crazy. Instead, you could tell him that you support my decision to go to America, or at least that you understand it.
I’ll ring you when I get to my hotel if it isn’t too late.
B xxx
From: DominicLLogonomika
To: beth.leesontriggerpointtherapy
I’m glad you emailed. Sorry I was off with you when you left. I’m just worried. But, yeah, I could have expressed it better. At the risk of sounding like a selfish twat, your safety is all I care about, not Flora’s, and I don’t like the idea of you walking up to Lewis Braid and calling him a liar to his face. The guy’s not right in the head. He never was. We just didn’t care because we were young and undiscriminating, and he threw great parties and was fun to hang around with (except when he wasn’t). But I’ve been thinking – imagine being Flora all these years, having to live with him and deal with his bad side as well as his good side. He was always dead set on getting his way, and that tendency’ll only have got worse as he’s got older. For me, that explains why Flora’s stressed and miserable, and why she ran away from you. If she feels trapped, if their relationship has turned ugly and she’s too scared to leave him, she might not want you to see that. Neither of them would want you to see it.
Maybe I’m being over the top. I heard something on the radio this morning about coercive control in relationships. Some of the behaviours that were discussed sounded a bit like Lewis even as he was before, even without the getting-worse-with-age factor. That might have influenced me. Just don’t meet him alone in any secluded places, okay? He might make a pass for all you know, and not take no for an answer.
This memory has just come back to me, a second ago: Lewis and I were having a drink at The Baron of Beef once and I said, ‘I wouldn’t put anything past you, Braid,’ (I can’t remember what made me say it) and he said, ‘You’d be right not to, Rom-com Dom.’ I still don’t think he’d harm any children, though. That’d be a step too far even for him. But you’re right: we can disagree about that. I just want to know that you’re fine. Stay safe and come home soon.
D x
19
It’s a little after eight in the evening, Florida time, when I arrive at the Delray Beach Marriott Hotel. According to my stiff body and aching brain, it’s past one in the morning. The check-in desk, less than a minute’s walk from the entrance doors, looks unfeasibly far away. Instead of feeling as if I’ve arrived, I’m looking at the reception staff and thinking, ‘Right, last leg of the journey, one final push.’ The prospect of having to fish out my passport and credit card, sign forms and make small talk makes me want to lie down on the floor and close my eyes.
The high-ceilinged lobby smells of several things all at once: mainly the sea, grilled meat, leather and suntan lotion. There’s a heap of suitcases on the floor that looks as if it might once have been a pile. Children hop around them, try to sit on them, end up pushing them over. Grown-ups scoop their offspring up off the tiled floor and try to shush them. One little boy breaks free of his mother, runs over to a potted tree by the side of the entrance door and sticks his hands into the soil it’s planted in.
Eventually, the suitcases and families are all processed and I’m at the front of the queue for the reception desk. I hand over what I’m asked for and sign where I’m told to. Eventually, I get to my room, which contains two double beds. I lie down on one of them, stretch out and think about what I need to do before I can go to sleep: ring Dom, eat something …
Then I’m opening my eyes, feeling groggy. My throat is dry and my bladder is uncomfortably full. What time is it? How long have I been asleep?
It takes me longer than it should to find my bag where I dropped it, on the far side of the other double bed, and pull out my phone.
It’s 4 a.m., local time. My phone changed time zones in the taxi from the airport to the hotel, when I checked Lewis, Thomas and Emily Braid’s social media accounts.