Leo leans against Harris’s bed and fishes his phone out of his back pocket to text her. How’s the sheep rustling?
The reply comes almost instantly. Fuck off, Brady.
Leo grins. That’s Detective SERGEANT Brady to you . . .
You got a promotion? You NEVER MENTIONED IT. This is followed by three eye-rolling emojis, a capital W and a picture of an anchor. Leo frowns at the screen, then bursts out laughing when the penny drops.
‘Let me see!’ Harris jumps on him, expecting another of the funny animal videos Leo often finds online for him.
‘Not this time, mate. Come on, into bed.’ He tucks Harris in, and finds the book they’re reading, ignoring the flashing screen which tells him Ffion has sent another text.
Clemmie and Glynis entered guilty pleas at their first hearings.
‘No trial, then,’ Leo said, for something to say. He and Ffion were standing outside court, Ffion having a cigarette before driving home. She gave a lopsided grin, the roll-up still in her mouth.
‘I won’t need to look at your ugly mug for weeks on end, then.’
‘Right back atcha.’
There’d been radio silence, after that, and Leo ached with the absence of her. Ffion hadn’t called, and Leo was glad he hadn’t humiliated himself by asking her out for a drink. He thought about messaging to say he’d be at the sentencing, but whichever way he put it, it sounded as though he was fishing to see if she’d be there. Which, of course, he would have been.
‘Fancy seeing you here.’ Ffion had snuck up on him, standing on the concourse waiting for the ushers to open court, catching Leo’s broad smile before he had a chance to make himself look more chilled about it. ‘You look great.’
‘Thanks. You, too.’
Once Harris is asleep, the Lego town moved carefully to one side to avoid either of them treading on it in the night, Leo sits with his feet up in front of the TV, scrolling mindlessly through his newsfeed. He catches sight of a name unusual enough for him to remember. Elijah Fox is the youngest person ever to secure a post-doctoral research fellowship at Liverpool University. Professor Benjamin Milne said, ‘I have rarely encountered someone with Dr Fox’s level of knowledge and natural ability.’
Leo raises his beer in a toast. ‘Good on you, mate.’ He remembered how sorry he’d felt for the hapless Elijah, stuck working with someone who gave Crouch a run for his money in the bad boss stakes. And now look at them both: Elijah with his – what even was a post-doctoral research fellowship? – and Leo with his sergeant’s stripes. In fact, there was only one thing left for Leo to summon up the courage to do.
Ffion’s last message is still on the screen of his phone: Pretty boring here without you, tbh, Brady.
Leo taps a response. Remember that time you said we should forget the way we met?
Ffion’s response comes straight away: Er . . . yes.
He takes a deep breath and a swig of his beer.
I can’t. Will you have dinner with me?
SIXTY-FOUR
JUNE | FFION
Ffion takes a box of books from Huw’s van and carries them up the drive. There are another three boxes by the front door.
‘That’s everything.’ Ffion feels light-headed, impetuous. She has questioned her decision over and over, and she still doesn’t know if she’s doing the right thing. She laces her fingers through Huw’s, and leans into him, feeling his strong arm pull her close. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says.
‘Yeah. Me too.’ It’s curt enough to make Ffion wince, but still kinder than she deserves. ‘See you around.’
Ffion waits on the drive as Huw drives away, then puts the box of books in the hall with the others, despite Mam’s protests. ‘I’ll put it away later,’ she promises, although where, God only knows. Mam’s house is bursting at the seams.
‘That’s what you said when you moved the first lot of boxes back,’ Elen says. ‘Three months later, and we were still stepping over bin bags of clothes to get to the loo.’ She pulls a towel from the kitchen airer. ‘I’m going for a swim – I don’t want to see those boxes when I get back.’
‘Sir, yes sir,’ Ffion mutters, because even when you’re thirty, mams make you feel thirteen again.
Elen scrutinises her daughter’s face. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘Don’t start, Mam.’
‘He’s a good man.’
‘Too good.’
‘Oh, Ffi.’ Elen sighs, then she puts her hands either side of Ffion’s face and drops a kiss on her forehead. ‘Now’ – she stuffs her towel into a tote bag – ‘move those bloody boxes.’