleam while showing off their gym bods in tight lycra leggings. I'm not judging--it's just never been my thing. I've always preferred looking like I haven't tried. That's the trick, isn't it? People notice effortlessness far more than effort.

I'm thirty-eight, tall-ish--five nine--and still slim, mostly by accident. Long legs, long neck, decent skin, and lashes that do what they're told. I dress well, but quietly. Cashmere, cotton, navy and oat and blush. Everything tasteful. Nothing shiny. I don't shout with my clothes. I never have. Well... not for a good while at least.

I know I have what many people feel is a life of full privilege. That I should be deliriously happy. And I am, in a way. But I used to know something else. A life that was edgier, more dangerous. And although I thought I'd left that life behind, it still haunts me from time to time. And just recently it's been getting worse.

By eight-thirty I've refereed a dispute over a dinosaur sticker book, made two packed lunches (both nut-free, obviously), and broken up an argument about who gets to press the garage door remote. The school run's a blur. Same mums, same smiles, same comments about how fast the term's going. I nod, I smile, I say "I know, it's mad, isn't it?" like I haven't said it every day for the last four years.

Back home by nine. I clear up breakfast, put on a whites wash, and then--because I promised myself I would--I head up to the loft. We're thinking of a loft conversion, giving the boys their own separate rooms. So that means clearing out a lot of old memories.

It's warm up there. Dusty, with that dry old-box smell. I crack open the skylight, let the air in. Half the boxes haven't been touched since we moved in. University bits, travel books, tangled wires I've been meaning to sort for at least a decade.

And then, at the bottom of a box marked "Misc," I find it.

Small. Black. Curved at the edges like a worry stone. My old phone.

I blink at it. For a second it doesn't quite register. Then I feel the smallest jolt--something low in my stomach. God, I haven't seen this in... what, fifteen years? No? Is it? Must be.

I pick it up, lighter than I remember. It's dusty, and the charger port looks almost prehistoric. But I don't throw it out. I carry it downstairs, gently, as if it might shatter.

I find the cable--it's a miracle, really--and plug it in beside the toaster. The screen stays black for a moment, then flickers. Red light. Charging.

I stand there far too long, watching it. Waiting.

It's ridiculous, I know. Just a phone. Just an old bit of plastic with ancient contacts and crappy images.

Except it's not.

Because this wasn't my phone. This was Selene's.

And that's not someone I've thought about in years.

Not properly.

It takes a while to coax the thing back to life. The screen's cracked in the corner and the interface looks like something from a museum, but eventually it boots, sluggish and stubborn.

There's something odd about the way it lights up. Like a ghost opening its eyes.

The wallpaper is still there. A photograph I barely remember taking. A half-glass of champagne on a windowsill, the sky outside golden with sunset. Hotel, I think. Paris, maybe. Could have been anywhere, honestly.

I tap through, fingers slower than usual, suddenly aware of how much faster life moves now. Every swipe feels like a little archaeological dig. Dozens of names and numbers. Message threads I haven't touched in fifteen years. The past, categorised in little grey bubbles. Half the people I don't remember at all. A few I remember too well.

There's an ache in it, somehow. That time. A life that feels both terribly close and impossibly far away.

I scroll through the texts. Most are harmless. Half-flirty, mostly banal. Someone asking if I'm "free Thursday" with a wink emoji. Another suggesting drinks at Claridge's.

I should delete them, really. Or just toss the thing out. But I don't.

Then I see it.

One thread stands out--longer than the others. Cleaner, somehow. Like everything about him.

I don't open it. I'm not ready to open that box straight away. I just stare at the preview line, my heart tapping something uneven in my chest.

Him.

He was different.

Not just because he was generous or handsome, or terribly good at listening--though he was all of those. But because hesawme. Both versions. Selene, yes--but also the person behind her. The girl still figuring herself out back then. The woman she might one day become.

He never asked for the obvious things. He liked to set challenges. Games. Dares that made my stomach knot and pulse race. Things that left me blushing for days afterwards, and still saying yes. And in return I liked to tease him back, to drive him wild and let him take it out on me.

I swallow. My breath catches, unexpectedly. Because I notice there's something new.

A small blue dot.

Unread messages. From him.

I blink.

Surely not.

I hesitate, thumb hovering. Then I press the phone's side button, locking the screen. The glow vanishes.

No. Not now.

There's laundry to hang. Bread to slice. An email about the Year 2 costume parade to reply to.

And a party tonight with David's work. Just drinks and networking, nothing fancy.

Still... I might wear something new. The memory of who I once was lingers like perfume, stirring a quiet longing. That old piece of defunct technology has stirred something. Perhaps it's time to summon a little of that old glamour--just enough to feel elegant again... alluring, even. It'd be nice to feel attractive again. Maybe even sexy.

I sit back and let the memories move through me--light as smoke.

I remember the feel of silk stockings against my thighs. The weight of a hotel keycard in a coat pocket. That little thrill walking into a lobby where no one knew my name--except one man, waiting in the bar for me, watching.

I remember the way I used to walk. A certain tilt of the chin. The click of heels on marble.

Selene.

Selene wasn't another person, not quite. But she wasn't me, either. Not this version of me--the wife, the mother, the polite woman who brings hummus to the school fair and wears sensible, plain underwear because it's comfy.

Selene was... something else.

Not wild, exactly. Not reckless, although she had her moments. Just free in a way I'm not sure I've felt in years.

There was the American who only booked suites at The Connaught and tipped in thousand-pound bundles. The married French banker who liked me to read Colette aloud while he ran his fingers up my thigh. The older Scottish gentleman who never touched me, but paid handsomely to sit across a chessboard with a woman in heels and absolutely nothing else.

I don't dwell. Just a fleeting thought. Taste the old thrill like a sip of something heady.

I glance at the phone again. That cracked screen, still glowing faintly. That new message notification sits at the bottom, quietly patient.

I don't open it.

Instead, I shut the phone off, unplug the charger, and slide it into the drawer beneath the kettle.

I tell myself I'll throw it out later.

But I don't.

Chapter 2

By the time the boys were wrangled into their pyjamas and the babysitter had been briefed, I felt as though I'd run a small military campaign. They'd been good, really--just full of beans as usual--and I kissed them each twice, promising I wouldn't be back too late. George asked if there would be dancing, and I said probably not. He looked genuinely disappointed.

Upstairs, I locked the bedroom door and exhaled. The house was quiet. I peeled off my clothes, dropped them into the hamper, and stepped into the en-suite. The shower hissed to life, steaming up the mirror. I stood under the hot stream and let it wash away the day--mashed banana in the hair, milk on the jumper, that ever-so-slight whiff of Play-Doh I seemed to carry like perfume.

Wrapped in a towel, I sat at my dressing table and opened the top drawer. I reached automatically for the beige seamless knickers and nude bra--my usual arsenal for hiding lines and keeping me held together beneath eveningwear. Practical. Invisible. Reliable. A bit worn out. Like me, these days.

But I didn't take them.

Instead, I hesitated, glanced at the drawer below--the one I never opened anymore. Slowly, as though someone else were moving my hand, I slid it open.

Nestled in tissue, folded just-so, is a bodysuit I remember buying on a whim a few years ago. Black, sheer, threaded with delicate lace patterns of golden flowers on the transparent black nylon mesh. The soft material yields beneath my fingertips as I lift it out. I hold it up to the light. Elegant. Alluring. Translucent. Far too much for an office drinks thing. And yet...

I slip it on slowly. The mesh cooled against my skin, the lace tracing teasing lines over my stomach and breasts. As I pulled the slender straps over my shoulders, the neckline settled in that perfect way--framing me, lifting me, hinting without giving. The thong nestled at the base of my spine, smooth and seamless disappearing into the curve of my behind.

My pulse lifts.

I was going to wear black tights tonight, the sensible and comfortable choice. I have a nice pair that are perhaps a little worn, a small hole just around my little toe that's quite annoying. But serviceable aside from that. But instead I slip out the designer stockings. Falke hold-ups that I bought online a while back and never wore. Why not. Life in the old girl yet.

The stockings are eight denier. Whisper-thin. Matte black, with just the faintest brush of elegance. The lace trim at the top curled around my thighs with a soft, determined grip, holding them in place without digging. Like a lover's hands. Something my thigh hasn't known for a while.

I catch myself in the mirror. Slender enough, small boobs--never quite got the memo there--but a surprisingly decent bum, all things considered (like giving birth to two boys). My hips are a touch wider than they once were, and yes, there's the inevitable smattering of cellulite and that infuriating little bulge at my tummy that refuses to bugger off. But honestly? Not terrible. And my legs, thank God, are still earning their keep. They always were my best feature. And boy did I show them off once with the skimpiest skirts and short shorts.

All in all, bad at all--for a mother of two, tiptoeing reluctantly towards forty.

I reach for my make-up. Tonight, I go darker--longer lashes, a little smoke at the edges, a richer red on my lips than I usually dare. I take my time with it, sculpting, enhancing. Not because anyone will notice. David might I suppose. No this is because I will.

Slowly it's all coming back like second nature. The ritual.

Still in just my lingerie, I slip on my heels and walk over to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. I want to see her again--tall, dressed in sexy black underwear, unapologetic.

It's her. Someone I haven't seen in a very long time.

Selene.

I study the way the bodysuit clings to my waist, sculpting me like silk poured over skin. Through the fine mesh, I catch teasing glimpses of what lies beneath--the soft swell of my breasts, nipples just obscured by the swirling lace flower pattern, the faint dip of my belly button, and lower still, the dark whisper of hair above the line of the bodysuit. My stockings shimmer subtly in the light, tracing my thighs like moonlight on water. My lips--painted deep red--are a bold, unapologetic slash of colour.

I tilt my chin slightly, appraising. The woman in the mirror doesn't look tired or careful or domestic. She looks expensive. She looks a little dangerous.

She's older yes, but still powerful. Still so confident.

And then, slowly, I reach up and begin to undo my hair.

Pin by pin, I release it, feeling the strands spill across my fingers, soft and warm against my shoulders. It falls around my face in gentle waves, catching the light, clinging to my skin. I give my head a tiny shake, watching the way it moves--framing my cheekbones, brushing my collarbone. The shift is immediate, unmistakable. Something looser. Lusher. A little undone.

Selene always wore her hair down. Cate can't be bothered with the hassle.

I touch my neck, just under the jaw. My pulse is quick. There's a flicker of heat low in my belly, a feeling I hadn't realised I'd missed. My thoughts drift, unbidden, toward my discovery this morning. The phone, in the kitchen drawer.

Those unread messages.

From him.

"Cate! You nearly ready?"

A call from David shatters me from my thoughts.

"Hey," I say, shaking the last of Selene from my voice. "Just one sec, nearly done sweetie."

I slip on a long black satin skirt and pull a sparkly red jumper over my head. Attractive, but not as sexy as what lies underneath. I clip in my earrings, have a final fit check and head downstairs.

"Coming," I say, slipping my lipstick into a clutch. "Just finishing up."

When I step into the hallway, David does a double take at my makeup.

"You look..." He hesitates, trying to land the compliment without stepping on a minefield. "Different."

I tilt my head. "Good different?"

He nods. "Well, I guess. I mean--definitely. Just... it's a bit much makeup for a work do though isn't it love?"

I smile sweetly. "Oh," I say. "I didn't realise there was a dress code for the wives."

He laughs, awkward. We've been married long enough that he knows he's stepping into dangerous territory. So he kisses my cheek, a little quick.

But I'm already gone--heels clicking, eyes bright. I don't really care what he thinks.

Selene is smiling again.

Chapter 3

The party was perfectly fine.

One of those work dos where the wine is just decent enough to drink and the canapés arrive on tiny trays as if apologising for their own existence. David drifted off away from me almost at once, all shoulder claps and smiles, making polite noises with people I'd never quite managed to remember the names of as they bore each other with golf stories. I sipped my drink, made polite conversation where I could, and told the same story twice to different wives of junior partners.

But honestly, it didn't matter.

Because the hotel was lovely. Properly lovely actually. Polished brass, heavy curtains, a soft sort of lighting that made everyone look just a little bit better. And I was sitting at the bar, legs crossed, satin skirt falling just so, nursing a gin and tonic with a twist of grapefruit.

And I could feel her. This was her natural habitat after all.

That flicker of something under the skin. The slow, rising awareness of how the lace traced my hips beneath the satin. The soft pinch of stockings on my thighs. The subtle, invisible fact that I wasn't wearing tights, but something else entirely. Something secret and a bit sexy. Somethinghers.

It felt a little dangerous, if I'm honest.

I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar and tilted my head slightly. Let my hair fall over one shoulder. A stranger might have thought I was waiting for someone. I even played with the idea--just for a heartbeat--that someonemightcome over. That they'd catch my eye, lean in with something clever or wicked to say. That I'd laugh and lower my gaze and say I reallyshouldget back to my husband, but perhaps one more drink...

But no one did. Of course they didn't.

And that was probably for the best.

When we got home, David went straight upstairs. Mumbled something about being exhausted. He kissed the top of my head--absent-mindedly, like I was one of the boys--said I looked pretty as always, thanked me for coming, already tugging off his shoes as he disappeared.

I stood in the hallway for a moment, still wrapped in the shimmer of the evening, my coat hiding the long black silk of my skirt, the soft red jumper clinging to me like a second skin. And what was underneath, well... I'd felt beautiful tonight. Poised.Wicked,even.

And I'd wanted more. I wanted to be whisked off to the bedroom where I could strip off and show him. The heat of Selene hadn't faded. It had been blooming all evening, curling beneath my ribs every time I crossed my legs at the bar and felt the stockings press together or caught sight of myself in a mirror. I'd half-hoped David would pull me into a corner of the hotel, press me against the wall like someone who remembered.

I wanted to be fucked tonight. Really fucked. Like we hadn't done in ages, years. A decade probably, when I thought about it. To not be a mum for once, but to be sexy and wild. A woman.

But the moment had passed. I was left frustrated, slightly cross and alone.

Perhaps those days were long gone after all, and this was it. I was just 'mum' now.

I wandered through the darkened kitchen, the house still and warm. The boys were fast asleep. The babysitter had just left, putting a sweet note and a nearly full mug of peppermint tea by the sink for me. I picked it up, brought it to my nose, and smiled faintly.

Truth be told, I felt a bit teary. Not so much sadness, more out of anger. Of being overlooked.

I went up to our bedroom, switched on the little lamp beside the dresser. David was already fast asleep. I stood for a moment just looking at myself in the mirror. Then, slowly, I peeled off my jumper. Unfastened the skirt. Let both fall away. Revealing exactly David was missing out on.

The black bodysuit looked even more beautiful now, caught in the low, amber light of the bedroom. It hugged high on my waist, dipped daringly at the back, traced every curve with decadent precision. My breasts, half-veiled by sheer black mesh, rose and fell with shallow breaths. The stockings still held strong, the lace biting gently into my thighs, shaping my legs in a dark, liquid sheen.

No! Fuck David. I did look good. And yet he hadn't looked twice.

How could he not want this?

But as I stared at myself in the mirror, the glow catching the shimmer of silk and skin. The doubts started to creep back. Maybe I'd misread everything. Maybe I'd tried too hard. Maybe I was kidding myself--that this body, this effort, still meant something anymore.