Page 4 of Full Service

“Which is worth?”

“About eight thousand pounds…if you can even sell your shares without permission. The company isn’t yet at public offering.”

“That fucking twat.” I almost put the phone down there right then. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Go back in time nine months and listen to me when I tell you to get all of it in writing?” Michael sounded sarcastic, and I had to remind myself to bite my tongue before getting too angry with him.

“Yeah, well, I was in love. People do stupid things in love.” God, I sounded pathetic.

“Well, next time you fall into bed with a business partner, have me draw up a financial charter in advance,” said Michael.

“I don’t pay you for relationship advice, Mike. I know I fucked up there.” As I spoke, I picked at a stray cuticle. It looked at me, a red and angry spot underneath an otherwise perfect nail.

“You don’t pay me for either at the moment. The amount in your account wouldn’t cover my fees. But I have some good news for you if you’re willing to work hard.”

“Anything, Mike. I’ll do anything.”

“It’s time to dissolve another venture of yours, one that’s not exactly paying the bills.”

I racked my brains for a second. Maybe it was all the coarse emotion but I couldn’t remember another venture of any description. “What are you talking about?”

“Hiraeth.”

“No. No way.” There was no way I was completing my shitty fall from grace by finally going back to where it all began.

“If you wrapped that up, you’d have five figures, maybe even six, back in your account. With a bit of savvy investing with no romantic entanglements I’m sure someone as talented as you could get back on your feet. Make Brian your bitch.”

I laughed bitterly. Back where it all began? The place I once called home? “If that’s what it takes,” I said, “then I’ll do it.”

???

It had been so long since I had been home to Hiraeth that I needed a sat nav to get there. My phone balanced on the dashboard precariously. I was only ten minutes drive away from uncle Prentis’ house.

The road stretched out ahead as far as I could see, but the rain was making it almost impossible to see very far. It bounced off the windscreen and made me feel claustrophobic even in the spacious luxury cabin of the car. One disadvantage of owning a vintage car was that it didn’t come with quite the same level ofsafety as a modern one. The halogen lights struggled to pierce through the darkness of the night and the rain, so other than about five metres in front of me I was completely blind.

To either side and uncomfortably close were the tall hedges that marked the sides of the country lane. I was worried that if someone were to come down the road toward me, I wouldn’t be able to reverse the car back to a lay-by in this weather. Nonetheless, I ploughed on.

The car went over a pothole, bouncing me so I almost hit the ceiling. I dreaded to think what the gravelly country lanes were doing to my Aston’s luxury paint job and shiny alloy wheels. “Come on, old girl,” I said. I wasn’t sure if I was talking to the car or to myself. The only reassuring noise was the purr of the old engine.

I hit another pothole, bigger this time, and the phone went careening off the dashboard and into the passenger side footwell. “Shit!”

A sensible man would have waited till there was a chance to pull over, stop and search for the phone before going on my way. In that moment, with all sense abandoned, I tried to lean down to grab my phone. It was just out of reach but I leaned a little further with one hand still on the wheel to fish it from the footwell.

I pulled the phone up in triumph and placed it back on the dashboard just as I noticed the set of headlights coming for me and dangerously close.

In my panic I yanked the steering wheel and slammed my foot on the brake. The car dovetailed dangerously, so I pressed down harder on the brake. The car drifted into the foliage on one side and slammed into something hard, throwing me forward into my seat belt. My phone bounced off the dashboard again and into the depths of the car. The car had stopped moving. I reacheddown one aching arm to undo my seatbelt and turned off the ignition.

“For fuck’ssake!”I screamed. Out of the windscreen I could see the headlights of the other car. I heard a door open and a shadow passed in front of the lights.

As the driver’s side door was buried in the hedge, I manoeuvred myself over the gearstick and centre console to the passenger side. I pushed the door open and pulled myself up using the handle. Other than an ache across my chest and a twinge in my wrist I didn’t feel any pain. The rain fell blessedly cool on my heating skin.

“Are you OK?” the approaching shadow asked. I recognised a Welsh accent in a low voice that sounded authoritative, calm, kind. I’d tried pretty successfully to bury my accent years ago.

“I’m fine. No broken bones. Are you?”

“Fine. Now what the fuck kind of driving was that?” The tone had changed abruptly upon hearing that I was alright.

“I’m sorry, I was struggling to see in the rain and I…” I didn’t want to admit what kind of idiot I’d been. It was one thing reaching for my phone in London traffic, another to try and grab it in these kinds of conditions. My head really was fucked.

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