Never Too Late To Believe - 18. Friday

Pride at getting through to the end of his first week as a temporary receptionist at Shawcross, Emery and Partners made Ben smile. His abilities hadn't exactly been stretched by answering the phone, forwarding email, and dealing with visitors, but working with people both suited and interested him. The young man tugged at his formal shirt and straightened the unfamiliar tie. His hair wasn't so easily tamed. A squint at his reflection in the large Georgian windows showed a mess which looked as if he'd emerged from the shower five minutes before. One hand ineffectively smoothed the worst bits. Why hadn't he thought to bring styling gel with him? A nervous grimace replaced the smile.

He'd never worked in a solicitors' office before, and certainly nowhere else that exuded the same level of quiet, purposeful professionalism. Nobody hung around outside the venerable redbrick building smoking. The conversations Ben had overheard in the reception area were all innocuous, none apparently containing the snide, giggle-inducing gossip he'd too often heard in the last place. The young man looked around him. Large, leaded panes let in plenty of natural light, enhancing the functional, well-maintained, and subtly welcoming space. He ran a hand across the desk. No cheap laminates or wobbly, self-assembled stuff allowed here. His lip curled. Fuck, he'd spent time in some shitholes. He allowed himself to wonder whether a permanent position might appear like magic.

The front door opened. Ben looked up. It was too early for clients, but he needed to make a good impression at any time. His heart gave a thump. Two men strode in, mid-discussion. Ben's eyes fixed immediately on the younger of the pair. God, he was gorgeous. Adam… Adam Partington, one of the junior partners. Dressed that morning in business casual, the man looked as achingly hot as he did in any of his well-fitted suits. Tall, athletic, monied, self-confident – everything Ben knew he wasn't. Whatever. It was all food for a boy's imagination.

Seated at the reception desk, he focussed on his computer screen and hoped an incriminating flush would disappear.

The other men paused close by, perhaps finishing whatever they were talking about before going their separate ways. Ben recognised the elder of the two as the firm's managing partner, his confident, smooth baritone carrying some distance.

“You and your fiancé look good in this month's Herefordshire Life, Adam. And Croome's a wonderful place.”

Adam shrugged, his warm smile not slipping. “Thanks, James. You're quick off the mark. I haven't seen the finished article myself yet.”

“It passes the time on the train.”

“Andy and I agreed it was important to encourage a more diverse representation. Our fee's gone to support the local Pride.”

“Good for you.”

Ben wondered if he could obtain a copy of the magazine somehow. He continued to watch the pair from under his lashes. Of course, a guy that spectacular would be taken. A faint swell of distant disappointment came and went. He glumly contemplated the likelihood of ever pulling during his online app exchanges. Maybe a night out or two in Birmingham or Bristol would change his luck.

They were still talking, the managing partner moving away slightly, one arm outstretched. “Oh, and thank you for the wedding invitation. Cassie and I are delighted to accept.”

To Ben, Adam's smile became a little more strained.

“Glad to hear it. Would you RSVP as requested though? Andy's the one tasked with keeping tally.”

The other man waved a hand in acknowledgement before turning left towards his room.

Adam approached the desk. “Morning, Ben.” A pleasant smile was directed at him.

Ben glowed. “Err… morning, Mr… ah, Adam.” Exactly how deep a shade of red was it possible to go? He'd be lucky not to get sent back to the agency with that demonstration of his social skills.

“I'm out seeing a client for most of the morning.”

Ben's eyes moved to his screen. “Yes, it's on here.”

“Great. Forward any calls or emails to Fay.”

He blinked. “Err…”

“My para-legal?”

“Yes, of course, Adam.”

Ben was spared any further opportunities for embarrassment when the other man's phone rang. With another smile, Adam moved away to answer it. Ben returned to his work while also listening in discreetly to the one-sided conversation. As always, his imagination raced to fill in the gaps. One of his recurring daydreams involved him as an action hero – good not only for the physical stuff but also armed with a devastating repertoire of one-liners and repartee. He welcomed opportunities to ad lib, to experiment, moulding sentences as he went.

“You've heard from Ma?” A mixture of relief, surprise, and pleasure coloured Adam's voice.

Ben looked up, brain whirring.

An expression of astonishment appeared on the other man's face. “What?!” He moved further away, phone clamped to his ear, listening intently. “It's bluster. He's pissed off. So what's his reaction? He lets rip with those threats of his.”

Behind the reception desk, varied speculations buzzed around inside Ben's head.

Adam now frowned. “Yeah, I realise how alarming it must seem for Ma. But that's all it is – sound and fury.”

Ben finished off the quote under his breath. “Signifying nothing.” What was that from? His face puckered in concentration. Shakespeare, as always, was a good bet.

A second exclamation from Adam cut across his thoughts. Ben wondered if the other man even remembered he was there. A couple of admin assistants paused on their way in, looking over to where Adam stood before hurrying on.

“He's phoned you?” Adam, in profile, appeared tense, anger showing in the taut grip on his phone. “Did he leave a message? … Bastard.”

That final word – an explosive consonant making up for the way the rest of the word was hastily swallowed.

Ben's throat tightened in sympathy. Families fucked you up. He knew that only too well.

Now moving towards the lift, Adam continued to talk. “No. Blocked him ages ago.” He keyed in the security code and waited impatiently for the modern, free-standing lift to arrive, other hand moving through his hair. “Andy? I'll call you back in a minute.”

Ben's attention snapped back to his job. A tall, stern woman dressed in what he imagined as 'appearing in court' clothes approached. One of the senior partners, she possessed the reputation for being a ferocious, combative opponent. That didn't bother him. What was he to her? Pondlife.

He looked up, best smile at the ready.

After the breakfast things had been cleared away, Eric sat down with his well-thumbed bathroom fittings catalogue. Carefully, he opened it at one dog-eared page after another, checking his choices each time. Next, he picked up a scrappy piece of paper and recalculated the column of figures for the umpteenth time. The total never got any smaller.

He grimaced. It had to be done. The following day's visit to Rob's own home would inevitably lead to him welcoming the other man into the cottage. Of course, the work wouldn't even have been confirmed by then, but he could truthfully say the bathroom renovations were in hand.

Eric shrugged. “He'll just have to take me as he finds me.”

His gaze swept around the living room. Hardly inspiring. It looked as cluttered and unloved as ever. Maybe when winter came, he'd spend time getting rid of stuff. A memory resurfaced. Every couple of months, his former homehelp, Hazel, went round the room with a black bin liner, throwing in everything she considered rubbish. Copying her attitude struck Eric as a good idea.

“I've changed.” Thoughts returned to Monday evening and the unsettling, sexually provocative TV show. Maybe not as much as he thought he had.

Shaking himself out of the bad mood, he left the armchair to sit at his desk. Both catalogue and paper sat in front of him – preparation for a phone call to Andy. Why the conversation felt necessary, the old man wasn't sure. Approval? A pat on the head? He snorted. He ought to be perfectly capable of sorting the work out himself. There again, sharing his choices with a friend was still a new experience.

The call to Andy's mobile went straight to the message service. Eric didn't speak. Another couple of attempts went the same way. Frowning, he got up to collect that day's post which sat on the doormat. In amongst the unasked-for, garish takeaway adverts lay a pale blue envelope addressed to him. One gnarled finger stroked the heavy, textured paper.

Puzzled, Eric fetched a knife and slit the envelope open with care. Inside sat a single piece of card in the same shade of duck-egg blue. As he prised it out, he spotted a line of bold, decorative text printed in a darker hue. Emily and Nigel Standish request the company of…

A gasp broke the silence. “Blimey!”

He yanked hard at the rest of it, clumsy tugs creating rips in the already torn envelope. Eyes wide, he read the rest of the text out loud in a disbelieving tone. "Request the company of Eric Whitehouse and guest at their house-warming party." His own name had been written in by hand.

They'd asked him? Why? Eric blinked rapidly. Staring at the card, he tried to absorb matters of date, time, and what he would have to do to reply. After a moment or two, something made him turn the card over. Maybe he thought such a simple action would break the spell.

There, written in solid black ink, sat a personal message for him. Eric, Andy and I would love to show you around the garden properly. I'm sure Andy's plans will be of interest. Your views on them would be welcomed by both of us. Emily.

Eric's mouth opened. Not only was he the recipient of an invitation that like of which he'd never seen before, but Emily Standish had planned something specially for him, and him alone. His eyes prickled. Even as he rubbed them briskly, another thought made him smile. Maybe he'd also receive a wedding invite soon?

He tried not to allow the wave of surprised pleasure to be dirtied by his usual doubts and social ignorance. Was this another event he'd have to dress up for? Would he be expected to present his hosts with a gift? A card?

Another call to Andy went straight to the message service. Eric's mouth pursed. He'd ask Rob tomorrow. His other friend would know.

Seated at reception, Ben checked the clock on his computer. Ten past ten. He let out a long breath. It should've been lunchtime. Past lunchtime. Why was it some days felt like that? One hand absently patted at hair that refused to be tamed. He'd already had reason to call the office manager out to the front desk twice. Early on, one smartly-dressed guy had marched in and demanded, right in Ben's face, to see their best criminal lawyer immediately. His own calm, politely apologetic line that Shawcross, Emery didn't practise criminal law was met first with astonishment, then mounting fury. How could they be fucking solicitors and not offer what he needed?

Ben sighed. As often happened, when someone else repeated almost the exact same explanation, the guy had finally backed down. He'd been sent on his way with directions to the nearest firm of criminal law solicitors. Idle speculations wandered through Ben's mind. What had the guy done? Probably criminal damage or sexual harassment.

Then a bike courier, all leathers and boots, had showed up to serve papers, or so he said, on one of the firm's partners. Way above Ben's paygrade, though the guy was hot. The office manager had accepted them with a weary formality. Observing with astonishment until the encounter had played out, Ben's curiosity had finally been satisfied. Apparently, it wasn't unknown for disgruntled former clients to sue for negligence or lack of application on cases that were entirely without merit. 'More money than sense', the office manager had observed drily.

Ben decided he merited five minutes reading the copy of Herefordshire Life he'd found online. Mooning over photos in the wedding venue article, his head jerked up on hearing Adam Partington's voice coming out of the lift.

“Everything's fine, Andy.”

Adam strode towards the main door, phone to his ear.

“Yeah. Don't worry, love. I'm off out to see a client. … Yeah? He's a mouthy, pusillanimous git and probably getting drunk in one of his usual haunts.”

Ben watched the other man leave, reflecting that lunchtime's dialogue riff would have plenty of subject matter to inspire him.

Elsewhere, haunted by a seeming unending checklist for the move and already harbouring a headache of epic proportions, Emily wearily parked the car outside their new home. Bright morning sunshine did nothing to lighten her mood. The eve of their move. She sat back in the car seat, head tilted upwards slightly, and attempted calming, 'everything's going to be OK' thoughts.

Her phone rang.

“For fuck's sake.” Swallowing a groan, she accepted the call, not bothering to check the number first. “Yes?” That one word carried her tiredness, stress, and the wish the next forty-eight hours would sort themselves out.

The line was silent for several beats except for a faint sound of breathing.

It's Felicity here, Emily.

Both eyes closed in the search for patience, empathy, and other things it wasn't clear she possessed currently.

Is this a bad time?

A 'You think?' retort worthy of her son hovered briefly on her lips before she dismissed it. She sat up. “Our move's happening tomorrow. So many things left to do.” Trying to roll her shoulders only proved how rigid they were. “We'll be fine. Last minute jitters.”

Ah… A gulp followed. Then a sniff?

Her eyes narrowed. “Is everything OK, Felicity?” With a tightening in her guts, Emily made a determined effort to shift focus. The brief discussion she and Nigel had undertaken on domestic violence came back in snatches: victim support, police involvement, contact details for organisations within the county. Not that she could recall anything in detail. “Felicity?”

More silence.

No. No, things aren't OK.

So many layers of emotion hung off those few short words. Anger, fear, distress, and a feeling the other woman was hanging onto her composure by her fingernails.

“What's happened? Are you OK?” Emily hesitated. “Are you safe?” There it was, out in the open.

Oliver left fifteen minutes ago. Another pause. Then words, hurried, pent-up words, burst out. I can bear it when he's cruel; when he takes out his frustrations on me. Maybe I deserve it. Whatever I do, it seems to annoy him. So often he says I contrive to make him jealous, or cause him embarrassment. I know I'm not the wife he wants.

Seething anger surged through Emily's veins. It didn't matter she scarcely knew Felicity. If she ever met the other woman's fucking bastard of a husband, she'd have trouble being responsible for her actions.

But that's me, Felicity continued. What I can't allow, can never ever allow, is for him to go after Adam.

“Adam?” Andy Harper had mentioned the same name several times in their various garden design conversations. It rang faint bells.

My son. His sister lives in the Scottish Highlands now, but Adam's stuck around. Oliver didn't mind too much when Adam got on with making a name for himself in the law. A son he could be proud of, in public at least. I've known he was gay since university – Adam told me himself – but we both kept it from my husband. Maybe he knew anyway? She sighed. Adam soon tired of hiding that part of himself. When he and Andy became an item–

Emily nodded to herself.

Adam couldn't stop talking about him. He was so happy. Andy came to family gatherings. Pride, queer history, politics, social activism – they all suddenly became topics for general discussion. Oliver… didn't approve.

That had to be prime candidate for understatement of the day.

Things have only worsened between them. There hasn't been anything I could do really. Another sigh. Oliver's upset. He's furious – has been since yesterday.

“Hmm?”

He invested heavily in a start-up everyone – even me – warned him to be an extremely risky venture. It looked to be OK initially. Sales were alleged to be on the up. Oliver invested more. Then the company failed with debts far in excess of assets. He heard yesterday afternoon.

Emily's lips thinned.

Later, he came home drunk and angry. Humiliation was part of it as well. We had an… unpleasant disagreement. I left him still drinking and went to bed.

The urge to demand details was almost impossible to resist. Emily counted slowly in her head until it went away. Now was not the time.

At breakfast, it was clear my husband still had a lot of alcohol in his system.

A sour 'What a surprise' rejoinder remained unvoiced.

He took a call from one of his friends. Felicity cleared her throat. The boys are getting married in October. They're one of several couples to be featured in this month's copy of Herefordshire Life. Do you know the magazine?

“Yes, though we don't usually bother reading it.”

Oh, you must get this month's. Her voice brightened. Croome is a wonderfully romantic backdrop. The boys are perfect for each other. They look completely in love. I'm so proud of Adam. He's living his life. One of the photos captures it all, I think. A beat of silence. Anger and distress crept back in. Anyway, this so-called friend of Oliver's called him out for having a gay son. Insulted both him and Adam. I only heard snippets. Enough to understand what was going on. They had a dreadful row. Her voice caught.

Emily balled her free hand into a fist and squeezed hard.

Afterwards, Oliver was full of rage. He made threats against Adam; called him vile, vile names. I tried to stop him leaving. I did. There were tears now.

And at what cost? “Is there any chance he's armed in some way?”

Unlikely. I don't think he even knows where the cutlery's kept and any gun licences are held by our estate manager. The one time Oliver tried for a licence, he was refused.

Emily leaned her head against the steering wheel and tried to think rationally. Adam should be able to look after himself, though his father's proposed actions warranted a warning. Her own focus had to be Felicity. Assuming the other woman allowed her to help. Already the victim of physical abuse, what would happen to her when Oliver finally made it back home?

She spoke into a watery silence. “What do you want to do, Felicity?”

I'm leaving him.

“Do you have anywhere to go? Somewhere safe? I can give you–”

The next train to Hereford's due soon. I'll find somewhere to stay – an hotel or something.

Emily frowned. Was that too predictable? Suddenly she recalled a plotline from her latest, avidly-read thriller. “Is he tracking you?”

What?

“Bugged your phone.”

A couple of sniffs followed. There was a sense of the other woman gathering herself.

I don't think so. This phone's new. He doesn't know about it.

“Still, once we've finished, it'd be a good idea to turn it off.” Emily chewed her lip, then came to a snap decision. “You can stay here until things become clearer. There're no beds yet and the place'll be complete Bedlam tomorrow, but you're most welcome.”

Are you sure?

“Yeah. Your husband doesn't know me or Nigel, or where we live.” Another thought. “Have you cash?”

A little. I've a pre-loaded debit card as well.

“Great. Pack some essentials – we'll sort out the rest as it comes.”

I'm sorry to be such a nuisance.

“You're not. Never think that. I'll text you the address. See you soon. Yeah?”

Thank you. Thank you so much.

“It's our pleasure, Felicity.”

She sighed, gathered some thoughts, and started a new call to Nigel.

“Good morning. Shawcross, Emery and –” Ben's carefully rehearsed phone greeting was interrupted by what he swiftly realised was Adam Partington's voice.

Hi, Ben. It's Adam. Quiet morning so far?

Ben frowned. His two notable encounters weren't likely to be of interest to the other man. The question was just some social padding. “Much as usual.”

Good. Adam's tone remained light. Would you put me through to Matthew? There's something I forgot to mention earlier.

More work for the long-suffering office manager. Though Ben imagined he got paid considerably more than a lowly receptionist. “Of course, Adam. I'll just–”

The front door swung violently open, heavy, solid wood straining wide highly-polished hinges. It hung there for a moment before starting to close shut again. A single foot cased in a sturdy, highly-polished lace-up stopped it dead. Florid and thick set, an older man stood there panting, dressed in corduroys, a long-sleeved, collared shirt and a… Ben stared, phone call forgotten. Was that a cravat? The weird non-tie and obnoxious orangey red of the trousers announced a member of the county's gentry.

'Upper-class twat' was Ben's label. He'd watched enough stereotypes on TV to be sure.

Ben? Adam's voice, friendly but now a little impatient, broke through.

“Oh, err… yes. Sorry, Adam. Distracted for a moment. Matthew, wasn't it?” Hastily, he transferred the call.

The young man looked up, expecting the latest arrival to be glowering at him over the desk. Instead, the guy remained in the doorway, body turned streetwards, arguing with someone Ben couldn't see. Even with the glass inner door, his parts of the exchange were clearly audible. The guy wasn't exactly yelling, it was more an indignant, drink-fuelled bellow.

“I'll fucking park my car wherever I damn well choose.”

An unheard reply followed.

The guy's riposte notched up several decibels. “I'd like to see you fucking try, you deranged Nazi. Now fuck off back to whatever sewer you came from.”

Evidently regarding the exchange as closed, he faced forward and strode, or maybe lurched, towards the glass door, wrenching it almost off its hinges at the last moment before passing through.

Ben's stomach tightened. A raised heartbeat led to a dry mouth. He swallowed, hoping for a return of his saliva. From somewhere, he produced a professional smile whilst running his fingers under the desk edge, looking for the two panic buttons located there. One summoned Matthew; the other – if things really went tits-up – would allegedly bring the police running.

The man, flushed, to Ben's eyes, with something other than simple rage, stood in the middle of the reception area. His head swung from side to side. He must've seen the reception desk, but instead, he opened his mouth wide.

“Where is he?”

Enclosed, the force of the bellow made Ben flinch.

“Where's my fucking pansy of a son?” This time, his gaze fixed on Ben. “You–”

Ben gulped. “How can I be of assistance?”

The man lurched closer, bloodshot, glassy eyes confirming Ben's suspicions. Memories of Friday and Saturday nights, his dad getting violently pissed, hovered on the fringes of his consciousness. He fought against the sudden feeling of nausea.

“'How can I be of assistance?'”

Ben's words were repeated back to him, slurred, velvety smoothness failing to conceal menace, sarcastic and dangerous. He pressed the button for Matthew, hand sweating.

The guy leaned over the desk, a miasma of alcohol fumes adding to Ben's discomfort. Not beer, he thought – something stronger like brandy or whisky. “Are you like him? A faggot? A pathetic, feeble excuse of a man, an abomination?” His voice rose with every demand.

A fine spray of spittle landed on Ben's cheek. He refrained from wiping it away, not wanting to give the guy the satisfaction. It was pretty clear Adam Partington was the target. Anger, disgust, and pride, rainbow-coloured and mascara-wearing, welled up.

“Adam Partington, if that's who you're looking for, is away seeing clients. As for me–” He fought to keep his voice steady, hoping reinforcements would appear very, very soon. “Yeah, I'm queer.” His lips formed a familiar, well-rehearsed moue and he fluttered long, dark brown eyelashes. One of his stand-out features, according to the bathroom mirror. “Not that it's any of your fucking business.” He smiled. “For your information, I'm pan-sexual. You know, willing to take anyone and everyone on their merits.”

The face opposite turned puce. “So, a slut.” He spat out the word. “A whoring, unnatural slut.”

Before Ben could respond, one large, hairy hand reached out and grabbed him by the tie, hauling him partially out of the chair. He choked. Hot, alcoholic breath almost scalded his face.

“Mr Partington! A word.” Level, stern, deep words of command came from the right.

Ben was released as if he'd suddenly become toxic. Missing the edge of his seat, he ended up sprawled on the floor. Not before he'd caught sight of the managing partner though, his impressive size and bulk drawn up to full effect. Ben scrabbled upright, arse and one wrist hurting like fuck. People were everywhere. Matthew, the office manager, spoke urgently into his phone.

The managing partner continued as he approached. “Just so we're clear, Mr Partington, we have effective, high quality video cameras installed.” He indicated. “And we won't hesitate to hand over relevant material to the police.”

“The police? And what's fucking illegal about asking the whereabouts of my ungrateful faggot of a son?”

The managing partner looked him up and down. He made no effort to conceal a look of intense distaste. “Even without the video, I myself am witness to you being drunk and disorderly, your threatening behaviour, aggravated assault, and extensive use of homophobic language.”

“Yeah? And I'd like to see you prove it, you provincial pen-pusher.” The reddish-purple deepened.

Ben wondered if the guy was about to have a stroke. That would be one way to conclude the confrontation.

Matthew put his phone away and addressed the room at large. “The police are on their way.” He turned. “We will pursue the matter, Mr Partington, with vigour.”

Ben's assailant lurched away from the desk, though he appeared undecided which direction to take.

The managing partner took another couple of steps forward. Ben tensed. It was almost like inviting an enraged bull to head your way.

“Mr Partington! There is a solid criminal case to be made against you.” Contempt morphed into chattiness, a confidential passing on of some useful information. “Maybe it won't result in a custodial sentence, but there'll be police interviews, charges, a court hearing.” His eyebrows lifted. “I'm sure the local papers will be most interested. And there's the trial by social media of course.”

His adversary panted hard.

“All sorts of things might get an airing.” One hand posed the question. “Things the Country Landowners Association might get wind of. Your club, maybe? And even the police might pay attention.”

Ben's eyes widened. The managing partner's gimlet, implacable stare radiated certainty – nothing else.

After a few silent, rage-filled seconds, the man visibly deflated, though not without muttering more insults.

Ben carefully seated himself. Just another bully – vicious and cowardly. It was over. For now.

After an early supper, Andy joined Adam on the sofa. They both sat in silence for a minute or two, processing the day's events. It represented the first time they had the privacy to do so. By lunchtime, Andy had abandoned a client in Cheltenham and returned to Hereford to be with Adam, only to get drawn into the police investigation.

Adam ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus, what a complete fucking mess. How could I have misjudged the situation like that?”

Andy shrugged. “Oliver's reactions, you mean?” A weary nod was his only reply. “Maybe the other ninety-nine times, he would've spent the day getting pissed. This time though, the particular combination of factors pressed him to action.”

The other man looked bleak. “It could've turned really ugly.”

Andy reached out an arm to cuddle him. “But it didn't. From what people said, the firm's procedures worked as they should've done. Your managing partner deserves a medal.”

“It shouldn't have got–”

“Through your warning and Ben's quick reactions, it was contained.”

A small smile appeared on Adam's face. “I got the impression that young man knows how to stand up for himself. He didn't hesitate in pressing charges.”

“Assuming the police can be bothered to prepare a case for the CPS.”

They exchanged a world-weary look.

“And I noticed how he watched your every move.” Andy's smirk was warm and teasing.

“Me?” Adam blinked.

“God, yes.” He leaned over to kiss the other man's closed lips. “You are quite attractive, you know.” He paused as if to give the matter thought. “Young Ben has a mild crush, I think.”

A grimace of faint embarrassment greeted that. Adam turned to face him more. “When did you get to be better at judging situations and people than I am?”

“Fuck off!” Andy stopped to reconsider his instinctive response. “Well, you keep on saying working with Eric has changed me.”

“Because it has.”

His phone beeped. Andy fumbled for it in his pocket, then stared. “It's Felicity.”

“What?!” Adam sat up abruptly.

Her mobile had been turned off for the remainder of the day. Calls to the house phone went unanswered. Escaping the rigmarole of statements sooner than Adam, he'd taken a detour to check on the house. There'd been no-one there.

“To be more accurate, it's a text from a number I don't recognise which gives us some info.”

“Yes?” His body tensed.

Andy read from the screen. “Felicity is safe and well. She's staying with friends. Will be in touch soon. Try not to worry.”

“Fuck. She's actually left the bastard.” Adam's eyes opened wide. “God, that must've taken courage.”

“Or desperation.”

They snuggled closer, seeking comfort.

Adam stirred. “You fancy watching the cricket highlights?”

“Yep, that's about what I'm fit for as well.”

“Tomorrow'll come soon enough.”

Andy gave him another kiss. “Things will work out. You'll see.”

Stretched out on the flimsy camp bed, Felicity took in her surroundings. Close by, rhythmical breathing coming from another similar bed gave comfort. Security. Strange room, strange house, entirely strange world. She was too tired to process or question anything. Parts of her ached dully – nothing new.

But she felt safe and that definitely was.