It was a straightforward transaction. If you took into account that Iago was furious and had halved his pay and was making him carry drugs back to Ireland like a damned drug mule. Brendan was better than this, but his man, Walker, had let Iago down and Brendan was in the Spaniard's territory and Iago was flanked by five huge guys carrying machine guns as back-up and all Brendan had was Steven. And he wasn't back-up anyway, he was a fall-guy, and he was the other side of the city.

Iago had shaken his hand at the end of the deal, which had been less of a deal and more of an insult, but that hadn't stopped Brendan from noting the dark hair, eyes and skin tone, the ripple of obvious muscular strength beneath his shirt, his firm handshake. Iago was hot and Brendan thought that in other circumstances, perhaps if he'd bought Macca to Barcelona, he and Iago might go and rent a hotel for a while, one of those classy ones that let you rent by the hour. But Steven was new and fresh and still exciting. Besides, he had to get back to the hotel room before Steven did, so he could plant the drugs in the lad's old tacky trainers. Brendan hadn't bought him new shoes for nothing.

It was during the horrendously expensive and long taxi drive back to Exaimple that Brendan began to regret choosing that area of Barcelona to stay in. The transaction had taken him nearly half a day to complete and it was late, really late and he was tired because some little street urchin hadn't let him sleep last night. And he'd had to stop off at one of the grossly over-lit supermarkets on the way back to pick up a cheap carrycase for Steven to pack his new clothes and Brendan's new drugs in to.

::

When the lift doors finally opened to reveal his room, Brendan could hear the shower running and Steven's voice warbling its way through some chart hit. He smirked to himself. Turned out the lad couldn't sing, but then he couldn't really get his tongue around vowels properly so singing was always going to be a stretch too far.

He quickly found Ste's shoes and tucked the drugs carefully inside, before placing them into the new bag and shoving his disgusting old tracksuit over the top. By the time the water stopped and Steven was stepping out of the bathroom in a towel, Brendan was unsuspiciously relaxing on the sofa watching reruns of "El Cor de la Ciutat".

'Good day?' he asked, only sliding his eyes slightly to the left to look at Steven. He could see the lad was pulling his towel up to cover the tattooed sparrow on his hip, as though Brendan hadn't already seen it and kissed it and torn at it with his nails.

'Saw some cool stuff,' was Steven's answer as he came and sat on the sofa next to Brendan. He was still damp and warm from the shower and he smelt of soap, Brendan's soap, and of fruity complimentary shampoo. 'I went to the Muse-ee-oo Picasso.'

'Museu,' Brendan corrected and: 'You?'

'Don't look so surprised,' he grinned, hitting Brendan lightly on the arm. 'I went to the tourist information and asked what was good. They said, I looked like I'd enjoy Picasso.'

'And did you?'

'Not really. But I don't really get all that are art stuff, me.'

'You surprise me,' he deadpanned.

'Just looks like a child's drawing but the kid can't even get the eyes in the right place.'

'Hmmm,' Brendan hummed, to stop himself from smiling. Almost every word that came out of Steven's mouth made him want to smile for one reason or another and he did smell good and look good; his eyes slightly red from the warm shower, hair combed backwards. It would almost be a shame when he got him dirty all over again … almost. But right now, Brendan was focusing on the television. It wouldn't be good to show too much of an interest in the lad.

'What are you watching?' Steven asked eventually. He'd flopped back against the sofa by now and was squinting at the actors as though he might be able to work out what was going on.

'Television.'

Steven's only response was to roll his eyes and ask if he could order room service. Brendan shrugged a bit and nodded. He was actually a little confused as to why Steven hadn't suggested they get into bed yet. Hadn't he been the one who'd started it every other time, or had it been a bit of a fifty-fifty? Brendan never had to worry about this crap with Macca. He was always asking. Steven was more challenging. But he was new and Brendan would learn him soon enough and become bored and move on. He always did.

Room service came. The lad had ordered a steak sandwich, in Spain? And strawberries and cream for dessert.

'It's good to see your embracing the culture, Steven,' he muttered shaking his head.

'There's only so much pasta a man can eat.'

'Pasta's Italian.'

'Whatever,' he shoved his mouth full of dripping steak sandwich. It looked tasty … so did the sandwich. 'Taco's then.'

'They're Mexican. We haven't even seen a taco.'

Steven just grinned a bit, wiping the splodge of mayonnaise away from the corner of his own mouth. 'Right. Bit thick really, aren't I?'

Brendan didn't answer, because whatever he said would feel like a loss; loss of a chance to get laid, or a loss of dignity. Neither were ideal options.

Steven was quiet for a while, happily munching through his ridiculously sized sandwich. He looked like he hadn't eaten proper food in forever, though looking at the skinny-state of him, maybe there was some truth to that. And God knew they only had one good meal a week at The Estate and that was when Steven was cooking it.

'Do you really understand what they're saying?'

'Mostly,' Brendan nodded, though with the state of this show, he wished he didn't. It was snivelling, soap, drivel where no one ever seemed to go to work, or do anything other than sit around bitching about everyone and it was Catalonian, so even when a family were getting on, it looked like they were screaming at each other.

'I'd love to learn another language, me.'

'Perhaps you should learn English first,' Brendan smirked, eyes sliding to look at the lad, just as he popped a strawberry into his mouth.

'Funny, that,' Steven growled around cream and fruit. 'Coming from an Irishman. You do know that "wee" is something you do in a toilet, right?'

'Mmm,' he nodded, trying not to smile. Anne and his sister, they were the only other people who'd ever made a joke at his expense for almost ten years. And now there was Steven. When he looked over at the lad, he was just munching his way through his desert and sipping on his cheap Spanish larger. He had the taste buds of a wee girl.

'Oh,' Ste said suddenly, almost slamming his beer bottle onto the coffee table. 'I almost forgot. I got you something when I was in town.'

'You got me something?' Brendan questioned, as the lad got up towel slipping not quite enough as he made his way over to the clothes he'd worn around the city today. They were scattered everywhere. You could see where Steven had had the idea to shower, he'd left a little trail of clothes from that spot all the way to the bathroom.

'Here,' he muttered, picking up his checked blazer and routing around in the pocket as he made his way back to the sofa. Then he threw something, which landed in Brendan's lap. A small black wallet with €500 cash in crisp 50's. 'I know it's not enough, like. But I thought it might start to help pay my way.' Brendan just thumbed through the cash again. Steven looked a bit sheepish as he sat awkwardly on the sofa, blazer draped over his right arm, left hand still in the pocket. Brendan couldn't remember a time when someone had tried to give him something. Not Vinnie, certainly not Macca and none of the guys before them. This was uncharted territory, and he was wary of the emotions he was beginning to feel. It was some kind of twisting in his stomach, but he couldn't name it. It was alien to him, and it only got worse when Steven pulled his left hand free from the blazer pocket and was dangling a Rolex from his finger.

'I dunno if you'll like it,' he mumbled. Was Steven crazy? What kind of millionaire idiot wouldn't "like" a Rolex? 'I just saw this guy wearing it and I thought you might….'

But Brendan had already crashed his lips over Steven's and they'd fallen semi-awkwardly against the sofa. Brendan could taste the beer still fizzing on Steven's tongue. He could feel Steven's hand settling at the base of his neck, skinny fingers playing with the sensitive little wisps of hair. And it all just drove Brendan on, until Steven was pushing him away and panting hard.

'You like it then?' he was grinning foolishly; eyes wide and wanting, face flushed, half naked and flexible and so, so, so irresistible. And all Brendan could manage to say was:

'Bed … now!'

Steven had done little more than shake his head and smile when he saw that he was once again in economy whilst Brendan was in business. He just handed over Brendan's ticket and picked up his own bag, swinging it innocently over his shoulder. He was going to get away with it because of that innocence. It would save him today. And if it didn't, who cared anyway? Not Brendan. He'd had his fun with Steven. But Steven was fixing him with a knowing sort of look, a slight smile lighting up his eyes.

'What?' Brendan hadn't been able to help himself.

'Nothing,' Steven just shook his head. 'Just, I don't mind being in economy, you know. You don't have to look so stressed out about it.'

And Brendan realised that the concern over the large stash of drugs, was manifesting itself on his face and Steven was misreading it completely. Self-obsessed little idiot thought it was all about him, but Brendan didn't get chance to put him down with something brilliantly clever and cutting because Steven said earnestly:

'I've had the best weekend of my life. I don't need to sit in some fancy seat.'

'Right, no, course not,' Brendan agreed. He hadn't seen Steven again until they'd landed in Dublin. He'd been waiting nervously for Steven and more importantly his bag to make it through customs. It seemed to take forever for him to come through the gate, but he was there eventually and he waved a little. His hair wasn't quite styled properly now, and his eyes were a little bloodshot like he'd been sleeping but not well.

'Alright,' he smiled, when he got close. He was still glowing.

'Have any trouble with customs?'

'No, why? Was I supposed to declare the clothes you got me? 'Cause I don't really know what that declaring thing is, me. I just….'

'It's okay,' Brendan cut him off, taking the bag from his shoulder. They weren't in Barcelona anymore. This was Dublin, this was Ireland. They were nearly at The Estate and it wouldn't pay for Steven to be so familiar with him anymore.

::

'It's over now, you understand that, don't you?' Brendan insisted as they neared the end of their silent drive. Well, Brendan's part of the drive had been silent. Steven had been rambling on about … something. Who knew what, Brendan sure as hell wasn't listening. He'd just tuned it out like a Mancunian local radio, but that was okay. It just meant he didn't have to listen to his own thoughts … until now.

'What is?'

'This, whatever this was.' He was not going to say "us".

'Oh, right, yeah.' He only looked a little miffed. 'Course.' He was bluffing. ''Cause you've got Macca right? And I've got Rae so….'

'Exactly.'

'And I couldn't do it anyway.' He continued, because his mouth was desperately in need of an "off" switch. 'You know, be gay … it's okay for a weekend like. Just all the drink and the sun in Spain. 'Cause me and Rae, we've got plans see and….'

Brendan drowned the chat out again. Steven was a fool if he believed that he'd been "gay for the weekend". Boys who weren't sure, didn't act like Steven had. Boys who were just experimenting weren't that accommodating or forceful. Boys who weren't gay, weren't like Steven.

'Oh, you're back.'

That was the sulky greeting Macca had given him when he'd pushed his way through his own front door. Brendan said nothing. Macca was sat on the couch watching the TV. He did that all the time but he didn't really look the same as he had before the weekend. He wasn't as skinny as he had been. His hair was duller, his eyes more grey, his skin paler. He was uglier somehow. Brendan had been hoping Anne would be the first one he'd bump into. Her ridiculous car was parked outside and he had lots to tell her.

Luckily, Walker came running down the stairs into the sitting room before Brendan found himself saying any of his thoughts and he could focus on his right hand man instead, holding his own arms out like Jesus on the cross, he grinned:

'Missed me?'

'Where's Steven?' Walker asked, glancing over Brendan's shoulder as if he'd have brought him back here. 'Did he make it through security?'

'He's fine. I dropped him back to Blue Zone,' Brendan sighed. 'The stuff's in his bag. He doesn't know, but we can go and pick it up whenever.'

'You're not worried he'll find it?'

'You have met Steven?' Brendan questioned.

'You probably know him better than I do,' Walker said emotionless and Brendan was made aware of Macca's scowl and a little giggle snort as Anne appeared from his office with a glass of wine. Ah, of course she'd have been hiding in there with her only other friend; alcohol.

'He wouldn't find the stash if we left it there for months,' Brendan insisted, as Anne stalked across and planted a kiss on his cheek. He was the only one who heard her breathe:

'We need to talk.' But he wasn't the only one who heard her say:

'You obviously had a good weekend, you're practically … glowing.'

'Mmm,' he muttered. 'I'll tell you about it later, for now, you,' he looked meaningfully at Macca. 'Bedroom. I've been without for three days.' But from the looks on everyone's faces, Macca was the only one who believed that. Still, the only person who mattered was fooled.

'Brendan,' Walker almost sounded like he was giving him a warning. It was like being told off at school. He'd always hated that.

'What?'

'I've got a lot to fill you in on.'

'Later.' Brendan flapped a hand at him, placing a hand on Macca's shoulder and chasing him up the stairs. He only just heard the bitter:

'Later, of course,' from Walker and he could imagine Anne's shrugging her shoulders and swigging her wine. He'd find time for them eventually. For now, he had to be with Macca. This was about damage control. He had to keep the guy happy and he had to get Steven out of his mind.

Blue Zone in The Estate was even gloomier after Barcelona and Brendan hadn't even managed a civil goodbye when he dropped him off outside House 4. He'd practically thrown Ste onto the curb and torn off without a backwards glance. Ste had watched the car leave. He couldn't help it. He just wanted to hold on to Barcelona for a few seconds longer.

He hadn't been lying when he'd said that it had been the best weekend of his life. For the first time ever, he'd felt free and he hadn't had to worry about anything and then there had been Brendan. Hanging out with Brendan, being with Brendan, sleeping with Brendan. He hadn't expected any of it and he certainly hadn't expected it to be so good and now it felt something like unforgettable and he felt a little sick at the thought of it being over, which was stupid because it hadn't really ever started.

The streets were practically empty. There was one bin on fire and next to it was Larry. He looked even more ugly up-lit by the wavering orange flames.

'Nice clothes Mr La-di-da,' he shouted. 'Look more like my bitch than ever.'

'I'm not your bitch,' Ste shouted back. That was probably and error. It was dark, and they seemed to be the only two people in Blue Zone. He could easily have been signing a death wish.

'But you are somebody's,' Larry chuckled. He sounded manic. He just had this tone to his voice that made him sound like he was always on the brink of snapping.

'Aw, do one … weirdo,' Ste groaned, turning away from the man.

He didn't really feel like being alone, so he strolled along to House 16. If Blue Zone was empty, it meant the girls were at Central Square. So the only person around would be Doug, but that was okay. There were worse things that hanging with Doug, like being anywhere near Larry.

He didn't bother to knock. He just strolled straight in and found Doug sitting on the tattered old sofa, throwing some rocks at a few beer cans which had been balanced on a plank of wood, resting on some bricks. This was a game they obviously played a lot in House 16 but judging from the about of stones on the floor and the amount of cans still standing, Doug was pretty terrible at the game.

'Crap at that, aren't you?' he smirked.

'Ste.' The yank looked pleased to have an excuse to stop his game. Then he looked Ste's new attire up and down. 'Wow,' he mouthed. Followed by: 'Nice clothes.'

'Brendan got them for me,' he shrugged, like that wasn't the most unlikely sentence in the world. Doug raised a thick eyebrow. 'He said I needed to fit in,' Ste shrugged, as though he was explaining things. In reality, he knew he was just raising more questions. 'We were in a 5* hotel.'

'Right,' Doug nodded, blinking back his surprise and swallowing down his questions. 'Well, I'm just glad you're back.'

'Course I am,' he frowned. 'Why wouldn't I be?'

'No, it's just….' He sighed: 'sometimes when Brendan takes someone away on holiday they don't make it back.'

'What happens to them?'

'It's like the Bermuda triangle, no one knows.'

'Barracuda-what?'

'No, Bermuda,' Doug corrected. 'It's this place where all these mysterious disappearances happen.'

'Never heard of it.'

'It's in the North Atlantic Ocean.'

Ste just shrugged, because honestly, who cared about the Bermuda, Barracuda triangle thingy anyway.

'It's the Ocean,' Doug smiled. 'You do know what an ocean is?'

'Shu'up,' Ste frowned, walking over to the sofa and sitting down. He couldn't help hissing a little when he sat. It had been a long weekend. His muscles were aching in ways he hadn't known they could.

'Give us a go at the game then,' he said, holding his hand out for a stone. Doug didn't move. He just stared at Ste with a slightly simple look on his face. 'What?'

Doug said nothing. He didn't even move.

'Doug…. Doug, you look stoned.'

'You slept with him,' Doug mumbled.

'What?'

'Brendan. You slept with him.'

'What're you going on about?' But he could feel his cheeks betraying him and his wincing as he moved uncomfortably in his seat, just added to the betrayal.

'It's alright, I won't say anything.'

'There's nothing to say.'

'I didn't even think you were….'

'I'm not.'

'Oh my god!' Doug looked horrified now and Ste could never have predicted where the turn in conversation was going: 'Did he force you?'

'What? No. Nothing happened, Doug,' Ste tried to get to his feet. He was going to stomp back to House 4 and vow never to talk to the stupid yank ever again, but Doug just kept pushing:

'He did, didn't he? He forced you. You should leave, Ste. Get away from here. Get away from him.'

And probably because Ste was tired, and possibly because something in him hated that Doug was badmouthing Brendan, he heard himself shout:

'Brendan didn't force me to anything alright!' And add more quietly: 'It was mutual. Very, very mutual.' He looked down at his feet, his fancy shoes. He felt like a fraud wearing those clothes now. 'And it's over, so there's no need for you to tell anyone.'

'Do you want it to be over?' Doug asked. And Ste felt the American's hand on his knee. He flinched away. He wasn't queer, he didn't need some poof touching him like that.

'Yeah, course, 'cause I've got Rae, me. And he's got Macca. It was just a moment of madness. Just experimenting like them middleclass kids do.'

'Right.'

'But it's not for me, like.'

'And it just took you three days to work that out, right?' Doug joked, poking his fingers into Ste's ribs.

'Shut up,' Ste groaned, but he was smiling a little bit now. It had been a good three days. Three days he would never forget and he didn't really want to feel ashamed about it but he knew it had to be kept secret. The other lads would never let him live it down. 'Look, just do me a favour, keep it to yourself, yeah?'

'Okay,' Doug agreed. 'No one will ever have to hear about Ste Hay's Gay Weekend.' He spread his hands ahead of him, like he was pointing to the words in neon lights.

'Don't call it that,' Ste half-moaned, half-laughed. And just when Ste was worrying that things would become awkward between them, Doug said:

'So tell me about Barcelona … or did you not see much other than the hotel?'

'I saw plenty!' he protested. And he launched into detailed descriptions of how boring Picasso's museum was, but how amazing the views were. He talked about how friendly the people were and how he'd wandered around the streets without feeling like everyone was hating him. He'd felt different to how he usually felt. He'd felt … happy.

And that thought had hit him like a punch in the gut, and he'd found himself craving some time alone. It had probably been the best weekend he'd ever have in his entire life and it was over. Everything could only get steadily more miserable from here.

'I don't know why you're still hanging about.'

Walker was unceasingly depressing to be around. That was what Anne thought whenever she was in his presence. He was like the proverbial black cloud of her sunny day, or her Irish Sunny Day, which was more "grey but dry".

'I'm waiting for Brendan,' she flashed him her most sarcastic smile.

'I don't see why.'

'I'm his best friend.' He was being stupid, so she spoke to him like he was. 'And he's just been in Barcelona with "not gay",' she quoted the words with her fingers, 'gay boy from Blue Zone. He's gonna need to talk about it.'

'He can talk to me,' Walker monotoned. He was slouched on the sofa, legs spread, arms across the back. It was like he was trying to take up as much room as possible.

'Sorry, let me clarify,' she held up a hand dismissively. 'He's going to need to talk to me about it. Or at least someone who isn't you.'

'Don't try and get cute,' Walker said. 'I don't find you cute.'

'Then you must be gay too,' Anne smiled, taking a long swig of her wine. She actually had no idea whether Walker was gay or straight. He always seemed too emotionless to bother himself with sexuality.

'I know you're trying to divert the subject,' he muttered, ignoring her claim.

'There's only one of us diverting the subject, sweetheart.'

Walker just sighed as though he was surrounded by idiots and fed-up of not being challenged, which may have been true, but he was in battle of wits with Mitzeee now and she wouldn't be easily outwitted.

'If you tell Brendan what happened with Warren, he will hate you.'

'Brendan will never hate me,' she scorned. 'And you're just nervous. You're worried I'll tell him the part you played.'

'You won't tell him anything.' He seemed pretty relaxed and confident for someone who should have been begging her for her silence.

'If you believe that,' she smirked. 'Then you really don't know me.'

He leant forward on the sofa slowly, hands clasped ahead of him.

'Let me repeat to you what will happen, if you tell Brendan. He'll hate you.'

'Brendan won't hate me,' she said, clutching her wine glass tighter in her hand.

'I'm not talking about Brendan. I'm talking about Warren. You see, whatever happens to Warren, whatever Brendan does to him … he'll want revenge on you.'

'Are you threatening me?' she asked. She tried to sound insulted and strong, but even she could hear the edge of fear in her words. She knew Walker was perceptive, he'd have heard it too.

'No. I'm just telling you a bit about myself, a bit about Warren.' He was so calm, eerie blue eyes dead without emotion. 'We don't like being snitched on, Mitzeee.'

'Brendan won't let you hurt me.' It sounded more desperate than she would have liked.

'We have a lot of patience and long memories.' Walker continued. 'And Brendan's not always here, is he? Sooner or later, he'll go to Europe with one of his boys and he'll leave you behind.'

'You wouldn't dare touch me,' she said, jaw clenching angrily.

'No,' he agreed. 'Not if you keep your mouth closed.'

Mitzeee was dreaming up a brilliant come back. She'd relive this moment tonight and the right words would come to her, but she wasn't given chance at that moment, because footsteps came tumbling down the stairs followed by Brendan's voice yelling:

'Walker. Walker!'

'Brendan,' he answered calmly, getting to his feet. Brendan looked ridiculous, tight jeans open showing the top of his boxers, shirt unbuttoned and flapping behind him.

'What the hell happened to Foxy?'

Walker said nothing, he just looked meaningfully at Mitzeee and she was immediately being scrutinised under both their stares. Mitzeee was wrestling with herself, every eventuality playing itself out in her imagination and she honestly couldn't see this going well for her.

'Anne,' Brendan's stern voice made her jump and she almost spilt her drink.

'What?' she demanded, putting on her best impression of boredom. She was an actress after all.

'What happened to Foxy?'

And she plastered on her biggest smile and said:

'It was Riley.'

'Who the hell is Riley?' He directed that question to Walker.

'Blue Zone, House 16. The football-playing Costello boy.'

'Him?' Brendan's expression summed up just how unlikely it was that "the football-playing Costello boy" would have done anything to Warren. Riley had probably never really set a foot out of line in this place. 'I didn't even think he could commit a crime. When I took him in to Dublin he just chatted to people while the other boys did the stealing.'

'I wasn't in here when it happened,' Walker shrugged.

'Of course not,' Brendan muttered. 'That would involve you taking some kind of responsibility for something.'

Mitzeee noticed the flash of anger contort Walker's face, just for a second before he returned to his robotic self as he turned slowly towards her.

'Mitzeee was in here,' he said slowly. He barely even seemed to blink. He was like a shark without a heart. 'Maybe she can explain what happened between Riley Costello and Warren, and what happened to the vase.'

'The va-' Brendan looked towards the now bare table and slammed the palm of his hand against the wall angrily. 'Chez's glass?' he demanded of Mitzeee.

'If you ask me he did you a favour,' she quipped, but she only just managed to smile because she knew how much that ugly old thing meant to Brendan and she knew how angry he was going to be. But he didn't shout or scream like she'd been expecting, for the first time in forever he surprised her as he said:

'Anne. Office. Now.'

She scuttled as quickly as her ridiculous heals would allow her and as she passed between the two men and into the office, she heard Brendan seethe:

'I was away three days, Walker! Three days!'

Anne looked pale and she wasn't as talkative as she usually was. She hadn't even mentioned Barcelona or Steven but she perched on the desk with a false air of confidence. She was trying so hard to be Mitzeee, but Brendan saw weak vulnerable Anne pushing through.

'What happened?' he asked quietly.

'It's a bit of a blur,' she tried.

'You're not that good an actress, Anne,' he warned and she immediately relaxed, placing her glass on the table, tears almost trying to escape her eyes.

'They were fighting over me,' she said as Anne. 'Obviously,' she added as Mitzeee. 'I'm not sure why either of them thought they had a claim to me but when you look this good.' She ran her hands down her sides smoothing out her dress to make her point. He knew she was still lying, but they were closer to the truth than they had been.

'Warren gets a bit possessive and Riley…. Well, he picked up the ugly old vase….'

'Hey!' Brendan warned. It was still a gift from his sister. It had still been important.

'Fine, he picked up the wonderfully stylish glass.' The amount of sarcasm in her words made it almost more offensive, but he let it go. 'And smashed it over Warren's head. I think, I don't know,' she began to muddle her memories like a pro. 'It all happened so fast and I was nervous. I think my eyes were closed.' They were all the lies he'd taught her to feed the police whenever she was asked to be a witness for anything. 'It's hard to know. I heard a noise and … he was on the floor.'

She was too good a student for Brendan to completely decipher the facts, but Riley was gone and Warren was in hospital and his vase was broken and if that was the story Anne thought he needed to know, then he knew that was the version of events that was best for him. So he stroked his moustache slowly, thought for a second and finally mumbled:

'I always hated that damn vase.'

And she laughed, not her Mitzeee cackle, but he genuine little Anne-giggle, the one where her nose scrunched up and she looked young and innocent again like she had when they'd first met.

'So,' she beamed, 'tell me about young Steven. Did you have your wicked way with him?'

He grinned: 'What do you think, Anne?'

'I think you're a dirty old perve and your boys keep getting younger and younger.'

Thanks for reading!

Sisi...xx