It’s the way he talks to her, she decides. That’s what rubs her patience raw like sandpaper. He talks to her like she’s on the payroll. Does the same with Mary, as well, but she just nods and accepts it. She decides there and then to make other plans for next weekend. Mary’s voice drifts through the open kitchen window, and Natasha retreats around the corner of the house, along the path towards the side gate. Her stepmum knows she smokes but Natasha can’t be bothered with the tired look of disapproval Mary wears every time a cigarette goes near her mouth.

Another deep drag, but the quiet crackle of smouldering cigarette paper is drowned out by the low rumble of an engine from the front of the house. She hears a car door open and close, and footsteps stomp their way across the drive. The echoes of the bell reach her even here, and she hears voices. Blurred and indistinct, she can make out one word in three or four. She sidles closer to the gate, both voices now have owners. Alexander Locke is one. The other makes her eyes widen in surprise. James. Mixed emotions. She misses him a little. Her fling on the wrong side of the track. Sleeping with the help, so to speak. If she’s honest, she let it happen just to see Alexander’s reaction as much as anything. There was something deliciously naughty about being on the arm of a man that most people fear.

She lets the smoke curl from her mouth of its own accord, almost afraid to blow it out in case they hear her. Ridiculous, she knows, but her chest tightens as she listens, words becoming clearer. She screws her eyes closed to concentrate, as if that will amplify their words, but she’s not sure she wants to hear any more. All she can think of is her father. Of what Alexander has just told James to do to his warehouse. To him if he doesn’t play ball. If he doesn’t sign the papers. She needs to warn him. Wonders what he’s done to piss off Alexander. She can’t face going back inside, but knows she has to. She can hardly stroll through the side gate with those two stood out front.

Her hand is shaking as she stubs the cigarette out in the soil by her feet. Natasha folds her arms protectively across her chest and heads back inside. She mutters her thanks to Mary, musters a terse smile for her brother, Gavin. She doesn’t want to have to walk past the two men at the front door, and heads for the toilet, locks the door and mouths a silent scream to herself in the mirror.

Oh my God! Oh my fucking God!