Chapter 7

Chapter

Seven

R afferty

Stan winces in pain as we step off the bus with Hump close to his side. It's Sunday afternoon and the streets are dusty and hot.

"It's your own fault," I murmur. "If you tackle that hard, you have to expect some bruises."

He pats his leg as if that will miraculously ease the pain. "It was totally Malcolm's fault. He fouled me."

"Okay, Eric Cantona." I eye him and grimace. "I'm not sure if you'll have a black eye too, babe. It looks swollen."

"It'll be totally worth it," he says with a relish that makes me laugh. "Malcolm is a complete prick."

"He's a lovely man. It's just that the two of you turn into monsters on the football pitch for some reason." I pause and add slyly, "I wouldn't like to be the one who tells Leo that his best man has a black eye due to violent tendencies." Stan blanches, and I laugh.

We're on our way to have dinner at Stan's parents' house after his Sunday game of football. Before his eyesight deteriorated, he was a keen footballer, so when he found he missed it, he took up blind football last year.

Watching the games is certainly an experience, and not just because Stan's legs are a thing of beauty. According to Stan, the game was adapted from futsal. It's five-a-side, and they play with a ball that has a noise-making device so the players can hear it. Players in the outfield wear eye patches to make gameplay fair, as some players have more light or shadow perception than others. It's exciting to watch, and I rarely miss an opportunity to go and support Stan. The silent cheering the spectators use so the players can hear the ball gives the game a frisson for me, as do their shorts.

We've barely gone a few yards before he stops and winces. "Sorry," he mutters. "My calf's really tight."

I look at the park next to us and then pat his arm. "This way," I say. He frowns in confusion but still takes my arm as I walk into the park. Finding an empty bench, I set his hand on the back of it. "Sit down."

He bites his lip to hide a smile. "Me or the dog?"

"Hump is the least irritating member of your partnership."

"Ouch!" He laughs but sits down obediently on the bench with Hump coming to settle at his side. The dog shoots us one of his patient looks and then sits serenely as if it's his dream come true to be forced to deal with two such aggravating adults.

Stan's mouth is quirked in amusement, but his smile dies quickly as I kneel down in front of him and lift his foot onto my thigh. "What are you doing ?" he gasps.

"I can't watch you limp along. We've got a couple of miles to walk, and you might make us late for dinner."

He laughs. "You are the source of all unselfishness in the world."

"You know it." I tap his leg. "Anyway, out of the goodness of my heart, I'm going to massage your calf. What did you think I was doing? Open heart surgery?"

His lip twitches. "I'm pretty sure you didn't take that exam module when we were at school."

"I probably had a promising surgical career in front of me, but the school cut me off in my scientific prime."

"Could that have had more to do with the fact that you failed GCSE Biology? If you'd been given a scalpel to do an appendectomy you'd probably have operated on my jawbone."

"It's looking like an attractive proposition at the moment," I say just to hear him laugh.

I rest my hands on his calf and my smile fades away under a surge of lust. It's been so long since I was this close and touching him. His skin is hot beneath my hands, and I lean over watching raptly as my fingers slide along his muscular calf.

I realise he's gone quiet and looking up I swallow hard at the stark look on his face. To anyone else he might look austere, but I know that expression now. It's lodged in my memory and impossible to shake off. This is Stan's turned-on face.

"You don't have to—" He stops talking and sucks in a noisy gasp of air as I dig my fingers into the muscle and rub downwards. "Oh god, that's really good," he whispers.

I swallow hard and remind myself sternly that we're in a public place and he's not mine anyway. Clearing my throat I move back a little to make my massage as impersonal as I can manage.

"How does that feel?" I ask, glad that my voice isn't reflecting my feelings. It's light and happy now with no sign of turmoil.

He's silent for so long that I look at him anxiously, but his face is blank. "Good," he finally says. He sniffs. "Maybe you could branch into this if the wedding planning doesn't work out."

"It might be a good idea because I'm pretty sure you don't have to wear a top hat to massage someone," I observe, rubbing behind his knee. The muscle is very tight.

"I don't know about that. Maybe for special massages that come with happy endings."

I snort. "So, you've moved my employment prospects from massage therapist to hooker. The world should be happy you never branched into career management."

A middle-aged couple approaches us on the path, but they slow to a stop when they're standing behind us. I twist to see what they're doing and then blink in surprise as the woman grimaces in apparent disgust and then tuts.

"Disgusting," she says in a voice just loud enough for me to hear. "To do that openly on the streets is shocking ," she continues, her voice high with indignation. "What is this country coming to?"

For a second I wonder if she's talking about someone else, but she's glaring at my hands on Stan's leg so it's obvious that we've been cast as the baddies in her Sodom and Gomorrah scenario.

Stan cocks his head. "Is she talking about us ?" he asks, astonishment written clearly on his face.

I roll my eyes and carry on massaging his calf. "Just ignore her."

"She's talking like we're committing public indecency." His lip quirks and he whispers, "Did you take your clothes off during this sports massage and forget to tell me?"

"Very funny." He chuckles and I smile at him, but my grin vanishes as the male half of the prude partnership steps up to bat.

"There are private rooms for what you're doing, young man."

I sigh feeling very aggrieved at all this misplaced attention. "I know. I'm meeting your mum in one later."

Stan's snort breaks the stunned silence that seems to have settled amongst us.

The man finally splutters, "I beg your pardon."

"You heard," I reply. "All I'm doing is massaging my friend's tight calf. Mind your own business and move on." He shakes his head and takes his companion's arm as they move away. "Lovely to meet you," I call. "We must do this again sometime."

"Wanker," Stan says succinctly.

"There's no need to get personal," I tell him. "I was just riding to your rescue like a particularly hot knight."

"A gobby one. You should have just ignored them."

"It was a bit difficult seeing as they'd taken up residence staring at us like we were on the stage. Are there more fuckwits around than usual, or is that just my imagination?"

He laughs, but as he gets to his feet, he wobbles and sways into me. I adjust my weight, tightening one hand on his arm and grabbing his hip with the other one, steadying him. His body is warm, and his shampoo has a fresh, clear scent. There's a streak of mud over one eyebrow that he missed when showering, but all I can see is him, because, really, he's all I ever really see.

The love is like a blow to my chest—it fills my throat, and I want to shout it out loud, so everyone knows. For a second, I think I might've actually shouted, but then Stan takes a sideways step and says something I can't understand over the ringing in my ears.

I must give him an appropriate reply, because he doesn't show any alarm at being near a madman. I let out a long breath, and my hand, when I run it down my jeans, is damp and shaky.

"So, if you had a superpower, what would it be?"

I consider Stan's question. "Probably the ability to erase people's memories. That would put a stop to Jed's rather caustic staff meetings."

He laughs, and I turn my face to the sun. We're walking along the street leading to Stan's childhood home and where his parents still live. The neighbourhood is the same as ever, as if time froze when we moved out. A mix of semi-detached and detached houses line the long avenue, with cars parked everywhere. Lime trees cast shade across us as we pass under them, and the air is full of the sound of distant traffic from the high street. Nearby, a window opens, letting out the sound of music, and an ice cream van tinkles on the next street.

We pass my old house, and I look at it curiously. My mum moved into a flat in Kensington last year, and I don't have any nostalgia for the place that was my childhood home. It was just a house where I slept. My real home was with Stan's family next door.

We turn onto the short drive leading up to his parents' house. It's a Victorian detached house set back from the road and hidden behind huge old horse chestnut trees that the council complain about every year for shedding conkers on the street.

Hump's harness jingles as he pads along beside us, and I huff crossly at the memory of the nasty couple in the park.

"What the hell was that noise?" Stan asks. "Did someone let your air out?"

"I'm thinking about what else I should have said to that couple."

"Let it go," he advises me.

I press the doorbell. The sound of barking and children comes from the back garden. "It's hard when the world is full of so many judgemental arseholes," I say just as the door opens.

"What a delicious Sunday afternoon sentiment," Stan's mum, Rowena, says.

I grin at her. She looks the same as ever—thin with long dark hair and very blue eyes. The only sign of the encroaching years is the grey dusting her long braid. Being near her soothes me, and it's been that way since I first met her.

"Looking as beautiful as ever," I say, accepting a kiss from her as Stan removes Hump's harness. The dog shakes himself and runs off to join the family's two dogs. "You haven't changed since that time when you broke into my parents' house and kidnapped me."

"You old smoothie, Raff," she says, hugging Stan and stepping back so we can move into the hallway, which is dominated by a six-foot-tall black-and-white picture of Stan and his brother and sister. The sound of a violin playing drifts on the air from his dad's study.

"Are we ignoring the elephant in the room, which is your short-lived career as a child napper?" I ask.

"She'd have been terrible at that," Stan offers. "Far too noisy."

"She certainly was," I say, squeezing Rowena's arm in memory of that night. "I didn't know an adult's voice could go that high. She was a revelation."

She rolls her eyes. "I don't remember you as being particularly cowed by the situation. In fact, you were very charming for a five-year-old."

Stan snorts. "He appears to have lost that charm today."

"Why?"

I wave my hand. "Nasty-minded old couple in the park."

"When aren't there?"

"Well, they learnt their lesson. Raff activated his aggravating setting," Stan observes.

His mum bursts into laughter. "You're like Ivanhoe but without the armour and the blond hair."

"Hey, I do have blond hair. Doesn't the strawberry bit count?"

"No," Stan interjects.

Rowena grins. "Talking of hair." She runs her fingers through Stan's curls. "This is getting long, baby."

"I'm seeing Leo tomorrow."

She sends me a sparkling glance. "It looks to me like Raff saw him first."

I groan. "It is a bit short."

"What?" Stan turns to me. "Has he cut it?"

"Short," his mum says. "Suits you, darling. Shit, the apple crumble will be burning." She darts off down the corridor towards the kitchen.

Stan cocks his head to one side. "How short? You never said."

"It sort of faded into the background with my work-based emergency."

"Was that the work-based emergency that you created?"

"Pah! The hair will grow, but Jed will be happy for a bit. That'll be a pleasant novelty."

"Come here."

I step forward obediently so he can run his fingers over my head. His fingers are cool against my hot skin, and I stand quiescent as he explores the contours of my skull. It's strangely lulling, as if we're under a spell, and the sounds of the house fade away as I lean further into his touch. It's as necessary to me as water. A lot of men have touched me over the years, but not one of them ever did it with the knowledge of me that Stan brings.

He strokes my cheekbone. "I think you're as beautiful as ever," he says.

I smile, and his fingertips slip over the groove above my mouth and then along my lip. With a shudder, I unthinkingly open my mouth to suck gently on the fingertip, and he exhales a soft groan.

"Raff," he says huskily.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Are you two finally having a moment?"

We jump at the voice from behind us, and I turn to find Stan's younger brother observing us as if we're on the stage and he has front-row tickets.

"Vinnie," Stan says with affectionate resignation. "Can we help you?"

"No, it's just that you're blocking the way to the kitchen. If you need more time, I can get a stool and sit down."

I narrow my eyes at him and wince. "Shit, you look like you need one. You look terrible."

"I went to a rave last night," he says, biting into his apple with strong white teeth. The Mortimer siblings' maternal grandad was a dentist, so they all have fantastic teeth.

"Well," I say, "if your appearance is anything to go by, you had a good time."

The idea that Stan was the wildest of his family had been knocked into a cocked hat when Vinnie reached eighteen. Vinnie could've rivalled Liam Gallagher in his heyday, but thankfully, he's much more charming. The Mortimer boys breeze through trouble with a gorgeous smile.

"I think so. To be honest, the whole night is a bit hazy. Memory's a funny old thing, isn't it?"

"It is if it's mixed with a vat of Rumple Minzes," I observe.

Stan shudders. "I don't know how you drink that shit. It's far too pepperminty."

"It's a tough job, but someone has to do it," Vinnie says and grins at me. "Nice haircut."

"Of course, it is. It shows off my face."

Stan laughs, and his dad's study door opens, and his dad pops his head out. "I thought I heard you two."

His black hair is shaggy with strands of grey, and there are lines around his eyes. He's a very handsome man, and I can see where Stan gets his cheekbones from.

"Afternoon, Edward," I say, stepping forward so he can hug me.

As he does, bits of paper fall out of his pocket, covered in musical notes and doodles in his scratchy handwriting. I gather them up, and he gives me a smile of thanks, looking at the papers as if he's never seen them before and then stuffing them back in his pocket. I repress a smile. He's the most absentminded person I've ever known.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, giving Stan a hug and ruffling Vinnie's hair.

"Erm. I actually live here," Vinnie offers.

"It's Sunday, Dad," Stan says.

"Is it?" he asks blankly. "Well, where did that week go?"

"It's a mystery to me," I say, smiling at him.

Rowena appears. "Dinner is ready."

Edward sniffs. "Well, how fortuitous. I appear to be on time for it for once."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm sure it won't happen again."

We follow her down the corridor and into the dining room at the back of the house. It's a warm welcoming room that looks out over the overgrown garden. The walls are covered with artwork, valuable paintings mingling with children's drawings as if they're on the same artistic level. It's nice that a Sisley drawing is accorded the same status as one of Wolfie's sketches of Hump. We all thought it was a mutant ostrich but Wolfie informed us otherwise.

Photos are in abundance too, and it's lovely to see my face in so many. In every one, Stan and I have our arms around each other, and we're laughing.

Lottie is already seated at the table with her husband, Alex. He's a tall, appallingly energetic man who was a former championship rower and now works with the UK's Olympic rowing teams. This might explain his preference for wearing shorts all year round, which raises a few eyebrows when two feet of snow are on the ground.

"Alright, Alex?" I say.

He grins at me. "Wow, that's a drastic haircut, Raff."

"At least my top hat will fit better now."

"Yeah, that's what I always say when I get my hair cut."

I wink at him. "Where do you keep your hat, then? In the pocket of your short shorts?"

He snorts. "They're not that short."

"Daisy Duke would have had a fit of the vapours."

"Pay no attention," Lottie says to her husband. "Your legs are lovely, darling."

Wolfie wanders into the room, Hump at his heels as well as Daisy and Maisy, the family's old greyhounds. "Hello, Uncle Stan and Raff."

"Hey, mate," Stan says, sitting down at the table in his usual seat.

Lottie's eyes narrow at her son. "Did you wash your hands?"

Wolfie slides his hands behind his back in an insouciant move I can only envy. "Did you know that some insects can walk on water? They're called water striders."

"Hmm. Do they wash their hands before dinner as well? Let's see them."

Wolfie reluctantly extends his hands, and Lottie rolls her eyes. "Is there any soil left in the garden, or is it all behind your nails now?"

Edward seizes his grandson and pulls him onto his lap. "Maybe you'll have cherries growing in there soon. People will climb through your window to pick them from under your fingernails."

I stare at him. "Is that supposed to be whimsical? Because it sounds rather nightmarish."

"Like that bedtime story that you told us about the violent bread fairy," Stan says.

"I didn't sleep well for weeks after that." I groan.

"That was a charming little story," Edward says indignantly. "If only I could remember the details, I could publish it."

"Only if Stephen King's editor is free," Stan mutters.

Edward's face is suddenly dreamy. "I could make a score to go with the story."

"Would it have the Jaws theme?" I ask sweetly.

He's gone, having vanished into the world of his music. "Something with a harpsichord, I think." He looks around. "Now, where did I put my pencil?"

"It's behind your ear, Grandad," Wolfie says.

"Ah, good boy. Paper?"

"Shall I get you some?"

"No, you shan't," Rowena says briskly as she enters the room. "Dinner is ready. Vinnie, come and help me dish up."

"Why me?" he asks from where he's prostrated himself at the dining table like a Victorian hero on the opium. "Why can't they all help?"

"You sound like you're five," Lottie observes.

I laugh. "Vinnie always sounded like he was having an existential life crisis even at five. ‘Why isn't CBeebies on now? Why is life so cruel ?'"

Stan snorts. "Why, why, why ?" He finishes on a wail.

Vinnie rolls his eyes. "Twats."

"Language," Rowena scolds. "There's a child in this room."

"I do know that word anyway," Wolfie says, climbing onto his chair. He pauses as we all stare at him. "What?"

"Where do you know that word from?" Alex asks, looking as though he's worried it was from him.

"Sam McCluskey said it at school when Santosh took the box of crayons off him. Mrs Phillips made him sit on the naughty chair, but the leg was wonky, and he fell off."

"This sounds a bit like Raff's life," Stan offers.

"I'm slightly concerned that the school's furniture appears to be falling apart," Alex says. "What is the world coming to when even the naughty chair has wonky legs?"

"At least his vocabulary is expanding," I say cheerfully, helping myself to roast beef. "You'll thank the education system one day."

The rest of lunch passes in a haze of good food and even better conversation. After we've finished the thankfully not charred apple crumble and custard, we all sit around talking idly, occasionally rubbing our bellies and wishing for elastic waistbands.

"Can I get down, please?" Wolfie asks after a time.

"I don't know. Can you?" Alex says.

Lottie nudges him, laughing. "You can, Wolfie. What are you going to do?"

"Play some more football." He makes a tragic sort of face. "The only trouble is that Archie and Michel have gone in for their dinners, so I'll be all alone." He gives a sigh loaded with pathos and looks around the table hopefully. "If only there was someone to play with me."

"I already played today, so I vote for Raff," Stan says.

I glare at him. "Whose side are you on, Stan?"

"I think yours, but I'd have to check."

I tut, and he snorts, his face filled with lazy laughter.

I look around the table and then groan. "Okay," I give in.

Wolfie makes a sound of jubilation. "Yes. How about you, Daddy?"

Alex, ever ready to exert himself physically, gets to his feet. "Yeah, come on."

"I don't want anyone to feel guilty about this," I say, and six blank faces look back at me. I roll my eyes. "It's like having Sunday dinner with psychopaths," I inform them, hearing their laughter as we leave the room.

Stan

A comfortable silence falls in the room as Raff and Alex's footsteps fade. Pretty soon, there's a screech of joy from the direction of the garden.

I cock my head to one side. "Was that Wolfie or Raff?"

"Hard to tell the difference," my dad offers.

"I'm going for a lie-down," my brother announces, and I listen to his footsteps patter away.

"Well, I suppose I should wash up," my dad says with a heavy-sounding sigh.

"Yes, that should definitely happen," Lottie says.

"I'll help," I offer.

"Don't you dare," my mum says, and I feel her pat my shoulder. "It was his turn at least fourteen Sunday dinners ago. Artistic temperament only goes so far."

"When did I have that?" my dad asks and I hear him push out his chair. "I must have missed it. Can we have a redo?"

I smile as I listen to his humming and the sound of plates and crockery clattering.

"Want another glass of wine, Stan?" my mum asks. "We might as well finish the bottle if your dad's busy."

This is one of two places where I feel safe enough to drink. The other is my and Raff's flat. "Well, someone has to do it."

"I'll help too," Lottie says in a brave voice.

"The three of you are just full of humanitarian goodness," my dad says.

"And rosé," my mum offers.

I reach out and touch my glass before raising it to my lips. "Are they enjoying themselves out there?"

"Of course they are. Raff's more child than man," Lottie says. "Although he might struggle to walk home afterwards. Wolfie just fouled him. I might go out and heckle them."

I listen to her footsteps move away and then a hand touches mine and my mum says, "You okay? Did you speak to the doctor about your headaches?"

"Everything is fine." My response sounds defensive, so I try a smile to soften it. "He said it was just stress so there's no need to worry. They'll stop eventually."

I'd mentioned my headaches at my check-up but when the doctor had enquired about what was stressing me, I'd changed the subject. My appointment with him was for half an hour. Not a year.

"Okay, darling."

Her concern comes from a place of love, but it both riles me and makes me feel guilty. I fumble for her hand and kiss the back of it, inhaling the faint smell of handwash and sugar from the crumble. "I love you, Mum."

A kiss lands on my head, and I smell her perfume, sweet and soft on the air. "Love you too, Stan." Silence drops for a few beats, and her voice is wistful when she speaks next. "God, the sound of children shouting in the garden takes me back to when you all were kids."

I smile. "Good times."

"Has Raff seen Saoirse or Rollo lately?"

"He met Saoirse for lunch yesterday. Why?"

"Just wondered. His mention of me rescuing him took me back, that's all."

Rafferty had been five when he and his parents moved in next door to us. Before then, my mum and dad had been the famous ones in the neighbourhood. My mum had been a well-known stage and screen actress, and my dad was a Hollywood film composer, but they'd been quite normal. My mum rarely wore makeup outside a film set and was prone to doing the school run in her pyjamas. And my dad spent most of his time muttering to himself and looking like he hadn't brushed his hair for a year.

However, Saoirse and Rollo took the neighbourhood's X factor up a notch when they moved here from Ireland. They hosted glamorous parties constantly, with music on until three in the morning, and the street crowded with expensive cars. The Kendricks had been rackety and carelessly charming.

My excitement, however, was all about having someone of my own age to play with. My sister considered herself too mature to play with me, and I, in turn, felt the same way about Vinnie. We went to school across London, so none of our friends were within reaching distance.

I met Raff for the first time when he walked casually up the drive to call for me. He hadn't waited for our parents to make introductions. Saoirse and Rollo might never have gotten around to it, as they tended to spend their time ignoring their son, being stoned, or both.

I'd stared at the small boy. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt like me, but, unlike mine, his clothes were immaculate.

"Hello," he said, a smile hovering on his mouth. "I'm Rafferty."

"Stan," I offered.

"I came to see if you wanted to play."

I'd hung on the door, observing him. Even then, with tousled strawberry-blond hair and a naughty expression, he'd looked effortlessly glamorous.

"Yes," I said cautiously. "Do you want to come in?"

"Or you could come round to my house."

"Are your mum and dad there?"

"Not really," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "Saoirse is drunk and asleep so she won't get up until tonight, and Rollo is out with another woman."

I blinked in surprise at that information but then focused on the important part. "You call your mum and dad by their names ?" I said in awe.

He shrugged. "Yeah. Don't you?"

"No," I said, startled. I'd only just stopped calling them mummy and daddy, but I kept that fact to myself.

"So, are you coming? We can play in the garden. It's really wild, so that would be good fun. Or we could play hide-and-seek in Saoirse's rooms."

"Yeah, of course."

I'd happily followed him the same way I've done ever since.

We'd been walking down the drive chatting when, my mum's call stopped us in our tracks. "And just where do you think you're going?" she asked.

We looked back to where she was standing at the front door. "Oh, we're off to Raff's house. Saoirse is drunk and still asleep, and Rollo is out with another woman," I said blithely. "So, we're going to play hide-and-seek in her dressing room."

She'd blinked, but to her credit, she just said gravely, "Well, how about the two of you stay here to play instead? Dad's home from the orchestra early, and I've made scones."

Raff cocked his head. "What are those?"

"They're a bit like bread with raisins in them," I told him. "They're lovely when they're warm with butter and jam."

"Hmm," he said dubiously, like the smallest gourmet in the business. "That sounds fine to me."

And so, he'd come to our house. After that, we rarely went to his, but when we did, I was in awe. Our house was shabby and in a constant state of disrepair, as my dad started jobs and then promptly forgot about them when a tune came into his head. We actually lost our lawnmower in the long grass for a few months. Raff's house was like a film set—filled with expensive furniture and glamorous people. People always hung about, like a royal court with Saoirse and Rollo at its centre.

From then on, my mum insisted on us being at our house most of the time. Raff seemed happy to be with us and away from the racket of drink and drugs. At first, he was like a small and very charming wild animal, but gradually that summer, he'd edged closer, allowing my mum to treat him as one of her own children, enforcing hugs and lots of her opinions.

My mum says, "I still shudder when I think of that night. What could have happened doesn't bear thinking about."

I nod at her reference to a specific night that summer—one that our family had long since referred to as Fight Night. My mum had gone next door to take Raff's school coat to him after he left our house without it. She'd found Rollo fucking a woman in the hallway and a naked Saoirse passed out on the sofa—a line of coke on the table and a cigarette smouldering in her hand. Raff had been trying to cook in the kitchen. Fortunately, my mum arrived before he'd put a tin of baked beans in the microwave.

"Terrible," my dad says from nearby. He's obviously taken advantage of my mum's distraction to leave the washing up and circle back to the dining room. "Saoirse and Rollo shouldn't have been allowed to raise budgies, let alone a small child."

My mum makes a huffing noise. "They should be ashamed of themselves, but that would require a modicum of a conscience in the first place. I still think she holds that night against me," she muses.

I snort. "Why? Raff preferred to be here for good reason. It's not like you stole him."

"No. Because the ice bucket of water I flung at her ruined her hairdo and new sofa." She tuts. "Anyway, Saoirse and I came to an arrangement."

I frown in her direction. " What ? I've never heard that before."

"Did you never wonder why Raff had his own room here. And why he came away with us, even when I was on set?"

I shrug. "I just thought Saoirse found it easier."

"You can put it that way. She found it easier to keep her teeth. I told her that if I ever found Raff in those circumstances again, I'd punch her until I got tired—which would take a while as I had a lot of aggression to work off—and then I'd report her to the police."

I gasp. "I didn't know that. Why didn't you report her straightaway?"

"It was different then. Besides, Saoirse and Rollo don't have any extended family. Raff would have been taken into care, and we'd probably have lost him, and who knows what would have happened to him? It was the best compromise your dad and I could think of. We insisted they employ a professional live-in nanny who'd look after Raff at home, and he liked her."

"Nanny Sally. He still sees her. Does he know about this?"

"We thought it better not to tell him. They're still his parents, and they did try with him after that. They cleaned up their act a bit, and Sally kept a firm eye on everything. There was an understanding that Raff would come to us for meals because Saoirse doesn't eat and definitely doesn't cook, and when she got bored with her version of mothering, she'd send him straight over to me. We kept a very close eye on them, but it worked. Hence, why she doesn't like me. Saoirse doesn't like a mirror being held up to her unless it's to check her appearance."

"Well, she never shows it," my dad says.

"Are you actually washing up or just listening to us?" my mum asks.

"You're much more interesting than the dirty pots."

"That's probably the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"I'm sure it isn't. Once, I told you that your eyes were as blue as the urinal cakes in the gent's toilet."

"Be still, my heart," my mum mutters.

"Have you seen Saoirse and Rollo lately?" I ask, taking another sip of my wine.

They'd divorced after a few turbulent years, and Saoirse had gotten the house, which is probably lucky because my mum obviously had no intention of letting Raff leave with her and her next toyboy husband. If they'd tried to leave, I wouldn't have put it past my mum to lie across the drive.

"We had dinner with Rollo last week," my mum says.

"How is he?"

"Loud. I've never known there are twenty different ways you can tell someone you're richer than them," my dad says, and I snort.

"Only twenty? He's slipping. God knows how Raff turned out so well."

"He's a wonderful young man, but I still think he carries the baggage," my mum says thoughtfully. "He learned some incredibly wrong things from the two of them, not least of which is he views commitment with as much horror as getting syphilis."

I tap my fingers on the table. "Well, that can't be helped. He'll never change."

"Really?" my dad says. He sounds surprised. "I think he'll change for his person. He just needs to be shown that commitment to one person doesn't automatically equate to an orgy on the soft furnishings."

I clear my throat. "And just who could be Raff's person? He views monogamy as akin to death."

"We all know there's only one person who could give Raff what he needs," my dad says. His voice sounds amused.

"What's that? And who is this miracle worker who'll provide it?"

"He needs stability and love, Stan," my dad explains. "He needs to know that someone cares enough for him to tell him no. Saoirse and Rollo never did that. They let him do whatever he wanted because it meant an easier life for them. It's just lucky he was such a kind child, or he could have turned into a monster."

"Like them," my mum says. "I think Raff goes the other way. He's far too concerned about other people's happiness."

"That's because he still doesn't see himself as a prize. They never told him he was," I say solemnly. "He just learnt that other people's wants and needs come way above his."

I hear a sigh, and my dad says, "Just once, I want to see Raff demand what he wants for a change, instead of letting other people do as they please. He needs to stand up and shout and take what he wants because he knows he's worth it."

"He's not L'Oréal. And you never said who this miracle worker is," I say.

"Do you want me to?" my dad says, sounding astonished. "His name has four letters, starting with s and ending with n, with the letters t and a in the middle."

I grimace. "Actually, no. Stop talking now."

"There. I knew I was right. Rowena, take a note in the diary. Edward was proved right once more."

"I'll put a gold star by it," my mum says obediently.

I groan and stand up. "I'm going to my room."

"Well, that phrase has been said a fair few times," my dad observes. "Usually in a state of rigid disapproval of your parents."

"I need some records I've been storing there," I say repressively, but I can't hide my smile.

"Make sure you make a lot of noise," my mum says. "It'll teach your brother to come home at five in the morning and set the alarm off by trying to get into the shed."

"The shed?"

"He thought it was the house and then got huffy with us for trying to get him into his own bed. Next time, I'll leave him draped over the lawn mower."

I escape and make my way upstairs, my muscle memory automatically counting the steps and allowing me to move easily. My bedroom is cool and airy and smells faintly of beeswax and a lost trace of Davidoff's Cool Water. I'd practically bathed in it when I was fourteen, and it's obviously penetrated the wallpaper.

I'm sitting on the bed and sorting out my vinyl, running my fingers along the braille labels I'd made so long ago when there's a sound at the door. "Hello?"

"Are you finding more vinyl to bring to our place, Stan? At this point, I think we have more than HMV."

I smile at Raff's voice. "Oh, shut up. I'm trying to find Coming Up ."

"By Suede?"

"Yep. I promised Lennon he could listen to it. He's just discovered Britpop."

"Wow! He's actually left the seventies. Does that mean he'll invest in a bowl cut and a pair of Clarks Wallabies?"

I snort. "Shut up." The bed depresses, and I inhale his cologne's familiar spicy-sweet scent. "Did Wolfie beat you at football?"

"So conclusively that I can never face the FA again."

"Their loss is Wolfie's gain."

"He fouled me and then had the nerve to blame it on me. I've been gaslit more times this afternoon than Stewart Granger." I feel him lie back and exhale. "It's so quiet here."

"That's because Vinnie is probably unconscious. Mum says he fell asleep on the lawnmower last night."

He chuckles and the sound sends a tingle down my spine. "We can't judge. Remember Lottie's friend Louisa's house party in Wimbledon when we were seventeen? We fell asleep in the bath."

I start to laugh. "Her dad was shocked when he turned on the taps."

Silence falls, and it's so comfortable that I jump when he speaks again. "Your mum is right," he says, his voice lazy and slightly slurred with tiredness. "These curls are out of control."

His fingers tug on my hair, and I turn to face in his direction. My hand lands on the slippery album covers, and my arm shoots out from underneath me, landing me squarely on Raff's chest.

"Ungh," he gasps.

"Sorry," I say, trying to get back up.

His hand on my arm stills me. "No, don't go," he mutters, his voice dark and sugar sweet.

"Raff," I protest, but I can't summon the moral fibre to get up. I also can't think of all the reasons why he shouldn't be drawing me down to him. "We shouldn't do this. Oh god, mmm." The last is because he's kissed me. His lips are warm and soft, and the scratch of the stubble on his chin makes my blood spark and fizz.

Joy floods through me at feeling him like this again, and before I know what I'm doing, I give him my weight and then moan when I feel his cock hard against my hip. I grind down into him, panting hard and he spreads his legs. I feel his hands on my hips, drawing me closer still, and we both grunt and kiss furiously.

I try to think of why I shouldn't be doing this, but it's hard when we're grinding together, our bodies fitting together as perfectly as if designed to do this forever.

I groan when he pulls away.

"Bennett," he gasps.

"What? That's not my name."

It takes me an embarrassingly long few seconds to realise that he's referencing my boyfriend. I grimace and sit up, ignoring his grumbled protests. I fall to the side, palming my cock.

"Oh god, don't do that," he says. I hear him stand up, and his shadow blocks the light from the window. "We can't start this up again, Stan."

"I know that," I protest.

"This isn't me." His voice is miserable. "I don't cheat or help others to cheat."

"I know," I say again. I never want him to sound sad. He tries so hard to be unlike his parents. It's essential to him that he not be Saoirse and Rollo, and this situation isn't helping him.

"You know Bennett and I aren't exclusive," I say softly.

He huffs. "Yes, which just makes him even more of a silly tosser." I smile and hear him give a deep sigh. "I don't fuck around with men who are in any form of relationship, and you know it."

It's one of the reasons I took up with Bennett. I knew Raff would insist we stop having sex. I'd needed his insistence because I wouldn't have been strong enough to stop it myself.

Bennett regularly sleeps with other men. He views sex with them as almost like having to take a taxi because you're late and don't want to walk. I haven't done the same. It's hard enough being in love with one man while dating another without adding extra dicks into the mix.

His footsteps sound, and I feel him press a kiss on my forehead. "I love you," he says as usual. It's his way of making sure we're okay.

"I love you too."

The words should be easy because we've said them a thousand times, but they're not anymore. Now, they're weighted by my real feelings, which makes the casually affectionate words unexpectedly serious.

"I'll be downstairs."

I nod, and when I hear the door shut, I fall back onto the bed, giving a long sigh. I have to get my life back on track. I can't fall back into bed with Raff again. My heart wouldn't take it. My parents bringing up that horrible night with Saoirse and Rollo is an awful, but helpful, reminder that Raff has excellent reasons for why he doesn't believe in—and doesn't want to try—a long-term, committed relationship. And that's exactly what I want with him. So to keep his friendship, I need to keep my kisses and my cock to myself.

But I equally can't be with Bennett. He's not for me, and I'm not for him. Which means I have a very uncomfortable conversation in my future. I grimace. Maybe I should have asked the school careers officer about being a monk. It would surely have led to simpler life choices.