‘I feel bad. This isn’t right. I should be back at my own home, not have people come to your house to discuss—’

Arthur waved his hand to interrupt her. ‘Now, no talking nonsense. You need our support.’ He looked at Gloria. ‘Besides, Old Mother Hen here would be lost. And it’s what our Mike wants, so, my babe, you treat this place like your own, and when you’re completely better, if you want to go back to . . . that house, then, that’s up to you.’

Gloria almost screeched. ‘What? . . . Go back there after what the poor girl’s just been through? I won’t be surprised if she wants to burn the bloody place down.’

With her mind back to when she was held against her will, Zara smiled. ‘You’d think it would be the last place I’d ever go, but the truth is, if it wasn’t for Ismail’s pathetic attempt to keep me alive in my father’s basement, then the Segals would probably have finished me off. My dad would turn in his grave if he knew that the suite he built would end up holding me a prisoner. But the rooms were styled and designed by him, so, weirdly, I felt at home. When I do go back, though, I’ll have the metal door removed and keep the basement as guest rooms.’

She looked up to find both Gloria and Arthur with their mouths open.

She chuckled. ‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t ask you to stay there.’

Gloria knew then that Zara was no ordinary woman; she was hard and had taken on more than most people could handle, but she would still face her demons.

Zara, though, miraculously didn’t see these as demons, merely challenges.

Eric placed his hand on her back and gently rubbed it. ‘If you need to go back there for anything, I’ll go with you.’

Gloria clocked the look on her son’s face. She didn’t like it one little bit.

***

Rebecca sat at the kitchen island with her head in her hands, the tea towel covering her sodden cheeks. At forty-three years old, she should have been in her prime, but she wasn’t. The signs were all there: a thickened waist, grey hair, and crow’s feet around her once bright and, some would say, come-to-bed eyes. She wasn’t even sure if her husband knew what she looked like under her elastic-waisted trousers and iron-free blouse. All the intimacy that had once been between them had diminished over the last two years. His business – so he said – was growing, and his excuse for staying away was that he had to strike while the iron was hot. It must be bloody molten lava by now, she thought.