The Rules. Kerry Barnes

eyes sent Gloria into mummy mode. As soon as they returned home, she cooked Zara a chunky meat pie, determined to get her strength up.

      The hearty meal was gratefully received, and as they placed their cutlery down and leaned back on their chairs, they could hardly move.

      Arthur winked at Zara. ‘It’s such a pleasure to have you with us. At last, I get to have proper home-cooked meals.’

      Gloria gave an exaggerated tut and whacked Arthur with her tea towel. ‘You ain’t done too bad by my cooking. You’re still alive, ain’t ya?’

      The teasing came to a sudden halt when the phone rang.

      Gloria, as always, got there first, hoping it was Mike. ‘Hello?’

      ‘Good evening, Mrs Regan. Could I speak with Zara? It’s Davey Lanigan.’

      Gloria beckoned Zara over. Holding her hand over the receiver, she whispered, ‘It’s Davey Lanigan, Zara. Remember you’re still recovering, babe.’

      Zara smiled and answered. ‘Davey?’

      ‘Zara, I called just to say how delighted I am that you’re . . . ’ He paused. ‘Er, well, that you’re alive.’ He hadn’t thought over his words before he made the call. The news that Zara was found alive was a relief, but on hearing that she’d been brutally disfigured, it had sickened him.

      ‘Thank you, Davey, thank you for everything. I know you did your best to find me and keep the business running in my absence.’

      The silence seemed to linger, and Zara wondered if he was about to make a statement.

      ‘The business is, er . . . fine. I can carry on, and we can talk about the future once you’re well.’

      She could tell he was holding something back. ‘What’s going on, Davey? Please tell me, or I won’t get back on my feet if I’m worrying.’

      ‘I didn’t call to talk about work.’

      ‘No, I know you didn’t, but tell me anyway. What’s going on?’

      ‘Okay’, he replied, ‘but not on the phone. How are you fixed for tomorrow lunchtime? I think it’s better discussed away from the public. Would it be convenient to come over to Mike’s parents’ home?’

      Zara looked over at the dining room table where Arthur and Gloria were sipping the last of their wine. ‘Would it be okay if Davey Lanigan comes here tomorrow? Say, lunchtime?’

      Arthur smiled and nodded his head. ‘Of course.’

      Unexpectedly, Eric appeared. They hadn’t heard him come in through the back door, too intent on trying to listen to Zara’s conversation. It wasn’t for any reason other than to make sure she was okay.

      Once she’d completed the call, she turned around, and as she sat down, she was surprised to see Eric seated at the table.

      It wasn’t so much that he was there, it was his appearance. His hair was cut short similar to Mike’s, and instead of his T-shirt and jeans, he wore a fresh white button-down shirt and black trousers. She had to blink because for a moment she thought it was Mike.

      Even Gloria was surprised and had to remark, ‘So, off out with anyone special, Son?’

      ‘No! Christ, can’t a man wear a decent shirt without someone suggesting there’s a date involved?’ Instantly, he realized how harsh and childish he sounded.

      But the tension wasn’t lost on Gloria. She arched her brow, and then her eyes flicked to Zara. Zara looked equally troubled but for a different reason.

      ‘Are you okay, love?’ asked Gloria, somewhat concerned.

      ‘I feel bad. This isn’t right. I should be back at my own home, not have people come to your house to discuss—’

      Arthur waved his hand to interrupt her. ‘Now, no talking nonsense. You need our support.’ He looked at Gloria. ‘Besides, Old Mother Hen here would be lost. And it’s what our Mike wants, so, my babe, you treat this place like your own, and when you’re completely better, if you want to go back to . . . that house, then, that’s up to you.’

      Gloria almost screeched. ‘What? . . . Go back there after what the poor girl’s just been through? I won’t be surprised if she wants to burn the bloody place down.’

      With her mind back to when she was held against her will, Zara smiled. ‘You’d think it would be the last place I’d ever go, but the truth is, if it wasn’t for Ismail’s pathetic attempt to keep me alive in my father’s basement, then the Segals would probably have finished me off. My dad would turn in his grave if he knew that the suite he built would end up holding me a prisoner. But the rooms were styled and designed by him, so, weirdly, I felt at home. When I do go back, though, I’ll have the metal door removed and keep the basement as guest rooms.’

      She looked up to find both Gloria and Arthur with their mouths open.

      She chuckled. ‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t ask you to stay there.’

      Gloria knew then that Zara was no ordinary woman; she was hard and had taken on more than most people could handle, but she would still face her demons.

      Zara, though, miraculously didn’t see these as demons, merely challenges.

      Eric placed his hand on her back and gently rubbed it. ‘If you need to go back there for anything, I’ll go with you.’

      Gloria clocked the look on her son’s face. She didn’t like it one little bit.

      ***

      Rebecca sat at the kitchen island with her head in her hands, the tea towel covering her sodden cheeks. At forty-three years old, she should have been in her prime, but she wasn’t. The signs were all there: a thickened waist, grey hair, and crow’s feet around her once bright and, some would say, come-to-bed eyes. She wasn’t even sure if her husband knew what she looked like under her elastic-waisted trousers and iron-free blouse. All the intimacy that had once been between them had diminished over the last two years. His business – so he said – was growing, and his excuse for staying away was that he had to strike while the iron was hot. It must be bloody molten lava by now, she thought.

      The stress of it all pushed Rebecca to consider resigning, but as soon as she mentioned those words, Alastair and her father went off like a Catherine wheel, spitting, hissing, and spinning in circles. Her eyes looked to the cupboard under the sink, the place where she thought every housewife hid her booze. Her husband certainly wouldn’t look there: he didn’t even know where the kitchen sink was.

      Just as she bent down and opened the cupboard, a crashing sound made her jump. Spinning round, she almost lost her balance. There, giving her an unwelcome sneer, stood Kendall. The noise was from her daughter flinging her rucksack onto the worktop. Like her sisters, Kendall had not an ounce of respect for her.

      Usually, she would have offered her daughter a drink or something to eat, but not this evening, though; she was sick to the back teeth of pussyfooting around Kendall. So, instead, she sneered back and tutted.

      ‘So, tell me, Mother, who exactly is your puppetmaster?’

      Rebecca tilted her head to the side with a questioning expression. Silently, she wondered why she’d ever bothered to take Kendall away from her father. She should have left her there. There was not a smidgen of her own genes in the girl – not in looks, attitude, not even in interests. If she didn’t look so much like her real father, Rebecca would have sworn she’d been swapped at birth.

      ‘Kendall, I have no idea what you’re talking about, and, to be quite frank, I really don’t care!’

      She turned away from her daughter and searched for the bottle of Bombay Sapphire. Pulling a tumbler from the top shelf, she poured a generous helping and took two large gulps. So uptight and angry, she didn’t bother to add the tonic; instead, she swallowed more of the bitter, clear liquid and smarted as it ripped the back of her throat. After taking