I love this photo so much. His expression, the clothes, his hands, his arms (love a rolled up sleeve), the hair, the sunglasses. Everything. Perfection.
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Warnings: Age Gap, Domestic Abuse, Arranged Marriage, Sexual Abuse, PTSD, Religious Extremism; Implied Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Child Abduction,
In the courtroom, you took the oath.
Your voice did not sound like yours.
The prosecution questioned you first. Gentle, but not soft. Soft would have been worse. Soft would have made you collapse.
She asked your age when the marriage was arranged.
You answered. Sixteen.
She asked whether you consented.
You said no. The word came out clearly. It surprised you.
She asked about leaving Iran.
You described it as simply as you could. The planning. The fear. The documents. The help you received later. The fact that you did not go through your husband because going through your husband would have meant never leaving.
She asked about the children.
You said you had left because you believed staying would destroy them. Not dramatically. Not in a metaphorical way. You believed it like you believed in gravity.
Then she asked about the diary.
It was shown to you in a plastic sleeve.
Your handwriting looked younger than you felt.
For a moment, the room disappeared.
You saw a bedroom in Iran. A locked drawer. A girl writing very quietly while a baby slept and the whole house listened for footsteps.
“Is this your diary?” the prosecutor asked.
You swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Did you write these entries at or around the time the events occurred?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you keep it?”
Your answer did not come immediately.
The judge waited.
Everyone waited.
Even your husband, though you could feel his eyes on you now.
You looked down at the diary.
“Because he said things did not happen after they happened.”
The prosecutor’s face softened, but her voice did not.
“And why was that important?”
Your fingers trembled.
“Because I started to believe him.”
Silence.
You heard Tom breathe behind you. You did not turn. You knew exactly where he was.
The prosecution finished.
Then the defence stood.
The room changed.
You felt it before he spoke.
His barrister took his time adjusting his papers. A performance of calm. A performance of reason. A performance designed to make your terror look excessive by comparison.
“You left Iran without your husband’s permission.”
“Yes.”
“You took his children.”
Your mouth dried.
“I took my children.”
“They are also his children.”
“Yes.”
“And you did not seek his consent.”
“No.”
“Because you knew he would refuse.”
You looked at him.
“Because I knew he would stop me.”
“Those are not necessarily different things, are they?”
You said nothing.
The judge glanced at you.
“Please answer.”
“No. They are not always different.”
The barrister nodded as if you had conceded something valuable.
“You now live in London with the children.”
“Yes.”
“With Mr Sturridge.”
Tom’s name in his mouth made you feel sick.
“Yes.”
“A man with resources.”
The prosecutor stood.
“My Lady—”
The judge lifted one hand.
“Get to the relevance, counsel.”
The defence barrister inclined his head.
“Of course. You began a relationship with Mr Sturridge, and shortly thereafter, he became involved in your family matters.”
You looked down briefly.
“He became involved because my husband came here.”
“That is your interpretation.”
“That is what happened.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Is it not possible, Mrs—”
You flinched at the old name.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“—that Mr Sturridge’s influence changed the way this situation was handled?”
“No.”
“No?”
“My husband took Luka from kindergarten.”
Your voice shook, but it held.
“That is why police came.”
Behind you, Maddy made a tiny sound under her breath that might have been approval or the beginning of a murder plan.
The barrister moved on.
He asked why you had not reported every injury.
Why you had not gone to police in Iran. Why there were not more records. Why you had stayed. Why you had another child. Why you had smiled in certain photographs. Why, if it was so terrible, you had not told your family earlier. Every question was a little door opening beneath your feet.
Every answer required you to fall through it and climb back up.
You said, again and again, that you had been afraid.
He said fear was not proof.
You said no.
It was not proof.
But it was true.
Then his voice altered.
Not much.
Enough that Tom sat forward.
“You allege your husband raped you.”
The word cracked through the room.
You stopped breathing.
The judge looked at the barrister.
“Counsel.”
He bowed his head.
“My Lady, the allegation has been placed before the court as part of the explanation for flight and asylum. I must test it.”
The judge’s face did not move.
“Then do so with care.”
He turned back to you.
There was no care in his eyes.
“You were married.”
You stared at him.
“Yes.”
“You shared a marital home.”
“Yes.”
“You had children together.”
“Yes.”
“And there were occasions of sexual relations between you and your husband.”
Tom’s hand gripped the bench.
You did not look.
“Yes.”
“So when you say rape, what you mean is that at some later date, after leaving him, you reinterpreted marital relations as something criminal.”
The prosecutor rose.
“My Lady.”
Tom rose too.
Not fully.
Half out of his seat before he caught himself.
“Sit down, Mr Sturridge,” the judge said sharply.
Tom froze.
Every person in the room looked at him.
Except you.
You stared at the floor.
After one terrible second, he sat.
The judge turned to the defence.
“Rephrase. Now.”
The barrister did not look sorry.
“Did you say no?”
The room disappeared again.
Not all at once.
Slowly.
The walls moving away.
The bench in front of you lengthening.
Your husband’s old bedroom opening behind your eyes.
Your hands went cold.
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” the barrister repeated. “Not always.”
Your mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
The judge leaned forward slightly.
“Take your time.”
You swallowed.
It hurt.
“Sometimes I said no.”
“And other times?”
You looked up.
Not at the barrister.
Past him.
At the wall.
“Other times I knew not to.”
A tiny sound came from Tom.
The barrister tilted his head.
“You knew not to?”
“Yes.”
“Because?”
Your nails bit into your palm.
“Because when I said no, it was worse.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Sick.
The defence barrister looked down at his papers.
“But you accept that, under the customs and laws of the country in which you were married, certain duties were expected of a wife.”
Tom stood.
This time fully.
“Are you fucking serious?”
The room exploded without anyone raising their voice.
The judge’s head snapped toward him.
“Mr Sturridge.”
Tom was white with fury.
“She was sixteen.”
“Mr Sturridge, sit down.”
“He’s talking about duties—”
“Sit. Down.”
Maddy had one hand around Tom’s sleeve now, pulling hard.
“Tom,” she hissed. “Sit down.”
He did, but barely.
His whole body looked like it had been forced into a chair against its will.
The judge’s voice turned glacial.
“If you interrupt these proceedings again, I will have you removed. Do you understand?”
Tom’s jaw worked.
For a moment, you thought he would argue.
Then he looked at you.
Something in his face broke.
“Yes.”
The judge held his gaze another second before turning back.
“Counsel, this court is not here to debate whether another jurisdiction excuses abuse within marriage. The question before this court is whether this complainant had credible reason to flee by unofficial channels, whether her asylum was properly processed, and whether, once she and the children were on British soil, the defendant had any lawful right to remove a child from this country without her consent.”
The defence barrister’s mouth tightened.
The judge continued.
“What Iran might or might not tolerate is not determinative of what Britain recognises as danger, coercion, or consent.”
You felt those words enter you slowly.
Not healing.
Nothing that easy.
But they entered.
For one second, you could breathe around them.
For one second, the room did not belong entirely to him.
Then the defence barrister looked down at his papers again.
And the second passed.
“Let us remain, then, with the question of what you say happened.”
Your fingers tightened in your lap.
Behind you, Tom moved.
Only slightly.
A shift in the bench. A drag of breath. The sound of a man forcing himself not to stand again because he knew you needed him present.
The barrister’s voice was smooth.
Too smooth.
“You have described a marriage entered into at sixteen.”
“Yes.”
“But it was, at the time and in the place it occurred, a legal marriage.”
Your mouth had gone dry.
“Yes.”
“There was a ceremony.”
“Yes.”
“Your family attended.”
“Yes.”
“You wore bridal clothes.”
A pause.
The courtroom blurred for half a second.
Heavy fabric. Gold thread. Henna drying on your hands while women told you how beautiful you looked. Your mother crying quietly in the corner. Everyone behaving as though the thing happening to you was celebration, tradition, inevitability.
Not a door closing.
Not a sentence beginning.
“Yes.”
“There were photographs.”
“Yes.”
“In some of those photographs, you are smiling.”
Tom made a sound behind you.
Small.
Cut off immediately.
You did not turn.
“People told me to smile.”
The barrister tilted his head.
“But you did smile.”
“Yes.”
“No one appears to be physically forcing you in those photographs.”
Your hands had gone cold.
“Not in the photographs.”
He let that sit, as if it helped him.
As if a photograph had ever shown the whole truth of a girl’s life.
“You remained married for a number of years.”
“Yes.”
“You lived in the marital home.”
“Yes.”
“You had children.”
“Yes.”
“You attended family functions.”
“Yes.”
“You did not report to police that you had been forced into the marriage.”
“No.”
“You did not report to police that you were being beaten.”
Your throat tightened.
“No.”
“You did not report to police that you were being raped.”
The word struck the table between you.
Tom stood.
Not fully.
Enough that the judge saw.
“Mr Sturridge.”
Maddy’s hand closed around his wrist.
Tom sat back down.
Barely.
His face was white with fury now, his jaw clenched so hard you thought his teeth might crack. One hand was locked around the edge of the bench. The other was pressed flat to his thigh, fingers flexing once, twice, again, like he needed somewhere to put the rage or it would come out of him in a way no one could contain.
The barrister looked at you, not him.
“You did not report it.”
You swallowed.
It hurt.
“No.”
“Why not?”
The question sounded almost innocent.
That was what made it vile.
You looked down at your hands.
“Because he was my husband.”
“That is not an answer.”
The judge’s eyes lifted.
“It may be. Let her answer.”
You tried to breathe.
The room did not seem to have enough air.
“Because he was my husband,” you said again, quieter now, “and because everyone around me understood what that meant differently than I did. Because if I said he hurt me, they would ask what I had done. If I said I did not want him to touch me, they would say he had rights. If I said I wanted to leave, he would take the children.”
Your voice cracked on children.
Not loudly.
Not theatrically.
Just enough.
Tom’s head dropped behind you.
Maddy looked down too, blinking hard.
The barrister paused.
Not out of mercy.
To choose the next knife.
“So there are no police reports from that time.”
“No.”
“No independent witness who saw the alleged sexual violence.”
Your stomach turned.
“No.”
“No doctor’s report specifically saying your husband caused your injuries.”
“No.”
“No neighbour who came forward.”
“No.”
“No family member who has testified that they saw your husband force you.”
You closed your eyes for half a second.
When you opened them, the wood grain of the table swam.
“No.”
The barrister’s voice softened.
That was worse.
“So much of this depends on what you say happened.”
You looked at him.
For the first time, properly.
Your voice was thin, but it held.
“Yes.”
He seemed almost satisfied.
“And your memory.”
“Yes.”
“Years later.”
“Yes.”
“After leaving Iran.”
“Yes.”
“After beginning a relationship with Mr Sturridge.”
Tom’s head snapped up.
The judge looked at the defence.
“Careful.”
The barrister bowed slightly.
“Of course, My Lady.”
But the suggestion had already been placed in the air.
You had rewritten your pain for Tom. You had lied because Tom had money. You had become immoral, and then convenient, and then believed.
You felt it crawling over your skin.
The prosecutor rose.
“My Lady, if my learned friend intends to imply fabrication, he should put that allegation plainly.”
The judge looked at the barrister.
He hesitated.
A fraction.
Then said, “The defence position is that the complainant’s account has changed over time and has been influenced by subsequent events.”
Tom laughed once.
Not amused.
A short, disbelieving sound that escaped before he could stop it.
The judge’s eyes cut to him again.
“Mr Sturridge.”
Tom pressed his mouth shut.
His whole body had gone rigid.
Maddy leaned close and whispered something you could not hear, but you could imagine it.
Sit down.
Shut up.
Do not let him win by making you leave.
The barrister continued.
“Let us speak about the abuse you say you remember.”
You wanted to say no.
You wanted to stand and walk out.
You wanted to tell the court that remembering was not a drawer you could open and close for their convenience. That memory did not sit politely inside labelled folders. That it lived in your body. In the way doors sounded. In the smell of certain cologne. In the way you still sometimes flinched when someone entered a room too quietly.
But you only nodded.
Because this was what they had asked of you. Because the children were with Matilda. Because Tom was behind you. Because Mia had said, don’t let them make you sorry.
The barrister asked for dates.
You gave the ones you could.
He asked for places.
You answered.
The kitchen. The bedroom. The corridor outside Mia’s room. Once, the bathroom, where you had locked the door and sat on the tiles until your legs went numb and your hand shook too badly to turn the tap on.
He asked what started the arguments.
You stared at him.
What started them?
Everything.
Nothing.
A meal too late. Tea too cold. A book hidden under the mattress. Mia crying when he wanted quiet. Your eyes looking too long at the door. Your voice too low. Your voice too sharp. Your body too tired. Your face not grateful enough.
“I do not always know,” you said.
“You do not always know?”
“No.”
“So your recollection is incomplete.”
You looked at him.
“There did not always need to be a reason.”
Silence.
Behind you, Tom’s breath caught hard enough for you to hear it.
The barrister asked about injuries.
You answered in short sentences because anything longer felt impossible.
Bruises.
A split lip.
A wrist that hurt for days.
Marks on your upper arm that you covered with sleeves even in summer.
Pain when you lifted Luka after one argument, and the guilt of that pain, because a mother was supposed to be able to lift her child without remembering the hand that had hurt her.
He asked why there were not more medical records.
“Because I was not allowed to go unless he agreed.”
“You were never alone?”
“Not when it mattered.”
“That is a broad answer.”
“It was a broad prison.”
The words left you before you could stop them.
The barrister went still.
Tom did too.
The judge looked at you for a long moment.
Not with pity.
Thank God.
With something quieter than that.
The barrister recovered.
“You wrote in your diary about fear.”
“Yes.”
“About arguments.”
“Yes.”
“About bruises.”
“Yes.”
“You did not always write that your husband caused them.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
You swallowed.
“Because he might read it.”
“Yet you kept the diary.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Your hands were trembling so badly now that you hid them beneath the table.
“Because if I did not write things down, I thought I would disappear.”
The room went very quiet.
Not the quiet of shock.
The quiet of people being forced to understand something they would rather not understand.
The barrister closed the diary extract.
He moved on, but the damage of your answer remained.
Or perhaps the truth of it did.
You no longer knew the difference.
“You were asked earlier about sexual relations within the marriage.”
The courtroom tightened around you.
Tom’s chair creaked.
Maddy’s hand shifted again.
You stared forward.
“Yes.”
“You said sometimes you said no.”
“Yes.”
“But not always.”
Your throat closed.
“No.”
“And you want this court to understand silence as refusal.”
You could feel your pulse in your neck.
“I want this court to understand fear.”
The barrister’s expression did not change.
“Fear is difficult to measure, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Difficult to prove.”
“Yes.”
“Convenient, some might say.”
Tom stood so fast the bench scraped behind him.
“That’s enough.”
The judge’s voice cracked across the room.
“Mr Sturridge.”
Tom did not look at her.
He was staring at the barrister.
His eyes were blazing now, all the control gone from his face though not yet from his body.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? You are just –“
“Mr Sturridge, sit down immediately.”
Maddy had both hands on his arm now.
“Tom,” she hissed. “Sit down. For her. Sit down for her.”
That reached him.
Not the judge.
Not the threat.
You.
He looked at you.
His face changed.
A terrible, helpless thing crossed it.
Then he sat.
Slowly.
Like every inch of the movement cost him.
The judge’s voice was cold enough to freeze the room.
“Mr Sturridge, this is your final warning. If you interrupt again, I will have you removed. I do not care how distressing you find these proceedings. Do you understand me?”
Tom’s jaw worked.
For one second, you thought he would not answer.
Then he lowered his head.
“Yes, My Lady.”
The judge turned back to the barrister.
“And counsel, you will keep your questions within proper bounds. You may test evidence. You may not sneer at fear.”
The barrister bowed.
“My Lady.”
By the time he finished with you, your legs barely felt attached to your body.
He concluded there was no conclusive proof.
No direct witnesses.
No timely police report.
A legal marriage.
Cultural context.
Years gone by.
A diary written by you.
Medical notes that did not name him.
He did not say liar every time.
He did not need to.
The word sat underneath the whole thing.
The prosecutor stood for re-examination.
Only a few questions, she said.
Just a few.
You wanted to laugh.
People always said just a few before asking you to bleed a little more.
But her voice was different.
“You were asked whether there were photographs of you smiling at your wedding.”
“Yes.”
“Did smiling mean you consented?”
Your eyes stung.
“No.”
“You were asked why you did not report the abuse to police in Iran. Why not?”
You swallowed.
“Because I did not believe they would protect me.”
“Why?”
“Because he was my husband.”
“You were asked whether your children were fed and housed. Did the fact that they had food mean they were safe?”
Your hands trembled again.
“No.”
“Did the fact that you stayed for a time mean you were not afraid?”
“No.”
“Did leaving require planning?”
“Yes.”
“Did that planning make you less afraid?”
For some reason, that was the question that nearly undid you.
You shook your head.
“No.”
The prosecutor softened, only slightly.
“Why did you leave when you did?”
You stared down at your hands.
You thought of Mia asleep with one fist tucked beneath her cheek.
Luka inside your body, not yet born, already a reason to survive.
You thought of your husband’s voice saying he could take your daughter and there was nothing you could do.
You thought of a door.
A bag.
A passport.
A fear so large it had become courage because there was no other shape left for it.
“Because I understood that if I waited until I was not afraid, I would never leave.”
The prosecutor did not ask anything else for a moment.
The room held the answer.
Then she nodded.
“Thank you.”
The judge looked at you.
“You may step down.”
For one humiliating second, you were not sure you could.
Your knees had become hollow things.
Your solicitor touched your arm lightly, guiding without seeming to guide.
You stepped down.
You did not look at your husband.
You looked at Tom.
He looked destroyed.
Not crying. Not visibly. Worse.
He looked like someone had taken something sacred from him and made him watch while it was handled with dirty hands.
The court adjourned for lunch.
In the side room, Tom did not ask this time.
He simply opened his arms.
You walked into them and broke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
You just folded against him as if your body had waited all morning for permission to stop pretending it was a body.
His arms came around you, fierce and shaking.
One hand at the back of your head. The other spread across your spine.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
You shook your head against his chest.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
His laugh was awful.
“I nearly got removed from court twice.”
“Yes.”
“That is not nothing.”
You pulled back just enough to see him.
His face was too pale. His eyes wet now, though he seemed angry at himself for that too. His hands were still trembling when they came to your cheeks.
“Did I make it worse?”
Your heart twisted.
“No.”
“I can’t listen to him talk to you like that.”
“I know.”
“I mean it,” he said, voice low and uneven. “I can’t. I know I have to, but I don’t know how. Every time he says your name, every time that man asks you why you didn’t fight harder when you were —”
His voice broke off.
Maddy stood by the door, arms folded tight, eyes wet and furious.
“Tom,” she said. “I love you. You know I do. But for the love of God shut up and sit down, because she needs you there.”
Tom shut his eyes.
His breathing was hard.
“I know.”
You touched his face.
He opened his eyes at once.
“I do need you there,” you whispered.
The anger in him shifted.
Not gone.
Never gone.
But forced down beneath something bigger.
“I know.”
“Even if he lies.”
His jaw clenched.
“Even then.”
“Even if he smiles.”
Something dark moved through Tom’s face.
For a second, he looked almost frightening.
Then he nodded once.
“Even then.”
The knock came too soon.
Of course it did.
Court had no mercy for anyone’s nervous system.
Tom kissed your forehead.
Hard.
Then let you go.
After lunch, your husband testified.
He was accompanied by an interpreter.
He walked to the witness box calmly.
Gave his oath calmly.
Denied everything calmly.
That calmness was obscene.
He said you had been a difficult wife.
Emotional.
Ungrateful.
Influenced by Western charities.
Encouraged by Tom.
Corrupted by freedom, though he did not use that exact word.
He said he had only wanted his son back.
His son.
Not Mia.
The prosecutor noticed.
Everyone did.
“And your daughter?”
His mouth tightened.
“My daughter too.”
“Yet you did not attempt to take her.”
“She has been turned against me.”
“By her mother?”
“Yes.”
“Not by your conduct?”
“I did nothing wrong.”
The prosecutor took him through the forged documents.
The kindergarten pickup. The false permission letter. The airport evidence. The flight to Tehran. The laptop. The surveillance.
At first, he explained everything.
Then he justified it. Then he denied what could not be explained. Then he became irritated.
That was when the truth began showing through.
“You had photographs of the complainant’s home.”
“I wanted to know where my children lived.”
“Photographs of her partner’s car.”
“He was involved with my family.”
Tom’s eyes lifted.
Maddy whispered something.
He did not move.
“Photographs of the children entering and leaving school and nursery.”
“They are my children.”
“Photographs through the windows of a private residence showing intimate relations between your wife and Mr Sturridge.”
For the first time, he hesitated.
The prosecutor stepped closer.
“Were those intended for court?”
A pause.
“Perhaps.”
“Or for blackmail?”
His face hardened.
“No.”
“The photographs were quite explicit.”
The defence stood.
“My Lady—”
The judge looked at the prosecutor.
“Relevance?”
The prosecutor did not look away from your husband.
“Motive, intent, coercive control, and the defendant’s state of mind in the months leading up to the attempted removal of the child.”
The judge paused.
Then nodded.
“I’ll allow it. Carefully.”
Your husband’s mouth twisted.
“She is still my wife.”
Tom went very still.
Not angry-moving this time.
Still.
That was worse.
His hand had stopped tapping. His knee had stopped bouncing. His whole body had become a locked door.
The prosecutor continued.
“Did you intend to use those photographs to threaten her?”
“No.”
“Did you intend to send them to family members?”
“No.”
“To authorities in Iran?”
A pause.
Small.
Fatal.
“No.”
A lie.
You knew it so clearly it was almost like hearing him say yes.
The prosecutor let the silence stretch.
Then she looked down at the papers in front of her.
“Is it not true that you had researched whether your wife could be prosecuted in Iran for something called zina?”
The defence barrister rose immediately.
“My Lady, I object. This is inflammatory and strays into foreign law in a way that risks prejudicing the court.”
Tom’s head turned slowly.
Maddy’s hand went to his arm before he even moved.
You stopped breathing.
The judge’s gaze settled on the prosecutor.
“Explain the relevance.”
The prosecutor’s voice stayed calm.
“My Lady, the Crown does not ask this court to determine Iranian law. The relevance is that the defendant researched the possibility, contemplated using it, and, the Crown says, intended to use the complainant’s relationship as a threat or punishment. It goes to coercive control, malice, motive, and directly undermines his assertion that he was merely a desperate father seeking lawful custody.”
The defence barrister said, “That is speculation.”
“It is not speculation if there are search records.”
The room went colder.
Your husband’s eyes flicked toward his barrister.
Only once.
But everyone saw it.
The judge leaned back slightly.
“I will allow limited questioning. Proceed.”
The prosecutor turned back to him.
“Did you search the term zina?”
His jaw worked.
“I may have.”
“Did you search whether a married woman could be punished for a sexual relationship outside marriage?”
“I do not remember.”
“You do not remember?”
“No.”
The prosecutor lifted a printed page.
“On the twenty-third of March, there is a search on your laptop: ‘wife adultery Iran punishment.’ On the same day: ‘zina married woman evidence.’ On the following day: ‘photos proof adultery Iran.’ Do you deny making those searches?”
He said nothing.
The silence was an answer.
Tom’s breathing changed behind you.
You did not turn.
If you turned, you thought you might break.
The prosecutor waited.
“Do you deny making those searches?”
Your husband’s face hardened.
“No.”
There it was.
A sound passed through the courtroom.
Not loud.
Barely anything.
But it passed through everyone.
The prosecutor stepped closer.
“Were you considering reporting the complainant to authorities in Iran?”
His mouth tightened.
“I considered many things.”
“Answer the question.”
The judge said, “The witness should answer.”
Your husband looked at the judge, then back at the prosecutor.
“I considered it.”
Your stomach dropped.
Not because you had not known.
Because knowing something in your bones was different from hearing it admitted under oath.
Tom’s chair creaked.
Maddy whispered, “Don’t.”
He did not move.
But the stillness in him had become almost unbearable.
The prosecutor’s voice sharpened.
“You considered reporting the mother of your children for a sexual offence in Iran?”
His control slipped.
Just for a second.
His face hardened into something you knew far better than the respectable mask he had worn all day.
“She dishonoured me.”
The words came out before his barrister could stop them.
The defence stood.
“My Lady—”
But the damage was done.
The prosecutor did not pounce.
She did not need to.
She simply let the sentence sit in the room.
She dishonoured me.
Not she endangered the children. Not I feared for my son. Not I wanted lawful custody.
Me.
Tom’s face had changed.
You felt it before you saw it.
The room had gone too quiet around him.
He looked at your husband as if he were seeing, finally, not merely the man who had hurt you, but the entire system of ownership inside him. The old entitlement. The belief that you had been property first, person second, mother only when useful.
The prosecutor lowered the page.
“So when you took photographs through windows, when you stored images of her with Mr Sturridge, when you researched zina, that was not simply about knowing where your children lived, was it?”
“I wanted to know what life she was living.”
“You wanted evidence.”
“I wanted truth.”
“Evidence to punish her.”
“No.”
“Evidence to frighten her.”
“No.”
“Evidence to force her back.”
His eyes moved to you.
For one second, you were back in every room where he had looked at you like that and expected your body to remember obedience.
But you did not look away.
Not this time.
His voice lowered.
“She should not have left.”
Tom stood.
This time, not with a shout.
Not explosively.
Worse.
He rose slowly, both hands braced on the bench in front of him, his face white and his eyes fixed on your husband with an expression so cold the room seemed to drop several degrees.
“Mr Sturridge.”
The judge’s voice was warning.
Tom did not answer at first.
Maddy grabbed his sleeve.
“Tom.”
He looked at you.
Only then did he sit.
The movement looked painful.
The prosecutor’s voice cut through the tension.
“That was not my question.”
Your husband said nothing.
The prosecutor let the silence show the lie.
Then came the abuse.
He denied forcing you. Denied striking you except once, accidentally, during an argument. Denied threatening to take Mia. Denied controlling your movement. Denied that you had been married against your will. Denied that you had been afraid.
Each denial was neat.
Each one placed over your life like a sheet over a body.
“She was my wife,” he said. “She lived as my wife.”
The prosecutor looked at him.
“Did she consent to the marriage?”
“It was arranged properly.”
“That was not my question.”
“She accepted.”
“At sixteen.”
“That is not unusual.”
Tom’s breathing changed again.
Audible now.
Maddy’s hand stayed clamped around his wrist.
The prosecutor continued.
“Did she say yes?”
Your husband looked annoyed.
As if the question was beneath the dignity of the room.
“She did what was expected.”
Something inside you went very cold.
There it was.
The whole marriage.
The whole country of your body under his rule.
She did what was expected.
The prosecutor asked about sex.
Your husband smiled.
Not widely.
Not obviously.
But enough.
“She had sex willingly.”
The words did not hit like you expected.
They passed through you.
Like wind through a house already burned.
“Always?”
“Yes.”
“She never said no?”
“No.”
“Never cried?”
A pause.
Then irritation.
“Women cry.”
The judge looked up sharply.
Your husband seemed to realise, a second too late, that he had said something real.
The prosecutor did not move.
“Women cry,” she repeated.
His jaw tightened.
“I mean she was emotional.”
“After sex?”
“After arguments.”
“After you forced her?”
“I did not force her.”
“After you hit her?”
“I did not hit her like she says.”
“After you threatened to take the children?”
“I had rights.”
“Rights to frighten her?”
“Rights as a father.”
“Rights as a husband?”
His eyes flicked to you.
For the first time, he looked directly at you.
“Yes.”
Tom stood again.
This time fast enough that the bench jolted.
“For God’s sake—”
“Mr Sturridge,” the judge snapped. “This is my final warning.”
Tom was breathing hard.
For one awful second, he did not seem to hear her.
His eyes were locked on your husband.
“You don’t have rights to her just because she was your wife, you self-centred piece of shit.”
The courtroom went silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
Your husband’s face changed.
The judge’s voice cracked through the room.
“Mr Sturridge.”
But Tom was not looking at the judge. He was staring at the man across the room as if every polite surface had finally burned away.
“That is what you don’t understand,” Tom said, voice low and vicious now. “She is a person. Not property. Not a body you were owed. Not a child you got to keep because someone handed her to you young enough to frighten.”
Maddy grabbed his sleeve.
“Tom.”
Your husband’s chair scraped.
The judge’s voice cracked through the room.
“Mr Sturridge. Sit down now.”
Tom’s jaw worked.
He looked like he might say more. Like there were years of disgust rising in him and nowhere lawful for it to go.
Then you turned in your seat.
Just enough.
“Tom.”
Your voice did what the judge’s could not.
He looked at you.
His face broke open for half a second — rage, grief, helplessness, love — all of it raw and visible.
Then he sat.
Slowly.
Shaking with the effort.
But your husband was already staring at him with open hatred now, the mask cracking, the respectable wronged-father act slipping clean off his face.
The defence rose for re-examination, trying to smooth over the damage.
His barrister asked whether there were witnesses to the alleged abuse.
Your husband said no.
He asked whether anyone had ever seen him rape or beat you.
Your husband said no.
He asked whether you had lied before.
Your husband said yes.
He asked whether you were influenced by Tom.
Your husband said yes.
He asked whether, ultimately, these allegations came down to your word against his.
Your husband settled back into himself.
He smiled.
This time you saw it.
So did Tom.
So did Maddy.
“Yes,” your husband said. “Her word against mine.”
The prosecutor rose.
“My Lady, that is not accepted. There is the diary. There are medical records. There are immigration records. There are contemporaneous charity notes. There is evidence of coercive conduct after arrival in the United Kingdom. There are threats documented in messages. There is the defendant’s own conduct at the kindergarten and airport.”
The defence barrister inclined his head.
“Records which, in some cases, show injuries my client says were caused by falls or ordinary household accidents.”
Your husband leaned slightly toward the microphone.
His eyes found yours.
Steady.
Cruel.
Certain.
“Ask Mia.”
The room stopped.
Your body knew before your mind did.
It went cold from the centre out.
The prosecutor turned.
“I beg your pardon?”
Your husband’s voice smoothed again, as if he had found the perfect answer, the perfect punishment, the perfect way to reach into your safe place and put his hand around your child.
“Ask my daughter. She was there. She can say if her mother lies. She can say if I beat anyone. She can say if she was afraid.”
You stood.
You did not mean to.
You were on your feet before anyone could stop you.
“No.”
The judge looked at you.
Your solicitor touched your arm, but you barely felt it.
“No,” you said again, louder, shaking now. “You do not put her in this.”
Your husband’s barrister turned toward you with a softness that made you want to be sick.
“You do not want the child questioned?”
“No.”
“Because the abuse did not happen?”
Tom snapped.
Not halfway this time.
Not contained.
He was on his feet, voice cutting through the courtroom before the judge could stop him.
“Because she’s a child, you vicious little—”
“Mr Sturridge!”
But your husband was already standing too.
His chair scraped back violently.
All the calm disappeared from him.
The respectable suit. The measured voice. The wronged-father act.
Gone.
What remained was the man from the hallway. The man from the bedroom doorway. The man who hated being disobeyed.
He pointed at Tom, his face twisted with rage, then snarled something in Farsi.
“To hich kasi nisti.”
You are nobody.
Your blood went cold.
Tom did not understand the words.
But he understood the hatred.
Your husband stepped out from behind the table, the last of his control gone.
“You are pathetic,” he spat at Tom. “Soft Western man. You let a woman stand here and shame herself. Shame her family.”
Tom went very still.
Maddy grabbed his sleeve.
“Tom.”
He did not look at her.
Your husband’s eyes cut to you.
His mouth twisted with disgust.
“And you,” he said, voice low and vicious in broken English. “You bring this man to this? You open your legs for him and call yourself mother? You nothing but whore.”
The room stopped.
Everything stopped.
Tom snapped.
Not loudly at first.
Worse.
His voice came out low, shaking, lethal.
“Say one more fucking word about her.”
The judge’s voice cracked through the room.
“Mr Sturridge.”
Tom ignored her.
His eyes were locked on your husband.
“You pathetic piece of shit.”
Your husband’s face went red.
Tom took one step forward.
“You think that makes you a man? Calling her that? Frightening her? Dragging your daughter’s name into this?”
“Sit down,” the judge snapped. “Both of you.”
But your husband was too far gone now.
He surged forward.
The usher caught his arm, but your husband ripped free with a violent twist, his face red, his eyes fixed on Tom like nothing else in the room existed.
“You know nothing,” he spat. “You are weak. You let her speak. A real man would know how to keep his woman quiet.”
Tom’s face went white.
Not with fear.
With fury.
“You can’t be fucking serious.”
Your husband laughed, ugly and sharp.
“She is my wife. My right.”
Tom’s jaw clenched.
“She is a person, you stupid fucking—”
Maddy grabbed Tom’s sleeve.
“Tom, don’t.”
But your husband was already there.
He slammed both hands into Tom’s chest.
Hard.
The sound cracked through the courtroom.
Tom staggered back into the bench, one hand catching the edge, shock flashing across his face for half a second before rage swallowed it whole.
You heard yourself gasp.
The judge stood.
“Security!”
Your husband lunged again.
This time Tom caught him by the front of his jacket.
Not punching.
Not yet.
Just gripping him hard enough that your husband’s body jolted to a stop.
Tom’s voice came out low and shaking.
“Touch me again.”
Security rushed between them.
Maddy shouted Tom’s name.
Your solicitor pulled you back, but you could not look away.
Because Tom was staring at your husband like he wanted to tear him apart.
And your husband, still fighting against the hands dragging him back, smiled through his rage and spat one final word at you in Farsi.
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Warnings: Age Gap, Domestic Abuse, Arranged Marriage, Sexual Abuse, PTSD, Religious Extremism; Implied Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Child Abduction,
The morning of the trial, Luka refused to wear socks.
That was the first disaster.
Not the court. Not your husband. Not the thought of sitting in a closed room while strangers discussed your marriage, your body, your children, your escape, as if all of it could be arranged into files and arguments and neat legal categories.
No.
The first disaster was Luka sitting cross-legged on Tom’s bedroom floor, wearing his dinosaur jumper, one shoe, and no socks, declaring with the absolute moral conviction of a tiny revolutionary that socks were too court-y.
Tom stood in the doorway, dressed in a dark suit, his white shirt open at the throat because he had given up on the tie after trying to knot it three times and swearing under his breath each time. His hair was still damp from the shower and already ruined from his hands going through it.
He looked at Luka.
Then at the socks in your hand.
Then back at Luka.
“I’m not entirely sure socks can be court-y.”
Luka scowled.
“These ones are.”
“Right.”
Tom crouched down in front of him.
It made something in your chest ache, the way he did that. The way he lowered himself to Luka’s level even when he was stressed, even when his own face looked pale and drawn, even when he had barely slept.
“What if,” Tom said seriously, “we find socks that are not involved in the justice system?”
Luka considered this.
Mia, sitting on the bed in her school uniform, said flatly, “He means the blue ones with rabbits.”
Tom looked at her.
“Thank God someone here understands the law.”
Mia did not smile.
That hurt more than if she had cried.
She had been too quiet all morning. Too tidy. Too helpful. Her hair was brushed perfectly. Her bag was packed. She had made Luka’s toast and cut it diagonally because he liked it better that way, then had not eaten her own.
She was trying not to be a problem.
That was what nearly undid you.
You stood in the middle of Tom’s bedroom in the navy dress your solicitor had said was good. Plain. Respectable. Not too expensive. Not too soft. Not black, because black looked like grief, and not cream, because cream looked like innocence, and your solicitor had paused after saying that because both of you had understood how ridiculous and cruel it was that even colours could be made into testimony.
You had put on the navy dress.
You hated it.
Tom stood and looked at you.
Not the dress.
You.
His eyes moved over your face like he was trying to memorise whether you were still inside yourself.
“You alright?”
It was such a stupid question.
He knew it as soon as he asked.
His mouth tightened.
“Sorry. Obviously not.”
You tried to smile.
It failed.
“I think I might be sick.”
Mia’s head snapped up.
Luka looked worried.
Tom crossed the room at once, but stopped before touching you.
That, too, nearly broke you.
He had started doing that more lately. Asking without always asking. Waiting for the smallest sign. Giving you the power to step into him instead of being gathered up whether you were ready or not.
This morning, you stepped into him immediately.
He wrapped his arms around you.
Not carefully.
Not in the delicate, polite way people sometimes held the wounded, as if grief were contagious and trauma might bruise under their fingers.
He held you tightly.
You pressed your face into his shirt.
He smelled of soap, coffee he had not finished, and the faintest trace of cigarettes he had clearly thought you would not notice.
You noticed.
You always noticed.
But today you said nothing.
His hand moved slowly over your back.
“You don’t have to be brave in front of me,” he murmured.
Your fingers tightened in his jacket.
“The children are here.”
“I know.”
“So I do.”
His chest rose beneath your cheek.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, quietly, “You shouldn’t have to.”
From the bed, Mia said, “I’m not little.”
You turned your head.
Her face was pale and furious. Not at you. Not at Tom. At the whole morning. At the whole world. At the fact that adults kept making disasters and then telling children they were safe.
“I know, joonam,” you said.
Her chin wobbled once.
She hated that it did.
“Is he going to be there?”
No one asked who.
Luka looked between you all, still holding one sock like it might protect him.
You swallowed.
“Yes.”
Mia’s hands tightened around the strap of her bag.
“Do you have to look at him?”
Tom’s arms tightened around you, almost imperceptibly.
“No,” you said. “Not if I don’t want to.”
Mia looked at Tom then.
“Will you sit with Mum?”
Tom’s face changed.
A small, awful break.
“I’ll be there.”
Mia heard what he had not said.
“But not next to her?”
He shook his head once.
“Not when she’s speaking.”
“Why?”
Tom opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
For once, no clever answer came. No soft joke to make the room easier. No actor’s fluency. Just a man in a suit who looked like he would have traded anything to be allowed to sit beside you and hold your hand in a room designed specifically to keep him from doing it.
You answered instead.
“Because I have to do that part on my own.”
Mia looked at you for a long time.
Then she slid off the bed and came to you.
Tom loosened his arms immediately so she could reach you.
Mia hugged your waist.
Hard.
She was almost as tall as your shoulder now. That seemed impossible. She had been a baby once. A baby you had held in a locked room while promising her, silently, that one day you would get her out.
And you had.
You had.
That was what you tried to remember as she pressed her face into your chest.
“Don’t let them make you sorry,” she whispered.
Your throat closed.
Tom looked away.
Luka, feeling left out and frightened by emotion he could not name, launched himself into both of you with one shoe on.
“I don’t like court.”
Tom crouched and pulled him gently into the huddle.
“Nor do I, mate.”
“Is it like school?”
“Worse furniture.”
Luka frowned.
“Will they have snacks?”
Mia made a broken sound that was almost a laugh.
Tom’s eyes flicked to her immediately, grateful for it.
“Probably not good ones.”
“Then I’m not going.”
“Excellent instinct,” Tom said.
A knock came at the door.
Matilda stepped in without making a fuss, already dressed for school runs and damage control, her hair pulled back, a canvas tote over one shoulder and a set of car keys looped around her finger. She had the brisk, practical expression of a woman who had decided that if everyone else was going to fall apart, she would simply become logistics.
Her gaze moved over the room.
You in Tom’s arms.
Mia pressed against you.
Luka sockless.
Tom looking like he had aged ten years since breakfast.
Matilda’s face softened, but only for a second.
Then she lifted the blue rabbit socks in one hand.
“I believe these have been classified as acceptable.”
Luka gasped.
“Rabbit socks!”
Tom stared at his sister.
“You are alarmingly useful.”
“Yes, people often realise that in a crisis.”
Mia took the socks and knelt to put them on Luka herself.
Matilda’s eyes found yours.
She did not say it would be alright.
You were grateful.
Instead, she came to you and touched your arm.
“The children are with me today. Both of them. I’ll do snacks, dinner, homework, emergency rabbits, whatever is needed.”
Your mouth trembled.
“Matilda—”
“No. Don’t start.”
You stopped.
She squeezed your arm once, firm and warm.
“I’ve got them. You don’t have to think about whether they’re safe today. They’re safe.”
That nearly undid you more than anything else had.
Because you did think about it.
Always.
Every room. Every car. Every doorway. Every adult who came too close. Every form. Every school gate. Every second Luka was out of sight.
Tom’s hand came to the small of your back.
Matilda saw it.
Her own face tightened with feeling, but she pushed it down.
“Mia is coming with me now. Luka too. We’ll keep it normal. Some arts and craft. Maybe a movie. Maybe chips later if no one tells Mum.”
Luka brightened immediately.
“Chips?”
Mia said, “She said maybe.”
Matilda pointed at her.
“Thank you, tiny solicitor.”
Tom made a sound that was almost a laugh.
Mia did not smile, but some of the terrifying stillness in her face loosened.
Matilda turned to Tom next.
“And you.”
Tom blinked.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Stay seated.”
Maddy, arriving in the doorway at exactly the wrong or right moment, said, “Oh, good, we’re addressing that early.”
Tom glared at her.
“I can stay seated.”
Matilda gave him a flat look.
“You couldn’t stay seated during Ellie’s nativity when the microphone squealed.”
“That was painful for everyone.”
“This is court.”
“I understand that.”
Maddy folded her arms.
“Do you?”
Tom looked between them.
“Why is everyone speaking to me like I’m going to leap over a table?”
Silence.
Matilda said, “Because you look like you’re going to leap over a table.”
For one tiny second, absurdly, you laughed.
It came out broken and surprised.
Everyone looked at you.
Tom’s face softened so quickly it hurt.
“There she is,” he said under his breath.
You wanted to cry.
Instead, you kissed Luka’s hair. Then Mia’s forehead. Then you let Matilda take them.
Luka clung to Tom last.
That was new.
Or not new anymore.
He wrapped both arms around Tom’s neck and whispered something into his ear.
Tom closed his eyes.
Whatever Luka said hit him hard.
When Luka pulled back, Tom’s voice was rough.
“I promise.”
Luka nodded solemnly, then allowed Matilda to lead him out.
Mia paused at the door.
She looked at you, then Tom.
“Bring Mum home after.”
Tom’s face shifted again.
Something fierce entered it.
“I will.”
Only when the children were gone with Matilda did the house become unbearable.
The silence after them was not peaceful.
It was the silence of a room after the last warm thing had been carried out of it.
You stood there, staring at the closed door.
Your arms felt empty.
Tom stayed behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him but not touching. He was giving you the choice again. The space. The respect.
You hated needing it.
You loved him for knowing.
Maddy looked at you both and seemed to decide that if she allowed more than three seconds of quiet, everyone would collapse.
“Right,” she said, briskly. “Shoes. Coats. Court. Survival. In that order.”
Tom gave a short laugh.
It sounded awful.
He moved to the window and looked out at the street.
His hand went automatically toward his trouser pocket.
Then stopped.
Cigarettes.
He was trying not to.
For you.
For the children.
For the version of himself he was trying to become in the middle of all this.
You crossed the room and touched his wrist.
He looked at you.
“You can smoke after,” you said quietly.
His mouth tightened.
“I don’t need—”
“Tom.”
He stopped.
You held his gaze.
“After.”
His eyes searched yours, frantic in a quiet way.
Then he nodded.
“After.”
Maddy muttered, “Excellent. We’ve scheduled the nervous breakdown.”
Tom looked over.
“You are very comforting.”
“I’m not here for comfort. I’m here for strategy and emotional violence.”
You almost smiled.
Almost.
Then the car arrived.
And the day began properly.
******
The courtroom was smaller than you had imagined.
That was the first thing you noticed.
Not the judge. Not the lawyers. Not your husband sitting several metres away from you in a dark suit that made him look almost respectable if one did not know what his hands had done, what his voice had sounded like behind closed doors, what kind of father abducted a child from kindergarten and called it justice.
No.
It was the size of the room.
Small. Plain. Wood-panelled. Airless.
A room built to contain terrible things.
There were no members of the public. No press. No rows of strangers leaning forward for details they had no right to hear. The judge had granted a closed hearing because of the children, because of the asylum documents, because of the abuse allegations, because of your public standing now, because some parts of a life were not meant to be turned into theatre.
Still, it felt exposed.
Worse, somehow.
There were fewer people to hide behind.
Tom sat behind the prosecution bench, not beside you.
That was the second thing you noticed.
He was not allowed to sit with you. Not while you testified. Not while the court heard evidence. Not while men in wigs and serious voices debated the legal shape of your life.
You had known this.
Your solicitor had told you. Detective Marsh had told you. Tom had told you, very carefully, the night before, as if speaking gently could make the fact less cruel.
“I’ll be there,” he had said, kneeling in front of you in the bedroom while you sat on the edge of the bed and twisted tissue into pieces between your fingers. “You’ll know where I am.”
You had looked at him.
“But you can’t sit with me.”
His jaw had tightened.
“No.”
“And you can’t touch me.”
His face had gone still.
“Not during testimony.”
You had nodded like a sensible person. A person who understood rules. A person who had not spent half her life surviving rules written by men who never had to live beneath them.
Now you sat alone.
Not entirely alone.
Maddy was behind you too, on the other side, her coat folded over her lap, her mouth pressed tight in a way that told you she had already decided several people in this room needed to be run over by a bus. She kept completely still, which was how you knew she was not calm at all.
Your own hands were folded in front of you.
Then the judge entered.
Everyone rose.
Your husband did too.
You did not look at him.
You looked at Tom.
Only once.
He was already looking at you.
His face looked pale and exhausted, his mouth set hard.
But his eyes were on you.
Not on your husband.
Not on the judge.
You.
You breathed.
The first part was legal argument.
That should have made it easier.
It did not.
The defence began by attempting to make your husband sound like a wronged father.
Not an abductor.
Not a stalker.
Not a man who had forged documents, tracked your life, photographed your home, watched your child’s nursery, and tried to carry Luka through Heathrow airport on a one-way flight without your consent.
A father.
A husband.
A man with rights.
His barrister had a calm, elegant voice. That was the worst thing about him. He did not sound cruel. He sounded reasonable. Educated. Almost sorrowful.
He said there had been no true abduction because your husband remained Luka’s father.
He said there had been no legal loss of custody in Iran.
He said your removal of the children from Iran years earlier had itself been a form of abduction.
He said your asylum claim had been built upon allegations that had never been properly tested in court.
He said you had alienated the children.
He said you had lied.
He said you had been immoral.
He said the relationship with Tom raised questions about influence, money, and motive.
At that, Tom moved.
Only slightly.
A shift in his chair. A tightening through his shoulders.
You felt it without seeing it.
The defence barrister continued.
He spoke of Tom’s resources and public profile. He suggested the police response had been influenced by it rather than evidence. He suggested the situation had been inflated because a famous actor had become involved with another man’s wife.
Wife.
The word landed like a slap.
You looked down at your hands.
Your wedding ring had been gone for years.
Still, sometimes, when people said wife, your skin remembered.
The prosecution rose slowly.
Her voice was different.
Less polished. Sharper. Not unkind, but unsentimental.
She did not begin with emotion.
She began with dates.
The forged travel documents.
The false permission letter.
The kindergarten collection.
The staff member who had been told there was an emergency.
The phone records showing your husband had been within sight of your street more than once before the attempted abduction.
The photographs found on his laptop.
Your front door. Tom’s car. Mia’s school entrance. Luka at the park. You and Tom through a window, blurred but intimate enough to make your stomach turn.
The surveillance logs.
The searches.
Custody in Iran.
Flights London to Tehran.
How to prevent mother from leaving country with child.
UK parental child abduction sentence.
Can asylum mother be forced back.
The prosecution paused there long enough for the silence to become its own evidence.
Then she turned to the judge.
She said the Crown would seek the highest available sentence if convicted.
Seven years.
Not because of one impulsive mistake, she said.
Because this was planned.
Because there were forged documents.
Because there was stalking.
Because there had been no attempt to contact you through legal channels.
Because your husband had not filed for custody in Britain.
Because he had gone to a kindergarten and taken a four-year-old child.
Because he had attempted to remove that child from the country.
Because the evidence showed malice, control, and intent.
Your husband sat motionless.
He did not look afraid.
That frightened you more than anything.
Then came the asylum documents.
Your solicitor passed papers to the prosecution. The Home Office decision. Supporting statements. Medical records. Immigration interviews. Notes from the charity that had helped you when you first arrived. Documents that had once felt like the only proof you existed outside your husband’s version of you.
The defence objected to how much weight should be placed on them.
The judge allowed the discussion.
The defence said your asylum status had been granted on incomplete and self-serving information.
Your counsel’s face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
He rose after the prosecutor requested leave for him to address the immigration history.
“My Lady, the claimant’s asylum application was not an informal story told over tea. It was a formal process. She was interviewed. Her documents were reviewed. Her circumstances were assessed. The abuse was relevant. The forced marriage was relevant. Her lack of safe legal recourse was relevant. Her risk upon return was relevant.”
The defence barrister stood.
“The defence does not accept that there was any credible danger at the time she left Iran.”
Prosecution consulted with your counsel, then he turned slightly.
“She was married under age, against her will, beaten, raped by her husband, and repeatedly threatened with the loss of her children if she attempted to leave.”
The room went silent.
There it was.
Not all of it.
Not even close.
But enough to make your bones go cold.
Your husband’s barrister said, very smoothly, “Those allegations are denied.”
Your solicitor looked at him.
“Of course they are.”
The judge looked up.
“Careful, counsel.”
Your solicitor bowed his head.
“My Lady.”
The defence said there was no proof.
The prosecution said there were records.
The defence said the records were not conclusive.
The prosecution said there was a diary.
At that word, your fingers dug into your palm.
The diary.
You had forgotten the diary for years, except you had never forgotten it at all.
A cheap notebook with a green cover. Your awful little English sentences at first, because you had used it to practise. Then Farsi. Then English again when you moved countries and decided the language had to become yours if you were going to survive inside it.
You had written down dates.
Bruises.
Threats.
The times he locked the door.
The times he said he would take Mia.
The times he said no one would believe you because you were his wife.
You had never thought of it as evidence.
You had thought of it as proof to yourself that you were not mad.
Then the judge said your name.
Your real name.
The one you had not heard spoken in court before.
“The complainant will testify after the adjournment.”
Your body forgot how to breathe.
Tom moved again.
Not enough to be reprimanded.
Enough that you knew he wanted to stand.
Maddy’s hand gripped the back of the bench in front of her.
You stared at the wood grain of the table until it blurred.
The adjournment was brief.
Too brief.
Not long enough to flee the country. Not long enough to peel off your own skin and become someone to whom none of this had happened. Not long enough to go back in time and be sixteen again and run before anyone put henna on your hands.
You were led to a small side room.
The door closed.
And then Tom was there.
He had clearly been waiting for the second he was allowed to touch you.
He crossed the room in three strides and stopped right in front of you, as if afraid too much speed might frighten you even now.
“Can I?”
That nearly destroyed you.
Not the question itself.
The fact that he remembered to ask.
You nodded.
He pulled you into him.
Not carefully, after all.
Not politely.
He held you like you were coming apart and he could physically keep you together by force if required. One hand at the back of your head. The other across your spine. His cheek pressed to your hair.
You did not cry at first.
You shook.
That was worse.
Your hands gripped the back of his jacket. You could feel the fabric beneath your fingers, expensive and real. You could feel his breathing, uneven against you.
“I can’t do it,” you whispered.
His hold tightened.
“Yes, you can.”
“I can’t say it.”
“You already did,” he said, voice rough. “You said it once. You told the truth once. This is just them catching up.”
You made a broken sound.
“He’s sitting there.”
Tom’s voice changed.
Low. Dangerous.
“I know.”
You pulled back enough to look at him.
His eyes were bright, but not with tears. With rage he had shoved down so hard it had nowhere to go.
“Tom.”
He blinked, focusing on you with effort.
“I won’t do anything.”
You stared at him.
He exhaled.
“I will try extremely hard not to do anything.”
Despite everything, a laugh escaped you.
Small. Terrible. Wet.
His face changed at the sound, as if he would have accepted a bullet more easily than your laugh in that room.
He touched your face.
“There you are.”
You closed your eyes.
Maddy’s voice came from behind him.
“I’m also here, for the record.”
Tom did not let you go, but he turned his head.
“I know, Maddy.”
“Just making sure. I don’t want the court record to suggest I wasn’t emotionally useful.”
You laughed again, weaker this time.
Maddy came closer. Her own eyes were red. She did not pretend otherwise.
“Listen to me,” she said. “You are going to go back in there, and they are going to say disgusting things because that is literally the only weapon they have left. You do not have to convince him. You do not have to convince his lawyer. You do not have to make your pain pretty enough for anyone. You answer. You breathe. You look at Tom if you need to. Or me. Preferably me, because I am less likely to punch someone and get removed.”
Tom looked at her.
“That’s very hurtful.”
“It’s very true.”
“I wouldn’t punch him.”
Maddy stared.
Tom looked away.
“Fine. I might.”
You pressed your forehead against his chest for one more second.
Cannes just continues to deliver the Tom-tent... He's just so ... Making to he photogs job easy again.
Got this series (oh yes, there's more) from BOTH @sluttymorpheus and @liz19forever this morning, so I am twice blessed in being fed. Thank you, darlings!
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Warnings: Age Gap, Domestic Abuse, Arranged Marriage, Sexual Abuse, PTSD, Religious Extremism; Implied Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Child Abduction
The afterparty was, somehow, worse.
Not worse in any reasonable sense. Not unpleasant. Not ugly. Not frightening in the way airports and police stations and headlines had been frightening.
Just absurd.
A level of absurdity so polished and expensive it felt less like a party and more like walking into someone else’s fever dream.
There were flowers everywhere. Enormous arrangements that probably cost more than your first car. There were waiters weaving through the room with silver trays of champagne and tiny food that looked more decorative than edible. There were photographers pressed near the entrance, flashes snapping every time someone vaguely recognisable stepped beneath the lights. There were actors you had seen on posters. Directors whose names appeared in festival programs. Women in dresses that looked poured rather than worn. Men in suits who somehow managed to look dishevelled on purpose.
And there was alcohol.
Everywhere.
Again.
As if Cannes ran on champagne, cigarettes, and the collective terror of people pretending not to care what anyone thought of them.
You stood just inside the entrance with Sarah’s hand lightly at your elbow and thought, with genuine despair, that if someone offered you another glass of champagne, you might start laughing and never stop.
Sarah glanced sideways at you.
“You’ve gone pale again.”
“I’m fine.”
“That has become my least favourite sentence from you.”
You turned your head slowly and looked at her.
Then you tugged a little at the hem of the black dress, not because it needed tugging, but because your hands needed something to do.
The second dress was mercifully easier than the red carpet gown.
Still expensive. Obviously. You had borrowed this one from Matilda too and Matilda did not seem to own anything that was merely nice. Everything was either impossibly elegant or casually worth more than a council tax payment. But this dress, at least, allowed you to breathe. Black, softer, shorter, with lace across the neckline and sleeves that made it feel romantic rather than terrifying. It clung without imprisoning you. It moved when you moved. You could walk in it without feeling as though the fabric had its own agenda.
Sarah had zipped you into it back at the hotel while Tom had gone ahead to attend the party downstairs, at the resort, after some serious peer pressure.
He had not wanted to leave first.
That had been obvious.
Not to everyone, maybe.
To you, definitely.
The screening had wrung him out. You had seen it in the lift on the way back from the theatre, the way the adrenaline kept flickering through him, bright and unstable. He had laughed too quickly at nothing. Gone quiet too suddenly. Touched his hair three times in under a minute. Checked his phone, put it away, checked it again, then forgotten entirely what he was looking for.
People had wanted him everywhere.
The director. The cast. Festival people. Journalists. Luther, who had clapped him hard on the shoulder and said something like, “Come on, mate, you’re not hiding already,” before dragging him toward a waiting car with two other actors and a woman from the production team.
Tom had looked back at you from the corridor.
Not dramatically.
Not possessively.
Just once.
As if leaving you behind, even with Sarah, still went against some instinct in him.
You had waved him off.
“Go. I have to change. Sarah will deliver me safely.”
Sarah, from behind you, had said dryly, “I am fully capable of transporting one nervous girlfriend through a hotel corridor.”
Tom had not looked reassured.
“Text me when you leave.”
“Tom.”
“And when you arrive.”
“Tom.”
He had pushed a hand through his hair, making the carefully arranged mess worse and therefore better.
“I know. Sorry.”
You had softened then.
Of course you had.
Because he could stand in front of hundreds of people while they applauded him for seven minutes, but leaving you to change dresses for half an hour apparently required a tactical operations plan.
You had gone to him, cupped his jaw with one hand, and kissed him once.
“Go be brilliant and exhausted at famous people.”
His mouth had twitched against yours.
“I’m already exhausted.”
“Then just be brilliant.”
He had looked at you for half a second too long.
Then Luther had called, “Tom, come on!”
Tom had shut his eyes briefly.
You had laughed.
Sarah had made a noise that sounded suspiciously like fond judgment.
And then he had gone.
*********
Now, standing in the afterparty entrance with Sarah beside you, you realised you had made a grave mistake.
Because sending Tom ahead meant finding him.
And finding him meant scanning a room full of people who all looked as if they belonged there while you felt like someone had accidentally let a library assistant into a very expensive aquarium.
For almost two minutes, you looked around.
Then you saw him.
At first, only the back of him.
The dark suit. The messy hair. The line of his shoulders.
Your body recognised him before your mind had finished placing him.
He was near the bar, a little to the side of the main crush, holding a drink he was not really drinking. Luther was there too, along with two actors from the film and someone you vaguely recognised from a show Mia had once watched in the background while doing homework.
Tom was smiling.
Not the public smile.
The tired one.
The polite one.
The one that said he was listening, trying, present enough to be gracious and absent enough that part of him was probably still sitting in the dark theatre with the credits rolling.
And around him—
Oh.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
There were three women.
Not one.
Not two.
Three.
All beautiful in the particular early-twenties way that made beauty look unfairly easy. Glowing skin. Bare shoulders. Glossy hair. Tiny dresses or sleek suits or whatever the hell people wore when they had never once worried about whether sitting down would make their stomach fold visibly. They stood close to him in a little half-circle of perfume and laughter, their bodies angled inward as if Tom were a warm fire in winter.
One of them touched his arm.
Very lightly.
Just once.
Probably meaningless.
Possibly European.
Definitely enough to make something ugly and hot move through your chest.
You stopped walking.
Sarah stopped with you.
She followed your gaze.
Then sighed so quietly it was almost not a sigh.
“Ah.”
You said nothing.
Tom laughed at something one of the women said.
It was not even his real laugh.
That made it worse, somehow.
Because you knew the difference.
You knew the laugh he gave when he was amused but not comfortable. You knew the laugh he used when he had not understood exactly what someone meant but had worked out from context that laughing was safest. You knew the way his fingers tapped once against the side of his glass when he was overstimulated. You knew the way he glanced sideways, searching for exits, people he recognised, you.
But jealousy was not reasonable.
Jealousy did not care that his feet were angled away from them. It did not care that he had not touched them back. It did not care that his smile had edges. It saw three beautiful young women looking at your forty-year-old boyfriend like he was something rare and interesting and still entirely available.
And then jealousy, because it was a pathetic little creature, whispered:
Of course.
Of course they would.
Look at him.
Look at you.
You hated yourself instantly for thinking it.
The room seemed louder suddenly.
The dress felt tighter, even though it wasn’t.
Sarah’s voice came carefully beside you.
“Do you want to go over?”
You swallowed.
“No.”
“Do you want me to accidentally murder them?”
You looked at her.
She lifted one shoulder.
“Professionally, of course.”
Despite the burn behind your ribs, you almost laughed.
“No.”
“Shame.”
You looked back.
The blonde one was speaking now, head tilted, smile bright and sharp. The woman in the silver dress laughed and leaned closer to Tom’s side, as if the room were so loud she had no choice. The third one, dark-haired and terrifyingly elegant, looked at Tom’s mouth while he answered.
Your hand curled around nothing.
Sarah noticed.
Of course she did.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “he has looked at the entrance four times in the last two minutes.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“Tom. He is looking for you.”
You stared at her.
“He is surrounded by three women who look like perfume adverts.”
“Yes.”
“And one of them just touched him.”
“I saw.”
“And you are calm?”
Sarah gave you a sideways look.
“I have known Tom a while. That is not a man flirting. That is a man trapped by politeness and possibly dissociating.”
You stared at him again.
His fingers tapped the glass.
Once.
Twice.
Then he lifted it to his mouth, did not drink, and lowered it again.
The blonde said something.
Tom smiled.
Then looked past her.
Toward the entrance.
Toward you.
He saw you.
The change in him was immediate.
Not theatrical. Not rude. But immediate.
His face opened.
The tired politeness fell away like a coat slipping from his shoulders. His eyes fixed on you across the room, and for one second the whole party seemed to lose him. The women were still talking. Luther was saying something. Someone laughed beside him.
Tom was looking only at you.
Your jealousy did not vanish.
It stumbled.
Confused by evidence.
Then Tom said something to the group, already moving.
The blonde touched his sleeve again, perhaps to finish her thought, perhaps to keep him there.
Tom did not quite step away sharply, because he was not cruel.
But he did step away.
His body made the decision before the conversation could argue.
He crossed the room toward you with long, slightly impatient strides, weaving between people, drink still in one hand, the other pushing through his hair as if he had forgotten entirely that a stylist had suffered for that shape earlier.
Sarah murmured, “See?”
You said nothing.
Because he was coming toward you.
And because you were still furious.
And because you were relieved.
And because relief made the fury even more humiliating.
Tom reached you and stopped far too close for public decency, which, given the room, was probably saying something.
His eyes moved over your face first.
Then the dress.
Then your face again.
His mouth parted slightly.
“Oh.”
You lifted your eyebrows.
“Oh?”
He looked at the lace at your neckline, then very deliberately looked back into your eyes as though remembering he was a civilised man.
Barely.
“That dress.”
Sarah coughed.
Tom ignored her.
You hated that your skin warmed.
“Matilda’s.”
“Remind me to thank Matilda.”
“For lending me clothes?”
His gaze flicked down once more, not subtle enough.
“For many things.”
Sarah made a sound.
“I am going to get a drink and pretend not to have heard that.”
Tom looked at her then.
“Thank you for getting her here.”
Sarah softened despite herself.
“She is intact.”
“Mostly,” you muttered.
Tom’s attention snapped back to you.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Not suspicious.
Concerned.
Always too perceptive when you least wanted him to be.
“Darling.”
You looked past him.
At the women behind him.
One of them was still looking over.
Of course she was.
Tom followed your gaze.
Then he understood.
You saw the exact second.
His expression shifted. First confusion, then recognition, then something almost tender, which was so unfair you nearly wanted to kick him.
“Ah.”
You crossed your arms.
“Don’t ‘ah’ me.”
His mouth twitched.
Brave of him.
“I wasn’t aware I had ‘ah’d’ in a tone.”
“You did.”
“Right.”
Sarah reappeared suddenly, handed you a glass, handed Tom nothing because he already had one, and then vanished again with the look of a woman delighted by trouble she did not have to solve.
Tom stepped closer.
“Were you jealous?”
Your head snapped back to him.
“Absolutely not.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Because you look a little murderous.”
“That’s just my face.”
His mouth pressed together.
The bastard was trying not to smile.
You pointed one finger at him, champagne still in hand.
“Do not laugh at me.”
“I would never.”
“Tom.”
“I am fighting for my life not to.”
You glared at him.
He did laugh then.
Not loudly. Not cruelly.
Softly.
Warmly.
Completely unable to help himself.
Then, because apparently he had decided tonight was already too ridiculous to survive with dignity, he leaned closer and murmured, “And for what it’s worth, these three women over there were unfortunately a bit dull. I lost them halfway through a conversation about TikTok.”
You looked at him.
“TikTok?”
The party roared around you.
A camera flashed somewhere near the entrance.
A woman shrieked delightedly at someone famous.
Tom’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Yeah. TikTok.”
Oh.
That was worse.
Better.
Worse.
You swallowed.
“To be fair, they are very young.”
His mouth quirked, but he kept it gentle.
“Yes.”
“And very beautiful.”
Tom tilted his head a little, watching you like he knew the shape of the trap before he stepped into it.
“Yes.”
Your eyebrows shot up.
“You’re supposed to say no.”
“I am not stupid enough to lie to you about objective reality when you have eyes.”
You made an affronted sound.
Tom’s thumb moved again.
“They were beautiful. And I don’t care.”
Your chest hurt.
You looked down at his shirt collar because looking at his face felt dangerous.
“I know I’m being ridiculous.”
“You’re not.”
“I am. You’re at Cannes. People flirt. That’s normal. You’re—”
You stopped yourself.
Tom tilted his head.
“I’m what?”
You took a sip of champagne to avoid answering.
Wrong move.
It made you cough a little.
Tom’s mouth twitched again.
“Very elegant.”
“Shut up.”
He smiled.
You looked away.
Then muttered, “You’re you.”
His smile faded.
The room moved around you.
His voice came softer.
“And you are you.”
You rolled your eyes because otherwise you might cry again.
“Profound.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
His fingers tightened at your waist.
Not hard.
Enough.
“I am not standing in this room wishing I were with some twenty-two-year-old in silver lamé who asked me whether I enjoyed kissing Rami Malek.”
Despite yourself, you blinked.
“She asked you that?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“I think I said ‘totally. He is an excellent kisser’.”
A laugh broke out of you.
Tom looked pleased.
“There.”
“That’s a terrible question.”
“It was not her best.”
You glanced back, then stopped yourself.
“Don’t make me feel bad for her.”
“I won’t.”
“She’s probably lovely.”
“Probably.”
“I hate her.”
Tom’s smile widened.
“Naturally.”
You took another drink, smaller this time.
He watched you over the rim of his own glass, still not really drinking.
“Do you want to meet people?” he asked.
You looked around at the room.
The lights. The faces. The photographers. The slippery laughter. The constant movement of people who knew when to air kiss and when to embrace and where to stand so the camera caught their good side.
“No.”
He looked relieved so quickly you nearly laughed.
“Thank God.”
“You don’t either?”
“I should.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
He looked down at you.
Then admitted, “No.”
There was the man beneath it.
Not the actor. Not the subject of red carpet photos. Not the handsome thing three women had decided to orbit because they liked the shadow he cast.
Just Tom.
Overwhelmed, fidgeting, tired, proud, still slightly stunned by the ovation, and looking at you as though the entire party was something to survive until he could get you alone.
You softened.
He saw that too.
His mouth brushed your temple, quick and warm.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll do the least possible amount of socialising without being actively rude.”
“That is my favourite kind.”
“Mine too.”
And he kept you close after that.
Not in a showy way.
Not like he was proving something.
Just close.
His hand at your back as you moved through the room. His fingers grazing your wrist when he stepped aside to let someone pass. His mouth near your ear whenever he explained who someone was.
“Producer.”
“French distributor.”
“No idea.”
“Someone very important whose name I’ve forgotten.”
“That man once spent forty minutes telling me about a boat.”
You kept almost laughing into your champagne.
He introduced you to people as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
“This is Y/N.”
Not girlfriend every time.
Not partner every time.
Sometimes just your name.
But the way he said it did the rest.
This is Y/N.
As if your name itself explained why his hand never moved far from you.
Some people were lovely.
Some were not.
Some looked at you with open curiosity, their eyes flicking to your dress, your face, Tom’s hand on your back, the space between your bodies. Some were warm in the way people were warm at parties when they did not expect to see you again. Some said they had seen the interview. Some did not mention it but looked at you as if they had read every word.
Tom noticed those ones.
His body shifted each time, subtly placing himself closer.
*********
Maybe it was the champagne.
Maybe the aftershock of the screening.
Maybe the fact that he had been looked at all evening and still kept looking for you.
But somewhere between the second and third glass, the room started to blur at the edges in a way that felt almost pleasant. Not drunk exactly. Warm. Loose. Less afraid of standing in the wrong place. Less worried that someone would ask what you did and decide you were not enough for the room.
Tom was not drinking much.
You noticed that.
He accepted glasses, took a sip, abandoned them on tables, forgot where he had put them, accepted another, and repeated the process like a man trapped in a ritual he did not understand.
You, unfortunately, were finishing yours.
Sarah appeared from nowhere at one point, glanced at you, then at the glass.
“Water.”
You blinked at her.
“Was that a suggestion?”
“No.”
Tom laughed under his breath and took the champagne from your hand with insulting ease.
“Traitor.”
He kissed your knuckles before you could snatch it back.
“Water.”
“You are both very bossy.”
Sarah handed you a glass of water.
“Correct.”
You drank it because apparently you were surrounded by competent people determined to keep you alive.
Tom watched you, mouth soft.
“Good girl.”
It slipped out quietly.
Not for Sarah.
Not for the room.
Just for you.
Still, your whole body reacted.
Annoyingly.
Instantly.
His eyes darkened as he saw it.
Sarah looked between you both, sighed, and said, “I’m leaving before I become collateral damage.”
You nearly choked on the water.
Tom looked away with the expression of a man attempting innocence and failing on a professional level.
Sarah pointed at him.
“You have twenty more minutes of being visible, then you may vanish without me calling you rude.”
Tom checked his watch.
Immediately lost focus.
Checked it again as if the numbers had changed.
“Twenty?”
“Twenty.”
“That seems arbitrary.”
“It is. But it sounds official.”
You liked Sarah more every time she spoke.
Tom leaned down toward you after she walked off.
“Twenty minutes.”
His breath brushed your ear.
Your skin tightened.
“You’re counting?”
“Yes.”
“That’s rude to the others.”
“They’ll recover.”
You looked up at him.
Big mistake.
He was too close. The room behind him was all soft gold and movement, but his face was sharp enough to make your chest ache. Blue eyes, tired and bright. Mouth a little wine-dark from the evening. Hair touched too many times by his own restless fingers. A few silver threads at his temple catching the light.
And he was looking at you like the party had become background noise to a much more dangerous thought.
“Tom.”
“Hmm?”
“Do not look at me like that in public.”
His mouth curved.
“Like what?”
“Like that.”
“I’m merely standing here.”
“You are never merely standing anywhere.”
That made him smile properly.
Then he bent and kissed you.
Not red carpet brief.
Not hotel hungry.
Somewhere between.
A warm, lingering kiss at the edge of the party, his hand sliding from the small of your back to your hip, your fingers catching at the front of his jacket before you could remember not to. The room did not disappear this time. You were too aware of it. The flash from somewhere. The murmur nearby. The fact that people could see.
But that only made the kiss stranger.
More intimate for being public.
More yours because he was choosing it where anyone could look.
When he pulled back, you were breathless enough to be annoyed.
“You did that because of the Tik Tok women.”
His eyes glimmered.
“Partly.”
You smacked his chest lightly.
“Tom.”
He caught your hand there and held it against him.
“Mostly because I wanted to.”
Your fingers rested over his heartbeat.
Fast.
Not wildly.
But not calm either.
You looked up.
His smile faded into something more honest.
“This whole evening is very strange,” he said.
You softened at once.
“Yeah.”
His thumb moved over your hand.
“I keep feeling like I should be… somewhere else. Or doing something else. Or saying something more intelligent than I am.”
“You gave a speech in front of half of cinema and didn’t faint.”
“Barely.”
“And everyone loved the film.”
His gaze dropped briefly.
Still not used to receiving it.
Still suspicious of praise even when it had come from an entire theatre on its feet.
You moved closer.
“They loved it, Tom.”
He swallowed.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked at you then.
And there it was again. The openness from the theatre. The thing he let you see because he did not have enough armour left to hide it.
“I’m trying to.”
Your chest squeezed.
You touched his jaw, forgetting the party for one second.
“You were wonderful.”
He leaned into your hand by the smallest amount.
“You already said that.”
“I’ll say it again.”
His mouth touched your palm.
A tiny kiss.
Soft enough that no camera would understand what it meant.
You did.
“Careful,” you whispered.
His eyes lifted.
“With what?”
“Me.”
His expression changed.
Heat first.
Then tenderness.
Then something almost wicked.
“I am trying.”
You laughed under your breath.
“Badly.”
“Yes.”
You stayed like that too long.
Long enough that Sarah materialised again, apparently summoned by the threat of scandal.
“Tom.”
He did not look away from you.
“Yes?”
“There is a photographer getting very emotionally invested in the two of you.”
You dropped your hand from his face instantly.
Tom looked over.
A man with a camera immediately pretended to photograph someone else.
Tom looked back at you.
His mouth twitched.
“Very subtle.”
“You’re both impossible,” Sarah said. “Come and speak to Ira for five minutes, then you can do whatever this is somewhere less public.”
“This is affection,” Tom said.
Sarah stared at him.
“This is a headline waiting for better lighting.”
You snorted.
Tom sighed but obeyed, because Sarah had the power of a woman who could organise chaos with a phone and one eyebrow.
The final twenty minutes became forty.
Of course they did.
There was Ira, emotional again after another round of congratulations. There were producers. A journalist who was not technically interviewing but was absolutely interviewing. Someone from a distributor who kissed you on both cheeks and told Tom the film was “devastating in the finest way,” which sounded like a compliment and possibly a threat. There was a famous actress who told you your dress was beautiful and then moved on before you could say anything more intelligent than “Oh, thank you.”
Tom held your hand under a small cocktail table through most of it.
He fidgeted with your fingers instead of his own.
Tapped your knuckle once.
Traced your ring finger absentmindedly.
Pressed your palm when conversation dragged too long.
You began to understand that the public version of his life was made of tiny negotiations with discomfort. He knew how to stand, how to smile, how to answer, how to give enough without giving too much. But underneath it all, his body was always looking for something real to hold.
Tonight, apparently, that was you.
By the time Sarah finally reappeared and said, “You may leave now before one of you combusts,” you were beyond ready.
Tom looked at you.
“Right,” he said quietly. “Let’s head back to the room then?”
You turned to him far too quickly.
“Yes.”
Too eager.
Instantly too eager.
Tom blinked.
Sarah stopped looking at her phone.
You felt your face heat.
“I mean—yes. That’s a good idea. Long night. Very tired. Shoes hurt. Room is…”
Tom stared at you.
His mouth began to move.
You pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was only going to say you seem enthusiastic about rest.”
Sarah made a tiny noise that might have been a laugh and might have been her soul leaving her body.
You glared at him.
“I am enthusiastic about taking these heels off.”
Tom looked down at your shoes.
Then back up at you.
Very slowly.
“Of course.”
“And sleeping.”
“Naturally.”
“In bed.”
“Where sleeping traditionally happens.”
Sarah closed her eyes.
“I cannot stress enough how much I wish I were not standing here.”
Warnings: Age Gap, Enemies to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Possibly Unexpected Circumstances, Playboy Tom,
TOM's POV
Two days later, Tom was back in London and sitting in the corner booth of a pub with Sam and Rob, trying very hard to look like a man watching football.
He was not watching football.
Not properly.
The Premier League was on three screens at once, which should have made it easier. Instead it made everything worse. Too much movement. Too many angles. Too much noise. Commentators talking over the roar of the pub, pints hitting tables, stools scraping against the old wooden floor, someone behind him shouting “Ref!” every thirty seconds like the referee was personally hiding behind the bar.
Tom sat with his back to the wall because he always did that in pubs when he could. Not consciously, he would argue. Instinctively, perhaps. Sam had once called it “dramatic prey-animal behaviour,” and Rob had said it was because Tom had the soul of a Victorian widow who expected bad news by telegram.
Tom had ignored both of them and continued sitting with his back to walls.
He was wearing a black jumper, grandpa coat shoved beside him, hair messy and wild, no matter how many times he pushed it back into place. His pint sat in front of him, barely touched. One hand was wrapped around it. The other had been slowly destroying a beer mat for the last ten minutes.
He had not realised.
Sam had.
Sam reached over and took the beer mat out of his hand.
Tom looked down at his empty fingers.
Then at Sam.
“What?”
“Leave the poor thing alone.”
Tom glanced at the beer mat.
It had been peeled apart at the corner, the cardboard splitting into damp, feathery layers.
“I wasn’t doing anything.”
Rob, sitting opposite with his pint and the faint air of someone already prepared to be difficult, looked at the mutilated beer mat.
“You were performing surgery on it.”
Tom gave him a look, then reached for his cigarettes out of habit.
Remembered he was inside.
Stopped.
Picked up his pint instead.
Put it down without drinking.
Sam watched the whole sequence.
“Jet lag?”
Tom scratched at his jaw.
“Something like that.”
“You look like shit.”
“Thank you.”
“No, lovingly.”
Tom glanced at him.
“Ah. Well then.”
Rob leaned back, studying him with far too much interest.
“New York did something to you.”
Tom’s eyes moved to the screen.
“New York does things to everyone.”
“No,” Rob said. “That was far too poetic. Something happened.”
Tom did not answer quickly enough.
Sam noticed.
Rob noticed.
Tom hated having observant friends. It was one of the great drawbacks of knowing actors. They were all trained, professionally, to detect tiny shifts in mood and then make them everyone else’s problem.
On the screen, someone in red took possession. Arsenal, probably, Rob thought. But unlike Tom and Sam, he did not care.
“I still think there’s something deeply strange about how people accept officiating decisions as if they aren’t part of a larger structure,” he then said out of the blue.
Sam closed his eyes.
Tom turned his head slowly.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Rob looked pleased to have an audience.
“I’m saying we accept narratives too easily.”
“It’s a throw-in.”
“That’s how it starts.”
Sam groaned. “Can we not? Please. One pint. One match. No deep-state referee theory.”
Rob lifted his pint.
“I didn’t say deep state.”
“You were about to.”
“I was asking questions.”
Tom stared at him.
“You sound deranged.”
“That’s what people said about Galileo.”
Tom blinked.
“You are not Galileo.”
Sam pointed at Rob without taking his eyes off the screen.
“You’re not even the Galileo of this table.”
Rob looked offended. “Who is?”
Sam nodded at Tom.
Tom made a face.
“Don’t involve me.”
“He reads more,” Sam said.
“He does read more,” Rob said under his breath. “Which doesn’t make him smarter.”
Tom rubbed a hand over his mouth, already regretting whatever micro-expression had betrayed him by that point.
Before either of them could pounce, Rob returned to the screen and said, “Anyway, the point is, officials are often suspicious.”
Tom, because his brain had an irritating habit of catching loose threads whether he wanted it to or not, frowned faintly.
“Actually, Liliana said something like that a few months ago but in a fashion sense. It still sounds deranged.”
Silence.
Not in the pub.
The pub was still loud enough to rattle glass.
But their table went dead.
Sam lowered his pint.
Rob’s grin vanished.
Tom looked between them.
“What?”
Sam and Rob exchanged a look.
Tom’s eyebrows pulled together.
“What?”
Rob said carefully, “Oh no.”
Tom stared.
“Oh no, what?”
Sam rubbed his forehead.
“It’s just usually when you say her name, we end up in a terrible conversation.”
Rob nodded. “Heartbreak. Long pauses. You going outside to smoke like you’re in a French film.”
“Or staring into nowhere for twelve minutes,” Sam added.
“Or saying you’re fine in a voice that means someone should remove sharp objects.”
Tom looked at both of them with flat disbelief.
“Jesus Christ.”
Sam lifted a hand. “Are we wrong?”
Tom opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Looked down at his pint.
“No.”
Rob’s face softened, which Tom disliked almost more than the mockery.
Tom turned his glass a quarter turn. Then another. The wet ring underneath it dragged across the table.
“But no,” he said after a moment. “Not this time.”
Sam’s eyebrows lifted.
“No?”
Tom shook his head.
“No. I came home yesterday from New York and all her stuff was gone from my house.”
Neither of them spoke.
Tom stared at the screen without seeing it.
“Wardrobe empty. Bathroom cleared out. Books gone. Shoes gone. That horrible glass sculpture thing she bought in Milan gone, thank fuck.”
Rob winced.
“She came while you were away?”
Tom nodded.
His fingers found the shredded edge of the beer mat Sam had taken from him. He pulled it back across the table without thinking and began worrying at it again.
“Apparently.”
Sam watched him.
“And?”
Tom shrugged.
The shrug was too quick. Too casual. He heard it himself.
“And nothing.”
Rob’s expression said he did not believe that for a second.
Tom sighed, dropped the beer mat, picked up his pint, drank, put it down, then pushed both hands through his hair.
“It was strange. Obviously. Coming home and finding someone has erased themselves out of your life is not exactly delightful.”
Sam said nothing.
Rob waited.
Tom looked down.
“But I think I’m in a good place.”
Sam and Rob immediately looked at each other again.
Tom pointed at them.
“Stop.”
“We didn’t do anything,” Sam said.
“You did a face.”
Rob held up both hands.
“I have a face.”
“Not that one.”
Sam leaned forward slightly.
“It’s just new.”
“What is?”
“You saying you’re in a good place and not looking like you’re about to die of it.”
Tom laughed once, sharp and quiet.
“Well. Obviously I’m not all right.”
The humour left his face as quickly as it had come.
“I was going to fucking marry her.”
That landed.
Sam’s expression softened.
Rob looked into his pint.
Tom scratched lightly at the side of his thumb until the skin reddened.
“But I need to deal with that, don’t I? Properly. Not keep building some imaginary future with a person who was, apparently, having an entirely different life behind my back.”
Sam nodded once.
Tom’s jaw moved.
“She cheated. For months. So whatever I thought we were, whatever I keep missing, it wasn’t real. Not in the way I thought it was.”
Rob lifted his glass.
“Fuck Liliana.”
Sam lifted his too.
“And fuck Ben.”
Tom looked at them both.
A beat.
Then he lifted his pint.
“Yep.”
They drank.
For a few seconds, that was enough.
The pub roared suddenly.
Sam snapped his head to the screen.
“Oh fuck, goal, look.”
Tom looked up half a second too late and saw only the replay.
Rob, who had not watched a single useful second of the match, nodded like an expert.
“Nice. Let’s hope Arsenal win so Tom doesn’t go home sad.”
Tom turned to him.
“Fuck off.”
Sam laughed.
“There he is.”
The waitress came by then with a tray balanced against one hip.
She had served them before. Tom vaguely recognised her in the way he vaguely recognised a lot of people from places he went too often and paid too little attention to. Dark hair clipped up messily. Silver hoops. Black pub T-shirt. Pretty in a direct, unbothered way. She had one of those faces that made eye contact feel intentional.
She looked at Tom while setting down a bowl of chips someone at the next table had ordered.
Then looked again.
Sam noticed.
Tom did not.
Tom was busy checking his phone because it had buzzed, deciding he hated his phone, failing to find the notification, and locking it again with unnecessary force.
The waitress moved past.
Sam watched her go.
Then looked at Tom.
“You know every time we come here, that waitress stares at you.”
Tom glanced up.
“No, she doesn’t.”
“She does.”
Rob leaned slightly to get a better look.
“She absolutely does.”
Tom gave them both a dry look.
“She works here. Looking at tables is part of the job.”
Sam smiled.
“Not like that.”
Tom reached for a chip, forgot he had reached for it, then took one anyway.
“What does that mean?”
“It means she’s hot and you’re single.”
Tom laughed under his breath.
“Good for everyone involved.”
Rob tilted his head.
“Enjoy yourself.”
Tom glanced at him.
“I am enjoying myself.”
Sam’s grin turned wicked.
“So I heard.”
Tom paused with the chip halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
Rob sat up.
“Ah.”
Sam leaned back, very pleased with himself.
“Tim said you disappeared with a brunette from Gyllenhaal’s post-opening party on Broadway the other night.”
Tom closed his eyes briefly.
“Fucking Tim.”
Rob’s mouth fell open.
“So it’s true.”
Tom looked from one to the other, considered denial, then decided he did not have the energy.
“Yes.”
Sam slapped the table.
“Good.”
Rob lifted his pint.
“First hook-up after Liliana. Well done.”
Tom gave him a look.
“I’m not a rescue dog.”
“No,” Rob said. “Much more neurotic.”
Sam grinned.
“Details.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
Rob pointed at him.
“You just admitted you had an unnamed rebound. You have to give details.”
Tom frowned.
“I did not say unnamed.”
Sam’s eyes widened.
“Was she unnamed?”
Tom looked at his pint.
Sam gasped.
Rob laughed.
“You didn’t get her name?”
Tom rubbed his forehead.
“No.”
“How?”
“It didn’t come up.”
Rob stared.
“Names usually come up before genitals.”
Tom pointed at him.
“Don’t be vulgar.”
Sam lost it.
“You shagged a nameless brunette in New York and you’re policing vulgarity?”
Tom fought a smile and failed slightly.
“Yes.”
Rob leaned back, delighted.
“This is magnificent.”
“It was just a one-night thing.”
“Was it good?” Sam asked.
Tom looked at the television.
Too late.
His face had already answered.
Sam made a delighted sound.
“Oh, it was good.”
Tom exhaled.
“It was…”
He stopped.
Picked up his pint.
Put it down again.
His fingers drummed once, twice, three times against the side of the glass before he caught himself.
“It was odd.”
Rob lifted an eyebrow.
“Odd good or odd bad?”
Tom thought of you.
The first impression of you had not been neat.
That was the thing.
You were not the polished type he had grown used to seeing at those parties. You were polished in places, certainly — the dress, the hair, the face, the expensive scent of someone whose life had brushed up against money and cameras — but underneath that there had been movement. Constant little currents. Fingers tapping against your glass. Eyes moving too quickly around the room. Mouth saying something clever before you seemed to have given yourself permission to say it.
A girl who looked like she might bolt, argue, laugh, kiss him, or misplace her own handbag all within the same minute.
And then, later, in the hotel room, that same strange mixture: bravado and inexperience, heat and uncertainty, shyness arriving at the most absurd moments and then vanishing just as quickly.
He cleared his throat.
“Odd good.”
Sam stared.
Rob stared.
Tom sighed.
“It just happened.”
“How does it just happen?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know. You talk. There’s drinking. Bad judgment.”
Rob smiled.
“Ah.”
Tom gave him a look.
“Don’t ah me.”
Tom shook his head, but he was smiling.
“Anyway. We talked. She was funny. Then we went back to her hotel.”
Sam leaned in.
“And no name?”
Tom looked at him.
“We’ve already covered this.”
“No name.”
“No name.”
“Age?” Rob asked.
Tom’s fingers tightened slightly around the glass.
“She said twenty-eight.”
Sam’s expression shifted.
“Said?”
Tom looked down.
“Yes.”
Rob tilted his head.
“You didn’t believe her?”
Tom rubbed at his jaw. His knee started bouncing under the table. He pressed his heel harder into the floor to stop it.
“Not entirely.”
Sam leaned back.
“Twenty-eight is quite young already, mate.”
Tom’s mouth tightened.
“I know.”
“And you think she was younger?”
Tom stared at the screen.
A player went down.
The pub shouted.
He did not hear any of it properly.
“Maybe.”
Rob’s voice was quieter now.
“How much younger?”
Tom shot him a look.
“Don’t.”
Sam lifted a hand.
“No one’s accusing you of anything.”
“You sounded like you were.”
“I wasn’t.”
Tom exhaled, annoyed with himself as much as them.
“She was over eighteen. Obviously. Don’t be crass.”
Sam nodded.
“All right.”
Tom looked back down at his pint.
“She claimed twenty-eight. I’d guess… twenty-five. Maybe. I don’t know.”
He ran a hand through his hair again, leaving it worse.
“She wasn’t stupid. She was clever. Properly clever. Well-spoken. Quick. Not young in that…”
He made a vague gesture, irritated by his inability to explain it without sounding defensive.
“Not in that what?” Rob asked.
“Not in that vapid way.”
Sam’s eyebrows lifted.
“Vapid?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Not really.”
Tom sighed.
“She had thoughts. She had jokes. She was well-read.”
Rob’s eyes sharpened.
“Well-read?”
Tom immediately regretted speaking.
Sam grinned.
“Oh no.”
“What?” Tom snapped.
Rob leaned forward.
“How do you know she was well-read?”
Tom stared at the table.
“She had a book.”
There was a beat.
Then Sam laughed.
Rob put both hands over his face.
“Of course.”
Tom frowned.
“What?”
Rob dropped his hands.
“You had a one-night stand and noticed her book?”
“It was on the bedside table.”
“Most people would notice, I don’t know, her underwear.”
Tom gave him a flat look.
“I noticed that too, Rob.”
Sam choked on his pint.
Rob laughed.
Tom looked faintly pleased with himself for half a second, then annoyed that he was pleased.
Sam wiped his mouth.
“What book?”
Tom hesitated.
“Tolstoy.”
Sam made a noise of pure delight.
“Oh, mate.”
“What?”
Rob shook his head.
“Russian literature at a one-night stand. That is so painfully you.”
Tom reached for another chip.
“It was just there.”
“And?” Sam said.
Tom frowned.
“And what?”
“What else was there?”
“I don’t know.”
Rob gave him a look.
Tom looked away.
Sam sat forward.
“There is something else.”
Tom closed his eyes briefly.
“A Tamagotchi.”
Silence.
Then both of them exploded.
Sam leaned back laughing.
Rob actually slapped the table.
Tom pointed at them.
“No.”
Sam wheezed.
“A Tamagotchi?”
“Yes.”
Rob’s eyes were watering.
“In the hotel room?”
“She carried it with her all night and then put it down.”
“On to the bedside table next to Tolstoy?”
Tom pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Sam looked delighted beyond reason.
“Was it called Ivan?”
Tom’s mouth twitched.
“I’m not telling you.”
Rob gasped.
“It had a name?”
Tom stared at the ceiling.
“She called it Fred.”
Sam nearly fell sideways.
Rob made a sound like he had been wounded.
“Fred?”
Tom was laughing now too, despite himself.
“Yes. Fred.”
“You slept with a woman who reads Tolstoy and owns a Tamagotchi called Fred?”
“Yes.”
Rob leaned back, deeply satisfied.
“You are absolutely going to think about her again.”
Tom’s smile vanished.
“No, I’m not.”
Sam looked at Rob.
Rob looked at Sam.
Tom saw it and immediately bristled.
“I’m not.”
“Fine,” Sam said.
“It was one night.”
“Fine.”
“I don’t want anything complicated.”
“Fine.”
“She was cute. The sex was good. Very good. Perfect. That’s it.”
Rob sipped his pint.
“You said ‘cute’ like you’re annoyed about it.”
Tom glared.
“I’m annoyed about you.”
Sam grinned.
“Are you seeing her again?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Because you don’t know her name?”
“That helps.”
“You could find her.”
Tom looked sharply at him.
“I’m not finding her.”
Rob lifted his hands.
“I didn’t say you should.”
“Good.”
“I said you could.”
“Don’t.”
Sam smiled into his pint.
“No complications.”
Tom nodded once.
“Exactly.”
“Very healthy.”
“Yes.”
“Very stable.”
Tom narrowed his eyes.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
Tom’s phone buzzed then.
He grabbed it too quickly, not because he expected anything in particular, but because the vibration had gone straight through his attention like a hook.
He frowned at the screen.
Swipe.
Wrong app.
Swipe again.
A notification disappeared.
He opened something by mistake.
Closed it.
Opened Instagram.
Immediately looked irritated.
“Fuck. Another app. I hate this phone.”
Rob blinked.
“Why did you get a smartphone if you hate everything about it?”
Tom was still frowning down at it.
“So I can see what Ellie is up to.”
Sam paused.
Rob stared.
“You’re stalking your daughter’s Instagram.”
Tom looked up, offended.
“I am not stalking.”
“You just said—”
“She is fifteen.”
Sam nodded slowly.
“So you are stalking.”
“I am checking in discreetly.”
Rob smiled.
“Lurking.”
“Parenting.”
“Digital lurking.”
Tom pointed at him.
“She is fifteen and on Instagram against my liking. Ruth decided it was completely fine, apparently, because everyone else is doing it, which is always a famously excellent basis for raising children.”
Sam grinned.
“You sound about eighty.”
“Good.”
Rob leaned in.
“What does Ellie post?”
Tom’s face darkened.
“Bathroom mirror photographs.”
Sam waited.
“And?”
Tom stared.
“And what?”
“Was she dressed?”
Tom looked horrified.
“Obviously.”
Rob shrugged.
“Then breathe.”
“It is not about clothes.”
“What is it about?”
“The publicness.”
Sam and Rob exchanged a glance.
“No, don’t do that. I’m right.” Tom leaned forward, suddenly far too animated for a man who had claimed he was merely having a quiet pint. “She doesn’t need strangers looking at her. She doesn’t need to perform herself for approval from idiots. She’s a child.”
Rob said gently, “She’s a teenager.”
“That is a child with worse judgment.”
Sam made a quiet sound into his pint.
Tom pointed at him immediately. “Don’t laugh. I’m serious.”
“I know,” Sam said, which only made it worse because he was very clearly trying not to laugh.
Tom dragged a hand through his hair, making it stand up worse on one side. “And even if she was an adult, social media is still stupid.”
Rob blinked.
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Every bit?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a broad position.”
“It’s an accurate position.” Tom picked up his pint, realised he didn’t actually want it, put it down again, then immediately picked at the label on the bottle beside Rob instead. “It’s vanity dressed up as connection. It’s people selling bits of themselves to strangers and then pretending it’s harmless because everyone else is doing it.”
Sam looked at Rob.
Rob looked at Sam.
Then Sam laughed while Tom looked down at the phone again.
His expression changed.
Sam noticed.
“Ruth?”
Tom sighed.
“Yes.”
Rob winced.
“How’s that going?”
“Terribly.”
“Boyfriend issue still?”
Tom’s mouth twitched.
“Resolved.”
Sam raised his eyebrows.
“Resolved how?”
“Ellie broke up with the boy.”
Rob grinned.
“You look devastated.”
“I’m bearing it privately.”
Sam laughed.
“You hated him.”
“He called me ‘bro’ once.”
Rob nodded solemnly.
“Unforgivable.”
“Exactly.”
Tom looked back at his phone.
The amusement faded.
“Now Ruth is furious because Ellie wants to come to my parents’ over the long weekend.”
Sam softened.
“That’s good though, isn’t it?”
Tom nodded.
Too quickly.
“Yes. Very. She asked me, which is…”
He stopped.
Looked at his pint.
Shrugged.
“Good.”
Rob didn’t tease him this time.
Tom kept talking because if he stopped, he might have to feel the fact his fifteen-year-old choosing to spend a weekend with him had made something in his chest go painfully soft.
“But Ruth had plans. Ellie changed them. Ruth says I let her do whatever she wants because I don’t want her angry with me.”
Sam tilted his head.
Tom glanced at him.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
Rob said, “Do you?”
Tom frowned.
“Do I what?”
“Let her do whatever she wants because you don’t want her angry with you.”
Tom looked affronted.
“No.”
Then he paused.
His fingers began tapping against his phone case.
“Maybe sometimes. Not whatever she wants. That’s absurd. But I don’t want every conversation to be me saying no. I don’t have her every day. Some weeks she comes for two nights. Then sometimes she stays at mine for three weeks straight because she’s had enough of Ruth. Sometimes she only sees me for an hour now and then because she has friends, school, whatever urgent teenage thing is apparently more important than her parents.”
Sam’s face softened.
Tom looked annoyed at himself now.
“So when she wants to come to my parents’ house with me, yes, I’m happy. And yes, maybe I’m reluctant to immediately turn it into a disciplinary tribunal because Ruth had made plans and says I can’t be trusted with Ellie for three days. Because that’s the issue now apparently. The level of trust.”
Rob’s eyebrows lifted.
Sam leaned forward.
“What did she do?”
Tom stared at the phone.
“Ellie?”
Sam stared at him.
“Obviously, Ellie. Because Ruth would have had reason to worry.”
Then muttered, “Stole my cigarettes.”
Both of them went quiet.
Rob said, “Sorry?”
Tom grimaced.
“Took. Stole. Helped herself. Whatever.”
Sam’s eyes widened.
“Ellie took your cigarettes?”
“Yes.”
“And smoked them?”
“Apparently.”
Rob whistled softly.
“Fucking hell.”
Tom rubbed his face hard with both hands.
“Ruth found two in her bag and went nuclear. Which, fine. Correct response. But then somehow it became entirely my fault because they were mine.”
Rob looked at him.
Tom pointed at him.
“Do not tell me to quit.”
Rob closed his mouth.
Sam hid a smile.
Tom glared.
“I mean it.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Rob said.
“You had the face.”
“I do think you should quit.”
“There it is.”
Sam said, “To be fair—”
Tom turned on him.
“No.”
Sam lifted both hands.
“All right.”
Tom picked up his pint, took a drink, then set it down too hard.
“Obviously I don’t want my fifteen-year-old daughter smoking. But also she went into my jacket pocket. That’s not fine. And Ruth has somehow connected this to the fact I’m not strict enough, when I am apparently also too strict because I don’t want Ellie posting bathroom photographs on the internet.”
Rob smiled faintly.
“Those are different issues.”
“They are both moral collapse.”
Sam burst out laughing.
Tom stared at him.
“They are.”
Rob was laughing now too.
“Moral collapse?”
“Yes.”
“Mate, she posted a selfie and nicked two cigarettes. She has not joined a Victorian opium den. I don’t actually think it’s that bad.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed.
“Give her time.”
Sam put his pint down, still laughing.
“You are genuinely quite conservative as a father.”
“I am normal.”
Rob shook his head.
“You are a man who thinks Instagram is an infectious disease.”
“It is.”
Sam pointed at him.
“There it is.”
Tom’s phone buzzed again.
He looked down.
Ruth.
Again.
He read the message.
His jaw tightened.
He typed.
Deleted.
Typed.
Deleted.
Pressed the heel of his hand into one eye.
Typed again.
Sam watched with affectionate concern.
“Don’t send anything insane.”
“I’m not.”
Rob leaned across.
“Read it out.”
“No.”
“Then it’s insane.”
Tom exhaled sharply and read from the screen.
“I am saying: ‘I agree Ellie needs consequences. I will speak to her about the cigarettes again and about going through my things. I am not cancelling the weekend with my parents because she is looking forward to it and so are they.’”
Sam nodded.
“Good.”
Rob nodded too.
“Very reasonable.”
Tom looked faintly surprised.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
He looked back down, added a full stop, removed it, added it again, then sent the message before he could destroy the entire thing.
Then he dropped the phone face down on the table.
“I hate co-parenting.”
Sam lifted his pint.
“To moral collapse.”
Rob lifted his.
The waitress came back with another round.
She set Sam’s down first.
Then Rob’s.
Then Tom’s.
When she leaned in, Tom noticed her properly this time.
Noticed the dark hair escaping at her neck. The little silver hoops. The faint smudge of eyeliner under one eye. The way she smiled like she knew he had only just worked out he was being flirted with.
“Same again,” she said, setting the pint in front of him.
Tom looked up.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Her eyes flicked briefly to the screen.
“Arsenal fan?”
Tom hesitated.
“Unfortunately.”
Sam made a tiny strangled noise.
Rob looked at his pint like he had been asked to witness a crime.
The waitress smiled.
“Good. Me too.”
Tom smiled.
Small. Real.
The waitress then glanced toward the bar, then back at him.
“I finish in twenty.”
The sentence was light.
Casual.
Easily deniable.
It still landed on the table like a dropped match.
Tom looked at her.
For a second, he did the usual thing.
Thought too much.
Liliana’s empty wardrobe. Ellie’s cigarettes. Ruth’s texts. New York. A brunette in a hotel room with Tolstoy and a Tamagotchi. His own voice saying he didn’t want anything complicated. His friends watching. The entire pub too loud and too bright and too full of possibilities he did not have to make meaningful unless he chose to.
Then the waitress smiled.
Tom’s fingers tapped once against the glass.
Stopped.
“Good to know,” he said.
Sam put his fist against his mouth.
Rob looked away with heroic effort.
The waitress left.
Tom turned back to the table and found both of them staring.
“What?”
Sam shook his head.
“Nothing.”
Rob nodded.
“Absolutely nothing.”
Tom narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t be weird.”
“Impossible,” Rob said.
Sam leaned back, grinning.
“You’re enjoying yourself, are you?”
Tom picked up his pint.
“Trying.”
That shut them up for a second.
Only a second.
Rob’s expression softened first.
Sam’s followed.
Tom hated that too, but less than he might have forty-eight hours earlier.
On the screen, Arsenal attacked again. The pub surged with noise.
Rob pointed suddenly.
“See, that pass was suspicious.”
Sam threw a chip at him.
“Watch the game or leave.”
Tom laughed, properly this time, and for a while the conversation loosened. Football. Rob’s conspiracies. Sam yelling at a player who could not hear him. Tom half watching, half drifting, half answering messages in his head that he had no intention of sending.
His phone stayed face down.
Mostly.
He did not check Instagram.
Mostly.
He did not think about the brunette.
Mostly.
Twenty minutes later, the waitress appeared near the end of the bar with her coat over one arm.
Tom saw her.
So did Sam.
So did Rob.
Because of course they did.
Tom finished the last of his pint.
Rob murmured, “No complications.”
Tom stood.
“Shut up.”
Sam’s grin was shameless.
“Where are you going?”
Tom pulled on his coat.
“Home.”
Rob looked toward the waitress.
“Strange direction.”
“Not my home.”
Sam laughed.
“Hers?”
Tom adjusted his collar, then shoved both hands into his coat pockets because otherwise they were going to fidget with something.
“Potentially.”
Rob lifted his pint.
“Actor and single.”
Tom gave him a look.
“Don’t say that like a diagnosis.”
“It is one.”
Sam raised his glass.
“Have fun.”
Tom pointed at both of them.
“Do not discuss me when I leave.”
Rob and Sam looked at each other.
Then back at him.
“Of course not,” Sam said.
“Never,” Rob added.
Tom shook his head.
“Liars.”
He crossed the pub, weaving through bodies and noise and spilled beer, toward the door where the waitress waited with one shoulder against the frame and a smile she did not bother hiding.
Tom held the door open.
Outside, London was damp and cold and silver under the streetlights. The pavement shone from earlier rain. Traffic moved past in hissing streaks. The pub noise dulled as the door swung shut behind them.
Inside, Sam watched through the glass as Tom and the waitress walked away.
snowghoul
titsay
baratheonpilled
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
