Essex Glamour | NEON LIT

The salon was called "Bronze Goddess," because of course it was—this was Brentwood, after all. I'd been spraying tans since ten AM, and my last client of the night was a last-minute booking who'd sounded properly desperate on the phone.

"Thank God you're still open." He burst through the door like he was escaping something. Tall, fit-looking, wearing a suit that screamed City money. "I've got a thing tomorrow and I can't look like this."

"Like what?"

"Like I've been inside an office for six months." He gestured at his pale face. "My ex is going to be there. With her new... whatever. I need to look healthy."

"Say no more." I pointed at the back room. "Strip off. I'll sort you out."

I should explain something about spray-tan protocol. Men were usually awkward—they didn't know where to look, didn't know what to do with their hands, spent the whole session making weird small talk. This one was different. Stripped down to his boxers without complaint, stood on the turntable like a professional.

"Done this before?" I asked, mixing the solution.

"My sister made me once. For her wedding photos." He shrugged. "I'm Marcus, by the way. Should have said earlier."

"Jade." I started spraying, and he didn't flinch. "So what's this thing tomorrow? If you don't mind me asking."

"Mutual friend's birthday. Couldn't get out of it. And I know she's bringing him because she wants me to see." He sounded tired rather than bitter. "It's been six months. You'd think I'd be over it."

"Six months isn't that long." I moved to his back. "Turn around."

He turned, and I found myself face-to-face with a body that definitely hadn't been inside an office. Gym-built, clearly, with definition that didn't come from sitting at a desk. The boxers weren't hiding much either.

"Arms up."

He raised his arms, and I continued spraying, trying to focus on even coverage rather than the way his stomach moved when he breathed.

"Can I ask you something personal?" he said.

"I'm spraying your nearly naked body. We're past personal boundaries."

"Fair point." He laughed. "Are you single? And before you think I'm being a creep, I'm asking because I'm wondering if it ever gets easier. Being alone."

"Three months," I admitted. "And no, it hasn't gotten easier. But I've stopped crying in the shower, so that's progress."

"Progress is progress." His eyes met mine, and something shifted in the air. "You're really good at this, by the way. The tan. Very professional."

"Thanks." I was aware, suddenly, of how small the room was. How close we were. "You need to turn around one more time."

He turned, and I finished his front, trying not to notice how his eyes followed my movements. When I stepped back to check for streaks, he was looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"Do you want to get a drink?" he asked. "After this dries, I mean. I know it's late, but there's a wine bar that stays open, and I really don't want to go home to an empty flat."

"I have orange handprints all over me."

"I'll have orange skin. We'll match."

We went to the wine bar. Two hours later, we were back at my place—a flat above a chippy in Romford that suddenly seemed very unglamorous.

"Sorry about the mess," I said.

"Jade." He caught my hand. "I didn't come here to judge your flat."

He kissed me like I was water in a desert, like he'd been waiting for permission since the moment he walked into the salon. I tasted wine on his lips and something else—desperation, maybe, or loneliness, both things I understood intimately.

"Bedroom," I managed.

"Lead the way."

My bedroom was all pink and silver, proper Essex aesthetic, and he didn't comment except to say "I like it" before pulling me down onto the bed. His hands found curves my ex had called problems, and he touched them like they were features. When he stripped my uniform off, his newly bronze face split into a grin.

"You're gorgeous," he said. "Properly gorgeous. Has anyone told you that recently?"

"Not in a while."

"Their loss." He lowered his mouth to my neck. "My gain."

He was thorough in ways I hadn't expected from a City boy—attentive, patient, focused on my pleasure like it was a project he intended to complete. By the time he finally moved inside me, I'd already come twice and was halfway to a third.

"There," he gasped, finding a rhythm that built on everything before it. "God, you feel amazing. Jade. You feel—"

I pulled him deeper, wrapped my legs around him, let him know with my body what words couldn't express. We came together, tangled in pink sheets while Romford slept outside, and afterward, he held me like I was something precious rather than a random hookup.

"The thing tomorrow," he said eventually. "I don't think I'm going to go."

"Why not?"

"Because I just realized I don't care what my ex thinks." He kissed my forehead. "And because I'd rather spend the day with you. If you're free."

"I have a shift at three."

"Then I'll take you to breakfast. Lunch. Walk along the seafront at Southend." He pulled me closer. "Spray tan and all."

We went to Southend. He looked ridiculous with his orange glow, and I looked ridiculous holding hands with someone I'd met eight hours ago. But when we sat on the beach eating chips, watching the tide come in, none of it mattered.

"This wasn't what I expected," he said, "when I booked that appointment."

"What did you expect?"

"To look better than my ex's new bloke." He laughed. "Instead I found someone who makes me not care about any of that."

Six months later, his tan's back to natural and I've moved into his suspiciously unglamorous flat in Stratford. Turns out City money doesn't mean City pretension—he was just a normal bloke who'd had his heart broken, same as me.

We still laugh about how we met. The desperate phone call, the spray-tan solution, the wine bar that closed around us. Some connections come through apps and setups and careful planning. Ours came through bronze solution and bad timing and two lonely people recognizing something in each other.

The Essex way, really. Maximum glamour, unexpected depths, and no apologies for being exactly who you are.