Mia's Taboo

Half-past midnight, 12th April 2025. A late shift that wouldn't end. The key scraped in the lock, louder than Mia intended. She winced, freezing for a second in case the noise woke her housemate, Ellie. The hallway light was off, thank God — only the faint blue glow from the fridge in the kitchen leaked under the door. Mia kicked off her trainers, the soles sticky from spilled lager, and padded barefoot up the narrow stairs in her black work leggings and the cropped hoodie she'd thrown on over her bar top. The fabric clung to her skin, damp from the humid air inside The Dog & Bell.

She closed her bedroom door softly behind her and exhaled. The room smelled of vanilla candle wax and the faint metallic tang of her perfume — the cheap one she wore for shifts because it lasted through sweat and stale beer. Mia flicked on the bedside lamp, low enough not to blind herself, and caught her reflection in the full-length mirror propped against the wall. Then she removed the hoodie.

Long blonde hair, slightly tangled from the wind on the walk home, framed a face that, some nights, still looked too young for twenty-three even though she was fast approaching 24. Blue eyes, a little tired tonight, stared back. The deep V of her black work top had ridden low during the last hour — cleavage noticeable whenever she leaned to pour a pint. She'd caught at least three regulars staring, one of them slipping an extra fiver under his glass with a wink. She hadn't minded. Tips were tips. But she was aware of every lean, every reach, the way eyes followed her when she moved.

Mia peeled the top over her head, golden strands falling across her face. Underneath was her simple but attractive black bra — nothing flashy, just enough lace detail to make her feel pretty when she put it on in the morning. She liked the way the lace felt against her skin, a small secret comfort after a long day. She unhooked it, folded it neatly on the chair, then pushed the leggings down over her hips and stepped out of them. Plain black knickers underneath, chosen more for practicality than anything else. She pulled on an oversized T-shirt — one she'd stolen from a boy in her first year at Bristol who never asked for it back — and dropped onto the edge of the bed. The fabric was soft against her skin, comforting after a long shift.

Her phone buzzed once on the duvet. She ignored it at first, reaching instead for the half-empty water bottle on the floor.

But the screen lit up again. Persistent.

With no idea as to the future implications, Mia sighed and picked it up.

Mum. Two messages.

Hey love, hope the shift wasn't too mad tonight. Just wanted to let you know, remember Joe, he got in touch the other day. He still sounds like the same old Joe — he's back in London properly now, on his own apparently (not a big surprise!). Said his flat's lovely, the one in Oval, got a little garden and everything. Asked how you were getting on. I gave him your number — thought you might like to catch up? X

Then, a minute later:

No pressure though! Just thought you'd want to know. Love you. Mum xx

Mia's thumb hovered over the screen. Her pulse gave a funny little kick — not hard, not dramatic, just enough to notice. Joe. She hadn't heard that name spoken out loud in years. Not since the Christmas card when she was eighteen, the one with the generic snow scene and his neat handwriting inside: Hope university treats you well. Joe x

She'd replied with a thank-you text. Polite. Short. Then nothing.

She set the phone face-down on the mattress and lay back, staring at the ceiling cracks that looked like rivers on a map. Her mind slid sideways, unbidden, to a memory she hadn't let surface in a long time.

That last summer holiday before things changed. The rented cottage in Cornwall with the creepy cousins and the uncle who always stared too long and made the kind of jokes that made her skin crawl. She'd spent most of the week avoiding them, sticking close to Joe instead. He'd taken her out on walks along the cliffs, taught her how to skim stones, made her laugh until her sides hurt. Then, one morning, he was gone. No goodbye, no explanation. Mum had said it was "grown-up stuff" and changed the subject. The holiday ended early after that, and Joe never came back to the house.

It hadn't been a large part of her life, but it was a happy part.

Mia blinked up at the ceiling. That was eight years ago.

She hadn't thought about that summer in ages. Why now?

She rolled onto her side, hair spilling across the pillow, and stared at the dark phone screen.

Joe was in London. Not far. Oval wasn't even a long Tube ride away.

She closed her eyes.

The city hummed beyond the window — distant sirens, a neighbour's bass thumping through the wall. Mia tried to breathe evenly. Tried to think about tomorrow's job application, the bar shift, anything safe.

But her mind kept circling back to one quiet thought.

On his own apparently. Why would Mum say that? I wonder if he will call.

Three days had passed since the late-night message from Mum, and Mia still hadn't heard from Joe. She told herself it didn't matter — he was probably busy settling back into London life, work trips, whatever professionals did. But every time she unlocked her phone during a quiet moment at the bar, her thumb hovered over the contacts, half-expecting his name to appear.

It was a slow Tuesday afternoon at The Dog & Bell. The lunch crowd had cleared out, leaving only a couple of regulars nursing pints at the far end of the counter and the low hum of the extractor fan over the kitchen. Mia wiped down the already-clean beer taps for the third time, blonde hair tied back in a loose ponytail, the sleeves of her black bar shirt rolled to her elbows. The deep V of the top showed just a hint of the bra underneath — she'd chosen it again today without really thinking why.

She pulled her phone from her apron pocket and opened the chat with Mum.

Mia: Hey Mum, hope you're ok. Still no word from Joe… did you give him my number like you said? x

Mum replied almost instantly.

Mum: Hi love! Yes, I did, promise. Maybe he's just taking his time. Men like Joe can be funny about reaching out sometimes. Why, you thinking of messaging him yourself? x

Mia bit her lip, glancing around the empty bar. The idea had been circling her mind for two days.

Mia: Yeah… maybe. Could you send me his number though? Just in case he lost mine or something. x

A short pause. Then Mum's reply came through.

Mum: Of course. Here it is: 07701 098 9799. Be nice to him, yeah? He was always fond of you. x

Mia saved the number under "Joe" — plain, no emoji, no nickname yet. She stared at it for a long minute before slipping the phone away as a customer waved for another pint.

That evening, back in her room at the house, the decision to text felt bigger. Ellie was out with friends, the house quiet except for the distant rumble of a train on the line. Mia sat cross-legged on her bed in pyjama shorts and the oversized T-shirt, hair loose around her shoulders, phone in both hands.

She typed, deleted, typed again. What do you even call someone who'd been there when no one else had — even briefly?

She'd been fourteen, maybe just turned fifteen then. Still all elbows and school shoes, still needing lifts more than freedom. Joe hadn't been around long — a few months, at most — but in that time he'd done small, ordinary things that stuck — helping with homework at the kitchen table, cooking pasta when Mum was late, driving her into town so she didn't have to take the bus alone.

It hadn't felt strange at the time. It still didn't. It was just… familiar.

Her thumbs moved before she could overthink it anymore.

Mia's text to Joe: Hi daddy. It's been a long time, mum told me you're in town. Maybe we could meet up some time

She hit send, heart giving a quick, fluttering thud. Then she locked the phone and set it face-down on the duvet, as if that would stop her from staring at it.

Why did I say that?

Joe had been back in London for just under two months. Several years in Europe — mostly Italy — had left the flat feeling like a museum of his old life. He'd bought it in 2012, right at the end of the financial crash, at a price that still made him smile when he thought about it. Weekends had been spent improving it: new kitchen, better lighting, solid oak floors. The place had been rented out since 2018 to a quiet professional who'd looked after it, but Joe had organised a deep clean and a few final touches before moving back in. Now, thirteen years after purchase, it finally felt like his.

He wasn't lonely — that wasn't the word. Unconnected, maybe. The small circle of friends from his previous London life had scattered: moved away, started families, drifted out of touch while he was abroad. He'd tracked down Ben — a friend from before. The friend Joe had kept in contact with while he was in Italy.

A friend who had never been very social, Joe knew the reason why and was happy to let him set his own social limits. He was a practical, discreet kind of a guy who'd helped with the flat refurb back in the day. Ben was still local, living in the same Battersea apartment as before: now a professional driver for a small luxury car firm nearby.

Thinking of Ben, one memory surfaced — a late Saturday during the refurbishment, a woman Joe had been seeing then, drunk and careless, doing something she'd regret in the morning. Ben had watched, clearly amused, but said nothing at the time and never mentioned it again. Joe had always respected him for that.

The new project he had accepted paid well, offered flexible hours, and was interesting — but the team was mostly young professionals or married people with kids. No one to grab a drink with on a Friday night.

Financially, the last years had been good. A string of decent projects, a couple of startups he'd invested in (some succeeded, some folded), and cheap living as a single man. Now he had savings, a selection of toys — cars, bikes, the flat, the sailing boat still in Italy — and the quiet satisfaction of knowing he could afford to take his time. But "home" still felt slightly empty when he said the word out loud.

Last week he had called Julie. In hindsight, not a great idea. That chapter had closed eight years ago — not cleanly — and had stayed closed. He'd sent Christmas and birthday messages for a while, then let them fade.

Amazingly, she still had the same number. The conversation was polite but awkward, like talking to a distant relative. She mentioned that Mia was in London now, graduated last year from Bristol - archaeology.

Joe remembered Mia only as Julie's daughter — a bright, talkative fifteen-year-old back then. A child. He'd never been good with children. Or relationships, for that matter.

Julie sounded settled — married two years. Content. Joe ended the call quickly. She wasn't someone he knew anymore. A follow-up text arrived with Mia's number. He deleted it. Deleting it felt decisive. Controlled. Much easier than admitting he didn't trust himself to handle it.

He checked his watch — a titanium Citizen Eco-Drive diver's watch: stylish, not showy, high quality without flash. 8:07 p.m. His natural last resort: he opened his MacBook and started to work.

His phone pinged. A message from an unknown number:

Unknown: Hi daddy. It's been a long time. Mum told me you're in town. Maybe we could meet up some time

It had to be Mia. No other possibility. Joe stared at the screen, unsure how to reply.

Technology had taken away the ability to hide — delivery receipts, read receipts, the sender could see whether you'd opened it or not. He decided to come back to it.

A while later he typed a reply — polite, casual, light. He made sure to close down the Daddy reference, that was not how he saw himself, now or ever. Better than being rude and ignoring her. He could retreat over the next couple of texts, the way he had with Julie.

He hit send and put his phone down.

The flat was quiet again.

Joe's reply came around 3 hours later:

Joe: Hi Mia. How are you? Sorry I didn't call, been busy – haven't been called Daddy in a while LOL. I would prefer Joe though, I never saw myself as anyone's dad. What are you up to?

Mia took a deep breath. Contact established

Mia read it twice. Then a third time.

The "Daddy" part hit her like a soft punch — he'd noticed, acknowledged it, and redirected gently. "I would prefer Joe though." Warmth crept up her neck, not embarrassment exactly, more like surprise that it felt… okay. Natural, even.

He had been the only one she'd ever called that, back when she was young and the word came easy during those rare family moments. But hearing him say it now, after all these years, made something shift inside her chest. Nostalgic. A little daring.

She stared at the screen, thumbs hovering. The house was quiet — Ellie still out, no footsteps on the stairs. Just her breathing and the faint tick of the radiator.

A small smile tugged at her lips before she could stop it. He remembered. And he hadn't shut it down.

Mia: Hi Joe. I'm good, thanks. London is keeping me busy with bar shifts and job hunting. Sorry if the "daddy" was weird — it just came out 😊 won't happen again. What about you? Settling back into the city ok? Mum said you have a nice flat near Oval.