Chapter Text
Carla Barlow is stuck in a rut. On the face of it, she has everything she has ever wanted: owner of a hugely successful underwear factory, nice flat, marriage to a man she loves.
And yet there remains an itch she can’t scratch, an unnamed void that she doesn’t even begin to know how to fill. She isn’t unhappy per se - she has known great sorrow in her time and knows she should feel grateful with her lot.
But still, she can’t help but yearn for more, though more of what, she can’t say.
“Penny for them?”
Peter’s voice jolts her out of her reverie, her husband eyeing her with a bemused grin as he walks in on her daydreaming in the kitchen.
“Oh, you couldn’t afford my thoughts,” she quips with a wink, tapping her finger against her temple. “I’ve got state secrets stored up here.”
“Is that so?” he laughs. “I knew I married you for a reason.”
Carla smiles. “Speaking of marriage, I hope you haven’t forgotten which special occasion is coming up on Friday?”
Peter’s forehead puckers, causing Carla’s heart to plummet momentarily, before her husband breaks out into a toothy grin, clearly having feigned his ignorance.
“How could I forget eh?” he smiles warmly. “Five years since I married the most beautiful woman on the planet. Best day of my life.”
Carla hums as Peter rounds the kitchen counter, pulling his wife in by the hips. “I was thinking…” she begins.
“Ooh, don’t hurt yourself,” Peter teases.
Carla shoots him a withering look, reaching down to swat at his backside.
“Oi!” she yelps. “I was thinking that maybe we could go out on Friday. Y’know to celebrate?”
Peter beams. “Sounds perfect. I’ll give the Bistro a call later shall I? Book us a table.”
Carla’s smile drops. This was part of the problem.
There was nothing wrong with the Bistro - it was perfectly nice for a business meeting or a casual lunch date. But this was supposed to be a special night - their fifth wedding anniversary, no less - and the restaurant around the corner was the best Peter could do?
Immediately sensing the brunette’s shift in mood, her husband reaches out to brush a tendril of hair behind her ear.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Where did you go?”
“Nowhere,” she sighs. “That’s exactly it, Peter. We never go anywhere. We never do anything exciting together anymore. We never-“
“Hey, where’s all this coming from?” Peter asks, holding his wife at arm’s length and eyeing her with concern. “Is this because I suggested the Bistro? Because we can go somewhere else if you like. Your choice.”
Carla worries at her lip, suddenly overwhelmed by guilt. This man absolutely adored her - had even given up his greatest vice, alcohol, for her when she had issued him with an ultimatum several years ago - and yet here she was, throwing it back in his face simply because she was feeling a bit fed up.
“I’m sorry,” she sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m just…tired, that’s all.”
Peter pulls her back in for a hug, pressing a sweet kiss to her temple. “That’s okay love. And you’re right, maybe we should try and branch out a bit.
“How about that new place in Spinningfields? The one owned by that chef you like off the telly?”
“Amalfi?” Carla queries, interest piqued. “Peter that place is mega expensive.”
Her husband shrugs, squeezing her tighter. “You’re worth every penny. Anything for my beautiful girl. I’ll give them a call on my lunch break.”
With another quick peck to his wife’s lips, Peter heads out to work, leaving Carla stood alone in her kitchen.
‘Maybe life’s not so bad after all,’ she thinks with a grin as she drains her morning coffee and readies herself for the day, already excited for Friday’s night on the town with Peter.
—-
Carla winces as the as she puts the shot glass to her lips and lets the Sambuca burn the back of her throat.
“Another one please, barman,” she says in her most seductive drawl as she slams the glass back down in front of her.
The young man behind the bar obliges but quickly turns his attention to another customer. Carla sighs. Not so long ago, she’d have had him eating out of the palm of her hand.
It was ironic, really. The night of her wedding anniversary and here she was, sat on her own in a dimly lit bar in Manchester city centre, craving the attentions of a man half her age.
Was this what her life had come to?
She’d been so excited for tonight, had hoped that it would be the start of a new chapter for her and Peter, one that would see them spending more time together, trying out new things.
But, as her tram had pulled up at St Peter’s Square, her husband had phoned to say he couldn’t make it. His son Simon, whom he shared with a previous partner, had broken down on the M62 and so Peter had been drafted in to rescue him.
It wasn’t Peter’s fault. In fact, she should have counted herself lucky that she was married to such a selfless father.
But still she couldn’t help the white hot fury that had bubbled up inside her as she’d hung up the phone, Peter’s plea to “go out and have a nice night with your mates” ringing in her ears.
She was too worked up to call any of her friends, knew she’d be terrible company while she was in such a filthy mood. And so she she’d ended up here, sat at a bar, sinking shots and lusting after twenty-somethings.
She downs another Sambuca.
“You should slow down.”
A soft but alluring voice cuts through her thoughts. Carla twists around to see that it belongs to a woman - perhaps a few years younger than her - watching her with a bemused smirk.
She’s blonde, with intoxicating blue eyes and the most exquisitely pretty face Carla thinks she’s ever seen. She’s dressed in all black, her trousers and fitted shirt perfectly accentuating her delicious figure.
“And you should mind your own business.” The words are out of Carla’s mouth before she even has chance to register them.
If the other woman is offended by the brunette’s bluntness, it doesn’t show, her expression remaining impassive as she asks: “Is this seat taken?”
Carla looks at the empty bar stool next to her and back to the blonde. “Depends,” she shrugs.
The other woman quirks an eyebrow. “On?”
“On whether you plan to spend the evening passing comment on my alcohol consumption.”
The blonde’s smirk widens. “My lips are sealed,” she says, mimicking zipping her mouth shut.
Carla sniffs, then gestures to the empty stool, the younger woman sliding onto it gracefully.
“Gin and tonic, please,” she says as the young barman sidles up in front of her. Carla notes the way he rakes his eyes over the blonde and feels a twist of anger in her chest, though she can’t quite pinpoint why.
“And you’re having?”
It takes a moment for Carla to realise the other woman is asking her what she’d like to drink. “Oh, erm, I’ll have the same please,” she stammers, the barman nodding as he bustles off to make the drinks.
There are a few beats of awkward silence before Carla asks: “Do you make a habit of buying drinks for total strangers?”
The blonde leans her elbows on the bar, gives an exaggerated shrug. “Depends.”
Carla can’t help but laugh at the other woman’s obvious teasing.
“On?” the brunette humours her.
“Depends on the stranger.”
The blonde breaks eye contact as the barman returns with their drinks, quickly retrieving her credit card and fixing him with a tight smile as he moves over to serve another customer, though not before he’s shot her another wolfish look.
“He was checking you out,” Carla says, unable to keep the annoyance from her voice.
The blonde shrugs again, takes a sip of her drink. “Most people do.”
The two women sit there for a few minutes, neither one looking at the other.
“Why are you drowning your sorrows?” the blonde eventually asks.
“Why are you such a nosy cow?” Carla snaps back, almost instinctively, before following up with: “I’m sorry, that was rude. I’ve just had a shitty day. My husband…”
The younger woman looks at her as she trails off. “Marital problems?”
Carla huffs out a surprised laugh. “You don’t beat around the bush do you? But, no, in answer to your question, not really.
“My husband is great but we were meant to be going out tonight for our wedding anniversary and he kind of…stood me up.”
The blonde raises her eyebrows as she takes another swig of her drink. “Sounds pretty problematic to me.”
Carla’s temper flares. “Oh, and I suppose your marriage is totally perfect isn’t it?” she crows. She’d clocked the other woman’s wedding ring as soon as she’d sat down. “Bet your husband is a right Prince Charming.”
The blonde bites her lip and Carla wonders for a second if she’s gone too far, before the younger woman says: “My *wife* has been having an affair with her yoga teacher for nearly two years so, no, my marriage isn’t perfect.”
Carla is stunned, can’t quite work out why this revelation causes her pulse to quicken in her throat. “Oh,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry. I had no idea that you were…that you are….”
“A lesbian?” the blonde finishes. “It’s okay you know, you can say it. It’s not a dirty word.”
Carla feels her cheeks flush pink. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just, well, you don’t look like a lesbian.”
The other woman nearly spits out her drink. “Fucking hell. I didn’t realise we were in 1984. I’ll make sure to bring my pride flag next time.”
Carla flinches, overcome with embarrassment. The blonde must have noticed and, taking pity on the brunette, she holds out her hand. “Lisa,” she says.
Carla eyes her for a minute, then accepts the handshake.
“Carla,” she replies, trying to ignore the way her stomach swoops as the blonde’s long fingers close around her own.
They stay like that for a second, hands clasped together, before Carla withdraws hers, blushing furiously.
“So,” she says, clearing her throat. “Are you getting a divorce? You and your wife?”
Lisa smirks wickedly. “Are you propositioning me Carla?”
The pink in the brunette’s cheeks deepens to scarlet. “No!” she yelps. “Of course not. I mean, you’re…hot I suppose, but I don’t…I’m not.”
“Relax Carla,” the blonde laughs, placing a firm hand on the other woman’s jigging knee. “I’m messing with you.”
Lisa takes another sip of her drink and sighs, her expression growing more serious. “We’re not getting a divorce, not yet anyway,” she says.
“Becky - my wife - promised to end it, the affair. We said we’d give things another go, for our daughter.”
“How old is she?” Carla asks. “Your kid.”
“Twelve,” Lisa replies. “It’s been hard for her. We’ve just moved across Manchester for a fresh start but she’s had to change schools and, well, you know what they’re like at that age.”
Carla laughs, remembering how impossible she’d been as a pre-teen. “Oh yes,” she says.
“Do you have kids?”
Lisa’s question hits like a punch to the gut. She’d had a miscarriage several years ago, had never really gotten over it. She often wondered if things had worked out differently, if she’d had the baby, whether she would still feel so empty.
No point getting into all that now though, she thinks, taking a long glug of her drink. “No,” she shrugs. “Got enough on my plate with Peter.”
Lisa smiles, asks: “Your husband?”
Carla nods. “I shouldn’t moan, he’s great. It’s just sometimes - god this sounds awful - sometimes I just….”
“Wish you could forget about it all for a while?” Lisa guesses, the other woman nodding sheepishly.
Lisa gives a wistful sigh, drains her glass. “I know the feeling.”
Carla appraises the younger woman, the tight set of her jaw and the sadness in her eyes. She feels her heart twist.
“You know what we need?” the brunette says brightly, clapping her hands together. “Shots.”
“Absolutely not,” Lisa laughs.
“Come on,” Carla coaxes, eyes twinkling. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Lisa bites her lip, rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine. But I’m not drinking Sambuca.”
Carla grins, flagging down the barman. “Two tequilas,” she demands, pressing a £10 note down on the bar, smirking as she slides one of the shots in Lisa’s direction.
“Oh no you don’t,” the blonde says, reaching out to still Carla’s hand as she lifts the glass to her lips. “If we’re gonna do this, we’re doing this properly.”
Carla furrows her brow as Lisa leans back over the bar and fixes the young server with a seductive smile as she requests lemons and salt.
“Do you always get what you want?” Carla asks with a grin as the barman hands Lisa the ingredients, as well as another two shots free of charge.
Lisa shrugs. “That depends on how much I want it.”
Carla feels her mouth go dry as Lisa’s eyes darken. After a few seconds, the brunette looks away.
“I never know which way round to do this,” she says, turning back to her shot, aware her voice sounds strangled.
“Give me your hand,” Lisa says, quietly but with an air of authority.
Carla pauses but can’t stop herself from complying, breath hitching as Lisa brings her hand to her mouth, never once breaking eye contact as her tongue darts out, licks a hot stripe on the patch of skin between Carla’s thumb and wrist.
The blonde quickly reaches for the salt, sprinkling a line on the other woman’s hand.
“Lick it,” she says, her voice unmistakably low.
“W-what?” Carla stammers, half-dazed.
A smile tugs at the corner of Lisa’s lips. “The salt,” she prompts, holding out a shot glass in readiness. “You lick, then you drink.”
“Oh,” Carla says dumbly. “Oh right.”
The brunette takes a deep breath and follows the other woman’s instructions, wincing as she licks the salt and then downs the tequila.
“Here,” Lisa laughs, holding out a wedge of lemon for Carla to suck.
The brunette wonders whether she should take it from her, but something stops her, and instead she leans forward, feels the hot skin of Lisa’s fingers beneath her lips as she bites into the lemon, eyes staying fixed on the other woman’s.
Lisa has so far remained unflappable but Carla could swear she sees her breathing start to labour as she pulls away.
“My turn,” the younger woman says, pouring salt onto her own hand and tipping her head back, face scrunching adorably as the liquid hits the back of her throat.
Carla swallows and then, feeling brave, reaches for a slice of lemon, holding it between her thumb and forefinger.
Lisa eyes her for a second, as if daring her to change her mind. But Carla holds firm and the blonde dips her head with a wicked grin, lips closing around the fruit.
Carla hears a small moan, realises with embarrassment that it had slipped from her own mouth. Then, almost in slow motion, the brunette watches as a trail of lemon juice tracks down her finger, Lisa’s hot tongue following its path.
Carla feels heat pool at the apex of her thighs as the blonde grazes her teeth over her skin, pupils blown as she eyes the older woman as if she were a meal about to be devoured.
“Lisa,” Carla breathes, heart thundering in her chest.
“Carla, I-“ the blonde is cut off by the intrusive ringing of her phone on the bar.
She runs her tongue over her lip, rakes a hand through her hair as she weighs up whether or not to answer. She checks the caller ID, her expression suddenly shifting.
“It’s my daughter,” she explains, already sliding off the stool. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“Lisa wait!” Carla calls, but it’s already too late.
Carla thinks the sight of blonde’s retreating figure - as she heads for the exit without so much as a backwards glance - will be etched into her memory forever.
—
It has been three days since that night at the bar and Carla can’t get Lisa out of her head.
She’d arrived home to a bunch of flowers and a profuse apology from Peter, the guilt threatening to swallow her whole. Still, her sense of shame was not great enough to stop her from fucking herself in the shower when her husband had gone to sleep, imagining her own fingers were Lisa’s as she came roughly, forehead pressed to the cool tiles.
Her state of anguish only intensified when she arrived at her factory, Underworld, on Monday morning, to find two of the windows smashed and a load of graffiti scrawled on the walls.
Nothing had been taken, it was probably just some local kids messing about. But still, Carla had had to report it, and was now waiting for Weatherfield Police to deploy one of their finest so she could file an official report.
The brunette looks up from her desk at a knock on her office door; one of her seamstresses, Sally Metcalfe, not waiting to be asked before she comes in.
“Morning Mrs Barlow,” she says brightly. “Police have just arrived. They’ve sent a woman.”
Carla raises her eyebrows in mock surprise. “How progressive of them!” she teases. “Send her in please Sal. Let’s get this over with.”
Sally nods, Carla still chuckling to herself as her employee bustles off to get the police officer. But the smile dies on the factory boss’ lips as a small, stunning blonde steps into her office, dressed in a sharp suit and heeled boots.
“Mrs Barlow,” Sally says, appearing once again in the doorway. “This is Detective Sergeant Swain.”
“Hi Carla,” Lisa says after a beat. “It’s good to see you.”