CHAPTER 20
Stratford upon Avon
SEBASTIAN
I’ve already resigned myself to the inevitable lecture from my mother about slipping away from the reception at Wigmore Hall.
I’m halfway through preparing a mental defence strategy when she rises from her armchair and says, all too lightly, “Sebastian, darling, we’ll finish our conversation later… ”
Ah. There it is.
“But now, go on upstairs and get changed, we’re expected for lunch at the Dirty Duck, and if we don’t hurry, we’ll be late.”
I blink. I’ve barely set foot in the house, and we’re already heading out again?
Still, the question that escapes my lips is, “Expected by whom, Mum? You didn’t say anything about plans.”
Isabel exchanges a glance with my father, who offers a silent nod, expression unreadable. Her lips press into a tight line before lifting into one of her well-practised smiles.
“Darling, I told you about this lunch. You must’ve forgotten, with everything you’ve got going on. Not a problem though, right?”
Actually, I’m fairly certain she never mentioned it. Not once.
I’d been hoping for a bit of quiet with them, just the three of us, so I could finally tell them. Come out. But clearly, that’s not happening. Not today, anyway. Maybe tonight. Or tomorrow.
There’s no point arguing, Mum’s already decided, and once she has, that’s the end of it.
Before I can get a word in, she carries on, undeterred.
“We’re having lunch with Jane and Edward Welland. You remember them, don’t you? Old friends from the bridge club. Jane’s a Whitbread, her family owns one of the most important hotel chains in the UK…”
The name Welland stirs the faintest flicker of recognition. After so many years away, most of my parents’ friends blur together, names without faces, stories I only half remember. Still…
“Wait, Mum, do they have a daughter who went to my school? I think I remember a Welland…” I dig through the fog of memory, chasing a name that flits just out of reach. Then a face surfaces, porcelain skin, brunette hair, like something out of a vintage storybook. “Hmm… Caroline? Or maybe Claire?”
“Cressida!” Mum practically squeals, clapping her hands like she’s won something.
“See? You do remember her! She’s your age, but she was away at boarding school in Devon until she was fifteen, and her parents were posted to Singapore.
By the time she joined your school, you wouldn’t have met, she was in another class. ”
Now that she says it, I do remember a ripple of gossip about a girl transferring from some fancy boarding school. But I wasn’t paying much attention. Back then, my world was Maddie and Ann e and music, everything else barely registered.
Mum’s still talking, oddly enthusiastic. Too enthusiastic. She’s not usually one for this level of detail unless she’s building up to something.
“We’ve grown quite close with the Wellands recently, they’re absolutely lovely. And now that you’re finally back in Stratford, we thought it only right to introduce you properly…”
Dad clears his throat, softly but firmly. That gentle nudge he reserves only for her. “Isabel, darling, maybe you should grab your coat? We can carry on chatting on the way.”
“But Evan!” she snaps. “Surely you’re not suggesting Sebastian shows up at the Dirty Duck looking like that?”
I glance down instinctively. Black jeans. Hoodie. Perfectly clean. Actually, stylish, even. “Mum, what’s wrong with what I’m wearing? It’s clean. And kind of fashionable, if you ask me.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Sebastian…” She dismisses me with a flick of her hand. “Go upstairs and put on the outfit I laid out on your bed. Assuming you haven’t changed size, it should still fit.”
“I’ve got plenty of clothes in my suitcase,” I try, quietly. But she’s already moved on.
“Evan, be a darling and take that… that thing upstairs, would you?”
She glances at my suitcase like it might crawl across the floor. “I dread to think what’s inside. You know Sebastian’s always been delicate, he can’t even lift it himself.”
Heat creeps up my neck. Humiliation pricks behind my eyes. I blink hard, pushing it down.
And she’s not done. As she sweeps past me towards the hall, she tosses one last dagger over her shoulder. “Oh, and do something with that hair, would you, Sebastian? You look like a stray with that lock of hair in your eyes.”
Boiling with silent rage, I turn and follow Dad upstairs. He lugs the heavy suitcase to my room and drops it by the bed with a faint grunt, then gives me that familiar, mildly sympathetic look.
“Try not to take it to heart, son. You know she just wants the best for you…”
“Dad,” I sigh, exasperated. “I’m an adult. Don’t you think I can figure out what’s best for myself?”
He doesn’t answer, just shakes his head and gives my shoulder a quick pat. It’s meant to be comforting, but it only fans the flames.
“Get changed and sort your hair,” he says, already turning to leave. “We’re waiting downstairs. Don’t take too long, you know how your mother is about punctuality.”
Once I’m alone, the tension erupts. I yank off my clothes and throw them to the floor, jaw clenched, chest tight. I want to scream, but I don’t. That would only make things worse.
Why does she always have to control everything? Why is nothing I do ever good enough?
If I still lived here, I’d have completely lost it by now. Just a couple more days, then I’ll be back in London.
Back to… what, exactly? I’m not even sure where home is anymore. But I know where I want to be.
With Remi.
My eyes fall to my phone, lying half-hidden on the floor. I snatch it up, suddenly desperate to hear from him. But I don’t even have to type a word.
He’s already messaged me.
REMI TEXT:
HEY BABY, ALL OKAY? HAVEN’T HEARD FROM YOU.
HOPE THE JOURNEY WENT WELL, AND THAT COMING OUT TO YOUR PARENTS IS GOING SMOOTHLY.
I KNOW IT’S NOT THE SAME AS WITH THE OTHERS, BUT I DO KNOW HOW STRONG AND brAVE YOU ARE. YOU’VE GOT THIS.
MET WITH FRANCIS TODAY, IT WENT EVEN BETTER THAN EXPECTED. CAN’T WAIT TO TELL YOU EVERYTHING. JUST KNOW WE’VE GOT HIS FRIENDSHIP AND SUPPORT.
THAT MAKES THE NEXT STEPS MUCH EASIER. COME BACK SOON. I MISS YOU.
AND IF YOU NEED ANYTHING AT ALL, CALL ME. I’M ALWAYS HERE.
CAN’T WAIT TO HEAR FROM YOU
A tiny red heart at the end. Just that, and suddenly I’m grinning like a love-struck teenager.
He’s rough around the edges, sure. But with me… he’s all warmth and softness. I still don’t understand how I got this lucky.
I sit down on the bed, wearing nothing but my black cotton briefs, and cradle the phone in both hands. My chest feels a little lighter. The anger hasn’t disappeared completely, but it’s quiet now, overwhelmed by something gentler.
I start typing back, fingers flying across the screen.
SEBASTIAN TEXT:
YOU’RE RIGHT, I SHOULD’VE WRITTEN SOONER. GOT… SWALLOWED UP BY THE FAMILY DRAMA.
SAME OLD STORY. MUM’S IN FULL-FORCE MODE, BUT NOTHING I CAN’T HANDLE.
PLANNING TO TALK TO THEM TONIGHT, OR TOMORROW MORNING AT THE LATEST.
WE’RE HEADING TO SOME FORMAL LUNCH NOW WITH FRIENDS OF THEIRS, NO IDEA WHAT THE OCCASION IS. MAYBE THEY JUST WANT TO PARADE ME AROUND AGAIN.
FIGURED IT’S BEST TO PLAY ALONG FOR NOW. MIGHT MAKE THINGS EASIER WHEN I FINALLY SIT THEM DOWN.
I’M SO GLAD YOUR TALK WITH FRANCIS WENT WELL. I KNOW HOW MUCH HIS OPINION MEANS TO YOU. IT SOUNDS LIKE HE REALLY GETS IT, AND CARES.
I HOPE, WITH HIS SUPPORT, THE OTHERS WILL START TO COME AROUND TOO. I’M NOT EXPECTING MIRACLES, BUT… FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A WHILE, I’M FEELING A BIT HOPEFUL.
THEY’RE CALLING ME NOW, GOT TO GO. I’LL MESSAGE YOU AS SOON AS I’VE SPOKEN TO THEM.
THANK YOU FOR BEING THERE. REALLY.
PS: I LOVED YOUR GIFT. CAN’T WAIT TO WEAR IT… IDEALLY WITH THAT OTHER PIECE YOU SEEMED TO ENJOY SO MUCH
Satisfied, I hit send and toss the phone onto the bed just as Mum’s voice floats up the stairs, sharp, insistent, rising by the second.
I pull on the clothes she laid out, suppressing a sigh as the fabric settles over my skin. Dark grey suit, crisp white shirt, so heavily starched it scratches at my neck the second it touches me. No tie, thankfully. One more layer of suffocation and it would’ve gone straight out the window.
It’s expensive. Polished. Impeccably coordinated.
And completely not me.
She knows that. Which, I suspect, is precisely the point.
I line up my black Converse neatly by the bed, then pull out a pair of black crocodile-print boots and my small toiletry kit.
After a quick rinse, I freshen up, brush a touch of eyeliner along my upper lids, and tie my hair into a half-ponytail, leaving a few strands loose to soften the edges. One glance in the mirror, and I’m done.
When I come downstairs, they’re both waiting, impeccably dressed and visibly tense. Mum paces the hallway, her heels leaving faint dents in the thick grey carpet, while Dad watches her with that quiet, helpless look he wears far too often.
They take in the boots. And the eyeliner. Their eyes linger a moment too long, but they don’t say a word. Not now, anyway. I know it’s only a matter of time.
I walk straight to the door, quietly satisfied. A small win. Isabel snatches up her Louis Vuitton bag and follows. Evan locks the door behind us.
On the way to the Dirty Duck, they greet every familiar face with exaggerated cheer, like minor celebrities on a red carpet. I trail beside them, feeling like a carefully polished prop.
They beam. They gush. They make a show of me. And yet, for all this public pride, I’ve never once felt it from them, not where it actually counts.
The Dirty Duck is a Stratford institution, historic, charming, and perfectly positioned along the river. The pub retains its Elizabethan charm, all low beams and dark wood, while the restaurant offers a modern contrast: clean lines, pale walls, and a sweeping glass facade overlooking the Avon.
Naturally, we’re headed to the restaurant.
As we step into the sun-drenched room, a couple waves from a round table by the window.