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The next time Alasdair
checked his watch, it showed 6.23am. Lifting Jane murmuring from
his shoulder, he put her head on to the arm rest, pulled the tartan
blanket already half covering her up further, and walked outside,
where he closed the door and called a cab, which was there within
minutes.

Arriving home in the
fresh morning air, he felt more alive than he’d done in a while,
and hungry, so, so hungry. It crossed his mind that he might stroll
through the park to a café he knew served a great breakfast,
something he hadn’t done in years, but first he needed to check –
just quickly – his email.

Daddy,

Did you send
it?

Yours M
xxx

Beyond that, there
was nothing.

If he’d been
asked, he would not have been able to explain quite how this had
happened, but on a Saturday evening just three weeks later, Rich
found himself sitting over an early dinner at a busy hotel in
Brighton.

His two companions
were chatting away across the table like old friends; his wife
seemed vivacious in a way he couldn’t recall ever having seen.
Perhaps she was right when she said they knew each other too well.
Maybe this would make him view her in a different light; in fact,
there were no maybes about it: he already was.

For him, though,
everything was shrouded in a grubby mist of surreality.

They’d met, the three
of them, for the first time just 45 minutes earlier in the hotel
bar. It was lucky that his wife was on such good form, as his
primary impulse was to run away laughing, but Megan was so
committed to the idea as a natural step forward that he’d found
himself swept along, and here he was.

He felt like a kid.
There was no other way of putting it. It was as if he were living a
memory of childhood where he was in an unfamiliar room he couldn’t
quite place, for a reason he failed to understand, with people he
didn’t recognise; Rich felt like his fate was entirely at the
disposal of others.

This sense of
infantile powerless was suddenly heightened by the attempts of his
fellow diners to include him in the proceedings. Starters over, he
knew he had barely said a word, but the reality was, he truly
didn’t want to. He was glad that they had left him to soak up the
atmosphere and he was pleased that his opinions weren’t being
sought about anything. Lack of involvement in this area was all he
had ever wanted – do whatever it is that you want, Megan, but leave
me out of it.

“So, what do you
think, Rich? Another bottle? Daddy… Alasdair isn’t drinking, but I
could certainly go another glass or two.”

“I… You know what? I
genuinely don’t care. If it’s there, I’ll drink it, but I’m not
guaranteeing that that’s a good move.”

“Maybe,” said
Alasdair, taking charge in a way that was already beginning to
crawl under Rich’s skin, “it would be best to stick to sparkling
water and I’ll join you both in a whisky at the end of the
meal.”

It wasn’t even a
question, but a statement, and now, far from being an awkwardly
ignorant child, Rich found the teenager in him rising at the
prospect of being told what to do. The adult in him, however, was
grateful for the decisiveness in cutting out the alcohol. He nodded
his agreement, and as the main arrived, he sensed himself being
dragged further into the affairs of the evening.

“It was a great
holiday,” Megan said, “but I guess honeymoons generally are. We’ve
talked a lot about doing it again as a family, like a proper
old-school road trip, all five of us. I guess we just need the
time. Rich works so hard.

“But,” she added,
“you’re so lucky to have such glorious scenery on your doorstep.
Scotland is stunning.”

“Aye, it’s a well-kept
secret, all right, but that’s how we like to keep it.” Alasdair
smiled directly at Rich. “So, your job, it’s a worthwhile one, but
the way the government keeps sticking its bloody great oar in, that
must be so damned frustrating to all you footsoldiers?”

“You’re not wrong
there. In saving time and money, they forget about the people who
really count. We spend half our time ticking boxes and covering
arses, while who exactly is looking after the patients? But I guess
you’ve done your fair share of stories on the topic over time?”

“Back in the day,
maybe, Rich, but I’m happily out of it now. Spending my time with
my grandbairns, with my son, doing a spot of cooking, walking… the
indulgences of old age. But I like to keep my eye on what’s going
on in the world.”

And, happily for Rich,
the conversation stuck to matters neutral for the rest of the meal.
They all knew that no desserts would be eaten tonight.

With the whiskies came
a slight change of mood. Megan was quiet, trance-like almost, her
chin down and pursing her lips in the way she did when she was
concentrating. Alasdair was holding forth. No one was really
listening, he knew, but a silence at this point would truly be a
tricky one that would serve only to fuel an already mildly
uncomfortable situation, and so on he talked, slowly, with
moderation; no one present would later be able to remember a word
he had spoken.

“And now,” he said,
with a change of timbre that indicated it was time to focus, “it’s
up to you, my dear. What would you care to do next?”

“I would like,” Megan
mumbled, still looking down, “to go upstairs, please.”

And then she looked
up, straight at Rich, who saw, not for the first time lately,
something in those green eyes that left him bewildered. Although he
knew that she saw his confusion, there were no other clues.
Whatever the fuck was going on in that head of hers, he knew it was
up to him to work it out; he was also aware that on this occasion
he had better not get it wrong.

He had, of course,
eventually granted permission.

After procrastinating
for days, unable even to think about that preposterously pompous
email he had received, he had simply asked Megan to reply for him.
What did his own feelings matter? What the hell could he possibly
say? Yes, he would let this old tortoise of a man fuck his wife
while he sat in his bedroom a few doors away watching Netflix and
getting stoned? This he could just about conceive. But the
rest?

The rest was, he
thought, absurd. Beyond absurd, it was madness. As Megan had sat
beside him on the couch two weeks ago, sipping a coffee and
munching on ginger creams like they were discussing what to have
for tea that evening, and explained what she and her master had in
mind for him, the term “parallel universe” had sprung to mind.

Her face placid, her
voice soothing, she had laid out a plan whereby after a fine meal,
the three would go upstairs to the old Scot’s lair and, rather than
kiss her goodbye and leave, he would stake his claim on her
first.

“My claim? What on
Earth could that even mean?” His tone covered a range of feelings
from outright indignation to genuine curiosity.

“Alasdair says, and I
agree, that my remaining guilt issues – ridiculous, considering we
both know monogamy was never what you wanted – are holding me back
as a submissive and…”

“And…?” They would, he
made a mental note, deal with her relentless twisting of his words
and his actions at some point in the future. First things
first.

“And that the way you
free me is…” Here Megan paused, almost flinching. “The way you free
me is to leave me in the hotel room with him, yes, shackled to the
bed… but having tied me up, you fuck me first. There. Before you
go.”

And a pause.

“You know that’s
insane, right? I mean, you do realise somewhere in that addled
brain of yours that you’re crossing a line, right? This is not
something you go back from.” His voice had softened, despite the
harshness of the words.

Megan just stared
across at him. This was the first time he had seen that particular
look, the same look he saw now across the dining table of this
mid-range restaurant, and it had perplexed him then as it did
now.

She stood up, and
Alasdair followed her, tucking his chair neatly under the
restaurant table.

With no clue what the
fuck he was going to do – or indeed not do – Rich got up too,
ignored the hand his wife proffered, and headed for the lift, not
looking back or giving a shit whether they were following him or
not.

They were. Aware that
this little adventure was precariously close to going tits up right
in front of him, Alasdair held back slightly while staying very
close. Rich walked into the large box of a lift first and pressed
the fourth-floor button. Megan and Alasdair slipped in immediately
behind and she pushed the large illuminated 3.

When the doors opened
at the third floor, Alasdair stepped out, no words. Megan followed.
Rich stayed in the elevator, staring at the floor.

“Come,” she said to
him. “Please come with me. Join us. For me.”

And although he hadn’t
meant to leave that lift, he did, he came with his wife, at least
as far as the door to room 316.

Kindly_Meister’s hand
lay on the door handle as he wafted the electronic card key in
front of the sensor and opened it. He stepped into his room and
stood by the door, looking out at the two.

“You have to do what’s
right for you, and in this case, that probably means what’s right
for you both,” he said. “Make no mistake, though, lassie, my mind
hasn’t changed. I’m here when you’re ready, for whatever you
need.”

For the previous two
minutes, there had been no eye contact whatsoever between the two
men, but now Alasdair looked directly at Rich.

“You are a very brave
man,” he said, and although it was meant as a bona fide statement
of admiration for the younger guy, it was this that pushed Rich
into action.

“Brave my arse,” he
said. “Snake oil and horse shit, the whole bloody lot of it. Pedlar
of bollocks, with your chest of magic tricks and bullshit about
needs. If I were brave, I’d punch you in the face. But no. Nope.
Enough. No more.

“And you?” He turned
to his wife. The look he had now identified as that of an addict in
the midst of a mortal dilemma had vanished, replaced by a
panic-stricken stare. “You do what the fuck you want. Do whatever
makes you fucking happy.

“Me, I’m gone. Right
this minute. Fuck it all. I’m off to the bar for another drink or
three.”

He started walking
back to the lift, which was still sitting there on the third floor
with its illuminated green arrow pointing down. With barely a
pause, Megan trotted after him. It was as if a bomb had gone off in
her head, blasting away the daze that had clouded her; she
understood with absolute clarity that whatever happened, if she
stayed with Alasdair, there was, indeed, no going back.

“Don’t go,” she said,
and they stood in silence in the lift going down; she looked at
Rich for some acknowledgment; he stared at his tense reflection in
the overlit mirror that was the lift’s back wall. They walked into
the almost empty hotel bar, and Rich immediately ordered himself a
large whisky. “Don’t go,” she said again. “I mean, let’s go, but,
please, not without me. I’ll get the bags. Wait. Please.”

She went upstairs and
changed quickly out of the knee-length corset-style red dress and
matching high heels she had bought for this occasion. She put on
her jeans and a black blouse, her next-morning outfit, and grabbed
Rich’s small backpack and her cabin bag. Leaving the red dress and
the heels behind – for the maid or the bin, she couldn’t have cared
less – Megan left their card key in the room and walked out.

Part of her – a big
part of her – didn’t expect her husband to still be there when she
got back to the bar. She was almost surprised, although relieved,
to see him standing at the counter, staring at the small collection
of glasses in front of him.

“I’ve called a cab,”
he said. “We’re going home in style. Here, drink this,” and he
shoved what she quickly realised was a Long Island Iced Tea,
complete with a glacé cherry and an umbrella, into her hand for her
to gulp down.

Soon afterwards, they
stepped out of the hotel foyer and into their waiting taxi.

For the third time
in 22 months, Tamsin stood at Euston station waiting to board an
early morning train; this was, however, the only one of those
journeys on which she had company.

Her mother, a slightly
shorter, older and only marginally plumper version of herself, was
standing next to her. Her brother and father, and Jack, her
boyfriend of more than six months, were already en route in the van
hired to transport her belongings, many not seen out of a box since
her return from Canterbury three years ago, to her new home in
Manchester.

Apart from her visit
to the hotel, all that time ago, the night she had got so drunk and
met her Kindly_Meister, Tamsin had headed North once again more
recently after being shortlisted for the management trainee scheme
of a large publicity company based in the city. With just four
places on offer and more than 200 applicants, she had been
delighted, and surprised, when she got one of the jobs.

That her mother had
booked first-class seats was another distinct contrast with her
previous visit, and the two took advantage of every free snack and
drink on offer, chatting about the past but mostly about the
future: new job, new flat, new city, new life.

The flat was a short
stroll from Piccadilly station. Eventually she’d be sharing with
another of the trainees, but as he wasn’t due for another week, the
plan for that day was a takeaway with her family before they headed
home, along with Jack (although he had already booked a train to
visit her in two weeks’ time, they were both relaxed about what a
future largely apart might do for them).

That night, having bid
her loved ones farewell, Tamsin settled down to enjoy a bit of time
to herself, a luxury to which she had always been partial. She
unpacked most of the basics from her pile of boxes, unscrewed a
bottle of red that her mother had left her and sat on the couch,
dressing gown on, laptop on her knee, glass in hand. Her new
habitat was already feeling like home.