The Price We Pay For Love (Unbreak

My Heart Book 3) Koko Heart

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 Copyright © 2024 Koko Heart

This book is a work of fiction, names of characters, some places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or
persons, alive or deceased, is coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, stored in a database in any form, or used to create, feed,
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This book shall not be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent.

Published by Koko Heart 2024

Edited by Michelle Fewer
Cover design by Francessca Wingfield at Wingfield Designs
Formatted by S. Grant
All Rights reserved
 CONTENTS

Charity write up
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Epilogue
Koko bio…
More books by Koko…
 Unbreak My Heart
This story is part of Unbreak my heart Anthology, raising awareness and money for the Charity Heartbroken To Healed helping
people find a way through their grief and loss in Tyne & Wear, based in the United Kingdom. The authors taking part in this
anthology have agreed that all proceeds will be donated directly to the charity.

The grief index describes over 40 losses that create a grief reaction. Moving home, changing jobs and the loss of a pet are
also stressful losses. At H2H we believe that everyone has a right to heal their broken heart, no matter the cause or their
financial position so we operate a pay what you can afford policy. (PWYC) We need to do more than hope, kiss it better or
just get on with life. Those old fashioned attitudes cause harm to our bodies and minds, our home life and friendships as
well as our community and family life. Are you ready to feel better?
https://www.heartbrokentohealed.co.uk/
Anyone experiencing any grief please know that you are not alone and seek support.
Living in the UK? Find help here:
https://www.cruse.org.uk/get-support/helpline/
Living in the USA? Find help here:
https://whatsyourgrief.com/
Living in the AUS? Find help here:
https://www.grief.org.au/

PLEASE be aware that these stories may be a trigger for anyone experiencing or having experienced loss.
 CHAPTER ONE

Phoebe

tanding outside the school gates, waiting to pick my godchildren up, I take a glance around and notice the obvious stares
S and dirty looks from the other mums. God, it’s like being the new kid at school again. This time though, instead of shying
away from everyone and becoming a wallflower, I shake my hair out, give a scathing look their way and wave at some of
them. Let them figure out why and how I know some. And why I’m not acknowledging the rest.
My mother would tell me to ‘kill them with kindness.’ And I would add ‘until you can kill them for real,’ she never
appreciates that. Obviously I’m joking.
Maybe. Sometimes?
Oh come on, these people should know better. We aren’t kids anymore. We’re grown-arse women. We all know the
importance of being nice. How kindness is what everyone deserves. I bet these women shooting me daggers and looking me up
and down with a sneer are the same ones posting meme after meme on social media about kindness and being nice. Making
room at their high end, bougie tables. Bunch of hypocrites.
But man do they have nice handbags. They must’ve sold their souls for them though. Or other body parts, if you get my drift.
I know I shouldn’t be so judgemental, especially when I’m preaching about kindness, but I’ve heard so many stories from Lola,
my bestie, about these women. How they’ve made her feel like shit because she hasn’t conformed to be a stepford wife like
they all are. She hasn’t botoxed her face or plumped her lips up so much she looks like an incredibly smooth looking duck. She
doesn’t dress in the latest trends and designers or flaunt her wealth like the rest of them.
Lola is humble. She grew up in a normal household where her parents worked to provide for them all. She isn’t a trust fund
baby and she definitely didn’t marry Dan for his money. In fact she was pleasantly surprised when she found out just how much
his computer programming company was actually worth. But that’s Lola. She’s as sweet as she is naive. These women have
been using her for target practice and I’m dishing out a little karmic retribution today on her behalf.
The school gates open and I stride inside. Confidence oozes from my pores as my long brown hair flows behind my back. I
raise one of my bad bitch brows as I walk past a pack of them, saying a silent thank you for my perfectly applied makeup,
courtesy of the very nice lady on the MAC counter—who also taught me that phrase and whom I gave an obscene tip to. I told
you, I’m a lady on a mission today.
I swing my borrowed Hermes bag onto my shoulder and adjust my overly large sunglasses on my face. Ivy’s Louboutin
heels that I snagged off her for today's outing click on the pavement and I stifle my grimace as each step causes my toes to throb
even more. I scream wealth. And I’m hoping my complete lack of interest in any of them will make them curious about me even
more.
They don’t know I’m Lola’s bestie. They have no idea I have about twenty-five quid in the bank until payday. It’s all about
the illusion. Let them see me and wonder who the hell I am. And if the opportunity arises, I might just take down the alpha dog.
Make her pay for treating my bestie as anything less than she deserves.
Instead of being fearless and not giving a fuck, Lola internalises every glance, whisper, and head shake. It feeds every
negative feeling she has about herself. And the one thing I can’t cope with is someone making my bestie doubt how phenomenal
she is.
I was seven years old when we moved next door to her and her family. She was a little tiny thing, all teeth and smiles, and
she made me feel better about leaving my old school and home behind.
“Hi, I’m Lola, what’s your name?” The little blonde girl bounds over to me as I cling to my mum’s legs.
“Lola, now give them time to breathe.” A kind looking man strides over to us and smiles as he holds his hand out to my
mum. “Hi, there. I’m Reg Camden, and this little bundle of energy is my daughter, Lola. Looks like we’re neighbours.
Pleasure to meet you.”
My mum extends her hand and smiles. She introduces herself and me, striking up an easy conversation with Lola’s dad.
I’m still clinging to her leg when the most beautiful woman walks out from behind their house. She smiles at me and the
kindness she exudes makes me feel at ease instantly.
Lola steps forward and grabs my hand. “That’s my mum. Oh, and my sister, Ivy. And that doof over there, the one who
thinks he’s too cool for everything, that’s my brother, Freddie Bear. He doesn’t like to be called that.” She cups her mouth
and whispers to me, “It’s why I do it even more.”
She giggles and I smile as I bring my eyes up to look at the people she pointed out to me. My mum is busy talking to
Lola’s parents as Ivy slowly walks toward us. I smile shyly and look over to where she said her brother was. My eyes meet
his blue ones. Our gazes lock together for a second and then he frowns, pushes off the wall and walks into his house.
That was the first time I saw my first crush, but not the last time he’d walk away from me frowning. It seemed to be his
default setting when it came to me and his sisters.
But Ivy and Lola became firm favourites of mine, as did her parents Reg and Carol. They became my second parents and
the girls were the sisters I never had. Ivy moved away for uni and now for her job but we still chat all the time, but Lola, she
lives around the corner from me, and we’re in each other's pockets all the time. This is why I’m here. She’s going away for the
weekend with Dan.
And I’m picking her beautiful children up and dropping them to Mr. Frowny face.
Why he couldn’t take the time out of his busy schedule to do it is beyond me, but I don’t begrudge spending time with
Scarlet and DJ. Lola and Dan have done the best jobs raising their kids, and because of their awesome parents, their kids are
awesome too.
This is another reason I’m pissed at these plastic women and their bitchy ways. Lola is amazing. She needs to be bloody
celebrated. Not knocked down because they can see her beauty shining through and are jealous that she doesn’t ‘need’ the
things they do to be considered beautiful. Jealous that she has the real deal when it comes to her loving husband Dan, not just a
show romance whilst he’s bonking his secretary on the side.
Waiting at the allotted space for DJ to come out, I tilt my head and turn my nose up at a particularly nasty looking woman—
the alpha bitch.
“Hi there, are you new here? I love your Birkin.” Alpha lady smiles boldly at me and her followers grin maniacally behind
her.
I flip my hair from my shoulder, lower my glasses and sneer, “Is that last season’s Chanel? Interesting.” I push my glasses
back up my nose, and sniff haughtily in the air.
I smile at the lady next to her, tilting my head ever so slightly toward her feet. “I love those shoes, by the way.” She blushes
and smiles back. Divide and conquer my friends.
I turn my back to them but not before seeing the affronted and miserable look on Alpha’s plastic face. HA! Take that, bitch.
You mess with my bestie, you mess with me.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop the smile on my face when I see her followers take a step away from her. Like
the stink from having last year's bag will infiltrate them too. What a bunch of superficial losers. I can’t wait to go home, take
this slap off my face and put a pair of flat shoes on. My feet are killing me in these contraptions, but I’m grateful for the loaner
from Ivy, even if she is a size smaller than me.
Kids start to file out of the building and I spot DJ running toward me excitedly. “Auntie Phoebe, you look diffewent.”
I reach down and cuddle him, silencing his cute mispronounced words and tell him to ‘shush.’ I’ve worked too hard to
shatter the illusion already.
“Auntie? Must be the husband's sister. That explains why she looks like that, and not like the awful mother.” I straighten to
my full, accentuated, height as the snooty voice behind me pulls every muscle in my spine tight. Turning slowly to face the
bitter woman, I take my sunglasses off and let my gaze roam over her. I smirk when she squirms a little in her Mary Jane shoes.
“Excuse me, were you discussing my sister just then?” She stutters but before she can finish her sentence I hold my hand up
to silence her. “Actually, I neither care nor need to know anything that comes out of your overinflated and cheap botoxed
mouth.” A collective gasp rings around her followers and I roll my eyes at them all. “I actually pity you. You’re what? A thirty-
something year old woman who is so insecure she pumps chemicals and poison into her face to make her look younger? Which,
by the way, hasn’t worked. I’d give you late forties. And that’s me being generous.” Her mouth drops open, her eyes are wide
and bulging, but I’m not done yet. “You’re not comfortable in your own skin, unlike my sister, who is ten times prettier,
classier, and better than all of you put together. You’re nothing but a bunch of sad old mean girls and I actually feel sorry for all
of your children.”
I place my glasses back on and flip my hair over my shoulder again. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I'm going to spend the
weekend with my niece and nephew whilst my sister and her husband are in the South of France for the weekend. Do you all
know where your husbands are this weekend? I bet their secretaries are very well looked after, aren’t they?”
Turning on my heels, I bump straight into Scarlet, who high fives me whilst shouting, “Yes Auntie Phoebe.”
 I usher her and her brother out of the school and into the car and blow a shaky breath out. “Shoot, kids, you weren't
supposed to see that. Please don’t tell your mum.”
“Oh please, Auntie Phoebe. They deserved all you said and more. They’re horrible to mum all the time. Even their kids are
ashamed of them.” Scarlet snaps her seatbelt on and dumps her bag in the footwell.
“I don’t even know what happened,” DJ sighs out and Scarlet giggles and helps strap him into the car as well.
“DJ, it’s probably better that way. Scarlet, put these in that bag for me please.” I hand her Ivy’s shoes and wiggle my toes
as I put my comfy converse on. I sigh in relief as the throbbing in my big toe eases. “The person who invented high heels is
definitely a man,” I mutter and giggle as DJ scrunches up his face in confusion.
“Because they don’t wear them so they don’t know how uncomfortable they are,” Scarlet, the font of all knowledge,
informs her five year old brother.
A surge of love overwhelms me and I smile goofily at them both. Scarlet is almost eleven and has the beauty of her mum
and the confidence of her dad. She's a fierce but sweet force to be reckoned with and I absolutely want to be her when I grow
up. And DJ is still in that younger kid phase. He doesn’t understand everything but he doesn’t care either. He likes what he
likes and always makes my heart happy when I’m around him. Honestly, my bestie gave birth to the most amazing babies in the
world.
“Can we go for ice cweam?” DJ asks and Scarlet sits a little straighter in her seat.
I pull away from the curb and glance in my rearview mirror at them both. “Sorry kiddos, I’ve got to drop you with Uncle
Frowny Face today.”
“Ah man, that sucks. All he ever talks about is the restaurant. And the last time we stayed with him, he made us wait there
for hours.” Scarlet folds her arms over her chest and slumps back down in her seat.
“And he's so bo-wing,” DJ grumbles and I stifle a laugh.
“He never used to be boring. He used to be the funniest out of the lot of us,” I tell them both, leaving out the thought ‘albeit
he would do most things with that gorgeously annoying frown on his face.’ He wasn’t always as closed off and obsessed with
work as he is now though. I don’t think he even cared too much about the restaurant when we were growing up.
But when we lost Reg unexpectedly to a heart attack five years ago. And it changed all of our lives. Freddie took it upon
himself to step into his footsteps and finish making the restaurant a roaring success. And he has. He’s just received a Michelin
star and was featured in a very classy magazine as the hottest restaurant in London. He’s sacrificed everything to succeed, even
relationships with the people he loves more than anything in the world.
It makes me so sad but also really bloody angry. He has this amazing family—sisters who adore him, a mum who cherishes
him, and a niece and nephew who idolise him. And his sister’s best friend, who would swap her surname for his in a heartbeat.
But the restaurant comes first. And it seems that's a factor even the kids have picked up on. And one I wish I could change more
than anything.
 CHAPTER TWO

Freddie

“I ’ve told you before. The jus goes on the meat, not scattered around the plate. We didn’t get a fucking Michelin star for
serving sub par pub food soaking in gravy. Fucking fix it!” My head chef glares back at me. He knows how to do his
fucking job, it’s why I hired him in the first place, but I don’t give a shit. He bites the inside of his cheek as his eye
twitches at me, desperate to shout back and put me in my place. But he doesn’t, he wouldn’t. Because he’s a fucking
professional. He just glares at me as I storm out of the kitchen and into the front of the empty restaurant.
Gold embellished lights are turned up to their brightest, showcasing the pristine white of the walls and gold touches on the
tables, but even the serene atmosphere I created isn’t taking the edge off my mood. I run a hand over one of the starched white
table cloths and straighten the spotless gold cutlery as I head toward the floor to ceiling windows to cast my gaze over London.
While the aesthetic of the restaurant is stunning, it bears very little resemblance to the business I inherited. Because although
the name remains the same, I’ve changed nearly everything behind it completely.
The kitchen was the first to go, smashed all to hell by my bare hands. I didn’t want to be reminded of him laying on the
floor, clutching at his chest, his face grey and sweating, gasping for breath which he used to rasp out ‘look after my girls.’
Surrounded by rubble, I expected to feel better., Like I could smash the memory away from my brain just by gutting the fucker
down to the studs. But the ache and emptiness was still there.
I hated tearing down his vision, his dream, but I also knew if I wanted to make sure my mum and sisters had a roof over
their heads after he died, I’d need to make drastic changes. I got rid of the dark walls, wooden beams and dim lights. Intimate,
is what he called it. Dungeon-esque is what I saw whenever I walked through. I better utilised the space we already had—
fitted floor to ceiling windows on the side that looked out onto the River Thames and added a terrace for our diners to eat Al
Fresco. Little touches that helped us secure our status as one of the best in London.
My dad would be proud, I know he would, and so am I. But I’d rather he were here instead. Working side by side with me
in a little dungeon-esque restaurant, making enough to be comfortable but never enough to be complacent. Carrying on the plan
we’d had since I was a little boy.
Together.
Instead, I’m here alone, the pressure of living up to him and our dreams outweighing anything else. A flash of Ivy and
Lola’s faces enter my mind but I shake them free. Only to be replaced by images of my mum and my niece and nephew. The
family that I adore but am missing out on as well. This time I dig my thumbs into my eyes and force the images to fade away.
They’re reminding me of what I want and not what I should be doing.
As quickly as they go they’re replaced by an image that's harder to get rid of. One that plagues my dreams and haunts my
thoughts on a daily basis.
Phoebe.
My sister's annoying best friend. And the only woman I’ve ever wanted to share my name with. She’s always been there.
Living next door to us. At my sister's graduation. The other one's wedding. When babies were born and loved ones died. She's
always been a part of them. She’s a part of the family to everyone else, but I want her to be my family. The one I can call and
rely on. The one who’ll have my back through thick and thin. The one I go home to after a long day at work and just be with.
The ache in my chest starts to throb, taking me away from my thoughts. I bring my hand up to clutch at it but quickly snap it
away when an image of my dad laying on the floor clutching at his chest pops into my mind. Instead, I shake my hands out and
ignore the pain, knowing it’s not physical or dangerous, and focus on my breathing. In for four seconds, hold, out for four
seconds. It's getting harder and harder to ignore these little episodes, as I call them. I haven’t told anyone about them. I don’t
want to worry my mum and sisters, and Dr. Ivy would have me in one of her private rooms having all sorts of tests when I
know it’s nothing. My body’s being triggered by the stress, anger, and anxiety that make up my life.
Besides, it's nothing compared to the pain I’ve felt daily since watching my dad take his final breath. Watching the life ebb
out of him as he struggled to breathe was horrendous, but watching the devastation his death caused my mum and sisters was
almost too much to bear. It’s why I won’t ever be anything more than a son and a brother, and a shitty one at that. I won't
become a husband or a dad, even though it’s what I want more than a restaurant and making my dad proud. But I couldn’t do
that to Phoebe. She’s the only one I’ve ever pictured a future with, and had things been different with my dad…
I heave out a sigh and square my shoulders. Enough now. I won’t leave carnage, pain, and grief behind when I die. I won’t
do that to Phoebe. She deserves more. And that’s that.
“Are you slacking off again? And here I was thinking you were a busy Michelin star restaurant owner. Someones far too
busy and important to pick up your niece and nephew from school. How wrong was I?” Laughter floats around me and the
sound soothes my heart and calms my thoughts.
She’s always had that ability. She makes everything seem better. Makes the grey days a little less miserable. She was the
first person I called when my dad died. And the person I’ve avoided the most since.
I turn around to find Phoebe, Scarlet, and DJ standing opposite me. My breath stutters as I take in her appearance. Her
hair’s in a high ponytail. She’s wearing more makeup than she usually does, and looks stunning. Did she wear it for me? A
small part of me wants the answer to be yes, but the bigger more realistic part knows it’s not. She’s probably got a date tonight.
The idea makes nausea swirl in my stomach. The tight black dress she's wearing clings to her in all the right places and my jaw
drops open when I take in her toned, tanned legs that seem to go on for days. Fuck she’s hot. If she does have a date, he’s a
lucky guy.
“Hi Uncle Fwowny face. I mean, Uncle Fweddie.” DJ’s little voice interrupts my blatant stares and I turn my embarrassed
gaze to him.
“What did you call me?” I ask, a little confused and not too sure if I heard him right or if my lust fuelled state is impacting
my hearing.
“Um, Uncle Fweddie.” He shifts on his feet a little and I narrow my eyes at him, knowing he’s lying by the hangdog
expression on his face.
Scarlet pipes in and saves him from further scrutiny. “Did you see what Auntie Phoebe is wearing? She came to the school
and gave it to all the stuck up mums who are mean to our mum. She’s awesome.” She turns her adoring gaze over to Phoebe
who’s smiling nervously.
“Ha ha, Scarlet. I really didn’t do too much.” As she starts to speak, I fold my arms over my chest and arch a brow at her,
knowing full well that if anyone messes with Lola, Phoebe will go for the jugular. “Don’t you arch that eyebrow at me, Frowny
Face.”
“Ah-ha! So it’s you that taught DJ that! And I thought we were friends, Pheebs.” I notice the way her pupils dilate at the use
of the nickname. I’m the only one who calls her that. Lola and Ivy call her BeBe, and I hate it. She’ll always be Pheebs to me.
“Friends call and meet up on occasion, double F. At this point we’re more acquaintances that grew up next door to each
other, if anything.” She’s recovered well and stands a little straighter. Her words sting, and I wish I could rectify everything
with her, but I know I can’t. A little flirting won’t hurt though—may torture myself a bit but hey, I’m already fucked, may as
well get fucked some more.
“Acquaintances? I see. That’s how it stands, huh?” I place my hands on my hips and lock my gaze with hers. I know the
desire and want is painfully etched on my face and I can see it mirrored back in hers. I lick my lips and watch as she tracks the
movement of my tongue. I grin and she narrows her eyes at me, knowing I’ve caught her and not liking it one bit.
Before I can say or do anything else, my phone rings in my back pocket and I grab it to see my mum's name scrolled across
the screen. Typical. I show it to Phoebe and answer the call. “Hi Mum, you okay?” I ask with a false cheeriness in my voice.
“I don’t know where your dad keeps the hammer. I want to put a few pictures up and I can’t find the bloody thing.” Her
voice is filled with frustration, and any emotions exhibited from her make me panic.
I take a deep breath and count to three before I answer, making sure my tone is soothing and calm and not showing her that
I’m worried about her. “I’ll pop by in a little bit and put them up for you. It’s okay, Mum.”
“But I…” I hang the phone up quickly, unable to hear what she has to say. My earlier respite from all things responsible is
gone and Mr. Frowny Face is well and truly in play again.
“Kids, let’s go. We have to go help Grandma.” I see the worry on Phoebe’s face but I don’t have time to reassure her.
Instead, I bundle the kids out of the door, give a distracted wave of thanks to Pheebs as she shouts to let her know if
everything’s okay, and rush toward my car. I have to do what I promised my dad I’d do and look after his girls for him. They
need me. I don’t have time or a choice about anything else. Including my beautiful Pheebs.

“What the hell, Mum?” I ask as I walk into the living room to find her on a step ladder, banging a picture hook into the wall
with a rolling pin. If I wasn’t so annoyed I’d be laughing like Scarlet and DJ are.
“What? Why are you always so grumpy?” she asks and continues banging the hook in. I step over to her and hold onto the
stepladder.
“Because you could have fallen and broken your neck,” I scold back, but she rolls her eyes and pulls a frowny face toward
the kids.
“Do you know how many times I’ve been up on ladders in my life? Cleaning windows, window sills, and hanging curtains?
More times than you’ve had hot dinners, my boy. Now pass me that photo.” She motions to the armchair and I begrudgingly
oblige.
I take a quick scan of it and spot my dad’s smiling face and then the contrast of my frowning one in the glass reflection.
When did I become Uncle Frowny Face? Probably the same day my heart smashed in two.
“It’s a nice picture. You remind me of your dad a lot. But he smiled more.” I swallow back my emotion and hand her the
frame. She hangs it perfectly on the hook, blows imaginary smoke off her rolling pin as if it were a smoking gun, and places it
in the pocket of her cardigan. She steps off the ladder without taking the extended hand I offered and heads over to the kids,
swarming them with a hug.
“I came over to do those for you.”
“And if you hadn't hung up on me earlier you would’ve known I didn’t need you to. I know you promised your dad you’d
look after me, but I’ll tell you what I told him time and time again—I don’t need looking after. You have a life to lead,
Frederick. You need to start.” She squeezes my shoulder, the same emotion etched on my face that comes every time she
reminds me of that fact, and takes the kids into the kitchen for snacks.
I’m grateful for the reprieve. What the fuck is going on with me today? First I lose my shit with my head chef over jus,
which is a fucking posh way of saying gravy. Then I flirt with Phoebe, remembering the way it felt to just be me for a little bit.
And then I get scolded by my mum for being a miserable bastard and reminded she doesn’t need me as much as I think she
does.
I need some sort of therapy or something. Definitely or something.
 CHAPTER THREE

Freddie

ou guys ready for a fun Friday sleepover with me?” Enthusiasm bounces off every word I speak but I’m met with a
“Y nonchalant shrug from Scarlet and a frown from DJ. “What’s wrong?” I ask, closing the door behind me and following
them into the living room. Scarlet bounds over to the armchair, presses the button on the side and reclines back. She
flips another switch and when the massager in the chair starts to vibrate, she sighs contentedly. DJ stomps over to the sofa and
sprawls across the brown leather three seater, lifting his legs to tuck underneath his bum.
“Is one of you going to tell me what’s wrong or do I have to guess?” I fold my arms over my chest and stand in front of
them, blocking any view of the TV, not that they’ve put that on yet. They always head straight toward their favourite spots in my
house, demand snacks, and then ask to watch some God awful show that I end up getting hooked on and bingeing long after
they’ve gone home.
“Nothing. It’s just—” Scarlet starts to speak but her brother interupts her.
“We wanted a sleepover with aunt Phoebe.” He folds his arms over his little chest and stamps his leg onto the sofa.
Part of me wants to join him and stamp my foot, telling him, ‘Me too, buddy, me too,’ but I don’t. Instead, I sigh inwardly
and let the guilt wash over me. I’ve done this to myself. I’ve become the grumpy, grouchy, unfun uncle they don’t want to be
around.
“DJ, stop being rude,” Scarlet scolds him, so much like her mum that I fight the grin from my face so I don’t undermine my
niece when she’s doing the right thing. “Uncle Freddie, it’s not that we don’t love you. We do. It’s just every time we come here
to stay, we end up either at the restaurant or hearing about the restaurant. And we know you love it there. But we don’t. Auntie
Phoebe takes us to fun places and we get to stay up late, eating snacks and watching TV with her.”
“We do that here too,” I interrupt, trying to get a point in my favour, but she raises a brow at me and tilts her head to the
side. And this time I do grin, because, damn, she’s a mini Lola.
“When was the last time?” she asks and presses the button on the side of the chair to raise her head up.
“Erm, the last time you stayed, wasn’t it?” I rub the back of my neck, feeling uneasy as her blue eyes stare at me.
“No, it wasn’t. The last time we stayed we fell asleep in your office at the restaurant because there was a crisis with your
head chef and you had to sort it out even though the manager said she could handle it.”
Shit! She’s right. I remember that day well. Our head chef had fallen ill and we had no one to replace him. The sous chef
had to step in, and, even though Lauren had told me she had everything under control, I still went. I couldn’t leave my dad’s
dream in someone else’s hands. And even though I knew the kids were tired, that they’d had a long day at school and that I
hadn’t seen them in a long time, I still took them with me. Then made them wait around all night for me to finish.
“Okay, but that was one time,” I defend myself, even though I know I don’t have the right to.
“Not just dat time. You left us all alone and stayed in da kitchen da time befowe dat.” DJ sits up too and scowls at me.
I gulp a little because even though I don’t remember that far back, I know he’s right. And I’m not stupid enough to question
him.
“Okay. I’m sorry guys. I really am. I don’t mean to do things like that. What can I do to make things better?” I try to explain
as best as I can, but words fail me. I can’t tell them I work every hour god sends so I can fulfil my promise of looking after
their grandad’s girls, even if two of those girls are fine looking after themselves.
Ivy’s set for life with her job in the private medical centre she works in and Lola is happily married to a hugely successful
man who has unlimited cash available to him. But Mum doesn’t. And as much as she tells me she doesn't need help, she does.
Financially. And there’s where I come in.
“No restaurant talk. No phoning to check in. Just us, in here, with snacks and movies.” Scarlet narrows her eyes at me and I
nod my head back.
“And we go to the playgwound and have ice cweam with Auntie Phoebe. That’s non-nego, non-negot, you can’t argue dat
with me.” I roll my lips to stop the smile spreading over them at his stumble over non-negotiable and nod again.
“But only if Auntie Phoebe isn’t busy. We can’t force her to join us.” I hope she isn’t. I hope she can spend the whole day
with us. Because seeing her today made me thirsty for more of her.
“Oh she’ll be dere. She loves da swings,” DJ informs me, and I note that little bit of information in my head.
“I really am sorry, you two. You mean more to me than anything, including the restaurant, and I'm sorry if I’ve made you
think differently. I never used to be so…”
“Bo-wing?” DJ interjects, and I laugh softly as his sister tuts and throws him a wide-eyed look.
“We know, Uncle Freddie. Auntie Phoebe told us you used to be fun.” Scarlet grins as she speaks, and I’m intrigued.
“Really? What else did she say?”
Her grin gets wider and I eye her suspiciously. “Nothing really. Just that you were fun and not boring. Mum’s said it before
too. And Auntie Ivy.”
I don’t care about those two. They’re my sisters, they have to love me and say nice things. Auntie Phoebe’s different.
“So Auntie Phoebe didn’t say anything else?” I question casually as I walk into the kitchen.
“Nope.” Scarlet’s voice comes from directly behind me and I jump, secretly impressed with her ninja-esque stealth. “You
seem to be very interested in what Auntie Phoebe said. Do you like her?” Her eyes bore into mine and I know I have two
choices. I tell her the truth and admit that yes, I do fancy Phoebe. Or I deny it and make myself a sitting target with her to prove
me wrong for the entire day tomorrow.
“Yep,” I say quickly and walk over to the freezer. I open the door, lean down and take out a tub of chocolate ice cream and
slam the door shut. When I stand up straight, she’s frozen to the spot with her mouth gaping open. I head over to a drawer, grab
three spoons, walk back toward her, and lower my face down to hers and smirk. “Didn’t expect that answer did you?”
She snaps back to life and jumps up and down, squealing. I place the hand with the spoons on top of her head which stops
the jumping immediately. “This stays between us. No telling Mum, Dad, DJ, no one. And especially not a word to Phoebe.”
She grins and crosses her heart. “So are you going to ask her out?” She grabs a spoon from my hand and tries to grab the ice
cream tub but I hold it out of reach.
“No, I’m not.”
She stops stretching for it and slumps back to her normal stance, dejected. “Why?” Her whine clearly indicates just how
unimpressed she is with my life choices.
Join the queue kiddo, join the queue.
“Because she deserves someone who can give her more than I could. Someone who doesn’t spend their whole life at work.
Someone who doesn’t have as many responsibilities in life.” Someone who isn’t afraid of loving and leaving people behind
when they die.
“Sounds to me like you’re scared. I think you should⁠—”
“Aaaand this conversation is over. Now, let’s go give your brother some ice cream and watch some shows like I
promised.” I stroll out ahead of her and pat myself on the back for handling the situation so well.
“What took so long?” DJ asks as he reaches for the tub of ice cream and a spoon. I let him dig in and sort the TV out for
them.
Just as I’m putting on a show, Scarlet walks into the living room and eyes me again. “This isn't over,” she mouths at me and
I chuckle back.
Because I know it isn’t, but I don’t want her to know I know that. Tomorrow should be a ball of fun.
 CHAPTER FOUR

Phoebe

aturday mornings are for laying in bed, not rushing, and letting the morning sprawl into early afternoon. They are not for
S getting up at the crack of dawn, washing, blow drying and styling your hair, and splattering your face with make-up.
I tug on the chunky knit cardigan the salesgirl assured me looked less granny style and more chic than anything, and
look down at my outfit again, praying she was right. I’ve teamed my cardigan up with dark blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and
converse. I was aiming for the cool chic autumn/fall look, but I’m not convinced I got it right. Oh, well. It’s the best I could do
seeing as I got a text from Mr. Frowny Face late last night asking me to come to the playground today.
I almost declined, but when he followed it up with ‘DJ said it was non-negotiable,’ I changed my mind. I couldn’t let DJ
down. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Oh who am I kidding? My heart beat faster, I got a little nauseous, and I was so excited when Freddie’s name appeared on
my phone screen that I almost hyperventilated. I wouldn’t have turned this opportunity down for anything.
It’s been a long time since he’s texted me for no reason or to just chat. I’ve missed it. And him. Before Reg died, I honestly
believed Freddie would be the one I’d marry. We would talk on the phone every day. Text constantly. He knew me just as well,
if not better, than Lola and Ivy did. In fact, I’d talk about him so much, Lola and Ivy got sick of hearing how wonderful their
brother was.
And after, it was like I’d lost Reg and Freddie too. My heart was broken in more ways than I could explain, and I hated that
the one person I knew could help was nowhere to be found.
But it wasn’t just me he shut off from. He saw his mum and sisters more than he did me, but Lola said he stopped texting
and calling. He’d only go round when he was needed, and spent every waking second in the restaurant. He has this stupid idea
that he has to make his dad proud and make a success of it to be able to look after his mum. What he doesn’t realise is his mum
would’ve preferred having her son instead of his money.
“I knew you’d come. I love this cardigan.” Scarlet appears from nowhere, strokes my sleeve and grins.
“Thanks, but what are you up to?” Caution drips from my words. She has the same mischievous glint in her eyes her mother
gets when she’s up to no good. That glint got me into trouble at school enough times, I know mischief when I see it.
“Nothing. Just complimenting you. Uncle Freddie will be soooo happy to see you, Auntie Phoebe. Like, so happy.” She
smiles sweetly, grabs my hand, and leads me across the playground to where Freddie’s pushing DJ on the swings. “Look who I
found. And doesn’t she look amazing, Uncle Freddie?” She bats her lashes at her uncle and his jaw ticks slightly. What have I
missed here?
“She always looks amazing, Scarlet.” He widens his eyes at her but she just grins in defiance.
I’m still reeling from the compliment I just got when DJ squeals out my name loudly. “Auntie Phoebe! Can you push me
please?”
Freddie steps away from behind the swing and takes my space next to Scarlet, grinning at me as he passes. There’s
definitely something afoot. I step behind and push DJ whilst the two of them step a little further away and seem to be in a
heated debate. I strain my ears to listen but I can’t hear anything over DJ’s loud ‘wheeeeeee’ screams.
“DJ, what are they talking about?” My eyes never leave them, hoping I can lip read something to see what’s going on, but I
can’t.
“I dunno. Can you stop me? I wanna go on da slide now.” I oblige and stop the swing and begrudgingly follow him away
from the secretive conversation and over to the slide.
After a couple of seconds I’m joined by the secret squirrels and I look at each of them intently. “Alright, what gives?” I fold
my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes at one and then the other.
 Scarlet grins, but Freddie hits me with a genuine smile and I nearly topple off my converse. I forgot how bloody beautiful
he is when he smiles. His brown eyes twinkling in the sunlight make it impossible to do anything but sigh adoringly into them.
“Nothing’s going on, Pheebs. Scarlet’s just being her usual annoying self.”
“Hey. I am not. You’re the one who’s being annoying. I’m a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, thank you very much.” She
smirks and he scoffs.
“Oh, really? Who told you that?” He laughs and she giggles a little too.
“My mum, so there,” she retorts and sticks her tongue out.
“Pfft, your mums a liar. I grew up with her, I should know,” he volleys back to her.
She gasps in shock but then laughs straight after. “You’re in so much trouble when I tell her you said that. And I’m telling
Grandma too. You know she thinks I’m a ray of sunshine.” She bats her lashes again and smiles angelically.
I’ve got a little whiplash from their verbal sparring, but also a happy heart. Because this is like having the old Freddie back
again.
“I’m not scared of your mum. I reckon I can take her. And Grandma. Just give me a day or two to work out first, though.
Grandma swings those rolling pins around like they’re nothing. She’s got guns of steel under those long sleeves she wears.”
Scarlet laughs so hard she snorts, which makes me laugh, and DJ, hearing our joy, comes over to ask what we’re laughing
about.
“Come on, DJ,” Scarlet giggles as she holds her hand out to her brother. “I’ll take you to the sand and explain why Uncle
Frowny Face is scared of Grandma’s guns.”
As they stroll hand in hand to the sandpit, we hear DJ exclaim, “Gwandma has guns? Has she shooted anyone?”
“You’re going to be in so much trouble when he asks Carol about her guns, Fred.” I turn my head to find him watching me.
His eyes fixed on me like he’s seeing me for the first time. It makes me nervous and shy, which is stupid seeing as I’ve known
him for nearly my whole life. I brush a loose strand of hair behind my ear and fiddle with the cuff on my cardigan.
He reaches over and grabs my hand to stop me. “Why are you nervous? You always fidget when you’re nervous.”
He’s still holding my hand and I know he’ll be able to feel my pulse as it quickens, so I don’t even consider lying. “You
make me nervous.”
“How? You’ve known me forever. How can I make you nervous?” he asks, tracing little circles on my palm, his touch
igniting me.
“I knew you, then. But now I never know what version of you I’m going to get,” I whisper, breaking our gaze and lowering
my head. He lets go of my hand and I want to kick myself for spoiling whatever this was. But just as I’m mentally scolding
myself, I feel his gentle touch under my chin. His thumb pushes slightly and I bring my gaze up to meet his.
“I'm still the same Freddie. Sometimes I forget that as well. I’m sorry… for being distant. It was never through choice or
lack of wanting to be near you. More of a survival thing.” He moves his hand to gently cup my cheek and I instinctively nuzzle
into his palm.
“You needed to avoid me to survive? Survive what?” I shouldn’t be asking this, as I’m not sure I want to know the answer,
but I listen anyway.
“Another heartbreak. I couldn’t be near you, feeling the way I was, and not be able to take strength from you. To have you
help me and guide me.” His eyes shine with unshed tears and I want nothing more than to kiss them away.
“But I was offering all of that and more.”
He interrupts me again, his words shocking and confusing me. “It wouldn’t have been fair.”
“Why?” I ask, a little more forcefully this time.
“Because I couldn’t give you what you needed. What you deserved. I couldn’t be the person I was anymore, which meant I
couldn’t have what I wanted either. So I had to distance myself from you. So I didn’t end up taking everything from you and not
giving anything back.” He drops his hand from my face and tries to take a step away from me, but I grab his arm and force him
to stay where he is.
“What do you mean? I don’t understand. I would’ve given you the world without expecting anything back. All I wanted was
you.” I say the words I wished I’d said so many times before and search his eyes for recognition of the truth, that he hears what
I need him to.
Pain and regret flood his face and I drop his arm and step away from him. His truth hits me like a slap to the face. “I
couldn’t give you me. I’d already promised myself to looking after my mum and sisters. I was at max capacity and couldn’t
give anymore. I don’t want to. I won’t leave behind what my dad did.” He stands straight and snaps his shoulders back, his
eyes shielded and closed off from me, and I know he’s reverted back to arsehole Freddie.
“And what was that, Fred? A loving legacy. A wife who adored him. Kids who idolised him. If you think your dad would
be happy with what you’ve turned his legacy into, you're deluded. He’d want to see you happy. In love. Starting a family. Not
chained to a promise and a restaurant that even he didn’t care that much about.”
I turn on my heels and head toward the sand pit. I can’t be around this version of him. The one who feels like he has to look
after everyone when in fact the person who needs the most help is himself.
 CHAPTER FIVE

Freddie

watch her leave and know I’ve pissed her off. What was I thinking, touching her and telling her how I felt about her. What
I would it achieve? Nothing. That’s what. She’s pissed, I’m pissed, Scarlet’s going to be pissed, and all because I wanted
more.
Because I needed to see if her skin felt as smooth as I remembered. I needed to hear her laugh and feel her nuzzle into my
palm like she used to. For fucks sake. This is why I’ve stayed away. I have no willpower when it comes to her and I don’t want
her to hurt because of me. I couldn’t take it.
A sharp shooting pain radiates from the inside of my chest out and I clutch my jeans to stop myself from clutching at the spot
of pain. I grimace and turn away from their view, not wanting the kids or Phoebe to see me in pain. I don’t want them to be
worried or scared. This happens every time I’m stressed. It’s probably an anxiety attack or something. I focus on my breathing.
This always calms the pain down. Grabbing for my phone, I pretend I’m on a call. Inhale for four, hold, and out for four. A
couple of those and the pain subsides.
My vision’s a little spotty, but I’m able to focus enough to put a frown on my face and head over to them knowing I’m about
to annoy the fuck out of all of them.
“Lauren called. There’s an emergency at the restaurant. I have to go. Will you watch the kids for me? They’ve already told
me how much they hate being there.” I look anywhere but at the three sets of eyes staring up at me. I don’t want to see their
upset and frustrations.
“Sure. But I don’t have their things.” Phoebe’s voice is tight and her annoyance is abundant with every word.
“I’ll drop their things at Mum’s on my way. Thanks, Pheebs.” I notice the slight flinch when I use her nickname, and I want
to gouge my own eyes out for making her feel bad, but I can’t help it. She’ll always be Pheebs to me. I turn around and head
toward the exit but stop when Scarlet calls my name. I sigh loudly and fix a frown back on my face as I turn to her. “What,
Scarlet?”
“You’re just leaving? After everything we said yesterday. You’re choosing the restaurant over us? Over her?” The pain in
her voice is clear as day and I can’t take it. I drop to my knees and hug her. I hate that she loves me. That she wants me to be a
part of her life. Love just means pain. No matter what happens, no matter how hard we love, it always ends in pain.
“I have to, Scarlet. I’m sorry. I love you more than anything and I’m sorry if you don’t believe that. All three of you.
There’s just some things I can’t explain to you yet. You’re too young. I’m sorry. Don’t hate me. Actually, do. It’ll make life
easier if you did.”
Confusion swirls in her eyes and then, as if something registers in her brain, she reaches up and hugs me. Her arms wrap
around me and cling to me. I hold back a sob as she whispers in my ear, “I will never stop loving you. Nothing you do will
change that.” She lets go, smiles, and walks back to the sandpit as I wipe tears away from my eyes and walk in the direction of
the car, not knowing where I’m going, but just knowing I can’t stay here.

I wake panting for breath, a cold sweat covering my body. The clock on my sideboard says it’s 3:40 a.m. The same time every
night.
I pound my fist down on the mattress and run my hands through my soaking wet hair. I’m done with these fucking
nightmares. The same time, the same style, and always the same reaction. It’s a joke. I’ve tried every herbal remedy going and
nothing works. I refuse to take sleeping pills in case anyone needs me in the middle of night and I’m too whacked out to know.
So, besides knocking myself out, the only thing I can do is analyse the fuck out of them and see if I can figure out what my
subconscious is trying to tell me. I close my eyes and relive the terror again.
Scarlet’s dressed in a black suit, her long hair in a french braid. She’s carrying a red rose in her hand and she looks so
sad. DJ approaches her and mirrors her stance in his own black suit. The sorrow oozes off them, and I hate it. I want to see
them happy and smiling. Not miserable and crying. I try to shout out to them, make a joke or something, but they can’t hear
me.
Instead Lola stands next to them and places a hand on each of their shoulders. I can’t see what they’re looking at. Their
backs are to me. My mum walks to them as well, but she’s being aided by Ivy. She looks frail and broken. Like she did after
my dad died, but worse this time. She stifles a sob and Ivy helps to keep her upright. Fuck this.
I try to fight my way to them, to help support them with whatever this shitshow is they’re dealing with, but my feet won’t
move. I can’t get to them. They need me and I can’t help them. My dad’s words echo in my brain, ‘look after my girls,’ and I
can’t help them.
His voice gets louder and louder and then I see her. Pheebs. Slumped in a chair, sitting next to a man I’ve never seen
before. He’s holding her hand, comforting her. She’s crying. He wraps an arm around her and kisses her head. It’s wrong.
It’s all wrong. That should be me. It should be me.
I should be holding Mum up, helping Lola and Ivy. I could make the kids smile again. It should be me comforting
Pheebs and giving her kisses, she's mine. ‘Look after my girls,’ booms in my head and I can’t focus on anything, his voice
echoing a thousand times until everyone disappears and I can finally see what they were looking at. What caused the pain
and sadness. What broke my mum worse than before.
I just need to be closer. Slowly inching forward and then…
I wake up. Every fucking time, I wake up. I never get to see what was causing them the pain. Instead, I’m left over thinking,
sweating and tired.
I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I’ll never fall back to sleep now. This is my new normal and one I’d gladly
swap for anything else.
 CHAPTER SIX

Phoebe

“S o he“Yep.
just left?” Lola frowns at me and I nod.
He left. He dropped their stuff at your mum’s and hasn’t bothered to reach out at all. Scarlet was really quiet
the whole time she was with me. I think she was more disappointed than she told me though, so maybe keep an eye on
her or have a little talk. You two are so close she’ll probably tell you about it all anyway.”
I’m catching up with my bestie while the kids are at school and Dan is at work. One of the joys of being self employed
means you make your own hours and I can spend a few of those with Lola right now.
“I honestly don’t understand him. It’s like he wants us around him, he loves us, right?” I nod again because I don’t doubt for
a second that Freddie loves his family. “But then it’s like he can’t be with us too much because the more he is, the more he
wants. But what's wrong with wanting and having more? I don’t get it, Bebe. You and he were on the perfect path to fulfilling
my romance loving heart's dream. My best friend marrying my brother and officially becoming my sister. Who wouldn’t want
that?”
“Apparently your brother, the unwilling groom.” I joke but I’m met with a tut of disapproval. “I don’t know, Lo. Maybe he
just isn’t that into me. Maybe all the flirting and sparks from before have died out and he actually enjoys being a Frowny Faced
Grump whose life revolves around the restaurant.”
“No. That’s not my Freddie Bear.” She shakes her head adamantly and her words drip in defiance. “Something happened
when dad died, and that stupid promise he made has skewed his vision as to what’s important in life. Hang on. What did he
say? He had to distance himself from you? Of course!” She slaps the dining room table with her palm, stands up abruptly, and
leaves the room.
Instead of being concerned by this type of behaviour, I simply roll my eyes, grin, take a sip of my tea, and wait for her to
come barreling back in.
Within a few seconds, she emerges with a notebook and pen and sits back down opposite me. I’ve known this girl far too
long to question any of her weird quirks. “We’re having a dinner party. You, me, Dan, Ivy and whatever her newest beau is
called, and Freddie Bear. Mum will watch the kids. We’re going to get Mr. Frowny Face drunk. I’m talking so drunk he can’t
see straight. He’ll end up blurting all his feelings out for you. And once he does, there’ll be no turning back.”
“Erm…”
“Nope. I don’t want to hear it. Clear your schedule for next weekend. By the end of it, you and Freddie Camden will be k-i-
s-s-i-n-g and well on the way to officially becoming my sister within the year. Mark my words.”
Like I said, I’ve known this girl long enough to know that when an idea forms in her head, there’s no point in trying to
dissuade her. So I shrug, laugh, and go with the flow. Either I’ll end up a weird fifth wheel in a couples dinner party, eating and
drinking more than I should, with Freddie cancelling at the last minute. Or he’ll turn up and be the arsehole version of him and
I’ll need to drink copious amounts of alcohol to stop myself from throttling him. Either way I’m getting a free dinner and
alcohol. What’s to moan about?

Everything. Everything is to moan about. I was wrong. My life has taken a dangerous turn and I’m questioning my friend
choices right now.
Ivy and Lola are tag teaming me. I’ve not only been roped into shopping, which I hate, but I’m also standing in the changing
room wearing a dress they both insisted I try on that shows off my hoo-ha when I bend over. I yank the curtain back and hiss for
them to come to me because I don’t want everyone else in the shop seeing me in my exposed state.
“OH.EM.GEE. You look amazing, Bebe.” Lola's excited squeal causes me to shoot her a death stare and she steps behind
Ivy and utters something that sounds like ‘eeep.’
“Okay, I take it we don’t like this dress then?” Ivy states a matter of factly as she tries to fight her smirk.
“Dress? It’s hardly a bloody dress, Ivy. It’s barely a top. And everyone can see everything. Look.” I proceed to bend over
and give them both a glimpse of my knicker clad bum. “I’m not looking for a new job, and if I was it wouldn't involve walking
the streets looking for clients. You two are in serious trouble.” I fold my arms over my chest and glare at them.
Ivy giggles and Lola speaks from behind her sister's shoulder. “In my defence, that dress would be knee length on me as I’m
a short arse. It’s you and those luscious long legs of yours that are making it so short.”
“Luscious legs. Nice alliteration there, Lola, but I don’t think flattery is going to work in this situation.” Ivy smirks at me,
completely ignoring my frown in response. “Give me five minutes, don’t hurt Lola, and I’ll bring some longer length dresses
back.”
My glare follows her through the shop and then shoots back to Lola who ‘eeeps’ again.
“She said not to hurt me.” She throws her hands up in a karate style move and then chops into thin air with her hand. I
giggle and shake my head as she lowers her hands down and smirks at me.
“I won’t hurt you and you don’t know karate.”
“Shhhh, don’t tell everyone.”
I throw my head back and laugh and she places her hand on the bottom of the dress to cover my modesty.
“Maybe that dress is a little short after all,” she mutters and I look down at her and smile.
“Oh really, you think?” I step back inside my little cubicle and slump onto the seat that’s more like a footstool. “What am I
doing, Lola? I’m getting all dressed up for what? He won’t show up. And if he does, nothing will come of it. I may as well
come wearing my sweats, no makeup, and scuff my hair into a messy bun. Maybe I need to get over him.”
“Yeah, you do. By getting under him first.” Lola steps into the cubicle with me and sits crossed legged on the floor. She
looks so much like Scarlet with her dark hair and big doe-like eyes. “Don’t give up. You’ve been in love with Freddie since
we were kids. And I know he loves you too. His capacity for love right now is buried under stupid promises and grief, but
that's why we’re doing this. If we can get him drunk, we can get him to admit his feelings. And then once he does that, you can
live happily ever after together. It’s the perfect plan.”
She smiles up at me, and instead of letting her know I think her plan is extremely flawed, I smile and nod. Part of me hopes
she's right and I end up with Freddie Bear and not arsehole Freddie. But the other half, the more realistic side, knows I’m
taking a one way trip to Alonesville, population, me!
 CHAPTER SEVEN

Freddie

ometimes the idea of being an only child is really appealing to me. Not having to deal with your sister's stupid ideas or
S having your other sister guilt trip you into attending stupid dinner parties that you don’t want to attend sounds ideal. But
unfortunately, I’m not an only child, I do have to deal with Lola’s stupid ideas, and I was guilt tripped by Ivy who told me
I’d upset Lola by calling her dinner party a stupid idea and I needed to make it up to her.
I don’t like upsetting my sisters. Especially Lola. She’s sensitive and takes everything personally. And even though I know
this, and it’ll make me feel like shit, I still manage to do things to upset her. It’s why I’m dressing to the nines to drive twenty
minutes to my sister's house to have dinner with her, Dan, Ivy, and Ivy’s latest boyfriend. Something I’ve done wearing sweats
before, but tonight calls for a formal dress code. So I’m wearing a suit, under strict instructions from Ivy, to make Lola happy.
And like the sucker I am for my baby sister, I’ll do whatever it takes to see her happy.
Sliding the blazer over my shoulders and grabbing the bottle of champagne I swiped from the restaurant, perks of being the
owner, I head out the front door, jump into the car and pull out of my driveway. Sliding the volume up loud, I let Ed Sheeran
sing to me. His songs always make me feel happy. And knowing I’m about to spend the next few hours—hours I should be at
the restaurant making sure everything is okay—with people I love, makes me happy. There’s no one else I’d rather be spending
my time with.
Well, apart from Phoebe. The mere thought of her has my heart beating faster and my dick stirring. She’s been on my mind a
lot since the whole park fiasco. This is what happens when I spend time with her. The more I see her, the more I want.
But I can’t have her.
I won’t leave her behind.
So instead of spending every minute I have with her, I run away and avoid her. Because I’m a bloody coward.
Ed’s voice floats through the speakers, singing about his perfect partner, and instead of finding it soothing, it agitates me. I
tap my fingers on the wheel in frustration instead of to the melody and turn the volume down.
The more annoyance swarms through my body, the more my heart starts to pound. My vision starts to get blurry and I pull
the car over quickly and safely. Tingles have taken over my left hand and I grip the steering wheel tightly. I force my eyes
closed as I breathe through the pain. Fuck. These are getting stronger and more frequent. I need to get a grip. I focus on taking
deep breaths again. It’s the only thing I know to do to try to control these attacks, whatever they are.
After several seconds, I’m able to breathe without pain. The tingles are subsiding and the sweat that built up on my upper
lip is turning to a cold, damp, glisten instead. I take a few more deep breaths, willing this to be the only one of these stupid
attacks I have tonight, and lower my head to the steering wheel.
What the fuck is up with me? I’m healthy. I exercise. I eat well. And besides these ‘attacks’ I’m fine. Maybe I should talk to
Ivy, get a professional opinion. But she’ll only worry about me, tell Lola and Mum, and then they’ll worry too. No. If I do see a
doctor it won’t be one that I’m related to.
I sit up straight and blow a deep breath out. Nope, I’m not doing this tonight. I’m going to my sister's dinner party. I’m going
to eat the amazing food and drink the fabulous cocktails she’ll prepare and I’m not worrying over anything else. I’m definitely
not going to worry about where Phoebe is tonight. Not whether she’s with another man. Or whether he’ll become her husband
one day. And definitely not over these ‘episodes.’ Tonight is for spending time with family and having a good time. Like we
used to have before Dad died and before I became Uncle Fucking Frowny Face.
I’ve been ambushed. I glare at Lola as I shake Dan’s hand and give him an awkward man hug. When I step away, my sister
smiles sweetly and wraps her arms around my neck. “You’re in so much trouble, Lo,” I whisper into her ear and squeeze her a
little tighter.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Freddie. Relax and have fun,” she whispers back and steps away from me, a
mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Now that our last guest has finally arrived we can get this party started. The first course is
almost ready, but until then, mingle and enjoy the nibbles and drinks on offer.”
She grabs Dan’s hand and pulls him into the kitchen. I’m left in the middle of the room with two options. I can make my
way over to Ivy, who’s talking to her current boyfriend in the corner of the room. Or I can head over to the most beautiful
woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. The very same woman I swore to avoid. Pheebs.
My gaze focuses at her feet and sweeps up, taking in the tight black dress caressing her curves, the hint of her long legs with
the thigh split teasing me as she shuffles slightly. I manage to pull my attention away from the smooth curve of her legs,
dragging my eyes up to meet hers.
She raises a perfectly sculpted brow and grins, offering me a drink as she brings her own to her lips. And as her tongue
pokes out to angle her straw correctly, I can’t take it anymore.
I’ve had enough of avoiding her. Of trying to live without her. I need her. I’m done. I want to know what her tongue feels
like as she wraps her lips around my dick. To run my hands through the silky strands of her hair as she drives me wild with that
mouth of hers. This attraction, this ache, it’s something it’s been inside of me for as long as I can remember. And I’m not strong
enough to fight it anymore. Not when she’s staring at me, challenging me to make a move and finally take what’s mine.
We’ve come close before but aside from a few kisses and touches, nothing more ever came from our flirting. I lick my lips,
smile and glide over to her. I take the proffered drink, clink the glass against hers and mouth ‘cheers.’ Her eyes are alight with
passion and hope, and tonight I’m not listening to the voice in my head telling me to ‘run.’
I take a generous sip, wincing at just how much alcohol is in there, but ignore that little voice in my head warning me this is
dangerous and knock back a little more.
“Whoa, slow down, Freddie Bear.” I freeze mid gulp and bring my gaze to meet hers. Nobody’s called me that in years,
especially her. A lump forms in my throat and she squirms in her shoes. “Erm, sorry, Freddie. That just slipped out. Old habits,
you know?” She giggles nervously and takes a sip of her drink.
I lower my glass and smile slowly. “Don’t apologise, Pheebs. I like it. Reminds me of the good old days.”
Her cheeks flush and she lowers her lashes and smiles. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
Lola’s high pitched voice fills the room, taking over the low mood music she’s put on. “Right. Everyone, the starters are
ready. Sit in your designated seats and we’ll pop open the champagne Freddie bought us.” She clasps her hands together and
bites on her lip. “But make sure you sit where your name plate is. It’s super important.” Her nervous energy flows out of her
and she’s back to biting her lip.
Luckily Dan spots this too. He places his hand over hers and reaches up to free her lip from her teeth. “Calm down. It’s just
a family dinner, babe. Stop stressing.”
Her shoulders relax, she grins up at him, and the whole exchange makes me smile. He’s the perfect person for her. And I
thank everything that she found him.
“It’s magical watching them together, isn’t it?” A whispered voice tickles the shell of my ear and I can’t fight the shiver that
takes over my whole body.
I lean back a little and feel Pheebs pressed against my back. Tilting my head so I can whisper in her ear, I take great
pleasure from the goosebumps coating her creamy skin from our contact. “It is. But not as magical as seeing your body react to
mine, Pheebs.” I place a kiss on her cheek and relish in the shocked gasp that falls from her pretty pink lips.
Her fingers brush her cheek and I join my smirking sisters to sit in my designated spot, which just so happens to be next to
Phoebe. Lola might not be the subtlest, but her methods are definitely working in my favour tonight.
 CHAPTER EIGHT

Phoebe

y cheeks hurt from laughing so much. Tonight has been amazing. Lola’s giggles, Dan’s stories, and Freddie’s hand
M resting on my thigh for most of the night—it’s been magical.
But now I’m flustered, hot, needy and only a little bit tipsy. Unlike Lola, who’s full-on drunk, singing karaoke
without a microphone or teleprompter and making words up as she goes along. Ivy got a call shortly after we sat down to eat
and had to leave, her date escorting her home, so it’s just Freddie, me, Lola and Dan.
I take another sip of my champagne and shift slightly in my seat when Freddie’s fingers trace little circles over my thigh.
Does he know what he’s doing to me right now? Judging from the smirk on his lips, the bulge in his trousers, and the look in his
eyes, I’d say he does.
His gaze drifts from watching Lola to look at me, and the heat that sears through his eyes does nothing to salvage my thong.
I swear, if I don’t get some relief soon, I’m going to explode. And this fucker knows it too. His fingers glide higher up my thigh
and dance dangerously close to where I want his touch the most. The sexy, slow smile he shoots me when I uncross my legs for
him sends another shot of need to my core.
Thankfully, Lola comes to my rescue, smashing a vase as she swings her hands out at a particularly enthusiastic part of her
song, and Dan calls time on our night. He swoops her into his arms and she squeals excitedly and flings her head back
dramatically. “Bye, bitches. I’m being put to bed. Bebe, make me your siii…”
I thank the lord above that Dan gets her out of the room before she finished her sentence, knowing she was going to say
‘make me your sister.’ And terrified that something will scare my Freddie Bear away right now. I think I’ll combust if he leaves
without finishing the job.
“She shouldn’t mix her drinks. She knows this.” He shakes his head and laughs softly.
“She’ll never change and we wouldn’t want her to either.”
I’m desperate for his touch and I don’t want this night to end, but I’m also not strong enough to take a knockback right now.
So, instead of inviting him back to mine, I stand up and place my napkin on the table. My thigh instantly misses the warmth of
his hand but I have to do this for my own sanity. “I suppose I should be getting home.” A false cheeriness echoes through my
words and I force a smile on my lips.
Collecting a couple of the glasses off the table to place in the dishwasher, I try to head into the kitchen. But before I can, he
places his hand on my arm. “Leave those. I’ll tidy up after I’ve walked you home. I’ll earn my keep that way.” He winks.
“You’re staying here?” Stay with me is on the tip of my tongue, just waiting to come out, but I don’t want to be the one to
make the first move. Been there, done that, still sporting the bruised ego to show for it.
“Yep. Drank too much to drive, so I’ll crash on the sofa. DJ’s bed’s too small and Scarlet would kill me if I messed her
room up.”
I walk over to the closet to retrieve my coat and bag. He graciously helps me into mine and as he scoops the hair from my
neck, his fingers brush against my skin. Shivers rush through me. He has always had this effect on me. As we walk out of Lola’s
house, he offers me the crook of his elbow and I giggle as I slide my hand into it.
After a few minutes of contented silence, I clear my throat. “Tonight was nice, Freddie. I had a really good time.” I dip my
head so he can’t see my eyes and tuck my hair behind my ear and silently tell him, ‘I don’t want it to end.’
He stops walking and stands in front of me. Placing his thumb under my chin, he raises my head to look at him, and his
smile knocks the breath out of me.
“I did too. You’re beautiful, Pheebs. Spending the evening talking and laughing with you was just what I needed. It’s what I
always need. It’s a shame it’s over.”
 “It doesn’t have to be.” His words have ignited a bravery in me I didn’t think I had. “I mean, if you don’t want it to end yet.
We could have a coffee at mine. Or whatever. I don’t mind.”
He places his finger on my lips to silence my ramblings, and smiles. “I’d love a coffee, or whatever.” His eyes burn into
mine as his thumb runs along my bottom lip. I can’t help it. I dip my tongue out to taste him and relish in the moan that falls from
his beautiful lips. “Let’s go, Pheebs. Now.”

Having Freddie in my house is doing mad things to me. Images of him carrying me over the threshold after our wedding, making
crazy passionate love in every room of the house, and bringing our babies home from the hospital together are taking over my
thoughts. He’s what I’ve always wanted, what I’ve always envisioned my future to be.
I moved into this house shortly after Reg died and I needed to be closer to Lola. To keep an eye on her, to make sure she
was as okay as she said she was. I never expected it to be years later that I’d see Freddie in here. But he chose to stay away.
Now, though, he’s here. And I know he’s snooping around my living room as I make him a coffee in my kitchen.
But I don’t mind. I want him to see the pictures of all of us I have all over the room. Photos from our past, reminders of the
good times we had.
The two mugs of steaming coffee smell divine and I quickly take a sip as I walk over the plush carpet in my bare feet. When
I get to the living room door, I find him fixated on a photo of us. I thought that night was going to be a turning point in our
relationship. That we’d take the flirty banter to another level. But Lola’s boyfriend broke up with her, and instead we spent the
night consoling her.
That picture though, is one of my favourites. Taken from afar, we’re around a campfire on a beach in Devon, the flames
dancing in front of us as we stare into each other's eyes. Lola framed it and gave it to me, but on the back of the frame she
wrote, ‘the look of love,’ and it always makes me smile when I look at it. Sometimes I wish I could go back to then, be the
carefree eighteen-year-old who was crazy in lust with her bestie’s twenty-three year old brother. Filled with so much hope and
yearning.
He gently runs his finger over the glass and a myriad of emotions cross his face. I almost feel intrusive being here and
seeing the vulnerability shine from his features. I shuffle a little further into the room and he snaps out of his melancholy and
lifts his gaze to mine. He smiles again which makes me grin back.
“Coffee?” I offer him the mug and he steps forward to take it.
“I was admiring your pictures. We had some good times, didn’t we?” I motion to the sofa and he waits for me to sit down
first.
Secretly I love his gentlemanly behaviour, but instead of showing him that I roll my eyes at his chivalry. “Don’t roll your
damn eyes at me, Pheebs. I’m trying to be a gentleman here.”
“Well maybe I don’t want a gentleman.” I mumble quietly against the rim of my mug, but, judging by his soft chuckle, not so
quietly that he doesn’t hear..
“So tell me what you do want, Pheebs.” He places his coffee on the table, rests his ankle on his knee and positions his body
so he’s facing me.
I take a deep breath and follow his lead, placing my coffee down too and scooting closer to him. I’m fully aware that the
split in my dress is showing a ridiculous amount of leg, but I don’t give a hoot right now.
“I want you, Freddie. No holds barred. I don’t want the controlled, uptight Freddie we’ve been forced to endure for the
past few years. I want the real Freddie Bear. The one I’ve spent most of my life lusting after.” I hold my breath. A part of my
brain is scolding me for making myself so vulnerable and the other part is screaming like an NFL cheerleader for finally saying
what I want.
His pupils dilate, and for a split second I think he’s going to refuse. But then he drops his leg, stands up, and holds his hand
out for me. I take it without hesitation and he pulls me up from the sofa, his other hand reaching around my waist and holding
me close to him. “Your wish is my command, Pheebs. Take me to bed, baby.”
I spin in his arms, grab hold of his hand, and lead him through my house. As soon as the door closes in the bedroom, he
drops my hand but steps up behind me and presses his body against mine. He lowers his head so his mouth is brushing against
the shell of my ear as he whispers, “That’s the last time you’ll be in control tonight, sweetheart. Now, strip.”
A shocked gasp falls from my lips but is quickly replaced by a grin. This is exactly what I wanted. Him taking control and
making me feel exquisite along the way.
I reach around to my side and lower the zipper. My straps slowly fall from my shoulders and the dress drops and pools
around my feet. He’s still behind me, I can feel his eyes on me, taking in every inch of my flesh on display. I bend over to grab
the dress and take pleasure in his sudden inhale, knowing he’s enjoying the view of my bare cheeks.
Placing the dress on a chair in the corner of the room, I take a second to calm myself down, taking a deep breath before
turning to face him. My breasts are bare and the only thing I’m wearing is a scrap of black lace that barely covers my pussy. I
raise my chin, refusing to feel anything but aroused right now, and look straight into his almost black eyes.
“Do you like what you see, Freddie Bear?” A rush of triumph surges through me when my voice doesn’t wobble with
nerves, and then again when he smiles and nods at me.
“Oh, very much so, sweetheart. You’re beautiful. But lose the lace. Let me really see what’s finally mine.”
A shiver runs through me and I suppress the urge to tell him it’s always been his. I’ve always been his. Instead, I hook my
thumbs onto each side of my thong and lower it slowly down my legs. I step out of it and stand straight again, completely naked
and so aroused. I run my hand over my stomach, let it stroke the underside of my breast and moan a little, needing contact
desperately.
“Keep going, Pheebs. Don’t stop. Show me how you make yourself feel good.”
“I’d rather you do it for me, Freddie Bear.” Even though I want his hands on me, I can’t move mine away. Not when his
focus is zeroed onto them. Not when his pupils dilate even more every time I get close to my nipples.
“I want that too, sweetheart. But first I want you to make yourself come so I can watch your face. Because once I’m inside
that beautiful pussy, I know I won’t be able to concentrate on anything else.”
His words take me to another level of arousal and I moan out his name as I cup my breast. I play with my nipple and let my
other hand glide down my stomach to the top of my mound. I open my legs a little wider and run my fingers through my slick
arousal. My finger connects with my clit and an eruption of liquid heat shoots through me. I close my eyes and groan out his
name.
I’m brought back to reality when he barks, “Open your eyes, Pheebs. I want to fucking see your eyes when you explode
with my name on your lips.”
The authority in his tone has me snapping my eyes open and fixing on him. I roll my nipple between my thumb and my
finger, and a whimper slips out of my mouth as I grip my lip between my teeth.
He starts to unbutton his shirt, having stripped his jacket off while my eyes were closed. With each button that opens, and
more of his tanned flesh on display, I feel myself getting closer and closer to the edge of my release. I’m so focused on
watching him, I don’t realise my fingers have stopped working.
“Keep going, Pheebs. I know you’re close. The quicker you come, the quicker I can get inside you, baby.”
He unbuckles his belt and my fingers strum my clit faster, his words spurring me on. I want to feel him inside me. I want to
be one with him.
He drops his trousers and boxers together and stands naked before me. His dick strains toward me and he wraps his hand
around it and strokes it slowly. “I’m waiting, Pheebs. Come for me, baby.”
And with his words echoing in my head, I explode with his name on my lips.
 CHAPTER NINE

Freddie

can’t hold back any longer. Wrapping my arms around her, I carry her over to the bed, lay her down and swipe away the hair
I from her face. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips tipping up in a contented smile, her eyes are closed. I dip my head and let my
lips take control of hers. Our first kiss in forever.
As soon as our lips touch it’s like she comes back to life, wrapping her arms around my neck. She opens her mouth and lets
my tongue explore hers. She tastes divine and I want to drink every drop of her. Get so drunk on her I become addicted. She
runs her hands over my body, and as she scrapes her nails against my back, my dick surges forward, seeking out her heat. She
opens her legs and I nestle between her thighs.
I want to taste her everywhere, I don’t want this to end too soon. I try to break away from her but she clings to my shoulders
and wraps her legs around my waist. She doesn’t want to wait, and quite frankly neither do I. Without breaking our kiss, I
lower myself into her slowly. Inch by inch of her takes me to a new level of ecstasy and I curse myself for not doing this
before.
She is where I’m supposed to be.
Not the restaurant. Not alone.
I’m supposed to be with her.
She’s my destiny. My legacy. My everything.
She moans against my lips and I swear I’ve found nirvana. Between her legs is my paradise and I don’t ever want to leave.
Holding myself still, covered in her, feeling her pussy pulling me in even deeper, I kiss her harder. A bruising kiss to make sure
she never forgets this. That she remembers this for the rest of her life. No matter what happens after, this will be ingrained in
her heart as much as it will be in mine.
I surge forward, taking her hard. I know I should slow down, but I can’t. I pump inside her, her cries getting louder and
louder. Moanings of my name, and ‘oh god’ fall from her lips.
“Is this what you wanted, sweetheart?” She nods, words unable to fall from her lips. “And you wanted it from me?” I ask
as my hips piston into her and take her further and further into freefall.
“Yes,” she pants. I brace my hand against her throat and hold her. My fingers digging into her flesh a little. She opens her
eyes and instead of fear or intimidation, happiness and satisfaction shine through them.
“Pheebs.” My voice sounds strangled and my pace is quickening. “It’s always been you. It’s always been you!” My name
falls from her lips as she explodes around me and I still inside her, calling her the one thing I’ve known to be true all my life.
“Mine.”

I wake up, startled by another nightmare, and for a few seconds I try to gather my bearings as to where I am. Reaching for my
phone on the nightstand, I grab nothing but air and frown into the darkness. I sit up in bed and notice a digital clock in the far
corner of the room. 3:40 a.m. As usual.
Wiping the cold sweat from my face and urging the dread to subside from the pit of my stomach, I force away the images of
my mum crying. I hate seeing her cry. Even though I know it’s only a dream, I can’t shake the feeling of angst away. A stirring
next to me makes me jump slightly and then memories of last night flood through my mind.
Phoebe.
 She’s fast asleep next to me. Her long brown hair fanned out against the white pillow makes her look like Snow White
waiting for true love’s kiss. I’d give anything to reach over and take those lips and claim them as mine again, but I know I can’t.
I’ve already fucked up enough by doing this with her once, let alone doing it again and again.
The nightmare is a stark reminder of my reality. I can’t give her what she needs. I won’t leave her behind to face the
devastation and chaos that death brings.
Scooting to the side of the bed to avoid waking her, my hands grip the ends of my hair as worry and anxiety kick in. What
did I do? I should never have opened myself up to her like that. Now I have to walk away and she’s going to be hurt. And
angry.
Good, maybe it’s better this way. At least then when I do have to leave she won’t be bothered by it.
An image from my nightmares infiltrates my waking thoughts—her crying and being comforted by another man. It makes my
blood boil and my conscious rest easy at the same time.
My breathing quickens and the telltale tingles start to shoot up and down my arm. I slide off the bed, grab my clothes from
the floor, and head into the living room, closing the door behind me. Quickly pulling my boxers and trousers on, I slump onto
the sofa. The tightness in my chest is suffocating but I force myself to take huge gulps of air into my lungs. I can’t keep doing
this. I can’t keep fighting with my body like this. Sooner or later I’m going to give in.
Once the panic starts to settle and the weight on my chest subsides, I rub at my temples and take a few last deep breaths. I
stand up and pace the length of her living room. What the fuck am I going to do? I can’t just disappear into the night. Lola will
kill me.
As I’m pacing, the photo of us at the bonfire catches my eye. We look so happy and in love. I wish everything was as
simple as it was back then. But it’s not. Back then, I didn’t have the superior knowledge of what it felt like to watch your life
crash before your very eyes, completely out of your control. Now I do. And I won’t inflict that on anyone.
I throw my shirt on and do a couple of buttons up, hastily chucking my jacket on top. One more glance at the picture has me
longingly stroking the frame. I snatch my phone from my pocket and quickly take a picture of it before walking out the front
door knowing that I’ve finally done what I’ve tried to do for the past few years. Make Phoebe hate me enough to never want to
see me again.
 CHAPTER TEN

Phoebe

he noise from the outside world waking up around me rouses me from my sleep. The birds chirping loudly outside my
T window force a smile onto my lips before I’ve even opened my eyes. I reach out to hug Freddie and snuggle with him like
I’ve wanted to do in the mornings for years, and touch nothing but mattress.
Opening my eyes and flicking the hair from my face, I squint against the light and, once my eyes have adjusted to the
brightness, scan around the room. There’s no sign of him. His clothes are gone and there’s no sound of him being in the
bathroom. Surely he wouldn’t do this, would he?
I reach over to my night stand and grab my phone. No notifications. No missed calls, no text messages, nothing. Maybe he’s
in the kitchen making us coffee. Or maybe he’s fucked off after regretting our night together.
Sitting upright, I scrub my face with my hands trying to clear the last bit of foggy sleepiness. Swinging my legs over the
edge of the bed, I stomp over to my dresser and grab a hair band. I scuff my hair into a messy high pony and grab my robe from
the chair. Before I jump to conclusions, I need to see if what I already think is actually true.
A sense of dread swarms through my stomach and I clutch my phone in my hand like it’s an anchor, keeping me from drifting
into complete rage or panic. I swallow the nerves and blow out a deep breath as I head into my kitchen.
Silence.
The nothingness I’m so used to echoes with my own stupidity and I clutch at desperate straws in my head. He got called
away because of the restaurant. Or maybe Carol is sick. No, it’s definitely the restaurant. He’d have woken me if it was to
do with the girls. Has to be the restaurant and he didn’t text me because he wanted me to sleep. Yep, that’s it. He didn’t want
to disturb me.
As far fetched as it is, I cling onto it with everything I have. Bringing my phone to life, I type out a quick text to him, hoping
above all else that my straws are the truthful kind.
Me: Hey, Fred. I hope you’re okay? If you’re freaking out, talk to me. We used to be really good at that. X
Seeing as I’m standing in my kitchen and the coffee machine is right next to me, I pop a pod into it and wait for my phone to
notify me of a text. What’s that saying, a watched pot never boils?
I slam the phone on the counter, grab a box of cereal from above the fridge and dig my hand inside. I shove a handful of the
little hoops into my mouth and try to distract myself. Maybe I should call Lola? I reach for my phone and then snatch my hand
away again. No, after all she had to drink last night, she won’t even be able to tell me her own name let alone give me good
advice.
The coffee machine dings to let me know my cup is ready and I place it next to the phone. My eyes slide between them both
and I force myself to fixate on the coffee instead of the blank screen. The sweet nectar of the gods will fix everything.
I sigh in happiness as the flavour of caramel balancing out the bitterness of the coffee dances on my taste buds. Another sip
and I’m starting to feel calmer. I shovel another handful of cereal in my mouth and look at the black screen again. I wonder if
Ivy is awake?
Again I scold myself. I can’t call Ivy. She was called into work last night in an emergency so god knows if she's even been
to sleep yet. So I’m stuck in limbo, waiting. And I hate waiting. I’m not a patient person.
My phone rings out in the silent kitchen and I jump, jerking my hand out of the box of cereal and spilling it all over the
floor. “Bloody phone.” I curse loudly and force myself to grab the dustpan and brush to clean the mess up before looking to see
who was texting me.
Once everything is clear, I take a deep breath and pick my phone up. What I read makes my blood boil and my breath
whoosh out of me so fast I have to grab a chair to sit down. I drop the phone on the table and reread the message because he
couldn’t possibly have sent what I think I read.
Freddie: Are you on birth control?
And that is exactly what I read. Is he fucking kidding me right now? After what we finally experienced together, after all
these years of knowing him like the back of my hand, he’s asking me a question like this? Shock is replaced by anger as I scoop
my phone up, my hands shaking as I reply.
Me: Shouldn’t you have asked me this last night?
Freddie: I’m asking you now.
Me: You’re a piece of work, do you know that?
Freddie: I’m sure. But you’re avoiding the question. Are you on birth control?
Me: What happened to Freddie Bear? How come I got stuck with Arsehole Freddie today?
Freddie: I thought it was Frowny Face Freddie.
Me: I have plenty of names for you right now. But don’t worry, one of them won’t be Daddy. Yes, I’m on birth control.
Me: Oh and I’m also STI free as well. Just in case you care.
Freddie: Good to know.
Even though I’m fuming right now and my heart feels like it's breaking in two, I still can’t give up on him or us. I try one
last time.
Me: Freddie, instead of shutting me out right now, why don’t you talk to me?
Freddie: There’s nothing to talk about.
Me: So the only thing you wanted to discuss about last night was whether or not I could be pregnant? Like that’s the worst
situation that could come from this? Nothing else matters? Just that?
Freddie: Having a baby with you is the worst case scenario here, Phoebe.
And just like that, my heart breaks. Tears fall and my phone makes a splintering noise as it smashes against the floor.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Open up, Phoebe. Or I’m coming in.” Lola’s shouts are loud and clear, but, even though I know she’ll make good on her
promise, I don’t move off the sofa. I’ve been curled in a ball here since yesterday's text conversation, only leaving my soft
sanctuary to use the toilet and get wine; the essentials of course.
Keys rattle in the lock but I can’t be bothered to move so I stay put and wait for whirlwind Lola to enter the building.
“Are you sick? What's wrong? Why are you on the sofa?” She frowns down at me and then smiles and whispers, “Is
Freddie here? Did you guys have a dirty weekend?”
I grunt my reply back to her and she flops down on the sofa, not caring that she’s currently sitting on top of my feet, and
grumbles, “Well then, why are you on the sofa at nine thirty on a Monday? And why didn’t you answer my texts?”
I motion to the phone on the coffee table and reach my arm out to it, coming shy of it by about a foot. “If I can’t reach it from
here then I don’t care. I only get up for bathroom breaks and wine now.” I ignore the shocked gasp that comes from her and
carry on staring at the tv screen, but not really watching anything.
Lola grabs the remote from the table and turns it off. As the screen fades to black, I turn my head to look at her. Her eyes
are shining with unshed tears, her bottom lip quivering, and she holds onto my blanket clad leg tightly, so I sit up and blow a
sigh out. “Lola, I’m fine. Stop looking at me like that.”
“I’ll stop when you tell me what happened. I know you two left together and I would’ve been round here yesterday but I
was sick…”
“You mean hungover,” I respond nonchalantly.
“Well, yeah, but whatever. I should have stuck to the plan and got Freddie drunk. Maybe if he had been, you wouldn’t be
here all sad and mopey and he wouldn’t be clearing my calls.”
“He’s clearing your calls because he thinks I’ve blabbed, that’s why.” The pain and anger returns to my chest and I sit up
quickly, trying to rid myself of it.
“Blabbed about what?” Excitement crosses her face and I don’t want to knock her back, but I have to let her know that her
brother and I are never going to happen.
“Go and put the kettle on, make me a coffee, and I’ll grab a quick shower and tell you all about it.”
 CHAPTER ELEVEN

Freddie

“I haven’t got fucking time for this!” I moan loudly when Lauren storms into my office and demands that I leave for the day.
“I think you’ll find I own this fucking restaurant and I’ll decide when I fucking leave, Lauren.” I know I shouldn’t be
dropping F-bombs like this and I’m taking my bad mood out on everyone, but I don’t fucking care. All I care about is
Pheebs and how I screwed everything up.
Pheebs: It was nice knowing you, Freddie. Delete my number and forget you know me. Enjoy your restaurant, it’ll be all
you have left soon.
Her text keeps replaying on repeat in my mind, along with her moans from our night together. I wanted this. I wanted her to
move on and forget about me. But why does it feel so wrong? Why do I feel like I’ve made the worst mistake of my life?
“Listen, boss, you can scream and shout at me all you want. It’s water off a duck's back. But Chef doesn’t like it and today
has been one step too far. So you either piss off or we close for the night because a restaurant without a chef or sous chef—yep,
he’s joining the mutiny—isn’t a restaurant anyone will want to be at.”
I’m about to open my mouth to tell her they can all go to hell, but she slams her hand on the desk and silences me with an
angry glare. “I know you’re pissed right now, but so am I, boss. You’re not the only one who loves this place. You’re not the
only one who wants it to succeed. Who’s put blood, sweat, and tears into making it what it is today. You’re also not the only
one who knows what it meant to Reg, either. So shut up, go home, and let me do what you pay me to do.” With both palms flat
on my desk, determination glinting in her eyes, I dip my head in resignation and leave the office without a word.
As soon as I’m in my car, I smash my palms against the steering wheel in frustration and yell into the silence. Why is
everything so fucking difficult? Why couldn’t my dad still be alive? Any why can’t I get out of my fucking head and do what
everyone else does and live happily ever after?
Because I know what happens when after comes, that’s why. You’re left half a person with a heart that's hollow. I can’t do
that to Pheebs.
The all familiar pain shoots through my chest and I try to ignore the tingles in my fingers. I place my forehead on the
steering wheel and breathe through the pain, through the fear, and through the guilt. After a few seconds, it subsides and I start
the ignition and drive to the only place that brings me comfort.

“Mum, it’s me.” I pause to take my shoes off in the hallway and I’m faced with my dad’s magical smile. She’s been putting
more pictures up. I look away from his eyes that are twinkling with happiness and instead focus on the other pair of shoes next
to mine. Lola’s here.
I try to quickly put my trainers back on and head out the same door I just walked through, but she catches me in the act.
Arms folded over her chest, her brow raised, and her lips are drawn into a thin angry line. Shit, she’s pissed. She’s definitely
spoken to Phoebe.
“I know you’re pissed off, but before you say anything⁠—”
“Oh no. You don’t get to talk right now. You get to listen. In the kitchen. Now, Freddie. And you bet your arse I’m pissed.
Move it.”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard Lola sound so fierce. She’s normally so happy and smiley. I dutifully follow her into the
kitchen because she’s my baby sister and I’ll do anything for her, but I’m really not in the mood for this verbal bashing from
Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Carità
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
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Title: Carità

Author: Mrs. Oliphant

Release date: November 25, 2023 [eBook #72221]

Language: English

Original publication: London: John Murray, Albemarle Street, 1885

Credits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
available at The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CARITÀ ***

‘But nothing shall stand between us any more.’

CARITÀ
BY MRS. OLIPHANT
AUTHOR OF “WITHIN THE PRECINCTS,” ETC.
CHEAP EDITION

LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1885

All Rights Reserved

 CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Beresfords 1
II. A Fright 10
III. Honeymooning 18
IV. The Three Charities 26
V. Coming Home 35
VI. The Consultation 44
VII. The Catastrophe 53
VIII. Consolation 62
IX. The Hill 71
X. The Square 80
XI. Mrs. Meredith 88
XII. The House next Door 98
XIII. The Young People 107
XIV. The Old People 117
XV. Roger 126
XVI. Sunday Evening 135
XVII. Edward 145
XVIII. Telling Tales 155
XIX. The Holy Inquisition 164
XX. The Perugino 173
XXI. A Confidence 183
XXII. Mystified 193
XXIII. A Remonstrance 202
XXIV. On the Other Side of the Wall 212
XXV. An Idealist 222
XXVI. In the ‘House’ 231
XXVII. The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing 241
 XXVIII. The Fireside 251
XXIX. The Old Folk and the Young 261
XXX. A Rebellious Heart 269
XXXI. The House of Mourning 279
XXXII. Taking up Dropt Stitches 288
XXXIII. Little Emmy’s Visitors 297
XXXIV. The Widow 308
XXXV. Roger’s Fate 317
XXXVI. Between the Two 326
XXXVII. The Crisis Approaching 336
XXXVIII. The Supreme Moment 346
XXXIX. The Hand of Fate 355
XL. Two—Parted 364
XLI. Two—To be One? 373
XLII. A Great Revolution 382
XLIII. The Worst Scrape of All 393
XLIV. Clearing Up 402
XLV. Conclusion 412

CARITÀ.
 CHAPTER I.

THE BERESFORDS.

James Beresford and Annie his wife had been married for more than a
dozen years—their only child, indeed, had nearly attained the age of twelve
at the time when this history begins. They had both got footing on that
plateau of middle age which, if it comes to something like level ground at
thirty, need not think of a descending step for twenty years—the time of the
greatest enjoyments and most solid progress of life. He was at one end and
she at the other of the first decade; the one approaching the forties, the other
scarcely well out of the twenties; both ready to laugh at the advance of years,
which was as yet but a joke to them, and neither having thought of bidding
any grave farewell to youth. She was impulsive, enthusiastic and nervous; he
philosophical and speculative, a man ready to discuss any theory in earth or
heaven, and without any prejudices such as might make one subject of
discussion appear less legitimate than another. They were not very rich, but
neither were they poor in any sense of the word. He had been called to the
Bar, but had never gone any further in that career. They had enough between
them to live on without show, but without pinching, as so many people of
quietly social, semi-literary tastes do in London. They knew a number of
people. They saw all the pictures, read all the books, and heard all the music
that was going; not absorbed in any art, but with just enough devotion to all
to make their life full and pleasant. And there could scarcely be a pleasanter
life. The fantasies of youth, but not the sentiment of youth, had ended for
both. Mr. Beresford had some mildly scientific pursuits, was a member of
some learned societies, and of one or two new and advanced clubs where
clever men were supposed to abound. Occasionally in his comfortable
library he wrote an article for a review or magazine, which was very much
talked about by his friends, to the great edification and amusement of people
who live by writing articles and say nothing about them. This gave him an
agreeable sense of duty to add seriousness to his life; and he was never
without occupation—meetings of committees, scraps of semi-public
business, educational and other projects, which, for the moment at least,
seemed full of interest to the world, made him feel himself a not
unimportant, certainly not a useless, man. Mrs. Beresford, on her side, had
the natural occupation of her housekeeping, and her child, whose education
gave her much thought—so much thought that many people with full
nurseries listened with a certain awe to her ideas of all that was necessary for
her little girl, and sighed to think how much less was possible when there
were six or seven little girls to think of.
The child, however, was not so over-educated and over-cared for as might
have been fancied; for the parents were young, as has been said, very fond of
each other, and fond of their own way; which likings did not consist with the
burden of dragging a small child with them wherever they went. The
Beresfords liked to go about ‘honeymooning,’ as their friends called it, and
as they themselves were not displeased to call it, by themselves, over the
world. They would start sometimes quite suddenly, to the Riviera in the
middle of winter, to escape London fogs and wintry chills; to Paris at Easter;
to Scotland in the autumn; even to Norway sometimes, or such difficult
places; and it stood to reason that they could not take the child with them
when they started at a day’s notice on these delightful journeys. For their
journeys were delightful. They were well enough off not to require to count
the cost; they went lightly, with little luggage and no servants, and they went
everywhere together. But it would have been bad for the little girl; therefore
she stayed at home, under the care of the best of nurses, who had been Mrs.
Beresford’s nurse before the child’s; and the father and mother, like two
lovers, roamed lightly about the world. But when they were at home, Mrs.
Beresford talked a great deal about education, and had plans enough to have
educated six princesses, let alone one little girl of undistinguished lineage. It
was a very lucky thing for all parties, their friends said, that they had but this
one child. Had they been hampered by half-a-dozen, what could they have
done? It would have changed their life completely. And one of their many
felicities was, that whereas they were preserved from the old-maidishness of
childless married persons by having a child, their freedom of action was
preserved by the fact that they had but one.
And they were wonderfully free of other relations who might have
hampered them. Mrs. Beresford had been an orphan from her childhood,
brought up by her grandmother, who in the course of nature was dead too;
and Mr. Beresford’s only two relations were a wealthy aunt, Charity
Beresford, who lived in a pretty house in the country, within driving distance
of London, and with whom lived his elder sister, Cherry Beresford, named
after her aunt, and living in considerable subjection to that energetic woman.
Miss Beresford was the richest member of the family, and her nephew had
expectations from her; and Charity was the favourite female name of this
branch of the race. But the idea of calling her child Charity did not at all
smile upon young Mrs. Beresford when her baby was born. She was
beguiled, however, by the unusual look of it, which charmed her, into calling
the little girl by the more melodious name of Carità, contracted prettily into
Cara in the drawing-room, and Carry in the nursery. Aunt Charity growled
when she heard of this, but did not otherwise complain, and gentle Aunt
Cherry declared herself unfeignedly glad that her little niece had thus
escaped the worse consequences of a symbolical name. When the young
couple went away pleasuring, little Cara very often would be sent to
Sunninghill, to pass the quiet days there under the charge of the aunts; and
so all responsibility was removed from the minds of the parents. They had a
letter sent to them every day to assure them of their welfare, however far off
they might go—an extravagance which Aunt Charity condemned loudly, but
which Aunt Cherry was proud of, as showing the devotion of the parents to
little Cara. The child herself was very happy at Sunninghill, and was a much
more prominent person there than at home, where very often she was in the
way, and interrupted conversation. For a father and mother who are very
fond of each other, and have a great deal to talk of, often, it must be allowed,
are hampered by the presence of one curious child, with quick ears and an
inconveniently good memory. In this particular the half-dozen would have
been more easily managed than the one.
Thus the Beresfords led a very pleasant life. They had the prettiest house;
naturally, travelling so much as they did, they had been able to ‘pick up’ a
great many charming things. You could scarcely see their walls for pictures;
some very good, one or two wonderful windfalls, and the rest pretty enough;
nothing strikingly bad, or next to nothing. Where other people had ordinary
china, they had genuine old faïence, and one or two plaques which Raphael
himself might have seen perhaps—Urbino ware, with Messer Giorgio’s
name upon it. Not to speak of the Venice point which Mrs. Beresford wore,
there were brackets in the drawing-room hung with scraps of old point coupé
which many a lady would have been glad to trim her dress with; and, instead
of common portières, they had two pieces of old tapestry from an Italian
convent which devotees went down on their knees before. But I have not
space to tell you how many pretty things they had. It was one of the
pleasures of their life whenever they saw anything that pleased them to bring
it home for the decoration of that pretty drawing-room, or the library, which
Mr. Beresford had filled with old vellum-bound volumes of curious editions,
and pretty books in Russian leather which kept the room always fragrant.
What was wanting to this pleasant, warm, full, delightful living? Nothing but
continuance; and it had not struck either of them that there was any doubt of
this for long, long years at least. What a long way off threescore years and
ten look when you are not yet forty! and death looked further off still.
Neither of them thought of dying. Why should they? For, to be sure, though
we know very well that must happen to us some time, in our hearts we are
incredulous, and do not believe that we ever can die. The Beresfords never
dreamt of anything so frightful. They were well, they were happy, they were
young; and as it had been, so it would be; and a world so bright they felt
must mean to go on for ever.
When Cara was about ten, however, the mother began to feel less well
than usual. There was nothing much the matter with her, it was thought:
want of ‘tone,’—a little irritability of disposition—a nervous temperament.
What she wanted was change of air and scene. And she got that, and got
better, as was thought; but then became ill again. No, not ill—unwell,
indisposed, mal à son aise, nothing more. There was nothing the matter with
her really, the doctors thought. Her lungs and her heart, and all vital organs,
were perfectly sound; but there was a little local irritation which, acting upon
a nervous temperament—— The nervous temperament was perpetually kept
in the front, and all sorts of evils imputed to its agency. At Sunninghill, it
must be confessed, they did not believe in the illness at all.
‘Fudge,’ said Aunt Charity, who had always been strong, and had no faith
in nerves, ‘don’t talk to me of your nervous temperaments. I know what it
means. It means that Annie has fallen sick of always having her own way.
She has everything she can desire, and she is ill of having nothing more to
wish for. A case of Alexander over again in a London drawing-room—that’s
what it is, and nothing else, my word upon it; and I know my niece.’
‘Yes, Mr. Maxwell; perhaps there is some truth in what Aunt Charity
says,’ said Miss Cherry. ‘I think you know I don’t judge harshly——’
‘That means that I judge harshly,’ said Miss Charity, bursting in; ‘thank
you, my dear. Well, you may call me uncharitable if you please; but there’s
where it is; let James lose the half of his fortune, or all his china get broken,
and she’d come round in no time—that’s what ails Annie. But as she belongs
to a very refined society, and has a silly husband, it’s called nerves. Bless
me, Cherry, I hope I knew what nerves were, and all about it, before you
were born.’
‘You could not know Annie before I was born,’ said Miss Cherry, who
was devoid of imagination. ‘I hope you will give her your best attention, Mr.
Maxwell. My brother James is a very fond husband, poor fellow! If anything
happened to Annie, he would never get the better of it. As for marrying
again, or anything of that sort——’
‘Good heavens!’ said the doctor; ‘I hope there is no need to take such an
idea into consideration. We must not go so fast.’
Miss Charity laughed. She was a great deal older than her niece, but
much more sensible. ‘There’s the seventh commandment to be thought of,’
she said; for her remarks were sometimes more free than they ought to be,
and put Miss Cherry to the blush: and this was all the worse because she
immediately walked out into the garden through the open window and left
the younger lady alone with the doctor, who was an old friend of the family,
and contemporary of the second Charity Beresford. Very old friends they
were; even it was supposed that in their youth there had been or might have
been passages of sentiment between these two now sitting so calmly
opposite each other. Mr. Maxwell, however, by this time was a widower, and
not at all sentimental. He laughed, too, as Miss Beresford made her exit by
the window. He was very well used to the family, and all its ways.
‘She wears very well,’ he said, reflectively. ‘I don’t think she has aged to
speak of for these twenty years. When I used to be coming here in my early
days, when I was beginning practice——’
‘The rest of us have changed very much since then.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Maxwell, thinking most of himself; ‘but she not at all. I
could think when I look at her that I was still, as I say, a young fellow
beginning practice——’
Miss Cherry sighed—very softly, but still she did sigh: over forty, but still
in the position and with many of the sentiments of a girl. People laugh at the
combination, but it is a touching one on the whole. What ages of lingering
monotonous life had passed over her since her present companion began his
practice, since her Aunt Charity had begun to be an old woman! Dr.
Maxwell had married, had lost his wife, had gone through perhaps sharper
troubles than Miss Cherry had known. He was now middle-aged and stoutish
and weather-beaten—weather-beaten in aspect and in soul—while she was
slim and soft and maidenly still. The sigh was half for those uneventful
years, and half for the undevelopment which she was conscious of—the
unchangedness of herself, underneath the outer guise, which was changed;
but this was not safe ground, nor could it be talked of. So she brushed away
the sigh with a little cough, and added quickly:
‘I know perhaps what nerves are better than my aunt does, and I know
Annie better. Tell me seriously, Mr. Maxwell, now we are alone. You don’t
apprehend anything serious? Should she go on travelling and running about
as they do if there is really anything the matter? No one can be so much
interested as I am. You would be quite frank with me?’
‘It is the best thing for her,’ said the doctor. ‘You now—I should not say
the same for you. You are a tranquil person and patient; but for her, the more
she runs about the better. It distracts her and keeps her from thinking. If she
worries, it’s all over with a woman like that.’
‘She has so little to worry about.’
‘Just so; and the less one has to bear the less one is fit for; that is to say,’
said the doctor, getting up and going to the window, ‘the less some people
are fit for. There’s that old aunt of yours to prove me a fool. She has never
had anything to bear, that I know of; and she is strong enough to bear
anything. Sixty-eight, and just look at her. There’s a physique for you—that
is the kind of woman,’ Mr. Maxwell said, with a little outburst of
professional enthusiasm, ‘that I admire—as straight as a rod still, and every
faculty in good order. That a woman like that should never have married is a
loss to the world.’
Miss Cherry, who had gone to the window too, and stood by his side,
looked out somewhat wistfully at her old aunt. Cherry was not like her, but
took after the other side of the family, her own mother, who had died young,
and had not possessed any physique to speak of. ‘It is very sweet to-day in
the garden,’ she said, inconsequently, and stepped out into the world of
flowers and sunshine. Sunninghill was an ideal house for two ladies, a place
which people who were shut out from such delights considered quite enough
for happiness. Indeed, Miss Cherry Beresford’s friends in general resented
deeply the little plaintive air she sometimes took upon her. ‘What could she
wish for more?’ they said, indignantly; ‘a place that was just too good to be
wasted on two single women. There should be a family in it.’ This was
especially the sentiment of the rector’s wife, who was a friend of Cherry’s,
and who felt it a personal slight to herself, who had a large family and many
cares, when Cherry Beresford, with not a thing in the world to trouble her,
presumed to look as if she was not quite happy. The house stood upon a hill,
fringed round with small but delightful woods. These woods were on a level
with the highest turrets of the great beautiful royal Castle of St. George,
which lay full within sight in the afternoon sunshine. So you may imagine
what a view it was that was visible from the old smooth velvet lawn round
the house, which formed the apex to these woods. The quiet plain all around
lay basking in the light underneath, and the Castle upon its hill dominated,
with a broad and placid grandeur, that majestic sweep of country, with all its
lights and shadows. The royal flag fluttered on the breeze, the great tower
rose grey and solid against the sky. Green branches framed in this picture on
every side; the cuttings in the trees made a picture-gallery indeed of different
views for different hours, according to the lights. ‘What a lovely place it is!’
Mr. Maxwell said, with sudden enthusiasm; ‘I always forget how lovely it is
till I come back.’
‘Yes, it is beautiful,’ said Cherry, who was used to it. ‘If you are going to
send them away, I suppose Cara may come to us for the summer?—that
makes such a difference.’ Cherry was very well used to the different lights.
She acknowledged the beauty of her home, and yet I can fancy
circumstances under which she would have liked a little house in a street
better. Man or woman either cannot live by beauty alone any more than by
bread.
‘Here’s a pretty business,’ said Miss Beresford, briskly; ‘half of my roses,
I believe, spoiled for this year; no second show this time. Jones is the
greatest idiot; he pretends to know everything, and he knows nothing. Your
protégé, Cherry, of course. All the incapables hang on by you.’
‘I can’t see any signs of deficiency,’ said the doctor, looking round.
‘Not at this moment; if there were, he should have his dismissal on the
spot. If those two go off again, as you are always sending them off, tell
James I insist on the child coming here. Ah! that’s what your women of
nervous temperament do—leave their children at home in a poky London
square, while they go wandering over the world. Tell them I wish it,’ said
Miss Beresford, with a laugh; ‘they never go against me.’
‘They know how kind you always are.’
 ‘They know I’m old and will have something to leave behind me, that’s
the plain English of it—as if I was going to accept poor Cherry’s subjection,
poor soul, without rewarding her for it! It is she who will have everything
when I’m gone. I’ve told them that, but still they think there’s a chance that
Cara might cut her old aunt out. I can see through them. I see through most
people,’ she added, with a laugh, looking at him full. How could she know
the thought passing through his mind at the moment, which was the abrupt
reflection, uncalled for perhaps, that for a professional man, who had made
no extraordinary name in his profession, Cherry Beresford, though an old
maiden, would make not such a bad wife? Could the old witch see through
broadcloth, and the comfortable coating of middle-aged flesh and blood,
straight into a man’s heart? He grew red foolishly, as if that were possible,
and stammered a little in his reply:
‘I can believe everything that is clever of you as well as everything that is
kind; though why you ladies should make such a point of having a little chit
like that, who can only disturb your quiet in this paradise of a place——’
‘Oh, how can you say so!’ said Cherry. ‘The child’s voice and the child’s
face make all the difference—they are better than sunshine. They make the
place beautiful. I would give it all, twenty times over, to have the child.’
‘Whom her mother is very glad to leave behind her.’
‘Hold your tongue, Cherry,’ said the elder lady; ‘you mild little old
maids, you are always in a way about children. I never took up that line. A
child in the abstract is a nuisance. Now, a man—there are advantages about a
man. Sometimes he’s a nuisance too, but sometimes he’s a help. Believe
them, and they’ll tell you that marriage was always far from their thoughts,
but that children are their delight. That’s not my way of thinking. But I
happen to like little Cara because she is Cara, not because she is a child. So
she may come and take her chance with the rest.’
Cherry had turned away along the garden path, and was looking through
one of the openings at one of the views. She knew it by heart—exactly how
the light fell, and where were the shadows, and the name of every tower, and
almost the shape of every cloud. Was it wonderful that this was not so
delightful to her as to the strangers who could not see that view every day in
their lives? To some people, indeed, the atmospheric changes, the effects of
wind and colour, the waverings and dispersions of those clouds, would have
made poetry enough to fill up all that was wanting; but poor Miss Cherry
was not poetical in this big way, though she was very fond of pretty verses,
and even wrote some occasionally; but how she longed for the child’s
innocent looks—the child’s ceaseless prattle! Her gentle delicacy was hurt at
that unnecessary gibe about the old-maidishness, and her supposed sham
rejection of the husband who had never come her way. ‘Why should she talk
of men—especially before him? What do I want with men?’ said poor Miss
Cherry to herself; ‘but my own niece—my brother’s child—surely I may
wish for her.’ And surely there could not have been a more innocent wish.
 CHAPTER II.

A FRIGHT.

‘Which you please; you are not gouty or rheumatical, or anything of that
sort,’ said Mr. Maxwell, almost gaily. ‘Homburg, for instance—Homburg
would do—or Baden, if you prefer that. I incline to the one you prefer; and
enjoy yourself as much as you can—that is my prescription. Open air,
novelty, change; and if you find you don’t relish one place, go to another.
The sea, if you take a fancy for the sea; and Sir William is of my opinion
exactly. Choose the place which amuses you most.’
‘It seems to me,’ said Mr. Beresford, ‘that these wise men are laughing at
you, Annie. They know there’s nothing the matter with you. If I were not
much obliged to them for thinking so, I should say you had some reason to
be offended. One knows what you doctors mean when you tell a patient to
do whatever she likes best.’
‘It means one of two things,’ said Mrs. Beresford; ‘either that it is
nothing, or that it is hopeless——’
Her husband burst into a soft laugh. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it is very evident it
cannot be the last—so it must be as I say. It is injurious to our pride, my
darling; for I allow that it is pleasant to possess either in your own person or
your wife’s a delicate and mysterious malady, of which it can be said that it
baffles the doctors, without very much hurting the patient; but never mind. If
you can bear this disrespectful verdict that you have nothing the matter with
you, I assure you it makes me quite happy.’
Mrs. Beresford looked at the doctor with very keen, eager eyes—eyes
which had grown bigger and keener of late, perhaps from the failing of the
round, smooth outlines of the face. She noticed that, though Maxwell saw
very well that she was looking at him, he did not reply to those looks, but
rather turned to her husband and answered him, as if he had not observed her
at all.
‘I don’t mean to be at all disrespectful,’ he said; ‘there is a little
disturbance of the system, which might turn to something as serious as you
could desire, and take away the comfort of life perhaps more completely
than a regular disease; but I hope that is not likely to happen here.’
‘No; I don’t think it,’ said the easy man. ‘We shall try Baden, which is the
prettiest—unless you prefer some other place; in short, we shall go off
without guide or compass, and do exactly what pleases ourselves. We have
done so, it must be allowed, pretty often before—but to do it with the
sanction of the faculty——’
‘And the child—as usual—will go to Sunninghill?’
‘Why should you say as usual, Mr. Maxwell?’ said Mrs. Beresford, with a
suspicion of offence. ‘Do you think I ought to take her with me? Do you
suppose, perhaps, that I might not come back again—that I might never—
see——’
‘This is so unnecessary,’ said the doctor, remonstrating. ‘What must I
say? I wish I was as certain of a thousand a year. You will come back quite
well, I hope.’
‘When people are very ill don’t you say much the same things to them?
There was poor Susan Maitland, whom you banished to Italy to die. People
talked of her coming back again. Oh, no! I am not thinking of myself, but of
the subject in general. One needed only to look in her face to see that she
would never come back.’
‘People have different ideas of their duty,’ said Maxwell. ‘Some think it
best not to frighten a patient with thoughts of death. I don’t know that one
can lay down any rule; one is guided by circumstances. To some nervous
people it is best not to say anything. Some are more frightened than others—
just as some people are more susceptible to pain than others.’
‘Now I am going to ask you another question,’ said Mrs. Beresford.
‘Suppose you had a patient very ill—I mean hopelessly ill, beyond all cure
—do you think it is right to keep them alive as you do now, struggling to the
last, staving off every new attack that might carry them off in quiet, fighting
on and on to the last moment, and even prolonging that, when it comes so
far, with cordials and stimulants? Keeping their breath in their poor,
suffering bodies till you get to the end of your resources—your dreadful,
cruel resources, that is what I call them. Do you think this is right? I had an
aunt who died dreadfully—of cancer——’
‘Ah! An aunt? You did not tell me this,’ said the doctor, off his guard;
then, recovering himself, with something that looked like alarm, he said,
hurriedly: ‘What would you have us do—kill the poor creatures? neglect
them? refuse what aid, what alleviations we can——’
‘I’ll tell you what I should like you to do if it were me,’ she said, eagerly.
‘When it was all over, when you were sure I could not get better, when there
was nothing more in life but to suffer—suffer: then I should like you to
make a strong, sweet dose for me to put me out of my trouble. I should like
James to give it me. Do you remember what was said that time in India, in
the mutiny? I don’t know if it was true, but people said it. That the husbands
of some of the poor ladies kissed them and shot them, to save them; don’t
you remember? That is what I should like you to do—a sweet, strong dose;
and James would bring it to me and kiss me, and put it to my lips. That
would be true love!’ she said, growing excited, the pale roses in her cheeks
becoming hectic red; ‘that would be true friendship, Mr. Maxwell! Then I
should not feel afraid. I should feel that you two stood between me and
anguish, between me and agony——’
Both the men rose to their feet as if to restrain her vehemence, with one
impulse. ‘My darling, my darling!’ said James Beresford, in dismay, ‘what
are you thinking of?’ As for Mr. Maxwell, he walked to the window and
looked out, his features working painfully. There was a moment in which the
husband and wife clung together, he consoling her with every reassuring
word that he could think of, she clinging to him with long, hysterical sobs.
‘My love, what has put this into your head?’ he said, half sobbing too, yet
pretending to laugh. ‘My Annie, what fancy is this? Have you lost your wits,
my darling? Why, this is all folly; it is a dream; it is a craze you have taken
into your head. Here is Maxwell will tell you——’
But Maxwell made him a sign over his wife’s head so impassioned and
imperative that the man was struck dumb for the moment. He gazed blankly
at the doctor, then stooped down to murmur fond words less distinct and
articulate in her ear. Fortunately, she was too much excited, too much
disturbed, to notice this sudden pause, or that the doctor said nothing in
response to her husband’s appeal. She held fast by his arm and sobbed, but
gradually grew calmer, soothed by his tenderness, and after a while made a
half-smiling, tearful apology for her weakness. It was after dinner on a
lovely summer evening, not more than twilight, though it was late. The two
gentlemen had been lingering over their claret, while she lay on the sofa
waiting for them, for she did not choose to be shut up upstairs all by herself,
she said. After she had recovered they went to the drawing-room, where the