Reluctantly Home
ALSO BY IMOGEN CLARK
Postcards from a Stranger
The Thing About Clare
Where the Story Starts
The Last Piece
Postcards at Christmas (a novella)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by Blue Lizard Books Ltd
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542021203
ISBN-10: 1542021200
Cover design by Lisa Horton
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
1
2019
She was going to be late for court.
She had been cutting it fine anyway, leaving chambers when she did, but Dominic had said it would only take half an hour to get there once she was through the worst of the central London traffic. Now, however, she was sitting in a stationary queue of cars watching the clock on her dashboard click over from minute to minute.
She couldn’t be late. The judge would crucify her in front of her client. He might even refuse to give her audience and then she’d end up slinking back to the office with her tail between her legs.
She could feel her heart beginning to race and her chest grew tight as her panic rose. She didn’t even know where this court was, or where she could park. And she still had some papers to read before the hearing. The whole thing was a disaster before she’d even begun. What had she been thinking, leaving so late?
Then, mercifully, the traffic began to clear, and the stream of cars sped up. She let out a slow breath. The situation might be salvageable. If she didn’t hit any more slow patches between here and there, she’d arrive with time to spare. She could feel the tension slip from her neck and shoulders as she relaxed. She began to run through her opening address, speaking it out loud as she drove; her voice sounded clear and confident. Years of court experience brought with them a certain self-assurance. She was good at what she did, she knew she was. She would win the hearing this morning and then . . .