to send me to the kitchen where I was heading before their voices stopped me. I shouldn’t be listening to this.
‘I’m fucking trying,’ Becker yells.
‘Not hard enough.’ Mr H’s bellow is just as loud, but fiercer. ‘Get your arse to a psychiatrist, Becker. Talk it out. Stop using women as your therapy. And leave Eleanor alone.’
The old man’s demand shocks me. What is Becker, a sex addict? He’s trying? What, to leave me alone? Well, clearly he’s not trying hard enough.
‘I don’t need therapy. I’m done with it,’ Becker snipes. ‘I’m sick of someone trying to poke around in my mind. There’s nothing wrong with me.’
Becker’s grandad laughs sardonically. ‘You need something. The way you carry on isn’t healthy. Your mum and dad are gone, boy. Playing Russian roulette with our business and with your damn life won’t bring them back.’
‘Gramps, stop, please.’ He sounds desperate, and my heart unexpectedly clenches from his plea. Because it really is a plea. But what on earth does Mr H mean? Russian roulette?
‘What if she’s different?’ Becker asks out of the blue.
My eyes shoot down the corridor to his office door. Different?
‘She isn’t different, she’s just forbidden,’ Mr H snaps. ‘You know she’s off limits, and that is the only reason you want her so bloody much. I’m warning you, boy. Leave her be. She loves it here, and we love having her around. Don’t you dare meddle with that. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, I fucking hear you.’
‘Why did you employ her?’ Mr H rants on. ‘After all this time refusing to let anyone into The Haven to ease the strain on Dorothy, after turning your nose up every time we suggested we get some help, why now? Why did you agree to let her in?’
‘She’s clever. Smart. Knows her stuff.’
‘And beautiful.’
Becker scoffs. ‘That has nothing to do with it.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Becker boy.’ He is lying. I know he is. ‘You saw something you wanted and carved out a plan to get it. Bugger the feelings of whoever you hurt along the way. Women are a game to you.’
‘What do you want from me?’ Becker says, his voice anguished.
‘To sort yourself out!’ comes the angry reply.
‘I’ll call the fucking shrink,’ he yells.
‘Good.’
Becker’s angry mumbles get louder, and I realise he’s about to storm out of his office. So I bolt down the corridor, Winston tailing me, and let myself into the nearest door I come to.
Which happens to be a cleaning closet. I don’t have time to fuck about. I reach down for Winston’s collar and tug him in, slamming the door quickly, before crouching to fuss over him, hoping it keeps him quiet.
There are a few bangs, and then the clear sound of Becker’s bare feet stomping up the stone steps. I hold my breath in the darkness, rubbing circles into Winston’s ears, biding my time. It’s a few minutes, but eventually I hear Mr H hobble down the corridor.
Winston whimpers next to me, clearly wondering what the hell is going on. ‘Okay, boy,’ I whisper, hearing the door to the kitchen close. I exhale my relief and unfold from the floor, opening the door cautiously and peeking each way. ‘Come on.’ I usher Winston out and make fast work of straightening myself out, and when I think I’ve achieved the closest I’m going to get to composure, I head for the kitchen, my poor mind spinning.
I find Mr H sitting at the table, his silver hair neatly combed to the side and his face buried in a newspaper. ‘Mr H,’ I say, prompting him to look up. His glasses are resting on the end of his nose, and he dips his head to look over them at me.
‘Eleanor.’ He seems remarkably unflustered; there is no evidence that he’s just had an argument with his grandson. Folding his newspaper neatly, he places it on the table before him. ‘Come, join me.’
I indicate towards the stove. ‘I was going to make tea.’
Mr H reaches into the centre of the table and taps the top of a pot. ‘Freshly prepared by Dorothy.’
I smile and wander over, forcing casualness. It’s hard. The conversation I listened to is playing on repeat. So many questions, but none of which I can ask without sounding like I’m prying. ‘She really looks after you.’
‘She does,’ he agrees on a chuckle. ‘Sugar?’
‘No, just milk, please.’
‘Sweet enough already?’ He takes a clean cup and saucer and sets about pouring me a cup.
I laugh. ‘Probably not.’
‘Oh, you’re being modest. How’s