The hospital ward was filled with the familiar stench of disinfectant and sorrow. Martha sat and availed Billy of the situation, satiating the curiosity that seemed all he had left. He was frail and unable to provide her with anything more than nods, grunts, and monosyllabic utterances.

Suddenly, she was overcome by a single overpowering recollection: her father. She remembered James holding her in his arms by the hospital bedside, the reassuring feeling of his fingers through her hair.

For weeks, she had visited the hospital to see her father and, for most of those, James had accompanied her. At one point, he had even offered to pay for treatment. She had, of course, refused but never forgot the caring warmth in those usually cold blue eyes.

But for all his help, she never saw her father's last moments, and she suddenly got the feeling that she wouldn't see Billy's either. It dawned on her that she couldn't let a third man she loved die alone. She stayed with Billy a while longer before, with a final squeeze of his hand, rose and left the hospital.

It should have been a short drive to Mayfair, but to Martha, it felt like an age as she turned this decision over and over in her mind. Could she really go through with this?

Drawing up at the house, it dawned on her how palatial it was and, by extension, how far James had come since they had known one another. How far had she come? With one last deep breath, she walked up to the house. A familiar face loomed from behind the vast black door 'can I help you, Miss Costello?'

'Yes, Simpkins isn't it? Is Ja- sorry, Lord Bowen at home?' Simpkins looked at her for a moment before saying 'Indeed, His Lordship is on the terrace, press R in the lift.' He opened the door for her and showed her to the lift. Gathering her courage, she pressed the button and waited to ascend.

She found James slumped into a chair, nursing a deep snifter of brandy in one hand and a thick cigar in the other. A half empty bottle and a virtually full crystal ashtray stood on the table next to him.

'James?' A heavy white plume was the only response. She pressed further 'please, at least say something,'

'What is there left to be said? I would have thought you'd made your views quite clear by now'

'Be reasonable James, it was hardly a good time to bring these sorts of things up'

'Well, that's the thing about death, isn't it? It's rarely convenient.'

She couldn't help but smile at that, she'd always loved his unfailingly dry humour.

'If the offer's still on the table, I'll take it'

At that, James placed his snifter on the table, laid the cigar in the ashtray and rose from the chair. He turned to face her, she suddenly realised how old he looked. That face, once so bright and full of life, now appeared pale and drawn. More than anything, those warm eyes had become hard, jaded almost.

'What's the catch, Martha?'

'Still as cynical as ever I see, I don't want any special treatment. And what happened that night will never, ever happen again'

'Alright then, I can accept that. Will you stay for a drink?'

'This isn't leading to anything is it?'

'Of course not'

'Beer then.'

James picked up what appeared to be a remote control, pressed a button and waited a few moments. Eventually, Simpkins appeared.

'You summoned me, my lord?'

'Indeed, beer for Miss Costello please'

Of course sir, The German ale perhaps?'

James looked to Martha 'Is German ok?'

She scoffed 'Christ James, you don't even drink beer like a normal person'

'Would you expect me to?' he said with mock reproach

She laughed and sat with him. They sat and drank together for some time before, with more reluctance than she expected, she made to leave.

'See you tomorrow Marth'

Bye James, oh and one more thing,'

'Yes?'

'Don't buy me any more bloody clothes!'

His laughter filled her ears as she walked back to the car