Sue’s After-Dark Diaries

Ep 30

Working From Home, Socially Exposed

Friday, Emails, and the Lie of Productivity

Friday arrives the way it always does… pretending to be calm while quietly plotting nonsense.

I’m working from home, which means I’m seated at my desk, laptop open, inbox multiplying, and coffee number one already cooling to an accusatory temperature. I tell myself I’m focused. I tell myself I’m efficient. I tell myself I don’t need a snack yet.

All lies.

Emails ping in with cheerful urgency. “Hope you’re well!” they say, before asking for something unreasonable. I reply professionally, politely, and with the emotional warmth of a damp napkin.

Benji is asleep behind me, curled into a perfect comma of judgment. One ear flicks every time I sigh. He knows things. He always does.

The flat is quiet. Too quiet. That should have been my first warning.

Sharon Discovers Technology and Ruins Everything

My phone buzzes.

Once.

Then again.

Then rapidly, like it’s panicking.

A new WhatsApp group has been created.

Residents – Important Updates 

Of course it has.

Sharon announces it immediately.

“Thought it would be nice if we all stayed connected!

”Nice is never the word that applies when Sharon is involved. Eventful, yes. Loud, often. Legally questionable on occasion, but never nice, unless you mean nicely chaotic with a side of gossip.

Messages start pouring in instantly.

Has anyone got spare sugar?
Did anyone hear knocking last night?
The lift smells strange again.
I heard a buzzing noise at 2 am.

I freeze.

Slowly, carefully, I lower my coffee.

Buzzing?

My stomach drops in the very specific way it only does when Sharon is within digital reach.

Sharon replies before I can think.

“Oh that might be Sue’s Dan”

I clamp a hand over my mouth.

“No,” I whisper to the empty room. “No no no no no.”

Benji opens one eye.

Judgement confirmed.

Digital Spiral and Public Humiliation

The messages multiply.

Who’s Dan?
Is that a pet?
I heard buzzing too.
Is this safe?

I stare at the screen, watching my reputation disintegrate in real time.

This is how it ends. Not with scandal. With a poorly timed WhatsApp message and a woman who treats gossip like cardio.

I type. Delete. Type again. Delete harder.

Do I explain? Do I deny? Do I fake a network outage and move countries?

Instead, I do nothing.

Because sometimes the best response is strategic silence and controlled breathing.

Benji sighs, deeply unimpressed with my crisis management.

I stand up abruptly.

Too abruptly.

The chair skids. Benji startles. My dignity remains missing.

“I need coffee,” I announce, as though this is a plan and not avoidance.

In the kitchen, I pace while the kettle boils. The WhatsApp notifications continue like a slow clap of doom.

Sharon sends a winking emoji.

I don’t know what that emoji means anymore. I fear it.

Coffee is poured. Milk added. Life marginally stabilised.

I return to my desk with renewed resolve and a firm decision to simply… laugh about it.

Eventually.

Later.

Possibly never.

Back to Work, Back to Chaos

I sit. I type. Constantly, I reply to emails.

Every so often, my phone lights up again.

I think I heard it too.
Is it… mechanical?
Should we call someone?

I snort despite myself.

This building could collapse and the group chat would still debate whether it was “normal wear and tear.”

Finally, Sharon sends:

“Anywayyyyy hope everyone’s having a fabulous Friday”

I exhale.

Crisis paused. Temporarily.

That’s when the knock comes.

Mark Appears Like a Memory I Haven’t Finished

Knock. Knock.

My stomach flips in a completely different way.

I open the door.

Mark stands there, smiling, hands in pockets, looking unfairly good for midday.

“Hello, stranger,” he says.

And just like that, last Christmas flashes through my brain: our hallway sex scene, low laughter, with those unmistakable luminous glowing boxer shorts that absolutely did not need to be that memorable.

“Oh,” I say, eloquently. “Hi.”

We stare for a beat too long.

“How’s things?” he asks.

“Chaotic,” I reply honestly. “You?”

“Thought I’d check you survived Sharon discovering group chats.”

I laugh. He steps inside.

Coffee, Comfort, and Familiar Chemistry

We sit at the table with fresh coffee, the good mugs… the ones I don’t bring out for just anyone, or people I don’t trust not to casually destabilise my life before noon. Steam curls up between us, warm and smug, like it knows exactly what it’s doing.

Conversation slips into place far too easily. That’s always the warning sign.

We start with work, because adults do that. Then neighbours, because it’s safer than feelings. Then mutual mockery of modern life, people who send voice notes longer than thirty seconds, men who own ring lights, and anyone who says “let’s circle back” and means it.

Mark leans back in his chair like he’s perfectly entitled to be there. Which is annoying, because historically, he sort of is. My brain does a quick inventory of shared holidays, shared laughter, shared moments that absolutely should not be revisited before lunchtime.

“It’s weird,” he says casually, “being back here.”

“Yes,” I reply. “You always say that right before things get complicated.”

He smiles. That smile. The one that suggests he remembers exactly the same things I do and isn’t remotely traumatised by them.

Then…

A buzz.

Soft. Suggestive. Unapologetic.

Mark pauses mid-sip and raises an eyebrow slowly, like a man who has heard that sound before and knows precisely what it implies.

“…Dan still around?”

I shut my eyes for half a second. Just to gather dignity.

“Apparently audible to the entire building,” I say. “He’s having a very confident day.”

Mark smirks. “Misses you.”

“Cheeky,” I say, but the word lands flat because Dan chooses that exact moment to buzz again. Louder. Longer. Like punctuation.

Benji lifts his head, eyes flicking between us, ears twitching. He looks like a tiny therapist who’s already decided this session is going nowhere good.

“Your dog,” Mark says, “looks like he’s reconsidering his living arrangements.”

“He’s judging us,” I reply. “Silently. Which is worse?”

Dan buzzes again. A reminder. Or a threat.

“Honestly,” I mutter, reaching for my coffee, “this is why I don’t do casual catch-ups.”

Mark laughs, low and familiar. “Still good coffee though.”

“Yes,” I say. “Comfortable. Familiar. Mildly inappropriate.”

The buzz stops. The room goes quiet in that charged way that feels like a pause, not an ending.

I take a sip, deliberately.

“Well,” I add lightly, “at least one of you knows when to stop.”

Benji huffs and puts his head back down.

Even he knows this energy.

Sharon Enters Like a Plot Twist

The door flies open.

“SUE!”

Sharon breezes in mid-sentence, already talking.

“You will not believe what Ruth from 311-”

She stops.

“Oh. Hello Mark. Didn’t see you sitting there.”

Mark smiles politely.

“Has your sister bought you any more flashing underwear lately?” Sharon asks.

I choke on coffee.

“Sssh!” I hiss.

Mark laughs, thoroughly unbothered.

The WhatsApp Reckoning

Sharon perches dramatically.

“How good is that WhatsApp group though?” she beams.

“I only skimmed,” I say carefully.

“Oh sure,” she replies. “About the buzzing… are you sure it wasn’t Roger? Because honestly, these things happen.”

Mark looks between us, amused.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he says, standing. “I’ll call you later, Sue.”

He leaves with a grin.

Traitor.

Sharon’s Emergency and an Invitation I Can’t Escape

“I need you tonight,” Sharon announces immediately.

“Of course you do.”

“The Adonis from work asked me out. But he’s got a friend. I need you to make it a four.”

I stare.

“I can’t keep being your social buffer.”

She pouts. “Please.”

I sigh. “Fine. But you owe me.”

She grins. “Always.”

Getting Ready: The Wardrobe Negotiation

Oops. Time to get ready.

This realisation arrives late, as it always does, because I believe in optimism and lying to myself about time. I make a dash for the bathroom and throw myself into the shower like I’ve been personally challenged by the clock. Hot water. Steam. Ten whole seconds of pretending I’m relaxed.

Dan buzzes faintly from the bedroom.

“Yes, yes,” I mutter, shampoo in my hair. “Later. This is not about you right now.”

He disagrees. Politely. Persistently.

I step out, towel wrapped, and head straight for the wardrobe. Dresses first. Red? No… that’s confident bordering on reckless. Black? Too obvious. Emerald green? That says I know exactly what I’m doing, which is simply untrue.

Navy. Fitted. Classic. Subtle enough to suggest I have my life together. I nod at my reflection. “Responsible chaos,” I tell her.

Now underwear.

I open the drawer and immediately regret it.

Lace that looks optimistic. Something strappy from a phase I don’t recall. A pair that definitely requires commitment and good lighting. I hold one up, squint, then put it back like it might bite.

“Let’s not overpromise,” I say aloud, selecting something sensible. Comfortable. Respectable. No one’s seeing it. Probably. Almost certainly. Unless the universe is feeling theatrical.

Dan buzzes. Once. Approvingly.

“Don’t start,” I warn him.

Lipstick next. I hesitate, then go for my usual, it’s bold enough to mean business, soft enough to deny it. I press my lips together, satisfied.

That’s when the front door flies open.

“SUE!” Sharon shouts. “TAXI’S HERE!”

Of course it is.

I grab my coat, my bag, and one last look in the mirror.

“Well,” I say. “Let’s go cause problems quietly.”

And out we go.

The Restaurant: People Watching and Impulse Control

The restaurant is doing that thing where it thinks candles make people civilised.

They don’t. They just make bad behaviour mood-lit.

I clock the room instantly because of course, I do. To my left: a first date where he’s explaining something he read once, and she’s nodding like she’s waiting for extraction. To my right: a couple who’ve been married so long they now eat in complete silence, not angrily, just… spiritually separated.

Across from me sits the reason I’m here.

The Adonis has brought a friend.

A perfectly nice, perfectly presentable man who looks like he owns a sensible coat and pays his bills on time. He smiles politely at me, says my name once, then immediately fades into the background like a supporting character who’s realised the episode isn’t about him.

Poor man. He never stood a chance.

Sharon, meanwhile, is thriving.

She’s glowing in that way that suggests validation, wine, and a complete absence of consequences. The Adonis is leaning in, smiling earnestly, nodding like everything she says is both fascinating and brand new. He’s offensively attractive. Symmetrical. Confident. Zero signs of emotional damage.

I distrust him immediately.

His friend tries again. Asks me a perfectly reasonable question about work. I answer kindly. Briefly. With the energy of someone fulfilling a social obligation rather than exploring a romantic opportunity.

Because let’s be honest, this was always Sharon’s night. I’m just here to stop it from looking like a situation.

I sip my wine and think, this is how people end up saying “it just happened” later.

Sharon laughs too loudly. Touches the Adonis’s arm. Pulls back. Touches it again like muscle memory. Her bag sits between her feet, innocent-looking, which is how danger always presents itself.

Impulse control is not Sharon’s strong suit.

Mine isn’t either, but I’ve learned when to sit on my hands, sip my wine, and let chaos introduce itself naturally.

Escalation Without Explanation

It starts with a noise.

Not loud. Not obvious. Just… there.

A faint, traitorous buzz.

Sharon freezes mid-laugh.

I don’t look at her. I stare very hard at my menu like it’s suddenly fascinating.

The Adonis leans closer. “You okay?”

“Fine!” Sharon says, too quickly, eyes wide, posture rigid. “Just… chair.”

Chair.

Sure.

The buzz happens again. Longer this time.

I cough. Loudly. Aggressively. Like I’m trying to summon medical attention.

A waiter appears instantly, because of course, this is when service becomes attentive.

“Everything alright here?” he asks, smiling politely.

Sharon nods too much. “Lovely! Just lovely!”

The buzz chooses violence.

The waiter’s smile falters.

I set my glass down. “It’s… a phone,” I say smoothly. “Very old model. Vibrates. A lot.”

The waiter blinks.

Sharon drops her napkin. Bends down to retrieve it. Comes back up crimson.

The Adonis looks confused, intrigued, and far too entertained.

“I’ll just… pop to the bathroom,” Sharon announces, already halfway up.

She does not make it.

The waiter clears his throat. “Madam, is there… something in your bag?”

Sharon stares at him. Then at me.

“Well,” she says, squaring her shoulders, “you never know when you’ll need… support.”

The waiter nods once. Slowly. Respectfully. Retreats like a man who has seen too much and wants none of it documented.

I bury my face in my hands.

Escalation…

When I look back up, the damage is spreading.

The Adonis’s friend has gone very still.

Not shocked… more… contemplative. Like a man who’s just realised he’s been brought to dinner as a logistical courtesy rather than a romantic possibility. He stares into his glass, nods once to himself, and takes a long sip.

Acceptance. Impressive, really.

The Adonis, on the other hand, looks delighted. Genuinely delighted. Like this has exceeded expectations rather than violated social norms. He leans back in his chair, grinning, eyes flicking between Sharon and the now-suspiciously quiet handbag she’s holding.

“Well,” he says lightly, “that’s… efficient.”

Sharon preens. Actually preens.

“I like to be prepared,” she replies, with the confidence of a woman who has never once been embarrassed in her life.

The waiter returns… because of course he does… and very deliberately places the bill on the edge of the table like an offering. His eyes do not linger. His soul has left his body.

That’s when Sharon stands.

“I think,” she announces brightly, already pulling on her coat, “we’ll take this elsewhere.”

No one asks who we are.

The Adonis is on his feet immediately. Ready. Smiling. Coat half-on before the sentence finishes. His friend hesitates, halfway out of his chair, then slowly sits back down again, realisation settling in like a fog.

Ah. Right.

I grab my bag. Not because anyone’s asked me to leave – but because I am not staying behind to make conversation over shared trauma and breadsticks.

Sharon grabs my arm. “Coming?”

“Briefly,” I say. “Until the pavement.”

We move fast. Chairs scrape. Coats tangle. The waiter pretends to rearrange cutlery to avoid eye contact. The friend gives me a small, gallant smile as we pass… brave man… and I give him a look that says this was never personal.

Outside, the cold hits us like a reset button.

Sharon laughs, delighted. “Well! That was fun.”

“Was it?” I reply. “Because one of us has just emotionally abandoned a very polite man with dessert options.”

She waves it off. “He’ll be fine.”

A taxi pulls up immediately, because chaos always has transport.

The Adonis opens the door. Sharon slides in without hesitation, already mid-sentence, already committed to the evening’s next chapter.

She leans out the window. “Text me when you’re home!”

“I will,” I say. “For the record.”

The taxi pulls away.

I stand there alone for a second, coat pulled tight, replaying the last ten minutes in my head like security footage that will never be erased.

Somewhere behind me, a man is probably ordering cheesecake and reassessing his life choices.

I take a breath.

“Well,” I say to myself, “that escalated exactly as expected.”

And I head home… having fulfilled my role, preserved my dignity, and once again avoided needing to explain anything to a waiter.

Prepared, Observant, Still Unimpressed

By the time I get home, the WhatsApp group is alive again.

Of course it is.

Residents of Ashbury Court has evolved from a practical notice board into a 24-hour social experiment featuring adults who cannot cope with quiet or mystery.

Has anyone else heard that faint buzzing sound again?
It’s been on and off all evening
Could it be electrical?
Or the lift?
My cousin says buzzing can be dangerous

I stare at my phone. Slowly. Carefully. Like it might suddenly admit everything.

Because yes.
I hear it too.

Faint. Familiar. Loyal.

I kick off my shoes by the door… one lands neatly, the other absolutely does not, and I wander into the living room, pouring myself a glass of water like a woman who has survived society and needs hydration.

I glance across the room.

Dan is exactly where I left him. Bright pink. Innocent-looking. Fully charged. Radiating patience. After everything today, the preparedness, the restraint, the WhatsApp slander, and he’s been waiting. Calm. Dependable. Professional.

I smile.

Out loud, to no one, I say, “Honestly, if you’re going to gossip about you, at least get your name right.”

Benji lifts one eyelid. Considers the situation. Decides this is not his responsibility. Goes back to sleep with a sigh that suggests he’s exhausted by my life choices.

The messages keep coming.

It sounds… personal?
I thought it was Sue’s flat earlier, but didn’t want to say
Could it be someone’s phone?

I type nothing.
I send nothing.
I observe.

Dan gives the smallest buzz. Not dramatic. Not needy. More… supportive. Like he’s saying, I’ve got you.

“Well,” I tell him, swirling my water, “you’ve always had impeccable timing.”

Somewhere down the corridor, a door slams. Somewhere else, someone is absolutely replaying today’s events with growing suspicion. Sharon will be narrating her version by morning, with embellishments, selective editing, and at least one accusation that isn’t technically accurate.

I mute the group.

I place my phone face down on the table.

I sit for a moment, barefoot, water in hand, contemplating the quiet. The calm. The restraint I’ve shown all day.

And then a lightbulb moment.

You know the one.

The thought that arrives fully formed and uninvited.

Well… if they’re going to gossip anyway.

I look at Dan.

He looks back at me. Metaphorically.

Benji opens both eyes now. Alert. Suspicious. Sensing movement.

I stand, pick up Dan with intention, and head toward the bedroom.

Benji launches into hot pursuit, nails skidding on the floor, deeply concerned about where this night is going and whether treats will be involved.

Behind me, the flat settles. Quiet. Innocent.

Tomorrow, the WhatsApp group will have theories. Speculation. Opinions. None of them will be correct.

Because this is the thing they never understand.

Preparedness isn’t loud.
It doesn’t announce itself in group chats.
It doesn’t panic, speculate, or ask if anyone else heard that.

Prepared people hear it.
Recognise it.
And decide what happens next.

Dan settles into his rhythm.
The door closes.

And me?

Still prepared.
Still observant.
Still completely unimpressed.

As ever.

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