Chapter One
Posted on Thursday, 17 August 2006
FrederickWentworth.com
Wednesday 14th June, 2006
This is probably going to be my last blog entry in a long time, cos Louisa (my wife, in case any of you reading this had missed the o.t.t. coverage of it in basically every publication in England) has just had a beautiful baby boy. We have yet to decide on a name, but I'm sure that he'll be Wentworth Number 2. This one might win Wimbledon...
So, anyway, I'd just like to take this opportunity to thank all those who have supported me throughout my career and who sent presents for our baby.
Wow, some press statement. My agent'd be impressed.
And to all prospective tennis players, I can only offer you one piece of advice which has (more or less) served me well throughout my career – go for it, every point in every game in every set in every match counts. And you really will never regret it.
Frederick
'Civilian' life for Frederick Wentworth was not going well. He missed the tour, missed his friends who were in far flung places while he was stuck in Uppercross being subjected to a life of sheep and the stench of cow manure. For a man who had been used to jetting off to tournaments around the world for over eight years of his life, this experience was decidedly pedestrian. His son, who was now 8 months old, he loved, but his wife – the woman he had abandoned Anne for – was continually grating on his nerves. She never went out any more, never spoke of anything other than her child, and seemed to be in perpetual fear of another fall. He should not blame her, he knew that, in fact he was well aware that everything had been his fault – if he had not tried to make Anne jealous, if he had not tried to get her out of his system, then none of this would have happened. As it was now, he had been forced to give up the sport he breathed, the life he thrived on and the woman he loved.
Life was peachy keen.
He cringed at that thought and realised that he had spent more time hanging out with his American friends than he had thought, and to his disgust was even starting to pick up their absurd phrases which really should be incomprehensible. Chuckling to himself, he picked up the phone and deliberated on whether or not to call his best friend on the Tour, Cosimo Tosetti – an arrogant sod who would moan about any food that wasn't Italian. Eventually, he dialled the familiar number and was about to hang up after about eight rings, when his friend picked up.
“Ciao, Federico! You phone me? I am honoured.”
“Ha ha. Funny.”
“Si, si. But, why do you phone me now? Has the little woman at home lived out her usefulness? This is what you get by marrying. Me, I am different. I stay without a woman.”
“Hmm. I'm starting to suspect that you're the wisest of the lot of us.”
“I am,” Cosimo said definitively. “No woman, no cry.”
“That's a Bob Marley song.”
“And the truth.” There was a sigh on the other end, and after a few moments he began to speak again. “Do you miss me?”
“Of course. You're the light of my life. I can't live without you.”
“You English. Very sarcastic, too sarcastic.”
“At least you can tell the difference between sarcasm and sincerity now.” Frederick said, remembering one incident in particular, at the very start of their friendship, when Cosimo had believed that Frederick batted for the other team, so to speak. It had taken quite a while to clear that misunderstanding up.
“Well, you speak the Italian and see if you are able to tell between the two. I will give you a reward if you do. Enough! Why do you phone me? Really.”
Frederick's shoulders slumped, and once again he was grateful that Mrs Musgrove was taking care of both Louisa and little Charlie, for the Musgroves had insisted on adding another Charles to the brood. He had been persuaded, coerced, whatever, into accepting the name and was informed by Mrs Musgrove – with immense joy – that Charles Wentworth sounded great. He was less than convinced. “I miss it. The life. The tour. Everything, to be perfectly honest.”
“Then come back. Simple.”
“No. I can't.”
“Why not? I see no reason for you to deny yourself this.”
“I can't.”
“Because of the wife, yes? Well, let me tell you, women are moaners. They grumble and complain and will never be happy until they have every penny from your bank account and own every dress from Prada and Gucci. Forget about your wife.”
“As good as it is to listen to your misogynistic comments, that wasn't what I was thinking of. Louisa would probably throw me back to the Tour.”
“A good woman? No, this is not possible.”
“Cosimo, shut it, would you? No, the problem is that I'm over thirty. I'm on the way out. I should just retire gracefully and that's that.” He could tell that he was not only trying to persuade his friend, but himself as well. What Cosimo had just suggested had been lingering in the very forefront of his mind for weeks, months, now and he was sure that his wife would not miss him. Charlie was too young, and, although it would be difficult to be away from his son, wouldn't it be better for him to have a successful father who could provide for him for the rest of his life, rather than a worn out fuddy duddy who would, no doubt, shame him? Yes. He was liking the idea more and more.
“You are a young man still. Agassi played far longer. And Sampras. Do not give up.”
“Whatever. You just want rid of me.”
“Ah, si. You see right through me. I have practice with Alain, then a date with a beautiful model. You see. I have the life.”
“Sure. Ciao, Cosimo.”
“Ciao.”
Cosimo had really given him some food for thought, and he knew already which way his mind was swaying. He just wasn't cut out for country life and going out fox hunting and all the other events that went with it; sad to say, he just didn't have that much in common with the people who frequented the hunts and the balls and all the parties which seemed to go on and on. With the exception of one young man, no one had known much about tennis – instead of being the man who had won the US and French Open, he was relegated to just being 'poor Louisa Musgrove's husband'. Maybe he wouldn't have minded had he been 'poor Anne Elliot's husband'...but now everything was changed, and there was nothing he wouldn't give to go back to the life he had lived just two years ago. Well, almost nothing.
“Freddie! Freddie! We're back!”
“Mrs Musgrove, I take it everything was ok.”
“Of course, of course. We all had such a nice time didn't we, Charlie? Only my other grandchildren are so energetic that they were almost leaping on the furniture. I had to give them some cake. And it was my very best cake, for everything else in the house had been eaten by them on their previous visits.” She plonked herself down on the sofa after seeing that her daughter and grandson were safely settled. “Isn't that right, Louisa?”
Louisa nodded. Frederick frowned.
“I'm glad you had a good day.” He moved towards the kitchen, intending to take a quick shot of whiskey, then stopped and remembered the manners that his sister had drummed into him all those years ago. “Do you want anything to drink, Mrs Musgrove?”
“Oh, a good cup of tea would be lovely. But call me by my name!” He just smiled and continued his walk. Mrs Musgrove would always be Mrs Musgrove to him because, despite her friendly chubbiness, she inspired a fear similar to the one Gaston Benoit used to when they were on court together. Only now it was not about a ball throttling through the air at 120mph, but rather, he knew that Mrs Musgrove would do some serious damage if he didn't treat her daughter as well as she thought she should be treated. Especially in her 'weakened condition'. Damn, he was sick of it. Weakened condition my eye, he thought, she's perfectly well. It's only her bloody mind that can't accept it.
He dragged out making Mrs Musgrove's tea, purposely brewing it far too strong and then realising, at the last minute, that she preferred a spoonful of sugar and lots of milk in it rather than taking it black. He was, however, required to go back into the silent room when the kettle had boiled for the fourth time and there was no way that he stretch it out any more. So, reluctantly, he took short steps to the sitting room and set the tray (which held the teapot and cups – black for Louisa, always black) down onto his table, the one he had bought in Monaco and decided would be a good addition to whatever home he would have a few years back. It just didn't look the same in a paisley print cottage as it had in his flat in London. Quite out of place. Then again, his mother-in-law had remedied that situation by chucking a horrid floral thing over it. Frederick had only recently ascertained that it was not living, and that it's mission in life was not to drive him demented, however likely that seemed when he stumbled downstairs at dawn.
“Thank you. You're much more useful than Charles. Louisa, tea?”
His wife nodded again and Frederick felt frustration well up within him when he saw her stubbornness at refusing to speak. He knew that she could defeat this if she just put some effort into it. For someone as active and outgoing as he was, it was difficult resigning himself to a life with no permanent, talkative companion; and a boring one at that too. No. That was wrong. Edward would, no doubt, scold him for thinking that, but it could not be helped. He suspected that he was suffering from something akin to cabin fever; he just wanted to do something that he wanted. Rallies with mediocre players at the training pitches were no good, and, sad to say, he even missed the rivalry between Benoit and himself. Even if Benoit beat him things would be better. Well, maybe he wouldn't go that far. But losing a set would definitely be a welcome event. How pathetic.
“Did you have fun practising today?”
“Pardon? Oh yes.” He sat back in his one consolation, a leather chair which moulded itself into his body shape quite easily, and closed his eyes for a time. Then he remembered something and opened them again, to make some much needed conversation. “I was talking to Cosimo today.”
“Cosimo?”
“Tosetti. A tennis player. He couldn't be at the wedding, a tournament.”
“Ah.”
“What does he want?” Louisa asked, speaking for the first time. Frederick kept his eyes trained on her.
“He was just talking about his plans. Tennis. And dating models.”
“Oh, he sounds like quite the...what's the word? I could have sworn I heard Hennie saying it yesterday...oh yes...a play boy.” Frederick laughed at Mrs Musgrove, thinking about how true that statement was. Cosimo was nothing if not a play-boy, player, whatever you wanted to call someone who made a habit of sleeping with a woman only once and living the bachelor dream.
“He really is. I don't think he even knows what commitment is.”
“He's different to you, then.” She said with an approving tone in her voice. “I'm convinced that husbandhood and fatherhood have changed you. For the better, of course.” He wasn't sure. “Oh, I heard some gossip today. Remember Anne Elliot, of course you do, how stupid of me! Well, it seems that this new job of hers has got her a boyfriend. Very handsome, or so I hear. Well off as well.”
“Good for her,” he replied, with a strangely tight throat. “I hope she's happy.”
“She deserves it. Undoubtedly she would have been better marrying my son, but you can't have everything and it was that Susan Russell who caused that match to go askew. I've never forgiven her. Never! Only think that Anne, and not Mary, would have been my daughter. Her drinking's getting worse though. Could smell the alcohol.”
“I thought Mary gave up.”
“She tried,” stated Mrs Musgrove, with all the dignity and manner of an Emperor on his throne, lording it up over all his minions. “But you know that with all junkies there's only so much they can do before the alcohol calls them back.”
“If you say so.” He actually thought that if Charles had paid Mary more attention over the past year then she wouldn't have had to fall back on her old friend. And as for Mrs Musgrove's attitude, it was decidedly backward. Surely this was the era of New Labour, his Tonyness and a decidedly politically correct turn of mind?
It took another four hours, thirty nine minutes and fifteen seconds to get rid of his mother-in-law (he was counting) and soon he was left with just Lousia for company since Charlie had been put to bed hours ago.
“Louisa, how would you feel if I went back to tennis?”
“You are back in tennis,” she said, in her usual serene tone, almost as if she was disconnected from the rest of the world.
“No, I meant back professionally. On the Tour.”
“Oh.” She remained quiet.
“Well?”
“You wish to leave me. I see that.”
“I love tennis!”
“More than me.” Again there was no passion in her voice. If the accident had not occurred then he had no doubt that he would be facing an entirely different prospect at that moment. “You cannot deny that.”
“No.”
“Go.”
“Thank-”
“Do not. You go and you will never see your son.”
“Louisa, you can't!” She turned to him, resolute.
“Yes, I can. But it is the truth.”
“I will only be away for a year or two. And you can come and see me.” He was desperately clutching at straws, hoping that she could be dissuaded from this notion. Unfortunately, her stubbornness had survived the fall in this particular incident.
“I do not like flying.”
“Wimbledon then! Nottingham! For God's sake Louisa, you can't hide the boy away from me.”
“We'll see.” She turned her head away again and picked up a magazine. Leafing through it, she spoke, “Get on with it then. Phone your dear Cosimo.”
He rose and stormed over to her, his annoyance with her seeming to reach a peak, “You are a cruel, heartless-”
“You made me that way.”
His phone rang, and for once this interruption was unwelcome. Louisa glanced at the screen of it. “Oh, Cosimo. He must be psychic.”
He just shook his head in disbelief. She was just unbearable. Absolutely unbearable.
Chapter Two
Posted on Wednesday, 23 August 2006
BBC Sport – Tennis
6th March
There are rumours circulating round the ATP Tour that former World Number One, Frederick Wentworth, is about to return to the sport he gave up almost a year ago following the birth of his son.
Wentworth himself has yet to comment on whether or not the gossip is true, but plenty of tennis players have volunteered their opinions quite freely to our reporter at the Pacific Life Open where defending champion Gaston Benoit is hoping to retain his title.
The champion told us that although a move like that would not be 'inconceivable', he 'highly doubted if Wentworth would be able to return to past glory.' Benoit even went so far as to suggest that his former rival would be a 'wash-out' and that he would ultimately end up a failure.
Well, the enmity between them is still there then.
Meanwhile, Italian Cosimo Tosetti believes that if Wentworth was to attempt a come back then he would be successful. Adding rather dryly that 'England needs a decent tennis player again'. Presumably he was remarking on the circumstance that the current British Number One is placed a measly 150th in the world. A sad state of affairs for a country which has produced such greats as Fred Perry and...um...well, perhaps Wentworth should return after all. If only to save us from the shame of another Davis Cup loss to a country famed for its cheese.
“Freddie! Is this true?” Mrs Musgrove charged into the front sitting room of the Wentworth house. Louisa was out, having accepted Hennie's invitation to stay the day at her little home nearby, and she had taken Charlie as well. Frederick had been enjoying a rather relaxing afternoon. But apparently that wasn't allowed. And what had possessed him to let Louisa give her mother an extra key? Apparently he had taken leave of his senses.
“Is what true?”
“This!” A rather tatty and jam stained newspaper was thrown at him, and he had to duck in order to avoid getting hit in the face. He glanced at the paper, the usual it seemed; his Tonyness had mucked something up (the Musgroves never bought a pro-Blair paper since he had banned fox hunting. They were still recovering from the loss), and the England football team had lost again.
“What's the matter?”
“Turn it over! To the sports section! The top left hand corner.” He did as instructed and was met by that surprising little announcement. He wondered how it had leaked out. “Explain. Now.”
“I'm thinking about it.”
“But...but...” Mrs Musgrove spluttered, seeming not to be able to comprehend the situation. “Louisa...what will she...oh, heavens, she'll read this and then will be so shocked that I shouldn't be surprised if she was to suffer a relapse.” Frederick wanted to point out that Louisa had not had a disease and he highly doubted if you could relapse from a fall.
“She knows.”
“And? I am sure she is terribly distressed, the idea of her trying to look after a little baby on her own and in her condition!” She collapsed into a chair which very nearly did not hold her large bulk. “You're nothing but a user!”
“Mrs Musgrove, I offered to fly Louisa and Charlie out with me, but she wouldn't hear of it. She even insists that I shouldn't see my child until I finish tennis.”
“Oh, poor frightened creature! And she's tried so hard to get back to normal.”
Frederick reached the end of his tether, “No, ma'am, she has not. She's a selfish girl who is too stubborn to admit that there is something different in her life now.” Mrs Musgrove appeared taken aback by his verbal attack, for she was quite unable to speak for several seconds.
“And what altered her situation? Or rather, who? I knew you were worthless from the moment I set eyes on you, and now you abandon my poor girl. I can't imagine how we will recover.” The familiar guilt which had caused him to propose to Louisa in the first place rose again, and he was unhappy to discover that it still made him feel as rubbish as it had then.
“I'm not divorcing her, if that's what you're worried about. And if I'm successful in the few years I have left then we'll have more money for Charlie's education. That's it.” His mother-in-law appeared skeptical but she had the failing of being rather soft-hearted where Frederick was concerned because, despite her recent words, he had always made a very favourable impression on her. If she had have been thirty years younger...
“Well, that's better, I suppose.” She heaved herself up and waddled over to the door – her feet were aching again today and that new cream just wasn't working. “Just remember that you and Louisa have to come over and have tea with us tonight. I'm sure the nanny Charles has will be only too happy to look after another one, or she'll be happy for the extra money I should say. It's going to be quite the family get-together. Toodle-oo!”
Frederick was screwed. He could think of nothing more unpleasant than spending the evening in the company of people who would, no doubt, think the less of him for his decision to return to the tennis world. Apart from Mary, of course. She would welcome the fame to her family. Unfortunately.
He didn't think that Louisa would return to the house before dinner, and she didn't, so Frederick was left to his own devices and after exhausting the supply of magazines they had and discovering that there was nothing good on the TV he managed to haul himself up to check his e-mails. There were 3 new messages, two from his contacts and one from an unknown address, so he presumed that it was junk mail. Clicking on the first one he saw that it was from his agent, Frankie Jones – a brilliant agent, but a cut-throat, emotionless individual who seemed to live only for the revenue that his clients would bring in. It was as mercenary as Frederick could have expected it to be; demands for stories, advertising and Frankie's not so subtle hints to get him back into the game. In case there were any doubts, it was a mix of Frankie and the Musgroves who had gotten OK to do a wedding special. His wedding day. How memorable a day that was! It still bothered him that the abiding recollection of that event was not the ceremony, or the way Louisa had looked, but the last dance he had had with Anne. Somehow, due to her being the excellent woman she was, she had managed not to hate him although he fully realized that he deserved to be thrown into the fiery pits of hell for all eternity. It only made him understand what he had missed.
He deleted Frankie's message after making a mental note to call him at the office, so that he could not avoid speaking to him, and moved onto the next one.
Wentworth, you've got a lot to answer for.
Cosimo keeps raving on about you coming back to the Tour, Benoit's doing nothing but looking like an arrogant s.o.b like he always does (and man, that is so damn frustrating) and the whole world's like imploding at the thought that Frederick the Great could be returning. I swear Benoit's freaked out. Oh well, what a pity.
Anyway, hope to see/talk to/play against you soon – hey, possibly all three – and just calm Cosimo down a bit will you? God, I've never seen him so loved up, and by loved up I mean a different woman every single night, even a Sunday. Man, he's out of control.
Hope that the ball and chain's well, and that the sprog's as noisy as usual.
Moss
He laughed at Moss' description of Cosimo's habits, and once again missed that comradeship which had greeted him every day of the Tour life. The rivalry with Benoit, Cosimo's insatiable love for women and Moss (or to give him his full name, Ulysses Moss III) worrying about the whole situation. Those were the good times.
He replied and then realized that he had forgotten about the other e-mail lodged in his inbox, he studied the address but was unable to see who could possibly be the sender (because even the annoying paparazzi guys normally had business ones). Frederick clicked on it, wary in case it should be a virus.
It wasn't.
Hey Frederick,
I just wanted to write and tell you how pleased I am that you're thinking of returning to tennis. I always knew you could do it, you even managed to get me to play half-decently! Anyway, I hope that Louisa's alright with it. I'm sure she will be because she loves you and who wouldn't want the man they love to be happy?
So, good luck!
Anne Elliot
P.S. Mary gave me your e-mail address. I'm not some crazed stalker with amazing hacking abilities.
That was nice. A nice gesture. And one which remained in his head until he showered and headed off, with a heavy heart, to undergo another family dinner at Uppercross. Joy.
Frederick had finally decided. The dinner had been the final straw, it was somewhere between the talk of the qualities of manure and pheasant shooting that he actually did lose the will to live. The only people who did not immerse themselves in this topic were Hennie, Louisa and Mary. Since Mary was in a perpetual bad mood, Hennie love-struck and Louisa still silent, there was no other source of riveting conversation, and he was obliged to offer his opinion when it was sought while trying not to sound completely and utterly bored. The only half-interesting bit of information was that Sir Walter, having moved back to his rightful home just after Frederick's marriage, was in serious debt once again. This time there would be no Sophy and George Croft to take the place off the old fool's hands since they were safely and comfortably installed in a house of their own some three hours away. Apparently they had had the sense to get as far away from the wretched place as he should have had. The mistakes he had made were glaringly obvious to Frederick right now.
“And I hear that he's going to move to London. Imagine the look of him by the time he's finished there! I can just see him with his fluorescent trousers and designer shirts – what a slave to 'fashion' he is!” Hennie said, joining in with the laughter of the others. Frederick glanced at Mary quickly, having attended enough Musgrove gatherings to know that the moment something bad was said about any of the Elliot family, she would immediately take offence and go into a huff. In this instance she was quiet, and Frederick's curiosity was aflame. It was a very strange thing. Very, very strange because in all the time that he had known Mary, he had never seen her keep her mouth shut for a lengthy period of time. At this dinner, she had hardly made a comment.
“I suppose you shall be decked out in something similar, Freddie?” Charles asked, “When you return to the glamorous world of tennis.” If there was a barb in there he ignored it.
“It's not that glamorous, Charles. Really. Most of the time you're practicing. Not a pleasant sight afterwards.” He munched his way through the salad that was placed beside him, already trying to put into practice the advice that his physio had given him about his eating habits. He highly doubted whether old Harlin would approve of the fish and chips and pizzas which he had found himself often succumbing to.
“Well you've got all those women.”
“We hardly ever see each other. Different tournaments.” He tried in vain to keep the topic brief, as he knew perfectly well what would come next – a not so subtle warning about what would happen should he be unfaithful to Louisa.
“Just remember your wife.”
“I will, Mrs Musgrove. Wouldn't be able to forget her.” No matter how much I want to. This seemed to satisfy his in-laws for now and he was anxious to get out of the house before anything else of a similar nature could be discussed. Unfortunately, Louisa was very unwilling to leave her parents house and it led to them spending the night at her old home.
“You can't sleep in the spare room now.” She commented, watching him put fresh pillowcases on.
“I didn't chuck myself out of the marital bed.”
She didn't reply. When he'd finished making the bed she told him that he better be careful that everything was in its rightful place, because she would be uneasy if it was not.
“Louisa. Do shut up! Listen to yourself! Think what you were like when I first met you – where has that person gone?” He attempted to keep his voice lowered in case any of her relatives should hear the argument.
“She was destroyed when you let me fall and nearly killed me.”
“I've told you that I'm sorry for that, I've repaid my debt in full!” Immediately he knew that he should not have said that, and regretted his outburst.
“What? Did you only marry me out of guilt?”
“Of course not.”
“And if I hadn't have been pregnant would you have still married me then, even with the fall?” His lack of response was enough for her. “You're so annoying.”
“I'm annoying?”
“Yes. You're just selfish and proud and so not the man I thought you were.”
“Selfish? Then what do you call me marrying you and giving up-”
“Giving up what, Frederick?” There were tears in her eyes, but he suspected that they were more because of anger and experiencing real emotion than any sign of grief at their rapidly imploding relationship. “Give up Anne?” The pillow he had been holding dropped onto the floor. “I knew. I knew from just before we went to Italy that you were in love with her.”
“Then-”
“Hennie and I were rifling through your things when you were out one day, just before we left, and we found a photo album.” He realized what was coming now. “We thought it'd be fun, you know, to see what you were like years ago. To see if you had any embarrassing hairstyles.” She took a deep breath and continued, “The first few weren't very interesting – just pictures of you with your friends and with Sophy and George. Then...then we discovered photos of you and Anne. I mean, I knew that you two had met before but I thought that you were just casual friends, nothing too deep. And then... Then the photos got far more romantic in nature.” He nodded, wondering how she had managed to keep all this bottled up for so long. “She had a ring. An engagement ring.” Her own was being twisted round her finger. “You looked happy. The both of you.”
“We were.”
“What happened then? I've asked loads of people but I can't figure it out. No one seems to have heard of Anne and any other guy but Charles.”
“Not many people knew.” He sat down at the foot of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees, deliberating over how to tell her what must inevitably come next. “We met nearly ten years ago just before I got my big break. She'd called round to speak with Edward and I was staying with him and things just...you know...carried on from there. Started to coach her a little bit – she's not a terrible tennis player, which shocked her a bit, I think. And we began to fall in love.” He glanced up at his wife who was staring intently at him, taking every word of his story in without question. “The long and short of it is that I proposed, she accepted, her family and Susan bloody Russell didn't, and then she decided that she didn't want to marry me anymore. So I went away and never saw her again until Sophy took the idea into her head to rent a house here.”
“So Mary knew? Must have been hard for her to keep quiet about it.”
“I don't think she did. She was away or something and only Edward knew about it on my side of the family.” Louisa nodded.
“I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
“Everything. I should've let you go when I knew that you loved her.” She wiped her eyes and took a tissue from the box on the night stand. “But you're still selfish and proud.”
“How?”
“You could have left me and lived happily ever after with Anne-”
“No. That was never a serious possibility.”
“So you did think of it then? It doesn't surprise me. But you were scared that she would say no again. Could you have lived with that? I was the safe option, the one who wouldn't injure your pride.” He couldn't answer. “For all our marriage, I've known that I was second, no, third choice. Anne and tennis will always come before me.” She rose and went towards the door. “You can go and do the whole tennis thing again, and I won't stop you seeing Charlie.”
“Thank you.” He was amazed what a little bit of honesty could do to a relationship.
“Just, no other women. I don't think I could deal with the fall-out.”
“I promise.”
She laughed bitterly, “No, you wouldn't look at any other woman but Anne, would you? And she's got a boyfriend now. I almost feel sorry for you.” She left and Frederick was left to think about everything that had occurred. He had always known that Louisa was bright, but he had never before considered her to have guessed everything she had, albeit with the help of a handy photo album. All in all it was quite a turn round.
He was in bed soon enough, and waited for Louisa to come back. She did so about an hour later, complete with a cup of tea and a packet of plain biscuits. “Comfort food.” She announced upon his curious look.
“Hmm, personally I would've went with chocolate.”