A tiny red heart at the end. Just that, and suddenly I’m grinning like a love-struck teenager.
He’s rough around the edges, sure. But with me… he’s all warmth and softness. I still don’t understand how I got this lucky.
I sit down on the bed, wearing nothing but my black cotton briefs, and cradle the phone in both hands. My chest feels a little lighter. The anger hasn’t disappeared completely, but it’s quiet now, overwhelmed by something gentler.
I start typing back, fingers flying across the screen.
SEBASTIAN TEXT:
YOU’RE RIGHT, I SHOULD’VE WRITTEN SOONER. GOT… SWALLOWED UP BY THE FAMILY DRAMA.
SAME OLD STORY. MUM’S IN FULL-FORCE MODE, BUT NOTHING I CAN’T HANDLE.
PLANNING TO TALK TO THEM TONIGHT, OR TOMORROW MORNING AT THE LATEST.
WE’RE HEADING TO SOME FORMAL LUNCH NOW WITH FRIENDS OF THEIRS, NO IDEA WHAT THE OCCASION IS. MAYBE THEY JUST WANT TO PARADE ME AROUND AGAIN.
FIGURED IT’S BEST TO PLAY ALONG FOR NOW. MIGHT MAKE THINGS EASIER WHEN I FINALLY SIT THEM DOWN.
I’M SO GLAD YOUR TALK WITH FRANCIS WENT WELL. I KNOW HOW MUCH HIS OPINION MEANS TO YOU. IT SOUNDS LIKE HE REALLY GETS IT, AND CARES.
I HOPE, WITH HIS SUPPORT, THE OTHERS WILL STARTTO COME AROUND TOO. I’M NOT EXPECTING MIRACLES, BUT… FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A WHILE, I’M FEELING A BIT HOPEFUL.
THEY’RE CALLING ME NOW, GOT TO GO. I’LL MESSAGE YOU AS SOON AS I’VE SPOKEN TO THEM.
THANK YOU FOR BEING THERE. REALLY.
PS: I LOVED YOUR GIFT. CAN’T WAIT TO WEAR IT… IDEALLY WITH THAT OTHER PIECE YOU SEEMED TO ENJOY SO MUCH ????
Satisfied, I hit send and toss the phone onto the bed just as Mum’s voice floats up the stairs, sharp, insistent, rising by the second.
I pull on the clothes she laid out, suppressing a sigh as the fabric settles over my skin. Dark grey suit, crisp white shirt, so heavily starched it scratches at my neck the second it touches me. No tie, thankfully. One more layer of suffocation and it would’ve gone straight out the window.
It’s expensive. Polished. Impeccably coordinated.
And completely not me.
She knows that. Which, I suspect, is precisely the point.
I line up my black Converse neatly by the bed, then pull out a pair of black crocodile-print boots and my small toiletry kit. After a quick rinse, I freshen up, brush a touch of eyeliner along my upper lids, and tie my hair into a half-ponytail, leaving a few strands loose to soften the edges. One glance in the mirror, and I’m done.
When I come downstairs, they’re both waiting, impeccably dressed and visibly tense. Mum paces the hallway, her heels leaving faint dents in the thick grey carpet, while Dad watches her with that quiet, helpless look he wears far too often.
They take in the boots. And the eyeliner. Their eyes linger a moment too long, but they don’t say a word. Not now, anyway. I know it’s only a matter of time.
I walk straight to the door, quietly satisfied. A small win. Isabel snatches up her Louis Vuitton bag and follows. Evan locks the door behind us.
On the way to the Dirty Duck, they greet every familiar face with exaggerated cheer, like minor celebrities on a red carpet. I trail beside them, feeling like a carefully polished prop.
They beam. They gush. They make a show of me. And yet, for all this public pride, I’ve never oncefeltit from them, not where it actually counts.
The Dirty Duck is a Stratford institution, historic, charming, and perfectly positioned along the river. The pub retains its Elizabethan charm, all low beams and dark wood, while the restaurant offers a modern contrast: clean lines, pale walls, and a sweeping glass façade overlooking the Avon.
Naturally, we’re headed to the restaurant.
As we step into the sun-drenched room, a couple waves from a round table by the window.
Edward and Jane Welland are a striking pair, tall, angular, dark-haired, with piercing ice-blue eyes. They could pass for siblings. Their daughter is unmistakably theirs: statuesque, poised, her hair twisted into a ballerina bun. The crisp white lace dress clinging to her frame screams Valentino.
