Chapter Text
Carla loves Michelle. She really does. Misses her something rotten. She’s not long gone off to Ireland; some new bloke, a new pub, a new life. And Carla doesn’t think she’s ever felt more alone than these last few months without her Chelle.
The brunette looks forward to their weekly debriefs more than she’d like to admit. Thinks it probably makes her seem relatively pathetic. That at nearly 50, the highlight of her week is a 60-minute call with her best friend.
Some days, she’s still in shock that Chelle actually left. She knows it was for the best that she left Weatherfield, but Carla still can’t believe that her best friend would just up and leave her like this.
She loves her. Always has done. They were attached at the hip for so long. Practically sisters.
But no matter how much she loves the woman on the other end of the call, she cannot help the fit of giggles she’s overcome with as Michelle natters on about some post she read about an old friend of hers who shacked up (Chelle’s words) with another woman after her divorce.
“Can you imagine, Car?” Michelle is laughing now, too.
It’s a hypothetical question, of course. But the brunette momentarily thinks it’s odd that she isn’t sure how she’d answer if it weren’t.
She’s been mostly laughing at how animated Michelle is about the whole thing, not the thing itself. She doesn’t think she could see herself with a woman, not at her age anyway. Not after all the men and husbands she’d had. But she doesn’t seem to find it as ridiculous as Michelle does.
Her stomach twists uncomfortably; a glimmer of something long ago buried edging toward the surface before she quickly shoos it away again.
Carla can’t really go down this line of thinking. Not now. Not with her own impending divorce proceedings just days away.
“When are you coming home, Chelle?”
—
Several days later, Carla finds herself restless. Her knees bounce unyieldingly, all but knocking the underside of the heavy mahogany meeting table.
Her eyes dart around the room as she silently judges the furniture store art hanging on the too-bright white walls.
Who the fuck actually wants to look at this stuff, she thinks.
Some hideous and mildly terrifying deer portrait stares her down. She swears the woodland creature’s eyes are following her. She feels hunted.
“Does Mrs. Barlow agree to those terms?”
Carla hears murmurs around her, but between the cheap art and the fact that she’d rather be anywhere else, she can’t make out what is being said.
Not like it matters. The people here are not trying to help her. Only trying to help themselves. Nothing worth listening to, honestly.
That’s what she’s paying her attorney for. And his, for that matter.
Her very expensive attorney. His an’ all.
She continues to ignore the sounds in the room. Brushes her graying chestnut hair behind her ear, staring at the deer, giving him as good as he’s giving.
This is who she is now, she thinks. A nearly-divorced, childless 50-year-old who gets into staring contests with atrocious paintings of wildlife.
She feels a sharp pinch to the top of her thigh.
Her staring contest cut short.
“Carla,” her attorney, Kayla, breathes.
Carla knows that she’s supposed to lift women up. To support them and praise them.
Especially highly accomplished women like her attorney.
But what kind of name is Kayla? Surely no one is taking her seriously. Her name makes it sound like she’s a lager girl on a small village golf course. Not a flamin’ divorce attorney.
Her bitterness is displaced, however. It’s not Kayla’s fault that Carla is in a foul mood.
“Carla!” Kayla said more firmly, directly into her ear this time. “Are you good with that?”
Carla looks at the redheaded girl, who is no more than 30. Tries as hard as she can to figure out what in the hell “that” is.
She stares at Kayla’s freckles like they’re the bloomin’ Davinci Code.
Fuck it.
She has no more shame and no more shits to give.
“Sorry, what was the question?”
“Jesus Christ, Carla.” The brunette hears the familiar whisper from across the table.
That, more specifically, he, is the reason she’s bitter.
The handsome, dark-haired man whom she’d loved for most of her adult life is the reason she’s bitter.
She straightens her back and presses her palms firmly to her knees, forcing them to just be fucking still already.
The balding mediator sighs; he, too, is ready to be done with this dumpster fire of a divorce proceeding.
“Mrs. Barlow, are you agreeable to a fifty-fifty split of the proceeds of the sales of your shared cottage?”
This motherfucker.
By this point, she’s already given him practically everything.
Half of the pub. Half of the flat. Even part of her beloved knicker factory.
She’s sold the pub already. The flat is on the market. And if she ever does part with the factory, he’ll get his cut of that, too.
She just wants him gone.
He has enough money now to fuck off to sea like he always wanted. And she can’t wait.
But the cottage is a bridge too far. She’s certain now that he’s pushing her buttons just for kicks.
He’s always performing. Everyone thinks he’s the victim in all this. That Carla is a man-eater, and it’s about time he left her. But she knows who he really is.
That even though she’s certain that he loves her. That he cannot help but hurt her.
The cottage is one thing they had both agreed on and looked forward to. It was their future. She would, eventually, tire of the daily grind at the factory. And when she did, they’d pack up and head to the sea. Permanently.
They’d only had it for two years when things started to disintegrate between them (for the second time).
It was a reminder of better times. She hoped she’d never think of him again once he left this time. She was ready for it to be for good.
But the cottage still means something to her. She’s not a sentimental person, but she’s not going to part with the cottage. It’s hers. And if he’s going to go to sea, the least he can do is let her live by it. Eventually.
She’s been mostly agreeable, if not slightly annoying, but she’s not going to bend on this one.
“It’s Miss Connor.”
Her confidence is mostly feigned, but she knows how her presence is received. Especially in a room full of men.
“What’s that?” The mediator adjusts his glasses as if it will help him make sense of the enigma before him.
“I said, my name is Ms. Connor, not Mrs. Barlow anymore. And no, I am not agreeable to the sale of the cottage.”
Kayla’s head drops into her hands.
Her ex pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.
Everyone is ready to go home. Mostly unintentionally, Carla has made this process unnecessarily…difficult.
Every ten minutes, she’s up pacing the room, answering work emails, groaning loudly as she stretches her back. She’s acting like a caged animal.
She is a caged animal.
The brunette is practically allergic to sitting still, and the small, windowless room has her even more on edge.
If she had known it was going to be like this, she might’ve avoided the divorce altogether. Just let him leave. It’s not like she’s going to get married again.
She shakes her head at the thought of being married for a sixth time.
Carla was under the assumption that the very expensive attorneys would just take care of everything.
No such luck (or maybe just her luck, she’s not sure).
She has to actually participate in the mediation, and her short attention span, coupled with her newfound depression, is making it next to impossible for her to be present in any meaningful way.
It’s true that she’s given him everything he asked for, but she also has an opinion about everything. And makes sure everyone knows about it before finally giving way.
It’s not one of her better qualities. And, in retrospect, probably hadn’t done much to help her marriage.
Most of her qualities aren’t that great these days. It was really no wonder her marriage had imploded.
He’s to blame, too. Of course he is. He is the one leaving her for the sea.
But she had been happier with him than several of her other husbands, at least. It feels like a small consolation at this point.
Since she’d met her ex, they’d been on a perpetual rollercoaster. Thrilling as much as it was scary and, at times, nauseating.
But when it was good, it was great. And when it was bad, it was horrible. Violent rows. Long periods of silence. Invisible landmines everywhere.
She sees her ex nudge his attorney. A well-dressed, clean-shaven man who appeared to be in his fifties.
It occurs to her that she’s not actually looked at the man.
Now that she does, she sees that he’s easy on the eyes. His sharp features draw her in, and the bit of dark hair peeking out from the cuff of his sleeve, wrapping loosely around his shiny gold watch, makes something in her belly flip.
Jesus. Lonely, lonely, lonely, she tells herself.
This man is mediocre at best. But here she is, all but drooling while they debate about what to do with the cottage.
She needs to get a grip. Needs to get this thing over with.
Her clear misery is dragging everyone in the room down. Feels herself slipping deeper into the seventh circle of Dante’s hell.
“What do you propose we do with the cottage then, Mrs…Ms. Connor?”
The attorney’s voice is jarringly deep. Unattractively so. Whatever dampness has begun to present itself quickly subsides.
She knows it will be easier on everyone if she can just live in this plane of existence for the duration of their mediation, instead of flitting off to God knows where every two seconds.
Kayla looks at her, clearly wondering herself what her client wants to do. Carla’s grip on reality is on holiday.
“Let’s just keep it. Put it on ice, so to speak. I’m hopeful that Mr. Barlow and I will be able to be civil with one another and can determine what to do when the time comes.”
When she’s present and focused, she’s logical and eloquent. Unfortunately, she has not been either lately, and her return to the room seems to shock everyone.
The (formerly) attractive attorney clears his throat, “Peter, are you good with that?”
Her ex’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “I think that’s a great idea.” He lets out a breath he’s clearly been holding. She should feel bad for the guy. She considerably out-earned him, and going through this must’ve been a bit demoralizing.
But she can’t bring herself to feel anything other than relief that he’s finally leaving. Sayonara, sucker.
Even if she’s ready to be rid of him, if she doesn’t t at least give him enough to live on and go back out to sea with, she knows her factory, along with the cottage, will be in jeopardy. She doesn’t know what she’d do without her factory. It’s all she had left, really.
The only thing to show for a hard-lived life.
For the first time in weeks, a small smile curves at the corner of her mouth. “If you all don’t mind, I think we’ve been at this long enough. Can you just let us know what else is on Mr. Barlow’s list? I’m happy to move through them as quickly as possible.”
Peter smiles at her, genuinely, though Kayla’s face is not screaming “gratitude.” More paperwork for her, Carla supposes.
“I think we can all agree to that sentiment, Ms. Connor.”
The mediator cannot contain the bounce in his voice as he looks eagerly at his watch.
It’s Kayla’s turn to pinch the bridge of her nose. Carla figures she’ll deal with the redhead later.
A nice little bonus to show she cares before sending her on her merry way.
After a lifetime of attorneys and police, Carla hopes to never need an attorney again. She’s officially a reformed dark horse.
They go through the relatively short remainder of Peter’s list, all of which Carla agrees to without opinion or argument.
Her redheaded attorney finally cracks a smile. Carla realizes she’s gone a bit soft on the girl. Still, she hopes to never see her again after today.
Carla glances at her watch, a well-worn silver Rolex that she’d purchased as a gift to herself nearly a decade before, after a particularly good year at work. She’d also bought Peter one that same year, a way to show him she cared, even if she didn’t always express it with words. She notices he’s wearing his, too.
“Well, if that’s all, it’s nearly four, and I think I’d like to get a bit of fresh air before the sun sets.”
Carla pushes her chair back and wraps her emerald green coat tightly around her.
She’s angry and annoyed, but still finds she’s drawn to her ex like a moth to a flame. Somehow, she resists the urge to give Peter a hug.
It doesn’t need explaining that she only feels this way because he’s comfortable. Like a well-worn pair of joggers. He’s been the only constant in her life over the last decade, so she cuts herself some slack. She knows she’ll feel exponentially better once she knows he’s gone for good.
She secures the three middle buttons of her coat and steps into the crisp February air.
Kayla steps out behind her, not at all dressed appropriately for the weather, in an emerald-colored dress that hits just above the knee. Kids.
Carla gives the girl a tight smile. In the waning hours of daylight, the older woman can properly see the crinkles at the corners of Kayla’s eyes and the deep bags beneath them. She wonders, momentarily, if she’s the cause of the wear and tear visible on Kayla’s face.
The brunette shakes the thought away as quickly as it comes.
“Thank you for putting up with me. Just call my office if you need anything else from my side to wrap this up.”
Carla does give Kayla a hug as they stand outside the nondescript brick building. Kayla pulls back, looking somewhat surprised at the sudden display of gratitude, and then just as quickly, turns on her heel to walk the three blocks to her office.
“Oh! And Kayla!” Carla calls after her. “I’m sorry for being such an arse!”
Kayla doesn’t turn, but Carla can hear her laughing as she walks away.
It’s not like she’s going to win Client of the Year, but at least she can still get a laugh out of people.
The brunette giggles to herself and opens the door to the taxi that awaits her. She climbs inside, feeling exhausted but relieved.
She knows a new chapter of her life is just beginning. Shame she has no clue what it’s going to look like.
—
“Ms. Connor?”
The cabbie’s voice is silky smooth. Sexy enough to get Carla’s attention.
“In the flesh.”
She smiles with a toothless, tight grin.
“Where to?”
Carla tells him the name of the gym she’s heading to, and he nods politely, giving her a cheeky wink in the rearview mirror.
It’s almost enough to make her swoon. To tell him to just take her back to her flat, pulling him along with her.
She really needs to get a grip.
Even if she’s not going to live out the fantasy playing in her head, she acknowledges that it’s nice to be flirted with by a man who is surely 20 years her junior. At least.
She surprises even herself by asking him to take her to the gym.
In the past, she would have gone straight to the pub, taken a few tequila shots, and spent the rest of the night making extremely poor decisions. Decisions that usually involved a bloke half her age and a questionable kebab.
Things are going to be different this time, she tells herself.
No more self-destruct button. No more young blokes. No more husbands.
She’s going to try this thing called ‘self-care’ that Michelle keeps raving to her about.
Going to finally live her life on her own terms.
Not chasing a man she can’t have. Or a life in LA that doesn’t fit quite right.
She no longer has to worry so much about money.
And she’s 50, for Christ’s sake. She doesn’t need anyone other than herself. Doesn’t need anything she can’t provide.
The cabbie catches her eye in the mirror before he grins and pulls away. She lets out a sigh and trills her lips, a habit she picked up sometime in her early 30’s as a way to physically banish the stress from her body. It doesn’t always work, but it’s a ritual she can hold onto, especially when the rest of her life is falling apart around her.
—
Weatherfield is downright miserable this time of year. Dreary. Rainy. Chilly.
At some point on the way to the gym, a drizzle has started, and Carla curses it.
She’s done with this weather. Just like she’s done with Peter.
Out with the old, in with the new.
She doesn’t get too soaked on her way in, but it’s not exactly a reprieve inside.
The gym is packed. Wall to wall with sweaty, red-faced bodies.
If she actually went to the gym with any regularity, she’d know that this time of day is always busy. But let’s just say if she took her anti-rejection meds as often as she goes to the gym, she’d certainly be dead.
As much as she wants to turn around and walk right back out, she figures it/s silly to be there already, all of her stuff ready to go, and not get at least a little workout or stretch in.
Carla changes quickly, and while she normally enjoys being the center of attention, the brunette is feeling oddly exposed milling around the gym in just her black sports bra and leggings.
She’s proud of her body. Well, maybe not proud exactly, but happy with it, anyway. She’s got battle scars and all of the normal stuff that happens with aging.
The brunette nearly feels embarrassed, but then she remembers that she’s no longer trying to impress anyone. She stands a bit taller and walks confidently toward the treadmills (the only actual gym equipment she uses).
She spots one open machine and makes a beeline for it, lest she end up standing awkwardly waiting for one to open up.
But as she makes her way over, she spots a young man, she suspects in his 30s, eyeing her up.
She knows this look. Knows it intimately.
Feels her chest swell with a bit of pride and a bit of smugness, knowing that she’s still got it.
Aging hasn’t been all bad. It’s treated her pretty well, actually. But part of her still thinks she’s one moment away from waking up as a washed-up divorcee.
What comes next feels inevitable. The man glances down at her hand, presumably looking for a ring (she thinks that probably wouldn’t stop him anyway).
“Fancy a drink later?”
She feels her face heat up at the question. She appreciates directness, skipping past all the cheesy chat-up lines that make her cringe these days.
She feels good. Powerful, even. Carla opens her mouth to accept his invitation, reward him for his boldness (and, of course, stroke her own ego).
“Not tonight. Thanks, mate, but I'd best get to it.”
The brunette smiles warmly and nods toward the treadmills.
Flippin’ heck, Connor. Where’d that come from?
He seems to take it in stride and heads back to his weights.
A giggle cuts through the air behind her. Carla turns around and is face-to-face with a tiny blonde woman climbing onto the treadmill that the brunette was just about to occupy.
“Poor bastard.”
Carla is flustered. Too many emotions race through her at once. She’s annoyed about the treadmill, angry about the eavesdropping, and embarrassed by how she cannot stop staring at the blonde.
The blonde who is incredibly attractive.
I really need my head examined.
After what feels like minutes of staring, she decides she can only deal with one emotion at a time.
“‘Scuse me? S’not polite to stick your nose into other people’s business, blondie.”
Anger it is.
“Sorry. Couldn’t help it, could I? It was happening right in front of my face.”
The blonde smirks, and Carla’s entire world flips upside down. Her stomach an’ all.
“He was fit, though. If you like that sort of thing.”
The blonde laughs and starts the treadmill. Acting as if she didn’t just introduce chaos to Carla’s life.
“Whaddya mean by that?”
Carla should just walk away. Call it a day and head home. But there’s something about the blonde that she can’t look away from.
The blonde is already starting to redden, and a bead of sweat collects at her hairline. The brunette is certain she’s going to be sick with all the somersaults her stomach is doing. She’s definitely losing her mind.
“I just mean I’m surprised you turned him down. Unless you’re not into that kind of thing. That’s all.”
The brunette has no idea what kind of “thing” the blonde is referring to.
“You mean men who are young enough to be my son?”
The blonde lets out a belly laugh, the expanse of her neck glistening as she tips her head back.
“Surely you’re not old enough to be his mother? And anyway, I just meant that maybe men weren’t your thing.”
Carla is certain the blonde ends her sentence with a wink.
“I….erm…I…”
Carla is never at a loss for words.
“Relax. I’m only messin’.”
The blonde must be able to sense Carla’s discomfort.
“I just, no. Men really aren’t my thing right now, I suppose.”
She quickly adds, “I mean, normally they are. Just not right now. Divorced.”
Carla holds up her ring finger like a total lunatic.
The blonde is still giggling.
“Ah, I see. Well, congrats?”
Carla is completely taken with this woman. If she’s going to completely go insane, she figures she may as well have some fun.
“The drink he offered did sound nice. Maybe you’d fancy joining me after your workout? Seeing as how you stole my treadmill. Seems like you owe me one.”
The brunette has no idea where this sudden surge of confidence, or recklessness, is coming from.
Lies. She does know where it’s coming from.
She’s lonely. But she really did mean it about no more blokes. For a while, at least.
The blonde tilts her head and steps her feet to the sides of the treadmill while the belt moves rapidly between her legs. Carla is certain this woman is about to call the police.
“Stole your treadmill, eh? Well, if that’s how you feel, I suppose I do owe you one.”
Carla smiles, feeling all too satisfied with herself. Perhaps a new friend is just what she needs.
“Alright then. Glad we agree. Meet you out front in an hour?”
The blonde nods, stepping back onto the belt and picking up her pace.
As Carla heads to find a stationary bike or something else to occupy her for at least 45 minutes.
A short workout and shower later, she’s stood at the door, waiting eagerly for the blonde to join her. She figures the nervous energy is normal for the situation. She’s not made a new friend in ages. She can’t even recall the last new friend she made.
Hasn’t had many, if she’s honest.
She can’t help the smirk that forms as she catches the blonde headed her way.
“So, blondie. Where to?”
“Feel free to keep calling me blondie, but in case you were wondering, my name’s Lisa. Lisa Swain.”
“Well, blondie, thanks for the information. I’m Carla. Carla Connor.”
The blonde stranger smiles as she opens the door for her, and they step into the damp air of the late afternoon. And even though the situation feels slightly unhinged, Carla can’t help but think that this is really the beginning of a new chapter.