They barely knew each other. And yet she knew how to hurt him. Her words were few, but they were precise, and they never missed the heart.

Ben hated the act of airing some credence to Sparling’s fairy tale and he had played up the absurdity of it all. And yet some unsung parental part of him still needed to know that Aoife was safe. It would be a short conversation. They always were.

He passed by the armchair and ran a hand over its leather. His boots sank into the largest rug he had ever seen, and probably the most expensive judging by the bastard’s wealth. Sunlight hung in a haze by the westerly windows. There were paintings on the wall; uninspired landscapes with pigments so thick that Ben would have loved to scrape them off like a scab. They were all the same – nondescript trees and hills, and skies of dull cloud, as if the artist loathed the sight of nature instead of admiring it. Still the phone rang. Come on, Jess, pick up. The curtains were tall, musty towers of velvet, and wouldn’t have looked out of place dangling above a theatre stage. Maybe that’s what all this shit was – gaudy props masquerading as the real deal.

There was no obvious pageant of wealth that Ben could find. No trinkets adorned the tabletops. There were no silver salvers or tea sets gleaming in a glass cabinet. The antiquated furniture was long overdue upholstering, and patterns once held by the carpet and wallpapering had faded to resemble more a mishmash of man’s stains than his artistry.

Sparling and Chloe were sitting silently by the wall of books, probably bought in bulk at a second-hand sale. Surely there must have been a psychological term for adults who believed everything they were told. Still searching the night’s sky for sleigh bells or dreaming of a shiny coin with a tooth under their pillow.

The phone clicked.

‘Hey, Ben,’ came Jess’s disinterested voice, ‘now’s not really a good time.’

There was never a good time; one of many reasons why they so rarely spoke. Even now, Ben couldn’t shake off the embarrassment, the regret, and the shame of his parents’ reaction. The sound of her voice brought it all back to the present.

‘I know and I’m sorry. I won’t keep you for a second. I was just calling to see how Aoife is?’

‘She’s fine. She’s watching cartoons.’

‘Okay,’ Ben said, letting the relief rinse over him; not that he expected Jess to elaborate any further, especially regarding skinny men standing outside her window at night.