Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Five years is a long time, despite what anyone says. Things and people change fast, always moving towards somewhere or something. Could be for better or worse, big or small, but point is - change is always happening in some way or other.

Take you, for example. Take a good job in corporate law, a nice apartment, cash in the bank. Parties, more clothes than you know what to do with, a couple of fast cars. Then - and this is the fun part - you throw it all down the pan. Maybe it so happens that, on what should have been a normal day in court, you forget what's in your jacket from the night before. Maybe that something is a pretty big bag of cocaine. Oh, dear, the sniffer dog at the door's getting all excitable. You joke that you've got no treats on you, the security guard smiles and starts to wave you through. But the dog still barks, yelping and straining at its harness. The security guy's smile slips just a bit, and he asks you to step to one side. Routine pat down, he says. Shut the dog up, if nothing else. Fine, no problem. He pats you down, first your legs and arms, then your jacket. Pauses a moment at your ribs, feeling something bulging in the inner pocket. He pulls it out, that big, dusty white bag with a fuck-ton of coke inside. Excellent. Well, the dog's finally quietened down. Small mercies.

Naturally, you were disbarred. Had your very own day in court, a guilty plea with all the contrition you could muster. Strange, seeing it all from the other side, some young hotshot defending you behind the bench. First time offence, no biggie. Except it wasn't so much no biggie, was it? Maybe you'd been a bit naughty with the company card of the firm you worked at. A little spending here and there really adds up; dinners, flights, a new carpet for your sitting-room. Embezzlement on top of possession of a Class-A drug, that's a horse of a different colour. Not one of your lawyer buddies stepped up to bat for you - why should they? You escaped jail time by the skin of your teeth, handed a suspended sentence instead. Court-ordered rehab, and a pile of fines so hefty that, practically overnight, that lovely full bank account of yours was drained dry. And it still wasn't enough. Goodbye, apartment. See you never, fast cars. That two-tone Rolex you bought with your first paycheck? Sayonara.

So, you're destitute. It could be worse. You've family and friends brimming with goodwill, ready to catch you as you fall, arms wide open after you got through rehab. Well, sort of. Kindness only goes so far when you're couch-surfing, eating their food and running up their bills with nothing to give in return. Can't get another job - too overqualified to work in a bar, a shop, a warehouse. A couple of law degrees tends to have that effect. Not to mention the shiny new criminal record, rendering you abso-fucking-lutely unemployable. You learned the hard way that goodwill has its limits. The very last friend on a dwindling list, a shrug of the shoulders, sorry, mate, but it's just not working.

That was last night. You oughtn't have been so shocked, but when reality hits, it smacks you square in the jaw. Two bags slung over your shoulders and nowhere else to go. Desperate texts to those you've already stayed with - please, I promise it's just one more night - and dead silence in response. Your own mother leaves you on read. Message received, loud and clear: you're fucked. You've wandered up and down the city with your last few quid in your pocket, panic rolling in fast as night falls. The year is breathing its last, temperatures teetering around zero degrees. Nothing to eat, not even a drink to numb yourself to it all. An uncomfortable reminder of what it was to be less than you are; poor upbringing, your mum's tiny council flat, always a little hungrier than the other kids. A bit of brains and a good measure of charisma took you a certain distance, but someone else reached out that helping hand and pulled you up the ladder. Someone else saw the potential and gave you the tools to climb to the very top.

That someone is the very last person you want to see.

That someone also happens to be the only one left that you haven't tried your luck with. Kindness doesn't come into it - there can't be any kindness where she's concerned. But time's ticking, and your options are pretty bloody thin. A night in the homeless shelter doesn't exactly appeal. Even so, maybe you'd be better off there. Someone might even pass around some cans and you could get blind drunk, forget for a while. But you know exactly where a drink leads - a drink leads to a craving, that craving leads to a lovely neat line of powder, and you won't, can't go back down that road.

Oh, fuck it…

You hail a bus, and hope to every damn god there is that she doesn't slam the door in your face.

***

The beautiful, massive house you once called your own. God, it's just as you remember it. White stone walls that glow bright gold when the sun hits them just right. The long, curving pathway leading up to the drive, that drive where your cars were once shoulder-to-shoulder with hers. A lone grey Lexus now sits there, looking a little lost as it tries to fill the space. She must have grown tired of the Bentley and the Porsche. There's a green and gold wreath on the front door from Christmas - shit, the year's gone by - and a light glowing faintly through the glass. Someone's up and about. You go to check your wrist for the time, find it bare. No Rolex sitting there, woe is you. Your phone tells you it's almost ten o'clock. Puff your cheeks out, roll your shoulders back. Nothing to it. Just knock and smile all big and pretend like nothing's the matter. Yep, that'll definitely go over well.

Your first obstacle presents itself in the form of a Ring doorbell affixed beside the black painted door, staring at you with its camera like an evil little cyclops. Sod it - you're here now. If she doesn't answer, you can just run away giggling, like a kid playing knock-a-door-run. You jab at the doorbell, wince at the jaunty tune that comes blaring out of it. Five seconds, ten, fifteen, thirty…a minute…God, just fucking answer, I look a complete tit out here…

It's beyond embarrassing, being left dithering on her doorstep like this. Your pride has taken enough of a battering to come here at all, and your reward is a steaming pile of ignorance. She might not even be home; the porch light might just be one of those stupid things meant to deter burglars. Hey, maybe you could burgle her. You still remember where she keeps all the valuables. She wouldn't miss a couple of rings, would she?

“Coming!”

The voice startles you out of your skin. Her voice. Christ, she's coming up the hallway. That silhouette - you'd know it anywhere - without a doubt, it's her. She must know it's you, too - her little spy beside the door will have told her as much. And yet, she's still ambling up the hall, her shape growing larger and your throat growing tighter.

“Oh. It's you.”

Warm light floods out all around her, making you blink furiously. You smell her before you see her - still the same perfume, all these years later. The scent seems to seep in and grip your chest in a painful vice. When your vision clears, your eyes are met with a habitual expression of disdain, all too familiar. You suspect your own face is doing the very same.

“Hi,” you say weakly, wishing you hadn't bothered at all. “It's, erm…good to see you, Alcina.”

A quirk of her perfect eyebrows, a self-satisfied smirk creeping over her stupidly lovely face. She hasn't changed a bit. Only a few more shallow lines around her eyes, merely charming. The same grey eyes which once arrested you, now seemingly only there to make you feel a foot smaller. She's loving this.

“Good to see me?” she echoes, restrained laughter hinting at the edge of her voice. “Wish I could say the same.”

She leans up against the doorframe and dwarfs you, looking down her nose. You straighten up, knowing it's futile to try, irritatingly tall as she is. The look on her face is telling; she knows, of course she does, hence this overblown show of smugness. The homeless shelter definitely doesn't seem so bad anymore.

“So…” she says, eyeing the bags awkwardly bumping against your back. “You need somewhere to stay. Have you tried a hotel, by any chance? Does this look like one?”

“Save it,” you snipe back, even as you know you shouldn't. “Look, this is shit enough without you…being you about it. I shouldn't have bothered…”

You start to turn, dismount the doorstep. Fuck this. Fuck her. I'll sleep on a park bench and freeze to death, then she'll be-

“Wait,” Alcina says. “Come in, for Heaven's sake. Don't throw a tantrum on my driveway.”

A sigh bursts from between your chattering teeth, turns to mist in the air. God, it's freezing. The house looks gorgeously warm, but it's so full of her and you knew all along that this was a bad idea. You can feel her eyes on the back of your head.

What else am I going to do?

Slowly pivoting on the spot, squinting up at her. That smirk has slid away, her features reconstituted into something more neutral. She's feeling nosy, just enough to let you inside. Good enough for now, and better than freezing your tits off out of sheer stubbornness.

“Thanks,” you mutter as she moves aside to grant you entry, squeezing your bags through the door.

Stepping into the hall is yet another punch to the gut. It's almost the same. Dark wood panelling and the herringbone floor you picked out, framed photos of the girls lining the staircase. There's a large gap between two of them where your wedding photo once hung, its absence conspicuous and almost…deliberate. Not filling it with something else, leaving it vacant instead.

You didn’t exactly think through how awful it'd feel to come back here.

“Come through,” Alcina calls out, halfway into the sitting-room. You've been standing immobile, staring tight-lipped at all the spaces you once occupied. Now your eyes land on her, in a pretty silk blouse and tailored trousers, and you come back to yourself. Back to her like a battered dog.

It's something of a relief to see that the sitting-room, at least, has changed. Quite a bit, actually. She's knocked through the dining-room wall, making a spacious, open-plan layout. New kitchen worktops gleam under downlights, and the sofa is different, too, a deep red Chesterfield. Alcina gestures for you to sit, and she takes the armchair opposite. An oversized marble coffee table demarcates the barrier between you.

“I heard about some of what happened.” Her long fingers drum on her thigh. “But I'd like to hear it from you, seeing how I'm being more than hospitable.”

You nod. She doesn't deserve it, but you're vying for a sleep on this very couch, so you'd better cough up. And so you do - mumbling through the last six months, particular emphasis on how very hard it's been. Yeah, you do feel sorry for yourself. So you should; it's been bloody rough. Alcina is impassive as she listens without interjection, completely still but for the odd blink and twitch of a finger. You peter out as the sorry tale wraps up, with a shrug that says, oh, well, what could I have done?

“And that's about it, really. Sorry to barge in and dump all that on you.”

“Hm,” she grunts, sizing you up and still sporting that infuriatingly measured expression. “You've really made a mess of it, haven't you?”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

She gets up abruptly and marches over to the kitchen island, rummaging out of sight before coming up with a bottle of wine and a single glass. None for you. Whatever happened to hospitality?

She pours herself a healthy measure of red and doesn't take her eyes off you, seeming to consider her next words carefully. “I am curious about just one thing, actually, if you'll indulge me.”

“Fire away,” you say. God, don't let it be a difficult question. You're too shattered for anything more than yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir. But you're sitting in her house and she's the one asking questions, so you'd better tread like there's broken glass underfoot.

“The cocaine, though I'm disgusted by it, I can understand why you got away with that,” she scowls, all that disgust etched deep into her face. “But I can't wrap my head around the embezzlement…how on Earth did you not get put away for that?”

As she drinks her wine, all the blood in you feels thickened, moving sluggishly through veins and arteries. Of course she had to go and ask about that. And, what's worse, you can't fucking lie to her. It's one of the things you hated most about being married to her, the way she sniffs out half-truths and obfuscation so easily. She, in turn, despised how naturally these things came to you. Shame coats your tongue as you finally, painfully disgorge the answer.

“I had a friend, erm, write a letter to the judge, saying…saying that it'd be detrimental to my stepdaughters if I were to be put away-”

“You did what?!”

Here we fucking go…

Alcina explodes; bared teeth and furious eyes, her voice rising. “You've barely been in their lives these past five years! How dare you use their names to get out of your petty fucking crimes?!”

She snatches up her Birkin from the worktop and launches it at you, which bloody hurts, but you can't say it isn't deserved. The handbag glances off your shoulder and bounces inelegantly to the floor. You stay very, very still and very, very quiet on the couch. She's the opposite, storming around the kitchen island and swearing her head off. All you can do is let her. It takes some time for her to descend from the peak of her rage; it was always like this. She breathes like an animal, quivers like a volcano about to go off. Poor fuckers in Pompeii; you know a little of how they must have felt.

“I ought to put you back out on the fucking street…Jesus Christ...”

“I know! I know how fucked up that was, do you not think I realise?!” You run your hands through your already-wild hair, fighting your own temper. “But please, just this one night…I promise I'll be out of your hair in the morning. Please, Alcina.”

Jesus, you're pathetic. You can feel the embarrassment crawling over your skin like a thousand little bugs. Alcina pauses in her frenetic pacing. When she looks over at you, her eyes are absolutely terrifying. Nothing much scares you after everything that's happened, but she's top of that short list.

“One night,” she breathes, turning her back. “Then you're out. Go…go and sleep in the extension. I can't look at you anymore.”

You don't need telling twice. Without looking back you snatch up your bags and make for the door leading off the kitchen, stumbling as you go. The ‘extension’, as she put it, isn't much more than a converted garage. You should know - you plastered and painted it not long before the divorce. Upon entering, you do a double take. Far from the empty space you last saw, it's been kitted out with a kitchenette and sofa bed, a tiny bathroom behind partition walls. A small electric radiator mitigates a little of the draughtiness. Definitely better than a park bench for tonight, even with the dreadful atmosphere still lingering in the air.

Such a strange thing, coming back here. Disorienting. The history embedded in the walls of this house…well, it's a lot. Too much to dwell on, and not much point in doing so. All you can do now is thank your lucky stars that Alcina wasn't quite mad enough to chuck you out. Sure, you'd have probably deserved it. But your shoulder still smarts from where her fuck-off big handbag struck it, and you figure that's punishment enough for one night.

“God's sake…” you groan as you dump your bags and flop onto the sofa. Everything hurts like hell, not least your head. Your eyes ache under the harsh strip lighting, your stomach growls pitifully. The fridge seems so very far away, and God knows if there's even anything in there. Ignoring your empty belly, you set about dragging some pyjamas from the larger of your rucksacks. You don't much feel like sneaking a shower and risking a bollocking for daring to use her facilities, even though you feel grimy as anything. Twelve hours wandering the city in a panic does give you a certain eau de something.

The sofa bed is decent enough once it's pulled out, complete with a woolly blanket fished from between the cushions. Might even pass for cosy, in another lifetime. You may as well make the best of it - who knows where the hell you'll be sleeping come tomorrow? And sleep you do; quickly and, thank God, dreamlessly.

***

Morning breaks with no fanfare, no continuation of last night's chaos. Only a renewed chorus of groaning from your stomach, and a weird sort of smell hanging about. Disentangling yourself from the blanket, you grimace; the stink is coming from you. Lovely. You pad over to the little bathroom and set the shower going, a pretty pathetic trickle, but warm enough. Weak, wintry sunshine seeps in from the window set high on the wall, a cold quality to the light which does nothing for your mood.

With a towel thrown around your shoulders and a fresh set of clothes, you feel marginally better. Still no food, though. That's yet another hurdle; you tore through your stock of multigrain bars on the bus last night. Thinking hopefully that you might've forgotten one in the bottom of your bags, you rummage through them both. There really isn't much left of your possessions. Everything not bolted down in your apartment got pawned, leaving you with a few sets of clothes, your passport, and your phone. Except, tucked deep into one of your bags is a small velvet box, inside it a platinum wedding band. It cost Alcina a fortune, even back then. You should've pawned it along with the rest, and nearly did, but couldn't bring yourself to. Hard to say why.

The marriage was so volatile, so explosive, like a beaker of deadly chemicals perpetually on the verge of exploding. Sometimes it did, and those nights would all but blow the roof off with the force of your combined tempers. Where was the good? Only the first few years, really, time spent with the girls, or when you first met her. You'd been struggling through law school, barely a penny to your name and just about scraping by. There she was one day at the university, to meet an old colleague for coffee. You'd served her, working part time at the university café, had smiled at her first…

You scowl at yourself and shove the memories away. They're no good to anyone now - just a coffin stuffed with misery and regret. Best not to exhume all of that, not if your sanity means anything to you at all.

“Ahem.”

“Jesus!”

Alcina stands in the doorway like a fucking apparition, dressed in a cream linen suit and woollen overcoat. You haven't quite stopped being irritated at how well the years seem to have treated her. The same can't be said of you; copious drugs and booze haven't exactly done wonders for your looks.

“Scared me there, Nosferatu,” you mutter, clutching your chest dramatically.

“Shut up,” she huffs, marching inside and casting her eyes over your bulging rucksacks. “What are you doing?”

You frown up at her. “Going…like you told me to?”

For a good while she says nothing, only paces restlessly around with her hands deep in her trouser pockets. There's something different about her today. Still wound up tight, but something else there. She seems torn with herself as she throws glances her way, chewing her lip…vacillating, maybe? When has she ever hesitated in her decisions or questioned herself? But, you reason, you don't know her anymore. Five long years have gone by, and she's probably changed beyond recognition from the woman you once knew. Loved, for a time.

“One more night…” she says slowly. “Cassandra and Daniela are coming back from their friends’ places this afternoon. So they can spend some time with you. They deserve that much, even if you don't.”

The jab doesn't land, and you lift your head hopefully. “Oh, yeah, thanks…that'd be nice, actually. Where's Bela?”

Bela, the eldest, now twenty-two years old, if your maths is right. At the mention of her, Alcina smiles a little; the first smile she's cracked since you got here.

“She's doing her Masters,” she tells you, seeming to swell with pride. “But she stays on campus - won't be back until the weekend, I'm afraid.”

A surge of guilt kicks up in your stomach that you didn't know what Bela was up to with her life. You exchange only birthday and Christmas texts with the girls these days. Bela's in particular have been getting less and less frequent over the years.

“Anyway.” Alcina retreats to the door, every bit of emotion wiped from her face again. “Make yourself comfortable, I suppose. I'll get Helen to stock the fridge in here.”

“Helen?” you echo, with more aggression than you'd meant to. “Erm…who's Helen?”

She throws yet another venomous look your way. “My housekeeper, obviously. What - did you think I'd met someone? Would that be a problem?” Her voice has taken on a challenging, dangerous edge.

“No, no,” you rush, quickly changing tack. Christ, she's scary. “I mean - what happened to Freya? I thought she was good.”

Alcina rolls her eyes hugely. “Oh, I know you thought so. She went on maternity and never came back, not that it's any of your concern. Helen is just as capable.”

“Right…”

She marches out without another word, only the slightest shake of her head. But she does leave the door ajar, signalling permission to use the rest of the house. Well, that's something. And though the idea of seeing the girls is mildly cheering, you know in your heart that a few hours with them could do nothing to make up for all the shit, the mess you've become. It's almost enough to make you not want to face them.

Alcina's absence leaves a funny feeling in your gut, and a whiff of her perfume in the air. You've never felt so awkward and unwanted in your life. What on Earth do you say to your ex-wife who can't stand the sight of you? Seems pleasantries and feigned cordiality are off the cards. Probably best to avoid her until you think up a way out of here. Easier said than done - but you've got yourself one more day to figure it out.

Get real. You couldn't figure your way out of a bloody paper bag.

You were too shattered last night to do much of anything, let alone try to piece your fucking disaster of a life back together. You don't even know where to start.

Chapter Text

The sun is past its peak, and you're sitting with the girls in one of the town's many quaint cafés off the main thoroughfare. They turned up in an Uber barely an hour ago, and you're still grappling with tiny ripples of shock that they're actually here, solid and real. Of course you'd imagined what they might be like, but nothing could have prepared you to see them in the flesh five years older, the visible passage of time an ache in your ribs that doesn't subside. Cassandra had towered over you, unsure of herself, and Daniela barreled straight into your arms, locked you in a crushing hug. It took a lot not to burst into tears right there on the street like a nutcase.

You feel better for being out of the house, so stifling and so full of Alcina. Knowing she might be prowling around somewhere made it so you couldn't settle, couldn't stop looking over your shoulder constantly.

“Busted for coke and embezzlement?” Daniela gawps. “Wow. They should make a reality show…My Ex-Con Stepmother...”

“Dani,” Cassandra says sharply. “Don't.”

You hold up a hand, smiling as though it doesn't bother you at all. Really, it doesn't. If anything, Daniela's flippancy actually serves to make you feel a bit less shitty. She's a few weeks shy of fifteen, a hell of a lot taller than when you saw her last, and outrageously blunt. Nothing seems to ruffle her. In fact, she's been finding the whole thing more amusing than anything.

Cassandra eyes you from across the table, not bothering to hide the distrust within them. You don't blame her. She's eighteen, after all; stuck in that in-between space where she's technically an adult, but not quite there in the eyes of the world. Her expression holds none of the mirth or warmth of her sister's. You knew that a sweet, cosy reunion was too much to expect, which did nothing to stop you wishing for one regardless. How the hell do you even begin to traverse the chasm opened up by years of absence?

“I don't mind, Cass,” you tell her, trying to bridge a little of that gap. “Really. Better it's all out in the open, eh?”

She swills the dregs of her expensive coffee around and flicks her curtain of dark hair over one shoulder. Her blue-grey eyes narrow at you, startlingly similar to Alcina's. “Pretty amazing you got out of it with no jail time, actually…”

Your throat feels like sandpaper, and the accompanying twinge of shame makes you break her dubious gaze. So, Alcina mustn't have told the girls about your letter to the judge. It's a relief, in one way, but you can't help but treat the news with a healthy measure of suspicion. Something she can hang over your head, a great big albatross slung around your neck. Of course you regret it; of course you know how awful a thing it was. But it did keep you out of the nick and free to live your life. Yes, it was low. You don't need anyone pointing that out for you.

“Yeah, well…first time offence on both counts,” you mumble into your cup of tea, evasive and shamefaced. “I had to pay up for it in a lot of other ways, though. Sometimes I wonder if prison really would have been worse, you know? But I'm here now, and…I'm just really happy to be seeing you both.”

Mercifully, she lets the topic drop, much more interested in typing rapidly to someone or other on her phone. Daniela leans back on the rear legs of her seat, completely unbothered. It's still so jarring to see them both so grown-up, like they've been moving along through time just fine without you, indifferent to your absence. You suppose they have. You also suppose you've no right to feel stung about it, but your heart sinks at the thought nonetheless.

“So…you'll be staying for a bit, then?” Daniela asks, a heartbreaking note of hope in her voice. She doesn't wait for an answer. “Sounds fun. We can have dinner later, play some games…”

Cassandra snorts quietly to herself, but it doesn't deter Daniela as she carries on rattling off innumerable plans for future fun that will never materialise. You're loath to stop her, too. How can you walk back into their lives for a day, dump all this on them, then disappear again? Much less do that to the one person who seems pleased to see you, doesn't treat you like a bit of dirt someone's trodden in.

“...and then we'll get some popcorn and watch a film. What d'you think? Cass?”

“I think that sounds all well and good, Dani, but I won't be joining in,” Cassandra mutters. “I've got revision to do tonight. You two'll have fun, I'm sure.”

Sarcasm weighs heavy on her words, making you wince. This is horrible. You've missed them like hell, and you feel a complete and utter bastard for not being there. Missing out on so many years, milestones, all the minutiae of their lives that you should have known. And when you leave tomorrow, what then? Daniela's eyes are so bright, so optimistic that you feel sick, a surge of self-disgust rising up your throat and burning as it comes. Cassandra's attention reverts back to her phone screen, as indifferent as though you were a complete stranger.

This mood needs to lighten, and fast. You clear your throat and paint on what you hope is a convincing smile. “Hey, girls…shall we go for a mooch round the shops? Buy you both something nice?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Shopping with our penniless stepmother,” Cassandra scoffs. “What do you suppose you'll pay with? Hopes and dreams?”

Daniela digs her sister in the arm, frowning. “Don't be so rude, Cass…she's only being nice.”

“Exactly, Dani. I've still got a credit card,” you grin, tapping the side of your nose. “Sure I can't tempt you, Cass?”

Strictly speaking, you shouldn't have a credit card at all, let alone go gallivanting around the shops with it. And, true, you haven't spent a penny on yourself save for your cup of tea. But the girls are a different matter altogether; you can't rightly refuse them anything after all this time. Besides, what's a few hundred pounds more debt when you're already drowning in it?

Cassandra stands and shrugs, shoots you an odd, disarming look. “Like I said, I've got to revise. I'll catch the bus home. Have fun, I suppose.”

Deflated, you watch her leave, the way she doesn't look back at all. She isn't the same girl you once knew, the taciturn teenager with an easy laugh and gentle manner. The days when you could win her over with gifts and cheekiness are long gone, it seems. Daniela rolls her eyes at her sister's retreating back, then turns to you with a sympathetic expression.

“Don't mind her. She's being ridiculous lately,” she explains, draining the last of her sugary drink. A strand of her bright red hair trails absently into the cup. “No time for me, or anything but her A-Levels. Like she even needs to revise.”

“Oh, yeah? She's wanting to go off to uni, then?”

“Yep. ‘Cept, she doesn't know what to study. I reckon she'll take a gap year.”

Her interest in the conversation dwindles, her gaze roaming all over the place distractedly. At least someone's open about their feelings. She's bored out of her mind, and who could blame her? Your criminal record was the last hour's novelty, no longer shiny and new.

“Come on, then. Let's go and buy us a game to play tonight.” You stand and stretch, joints popping all over the place. “Your pick. You'll kick my arse anyway, whatever it is.”

***

By the time Daniela wraps up her mad dash around every - yes, every - shop on the high street, you're so shattered that you almost catch the wrong bus home. It takes a nudge from Daniela to steer you to the correct stop. She chatters ceaselessly the entire ride back, and you've just enough energy left to nod along and make the right noises at the right times.

Your mind steers irresistibly towards whatever might be waiting for you back at the house. A double dose of hostility from Alcina and Cassandra, no doubt. May as well have a sign posted over the front door that reads: Ex-wives no longer welcome. Please go away. The fact that it's only one more night isn't exactly heartening, considering you're no closer to finding another place to stay. More texts sent surreptitiously as you traipsed around town; your half-sister, a distant cousin, someone you vaguely remember going to law school with. Not a dicky bird from any of them. Things are just about as dire as it's possible to be.

A tug on your sleeve drags you out from your miserable musings. Daniela is already halfway out of her seat, holding onto the metal bar as the bus groans to a halt.

“You planning on staying there?” she teases. “Come on. Race you to the front door?”

She tears ahead once clear of the bus doors, cackling to herself. You hobble up the driveway, grimacing under the weight of about a dozen shopping bags. That, and the thought of how much of a beating your credit card's taken today. At the first sign that Daniela wanted something, you'd dutifully handed over the card without question. You just couldn't say no to her. God only knows what you've bought, the bill you've racked up with no intention of paying it back. Fuck it. Not like things could get much worse from here.

“We're back!” Daniela shoulders open the front door, yelling fit to raise the dead. “Anybody ho-ome?”

Trailing behind as she scurries inside, you mount the doorstep and come face to face with a complete stranger. She blinks at you confusedly, and you blink right back. A blonde, petite woman, maybe late fifties, with a frilly white apron tied nearly around her front. She smells vaguely of freshly baked bread and detergent.

“Oh. Hiya, I'm…” You frown, hesitating. “I'm the girls’ step-mum.”

“Ah, hello!” the woman says brightly, recovering with a smile that hints at relief. “Lovely to finally meet you. I'm Helen. I look after Ms Dimitrescu's house, help with the girls, that sort of thing…”

Of course. You should have guessed as much from her apron and the Marigolds tucked into the front pocket, but your brain seems to be lagging a minute behind your eyes. She looks perfectly decent, a homely sort of aura about her. And, honestly, you find yourself thankful that she's not particularly young or attractive, though it's probably wiser not to examine that thought too closely.

Helen glances at the bags and your tired face, curious, but too polite to ask.

“Ah…yeah. Daniela,” you explain, returning her smile with a stiff grimace of your own. “Got a bit carried away shopping, you know. Anywhere I can, erm, dump these?”

“Oh, I'll take them, don't worry. She's run you ragged, has she?” she asks over her shoulder as she marches towards the kitchen, having unencumbered you of Daniela's spending spree.

“Something like that, yeah. Funny kid.”

Helen deposits the bags and turns to you with yet another smile, this one seeming more plastered on than genuine. Daniela is nowhere to be seen, and you're feeling somewhat nervy under the scrutiny of this prim, put-together woman.

“I've put a few bits in your fridge,” she says after a long moment, gesturing at the door to your little den-slash-prison. “Ms Dimitrescu said you'd be here another night, so…”

“Right, yeah. Thanks, that's…well, that's really kind of you.”

You cringe inwardly at your tone, weirdly simpering and deferential. Makes sense, though - you're the very lowest on the pecking order in this house. You don't half miss Freya, the young housekeeper from when you lived here. She was always up for a laugh, the odd dirty joke. This one is about as bland and proper as they come.

“I'll let you get on, then. Don't mind me at all,” Helen says, still maddeningly chipper, acting as though she won't be watching your every move like a bloody hawk. You're certain you can feel her eyes boring into your back as you shuffle off to the garage, only able to breathe again once the door is firmly shut. The place looks a bit tidier than when you left it, the sofa bed thoughtfully folded away and the blanket replaced with a fresh one. Must be Helen's doing. What else has she been nosying around in? Not that there's much of yours to root around in the first place, mind. Your bags are still exactly where you left them.

Right. Time for a fucking plan.

Or, it would be, if your gut didn't ache so much with hunger. Years of not worrying about when you'd next eat have spoiled you. Miss a meal or two, and your stomach acts like your throat's been slit. An uncomfortable reminder of times long past, your mother's constant battle between heat or eat. You wander over to the fridge, your back complaining as you crouch down in front of it. Huh. There's a bottle of milk in the door, a packet of bacon, and a sandwich on a plate covered in cling-film. Also Helen's doing, apparently. Maybe she's not so bad after all.

The sandwich is the best thing you've had in days, packed generously with cheese and thick chunks of pickle. Nice one, Helen. Your head clears somewhat once you've wolfed it down, and you settle on the sofa, pulling out your phone.

No-one has bothered answering your texts, which you knew they wouldn't. Your pleas for help, for a shred of kindness, grew increasingly half-hearted as it became clear that not one of them would be heard. You know exactly what they're thinking, because you've had all the same thoughts yourself. Thief. Sniff-head. Waster. All undeniable truths. There's not much point bothering with changing minds already made up.

And still, none of it has truly sunk in just yet. Six short months ago, you would've laughed if someone had told you this was how things would turn out. You had everything you could've wanted, and then some. More than anything, more than the parties and the powder, you miss your job. The law firm was a good one; the best, in fact, some would say. Only the sharpest of the sharp wound up working there, you amongst their number. Although - and it rankles to recall - you did have an easier time getting in there than others. Alcina - who else? She'd pulled all the right strings, a quiet word in the ear of an old hand at the firm. She never shared the details, just turned up at your flat one day with a bottle of champagne and a wink, hinting about opportunities soon to come.

Things were alright back then. Laughter came easy, but so too did the blowouts; benders that would last all weekend, faces and places all blurred into one. Alcina waiting at home, worried, though it never really registered with you. Only in disappointed looks shot from across rooms, pointed comments and questions. You were still vaguely functional - you had to be. There were the girls to think about, your wife, your career. It's hard to pinpoint when, exactly, those things stopped being your priority. Though how on Earth they stopped being your priority is the much more pertinent question, you suppose.

“Knock-knock! Dinner's out!”

Daniela's voice bursts through the crack in your door, strident and sing-song, making you jump halfway out of your skin.

“Jesus wept…” you mutter, shaking your head hard. You've been sitting here glaring at the blank phone screen in your hand for God knows how long, trapped in your own dark thoughts. So much for making headway on your exit strategy. You'd forgotten all about Daniela's myriad plans for your evening together.

Nosing cautiously out of the door and peering into the kitchen, you lock eyes with Alcina, seated at one end of the dark oak dining table. She merely raises her gaze to the ceiling, as though asking some deity for strength. Daniela waves you over to sit beside her, immediately to the left of Cassandra. Excellent. A falsely cheery family dinner with a family you're no longer part of. You can feel the chill from across the room.

The table is laden with a monstrously large dish of beef stew, four places set out around it. You wonder who thought to do so, and why Alcina hasn't protested the idea. Most likely for Daniela's sake. Cassandra has her nose in a textbook, picking at chunks of beef and potatoes. Alcina is similarly taciturn as she stares into a large glass of wine, disinterested in her own food. She must have just come from work; still dressed in the same linen suit, the first few buttons of her shirt undone carelessly.

Daniela, thankfully, is either oblivious or unfazed by the frosty atmosphere around the table, and serves you up a heaping portion. “Eat up,” she says. “I'm dying to batter you on Mortal Kombat. I've gotten better, you know. I remember how you used to win every flipping match.”

“Yeah? I did, didn't I?” you hum, fighting a grin as the memory resurfaces. “I haven't played in donkey's years. Bet I can still beat you, though.”

This earns you a swift elbow in the ribs, but she's smiling, too. A little of the weight on your chest melts away. She's a lovely kid, and the only one who's gone to any real trouble to make you feel welcome. It just comes naturally to her, the good-natured way in which she treats people. You're grateful to know that that, at least, hasn't changed.

“Mother,” she chirps, turning her attention to Alcina. “We're watching a film in a bit. D'you want to join?”

“No, thank you, sweetheart,” Alcina says automatically. She looks exhausted, faraway. “You enjoy your film. But don't be up too late, please.”

The last part appears to be partially directed at you, a hint of warning as she glances sidelong at your end of the table.Do not overstep, her eyes seem to say. Do not get too comfortable here. It's a look you're growing quite accustomed to. The food in front of you suddenly doesn't seem so appealing anymore. Alcina sniffs, picks up her fork, and goes right back to pretending you're not there.

***

Daniela beats you comfortably on Mortal Kombat - well, you let her - and proceeds to stick on an obscure B-movie slasher. It's the sort that you can tune out for the most part, while she's glued to the screen and giggling at all the gory bits. Her room is largely unchanged but for a bigger bed and a few new posters on the walls, mostly of bands you're probably too old to have heard of. The first time you set foot in here, she was five years old and dragging you by the hand to show you everything. It was the very first day you'd met her and her sisters; Daniela had been the one to take to you immediately. Sweet, trusting, the way she let you in with no hesitation. You can still so clearly picture Alcina's face poking around the doorway, eyes full of laughter and pride as she watched Daniela paint your face to look like a werewolf.

They're still your girls, as far as you're concerned. Twenty years could go by and you'd feel the same. Cassandra doesn't seem to see it that way, understandably. You couldn't even guess as to what Bela would say, were she here with you. And you'll never get to know; tomorrow spells the end of this bizarre, brief re-entry into their world.

A lump has formed in your throat, immovable and painful. Daniela lies on her side nestled into a pile of cushions, her back turned to you. The film's credits roll by on the screen.

“Hey, Dani…” you whisper at the back of her head. “Listen, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. For everything, you know, for not being around. You're such a good kid. Can't tell you how proud I am…”

She shifts slightly, and you think she's about to respond when a deep, loud snore comes rumbling out of her. You nearly laugh, and it's mixed with tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. Bless her. She's the only fourteen-year-old you know who could fall asleep watching blood and guts on the TV.

At a light tap on the door, you dry your eyes hastily and turn so fast that your neck cricks.

Alcina's face appears in the doorway, looking down at the two of you. Her expression, half in shadow, struggles somewhere between disdain and concern.

“Hi,” you whisper, putting a finger to your lips. “She's asleep. You okay?”

She stares a moment longer, flitting between you and her sleeping daughter. “Fine, yes. Do you have a moment to talk?”

“Sure, yeah, just give us a sec…”

Leaving Daniela snoring on the rug, you pad out to the hallway where Alcina stands waiting. She promptly turns on her heel and marches to the nearest open doorway, from which soft yellow light ebbs into the hall. Her study; you remember it well, perhaps better than any other room in the house. It's a beautiful space, all imposing dark wood furniture and a huge bay window overlooking the sweeping back lawn. More photographs in gilt frames adorn the walls, picturing Alcina and the girls at various landmarks and graduations, family outings. Prominent amongst them is one which makes you pause in the doorway, frozen with one foot inside the room. It's the only one which features you, arm-in-arm with Alcina and the girls at Bela's sixteenth birthday party. Broad grins on all of your faces, yours and Alcina's noticeably younger and brighter.

You remember it only too well, for one awful reason. You'd just discovered - or, more accurately, rediscovered - cocaine around that time, unbeknownst to the other occupants of the photograph. If only you'd pulled up short, thought for even just a second about what you were doing. If only. You clutch the doorframe, battling a swoop of sickness in your stomach. It's too much.

“Are you coming in, or what?”

Alcina sits at the desk, frowning at you. Recovering, you push down the nausea and set yourself across from her, a slight tremor to your hands. She looks you over with pursed lips, not saying anything.

“What?” you mutter, sullen. “Something on my face?”

“I heard what you said to Daniela,” she says quietly, and your stomach does another flip. “And all I can say is, I hope to God you meant it. Because you've plenty to be sorry for, and a day running around after her doesn't even come close to making up for it.”

“Of course I meant it. Every word. Not a day's gone by where I've not hated myself for…well, for absolutely everything.”

She shakes her head, frustration creasing her face. “It's not about how you feel. It's…” Her eyes flit around, searching; but then she sighs, seeming to give up. “Look, I haven't called you in here for a lecture, as it happens.”

You wait, lifting an eyebrow to prompt her. Go on, then. Tell me to pack my bags, tell me I'm shit, that you hate me. That the girls are better off.

“I was wondering what your plans were…if, that is, you have a plan at all,” she says, as businesslike as though this were a boardroom meeting. “Contrary to what you might think, I don't want to see you out on the street in the middle of winter. So, for my own peace of mind, I want to know what you intend to do with yourself.”

Chewing your lip, casting your eyes around so that they land anywhere but on hers. She's seen right through you, as usual. No point being coy about it, not when she'll detect any attempt at a lie like a hound dog on a fox's trail.

“Not much of a plan, really,” you admit. “My best shot is going to the council, see about some emergency accommodation and get on a waiting list for my own place.”

Her frown deepens momentarily, a flash of concern crossing her face again. “Friends? Family? Have you really gone through them all?”

“Yep. Turns out that being a coked-up ex-con doesn't exactly endear people to you. Who would've thought?”

“God, you really do feel sorry for yourself,” she mutters, her tone laden with undisguised distaste. “No, you're right. It isn't endearing.”

“Oh, and you're winning prizes for being the sweetest, loveliest woman going, are you?” is your retort, and you really wish you hadn't. Alcina tenses, but doesn't quite tip over into anger. Not just yet, anyway. You can sense the way this is heading, wish beyond anything that you could put the brakes on and muddle back into some semblance of civility.

“I mean…” She smiles coldly. “I can at least sit here and say that I was a good wife. The same can't be said of you, obviously.”

You scoff, tapping your foot irritably on the carpet. You'd hoped to avoid all this, the nastiness and sniping; the thing you'd dreaded most about coming back here. But you can't bite your tongue, not whilst she's kicking you when you're already down.

“Do you even remember why you married me in the first place, Alcina?” you ask mockingly, knowing it'll get her back up. And, like a charm, she bristles, her large hands forming fists on top of the desk.

“I remember why I divorced you. I'm reminded every time I look at your damn face," she spits. "You're completely insufferable.”

“Charming. I was about to say the very same thing.”

She stands now, her face thunderous and dark. Even as you put on a cocky front, the sight of her like this sets your hands shaking anew. You're gearing up for another explosion, on your feet too, tensed and ready. At least there's nothing in here she's likely to throw; you know very well that she's far too precious about her antiques.

“Get out,” she breathes, gripping the desk like it's the only thing stopping her fully losing control. “I mean it this time - please, for the love of God, be out of my house in the morning.”

“Gladly. Sorry to have imposed.”

You cross the room and shut the door on her, but not before that photo on the wall catches your eye again. Those smiles behind the glass mock you, trail after you down the stairs, through the house. They burn behind your eyelids, etched there as you lie awake, little white crescents that rob you of sleep; reminders of what you once had, what you threw away so carelessly.