Claire Highton-Stevenson
Author of Sapphic Romance Novels

Kent.

Sloan Slater stared at the text until the word stopped being a on a map and became a problem she wasn’t sure she could solve.

It would take at least an hour to drive there, and there was the question of who, exactly, would agree to spend a night with Gloria Slater.

Not a carer. Not overnight. Not at short notice.

Gloria had sent sixteen of them packing so far. Some lasted a week. Some didn’t make it past the first morning.

Dominium was a once-a-month opportunity for Sloan. Her one indulgence away from the world she was now living. The one place she could let herself forget about it all and just enjoy her surroundings.

And she knew her mother could ruin it without even leaving the house.

Sloan put the phone back into her pocket and climbed out of the car, as if doing so could put the wanting away Ignore it. Pretend you don’t need anything.

She headed across the carpark, coffee cup in one hand, briefcase in the other, her Prada bag slung over the shoulder of her tailored, slate-grey suit. Entering the office, her Manolos moved silently over the thick carpet, heels swallowed by the pile. She’d twisted her hair into a severe, flawless bun that morning—efficient, armoured, immoveable.

Nothing like the mousy, apologetic girl she’d been. And nothing like the woman who took control in life now.

She let her office door shut behind her, and set her bags down. Lowering herself into the chair, she rolled her shoulders once, twice, forcing the last of the morning’s irritation back beneath the surface.

Gloria’s latest complaints and tantrums had tried to follow her in. Sloan had pushed them back and reminded herself who the hell she was.

On the desk, the last file waited where her assistant, Dawn, had left it. Sloan opened it, skimmed the contents, then picked up the phone.

“Nigel?”

She let him talk—excuses, panic, too many words all at once—the usual.

“I don’t care how it gets done,” she said at last. “I want it completed. And I would strongly advise against making me call you in here again. Am I clear?”

There was a moment of quiet as she listened to him scramble for agreement.

“Good.”

She replaced the receiver and sat back, every inch the composed senior executive. Calm on the surface. Controlled.

Beneath, something jagged hummed—an edge she knew well, and one she’d stopped pretending she didn’t enjoy.

It was the last Friday of the month. If Gloria Slater could just behave for one night, Sloan would have Dominium—women only, invitation only, never in the same place twice.

The club had been a godsend. A pressure valve. Somewhere to go when denial stopped being sustainable.

Sloan had been on the list since the beginning. Her friend Eleanor knew the creator and had put her name forward for an invitation. Sloan had taken it with both hands.

Since then, she’d used the club to fill certain voids in her life, because it was easier to settle for something controlled and transactional than risk wanting more when she had her hands full with Gloria Slater’s wants and needs.

It felt like it had been a long time ago since Maggie had invaded her life and made her want more; made her want to give in.

Sometimes Sloan allowed herself a moment to imagine it being that way again—someone special, someone serious. Sometimes she wanted it—painfully.

But it wasn’t possible.

Not while Gloria dictated so much of her life.

She reached for her coffee, already doing the mental arithmetic of time, money, and the favours she’d need to ask to make a trip to Dominium tonight worth her while.

The decision was made for her when there was a knock, and Dawn poked her head around the office door looking none too happy.

“I’m afraid there’s a problem,” she said, half-whispering.

Sloan felt the first stirrings of a headache. “What now?”

“The Boston office has lost all access to their system. They can’t send over the weekly reports or those new SOPs we are waiting on.”

“Which means,” Sloan said flatly, “I’m going to be stuck here waiting until they do, or risk putting everything on hold.”

So much for Kent.

Dawn smiled and nodded. “I took the liberty of ordering coffee and a sandwich from that place you like. They said they’d bring it over shortly.”

“Right. Thank you.” Sloan glanced at her watch —almost five. “You might as well get going. I can finish up and deal with Boston if anything else comes up.”

“Are you sure? I can stay for—”

Sloan waved a hand. “No. It’s fine. Thank you.”

Dawn smiled. “Okay. I’ll pack up, then. Have a good weekend.”

“You, too.”

Sloan watched the door close behind Dawn and let out a low groan as she picked up the phone to arrange for the carer to stay another couple of hours.

At least there would be coffee.

 

 

Matty Bradford skated down the high street, slipping through the morning crowd as if the pavement had made room just for her. Music thumped through her headphones as she twisted between bodies, all loose limbs and instinct. Wheels were the only thing that had ever made sense to her.

Maybe it was because she’d spent most of her life on them. Her parents had wanted an Olympic ice skater—something elegant, disciplined, worth showing off—but Matty had always been happier off the ice, and on wheels instead of blades. Less polished. Less graceful, probably. But freer—more herself.

She’d been skating in one form or another for as long as she could remember, and at nearly thirty-six, some people might have thought the wheels on her feet were ridiculous. Matty had long since stopped caring what those types of small-minded people thought.

These days, it wasn’t just a hobby either. Skating to work saved money, and money was always on her mind since the divorce.

Most of what she earned vanished on her extortionate rent. She lived in a pokey room in a shared house, with a part-time drug dealer and a woman Matty still couldn’t quite work out, who was forever disappearing into the night with “friends”. They were both nice enough, even if the whole arrangement was a little bit shady.

What was left after paying rent had to cover food, the odd pint, and the occasional attempt at pretending she had something resembling a life. Saving a few quid on bus fares helped, and tips mattered more than ever.

The chance for tips was one of the reasons she didn’t mind working the two jobs she currently had.

Five days a week, she did the late-morning-to-afternoon café shift at Compton’s. Friday and Saturday nights, she worked the bar at Art. Sundays were sacred—no work, no people, no thinking too hard about anything. She liked the plan of her week—predictable, with just enough fun to stop it feeling too grim.

On café mornings, when she arrived at Compton’s, she could literally roll in, kick off her skates, and get stuck into clearing tables and prepping for the inevitable midday crowd.

“Morning,” she beamed, rolling past the last customers in line and waving at Sharna and Kareem.

“Hey,” they called back without looking up, too busy to stop.

The café smelled of burnt coffee, warm milk, and toasted sourdough, with the faint, sugary aroma of pastries clinging to the air. The worst of the morning rush had passed, but the place still held that just-survived feeling—tables needing wiped, cups stacked by the sink, the floor marked with damp footprints and the odd oat-milk splash.

In the tiny space they jokingly called the staff room, Matty untied her skates and stepped out of them, losing several inches of height as she slid on a pair of Vans pulled from her rucksack. She tugged her apron over her head, shoved her headphones into her bag, and quickly ran her fingers through her hair before checking her reflection in the scratched metal back of a locker.

Good enough.

That was the thing about Compton’s—nobody expected polish. You turned up, pulled your weight, and didn’t act like a dick. Everything else was negotiable.

By the time she came back out front, Kareem was steaming milk with the grim concentration of a man defusing a bomb, and Sharna was trying to explain for the third time, “No, we not have a secret menu,” and “Yes, the bacon roll comes exactly as described on the board.”

Matty grinned and ducked behind the counter.

“Need me on tables?”

Sharna gave her a look that suggested she was seconds away from committing a crime. “Need you everywhere.” She blew her fringe out of her eyes and exhaled slowly. “Please.”

“Perfect,” Matty said, already reaching for the cloths and spray.

She liked this bit best sometimes—the aftermath of the rush, when the panic had thinned and the place settled into something manageable—wiping down tables, collecting abandoned cups, catching half-finished conversations as she passed. There were people on dates, people on laptops, and people pretending not to eavesdrop on each other. It was ordinary, a little chaotic, and weirdly comforting.

Yeah, she liked it that way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Gloria, you have to eat something.”

Patsy was the latest carer brave or desperate enough to take on the mission that was Gloria Slater. She pushed the tray back towards her.

“Listen to me, you useless half-wit,” Gloria sneered, hauling herself forward in the chair as far as she could. “I don’t take orders from the likes of you.” She picked up the plate. “You can take your bloody toast and shove it up your—”

“There is no need for that, Gloria.” Patsy snatched the plate from her before she could fling it. Twice last week, she’d taken one to the shoulder.

“Oh, piss off and leave me alone.”

“If only,” Patsy muttered, carrying the tray back towards the kitchen, already regretting agreeing to stay on for another two hours.

“What was that?” Gloria shouted after her. “If you’re not brave enough to say it out loud to my face, don’t say it at all.” She turned back to the television. “Bloody moron, acting all high and mighty just because she can still use both hands.”

She fumbled for the remote, turned the volume up, then wedged it down the side of the cushion where she could still reach it.

Countdown would be on soon. She used to enjoy it. Now she watched mostly out of habit…and because the theme tune got on Patsy’s nerves.

“Bloody toast for a mid-afternoon snack,” she grumbled. “What the hell is wrong with the woman?”

Something clattered in the kitchen. A mug put down too hard? A cupboard shut with more force than necessary, maybe?

Gloria smiled to herself.

“Won’t be long before you sod off too.”

A film was ending on the television, its credits rolling over a sweeping orchestral theme. Gloria’s gaze softened. For a moment, she barely noticed the untouched toast or the ache in her hip.

She remembered that music. She and Kenneth had seen the film at the Odeon when Joan was still a baby. It had rained on the walk home, and they’d laughed the whole way, talking about the future as if it were something generous and waiting for them.

She could still clearly picture that night. Kenneth, with rain on his coat collar, smiling at her under the streetlights. Joan at home with her mother, tiny and warm and milk-sweet, and all of life still ahead of them. Back when a body was something you lived in without thinking. Back when standing up, walking home, carrying your own child was the norm—none of it having felt temporary.

The credits ended. The spell went with them.

“Right, Gloria, time for your exercises,” Patsy said, coming back in with that bright voice carers used when they were trying not to scream. “Let’s do those seated leg lifts, shall we?”

Gloria’s mouth hardened. “I’ll do them when I’m ready. Not when you bark at me like a bloody dog.”

“Come on, Gloria, doctor’s orders.” Patsy folded her arms. “We want to keep you nice and strong, don’t we?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m simple,” Gloria snapped. “I know what the doctor said. I was there, remember?”

Patsy let out a breath through her nose. “Suit yourself.”

Gloria turned back to the television, the softness gone. The rainy night with Kenneth dissolved beneath the ache in her bones and the humiliation of being managed. She gripped the arm of the chair and waited for Countdown to begin.

She wasn’t living the old age they’d once imagined for themselves. There was no dignity in it. No comfort. Just pain, dependence, and the slow humiliation of becoming a burden.

She hated every second of it.