"No! Jesus, mum, it's like you're not even—"

"Like I'm not even what? You asked me to help you and now you won't listen to a word I say."

Lunch had most definitely taken a turn for the worse. The whole point of picking a public café to meet at had been a premature defusing of whatever issues Jenna deemed most explosive, to prevent the sort of scene Emily was well aware her mother was capable of causing if the situation was unseemly enough. And on this blustery November day, Emily was keenly aware that her impending marriage stood chief among the unseemly situations at hand, Katie's inability to find a job a distant second. Emily watched her mother sip from the egregiously overpriced glass of red wine she ordered the instant her daughter politely offered to pay and pressed her lips together, biding her time. This game was nothing new between them, and Emily had memorized the steps by now.

"I am listening, mum, and don't you dare try and threaten not to help if I don't like your recommendations because they're exactly that: recommendations. I don't have to take them, yeah? But I do need them because it's not like I've got any experience in this area."

"Don't forget, I'm not even charging you for them."

Emily bit her tongue, knowing that if she pushed things, charging a fee for her time was something very much within Jenna's capability to change. Pro bono work had never sat very well with her in the years following their foreclosure and nearly five month stint without a steady income for the family; if not for Katie's insistence and badgering, Jenna very well have tried to revive her wedding planning franchise for the fifth time. Those had not been fun conversations upon which to eavesdrop—the setting for those arguments notwithstanding: After Naomi's reelection, Jenna made Rob Fitch call his daughters and demand an explanation for their silence and disinclination to telling their parents the scope of their involvement in the events surrounding SSI. Naturally, that demand softened into a plea for the four of them to have dinner, which Katie accepted on both their behalves without consulting her younger sister; while the subsequent yelling Emily directed at Katie felt good, deep down she knew it was probably for the best to get it out of the way and reassure their mother and father of their well-being.

She did not account for her mother insisting that a seemingly one-off family dinner become a regular occurrence. Moreover, Emily was ashamed to admit that it came as no surprise that, on their way out the door from that first dinner—and after a promise to make the event customary had been elicited from both of them (not without considerable eye rolling and gritted teeth, however)—Jenna called after to remind them they were meant to be family-only affairs. In a show of solidarity and acknowledgement of their mutual dislike for the ceremonies these dinners quickly became, Katie even declined to bring her summer boyfriend to a late August dinner when Jenna implored her to bring him over and properly introduce him. That they broke up three days later when he launched into his fourth politically-fueled tirade that attacked Naomi's character was beside the point, as was the fact that Naomi found the renewed attempts at intruding on Emily's personal affairs after months of letting her govern them on her own hilarious and could not have made it over to a single dinner due to her harried, SFO-investigation driven schedule even if the mood struck her.

It was towards the end of these dinners that conversation would turn to the wedding. Initially, Jenna made several offers to take Naomi and Emily on as clients "to diversify her clientele base," and for a discounted price. The routine became well-rehearsed: Jenna, by that time in the evening, cheeks flush from several glasses of cabernet sauvignon, would make her grand offer and insist Emily take it; Emily would tell her, in varying degrees of poignancy and profanity, that she wasn't interested and leave the dining room for the quiet of the small sun room off the back of the den; their father would make an excuse to start clearing the table and do the dishes, which always somehow involved a visit to the sun room; Katie alone remained in the dining room to reason with Jenna and convince her that if she ever wanted to have a part in the wedding or Emily's life beyond it she should help without charging for it or even suggesting such a notion. These discussions between mother and oldest daughter frequently descended into vino-infused shouting matches of "knowing what's good for my daughter" versus "being damn lucky she even wants to include you after how you've treated the two of them," but it was not until the end of summer that Jenna relented and offered her talents to Emily and Naomi free of charge.

Nevertheless, she seemed perpetually worried that Emily would forget how compassionate she was being in helping, reminding her at every opportunity—opportunities which, like today, presented themselves whenever Emily disagreed about an aspect of the ceremony or decorations or arrangements. Today, the point of contention was the food to be served at the reception; despite Emily's profuse protests to the contrary, Jenna insisted on the service and reception being grand events. Moreover, the opulence of the event became the one item on which Naomi refused to hedge, hem, or haw. She was in complete concurrence with Jenna, much to Emily's chagrin. That did not stop Emily from trying to forestall her mother's attempts at booking the most expensive band possible, at recommending she solicit the top designers in London for a wedding dress…or at trying to offer four options for the main course at the reception.

Taking a drink of her tea and calming herself down, Emily said, all according to their invisible script, "You're right, and I'm not trying to appear ungrateful. It's just—"

"You're not doing a very good job of it, then."

"Fine. I just don't see the point in offering steak or chicken or fish or vegetarian. We're not inviting that many people, anyways."

"Not everyone will eat a red meat option, hun. We don't know who's attending yet, and this caterer comes very highly recommended."

"The enthusiasm of the recommendations for a caterer aren't exactly my biggest problem right now, Mum, kay? We haven't even settled on a final number of people we're inviting—shouldn't that dictate what we offer at dinner? I want this to be a quiet affair."

"Only if you want people to be unhappy and unsatisfied with the meal before them. Give people options and they'll feel as if you're tailoring the meal just for them. Hasn't Naomi taught you anything about politics and pandering to people?"

"Oh my God! If we do it your way, we will be tailoring the meal to each person. And I'm not much of the pandering, persuading type. That's more Katie's realm."

Jenna sighed and nodded in agreement. "Yes, a shame I'm not working with her on this."

Emily stood abruptly. "Excuse me?"

"I didn't mean it like that, dear."

"I think you did, Mum." She hooked her bag over her left shoulder and looked around the café. "You know what, forget it. Pay for it yourself, or add it to my bill for the wedding. That's what you'd prefer, isn't it?"

Jenna watched her daughter silently stalk out the door. Making a small sound of indifference, she shrugged and sipped at her wine. How did her daughters become so overly dramatic?

"I thought you quit," greeted Naomi as she crossed the courtyard and approached the gazebo under which Vic Patterson sought refuge against a chilling rain. He cast a detached glance down at the half-smoked fag in between his fingers and returned to aimlessly spinning his lighter, letting it endlessly cartwheel between the thumb and middle finger of his left hand with steady pushes from the index of his right.

"Yeah, well." He let the sentiment linger and slowly brought the offending cigarette back to his lips.

Stepping underneath the pitched roof herself, Naomi sat on the bench opposite, studying the Serious Fraud Office investigator. It no longer bothered her quite so much as it did Katie that he could have passed as a twin of their college friend Freddie Mclair with his olive skin, dark hair, and strong features; only a set of lively green eyes set her new ally apart from her old friend. Well, that and Patterson's persistence and ambition—those were two traits Naomi had difficulty assigning to Freddie prior to his death, and now, over ten years later, still struggled to place alongside her memories of the laconic, easy-going skater.

"Want one?" asked Patterson, breaking the spell and drawing a surprised blink from Campbell.

"No, I quit too, remember? A long time ago." Naomi stood and looked through the rain up at her office window. "Ancient history, that."

Patterson nodded and threw the butt to the ground, crushing it beneath the toe of his shoe. "Well, what'd you come down here to tell me that couldn't wait until I made it up to your offices?"

Naomi crossed her arms tightly across her chest and turned back to the only other person in the courtyard. She spent the morning debating whether or not to tell Vic about Emily's accident, and now that she finally made the effort to corner Patterson, alone and away from any eavesdroppers in the office halls, Naomi still was not convinced it was worth raising the alarm. Emily certainly didn't believe it warranted any extraneous attention, but then this was Emily and Naomi knew she'd downplay plenty if she thought it would interfere with either of their careers. Nevertheless, she always ended up spilling whatever secret was beginning to consume her—the woman couldn't keep her emotions and misgivings bottled up very long at all, and it was something Naomi was thankful for every day except during campaigns. Then it became a liability, like the time she accidentally leaked that Naomi would just as soon switch parties as take some of the donations that were rumored to have been on the table at the time. Regardless, Naomi had a difficult time justifying this on the same plane as campaign secrets; those were a matter of funds and posturing, this was Emily's life in question.

Naomi dropped her arms and leaned back against the octagonal railing of the gazebo. "There was an accident over the weekend."

Vic frowned. "I didn't see anything on any of the news programmes. I take it this was more personal?"

"It was," Naomi allowed. She looked down at where her right hand was idly digging at the soft wood, rain drops pricking against her skin and striking the treated wood before running off. "And Emily didn't want to bring it up at all, but Katie insisted she tell me."

"Is she okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, Emily's fine. She was on her way back from…visiting family," the hesitant pause and accompanying glance around the courtyard allowed Patterson to infer exactly which member of her 'family' Emily had been visiting, "and her car spun out. But it's not the what that's bothering me, exactly. It's the how."

Naomi turned blue steel on the SFO investigator. "She was run off the road. Targeted by another car, and they tried to make her wreck. It was raining over there and the roads were slick. Thank fuck her car's new and has all the new safety features otherwise…"

"And you think it has something to do with tomorrow," finished Vic with a slow nod.

"That remains to be seen."

"Don't play coy, Minister. That's why you're telling me in the first place, isn't it?"

"Well, you care about Emily, for one," blustered Naomi futilely. She still couldn't quite bring herself to admit there were more insidious motives behind the crash than an overly aggressive motorist. In the heat of the moment Saturday night, her frantic thoughts made the leap, but in the intervening hours as she thought about it rationally, and after Emily's insistence that she not ride back to Bristol on a white horse, those thoughts weakened.

Vic allowed the hint of a smile to ghost his lips then shook his head. "If that were the case, we wouldn't be having this conversation out here, would we?"

"No, s'pose not." Naomi tried to pace, but two steps took her the other side of the gazebo and she turned around, feeling caged. "That was my first thought, too, but I'm just not sure anymore. I mean, Osbourn Ross isn't in the country; we'd know if he returned. And why wait until so close to the start of the hearings to make a statement? Why not do it when we first announced them back in the spring?"

"Because it'll be a bigger black eye if you waver now. And what better way to make Minister Naomi Campbell, the Darling of London—"

"Erik's phrase, not mine."

Vic waved her interruption away as cobwebs from a low hanging branch. Naomi continued her awkwardly short pacing. "—the Darling of London, back off a groundbreaking set of hearings than to ruin her impending wedding and the hearings at the same time? Besides, while Ross may be skiing to his heart's content at that resort outside Zurich, did you forget those two thugs he sent after the twins last time?"

Naomi lurched to a halt. Spinning slowly, she gave Patterson an odd look. "What's that?"

"Last spring, there were two men that destroyed Emily's moped, tried to ambush Katie on the street, and burn down your offices. Or did you forget that little disaster?"

"As if. But now that you mention it, I thought we never linked any of that to Ross directly."

"Did you expect us to?" Vic raised his eyebrows as Naomi opened and shut her mouth without retorting. "But Stonem didn't know who they were, and that would tell me they weren't his."

"No, Katie was very helpful on that account."

"There you two are!" called a voice from the double glass doors leading to the food court. Naomi and Vic turned simultaneously, eager to place a face with the exasperated greeting. Naomi's chief of staff, Erik, was walking dispiritedly through the increasing rain towards the gazebo.

Naomi stepped aside and let him join them under the shelter. Shaking his head at the offered fag, he shivered and hugged himself. Naomi waited for him to continue, but he just stood looking down at his feet; finally, she cleared her throat. "Well, Erik?"

"Oh, right. It's fucking freezing out here, by the way."

"Yes, we noticed. What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing. I just…there've been at least five calls for you to conduct interviews this afternoon and evening in preparation for tomorrow."

"Last minute vultures," she muttered and frowned. "Who is it?"

She ran a thumb along her bottom lip as she listened to the dutifully memorized list Erik rattled off in a single breath. None of them sounded remotely interesting or seriously interested in the case. "And these were all about the SSI investigation?"

Erik hesitated, "Well, no. At least three of them mentioned wedding arrangements as well."

"Fucking Christ," swore Naomi under her breath. This was getting out of hand. She understood that people would be abnormally interested in the ceremony given her popularity and current nearly-front-page-of-the-politics-section stature in Parliament, but this was becoming absurd. In her heart, she agreed with Emily that it should be a private, quiet affair. The realist in her knew publicity was inevitable and embracing it would be the best way to ward off any prying eyes—and maintain whatever momentum she was still riding after her landslide victory in the spring. But on the eve of the biggest event of her young career in Parliament? Naomi wanted no part in the all-frills, no facts world of wedding arrangements. More to the point, she had a visitor to welcome and receive in grand fashion. It was to be Emily's first proper stay in the new flat, which called for more than the meager meal and drink options from Emily's past time in the capital. These reporters and gossip columnists could speculate all they wanted tonight; what she had planned for her and Emily took far greater precedent than scratching their too-frequent itch. Naomi started for the glass doors. "Tell them I'm utterly disposed—floral arrangements and doing wine tastings or some such."

Erik hastened after her; Vic drew another fag out of the carton and sat back down, allowing the two of them to head back inside. "And if they ask for details?"

"Do I have to do your entire job for you, Erik?"

"No, I—I'll think of something," he stammered as he followed Naomi towards the elevator bank. She waved down another MP who was headed up and slipped inside and peeked back out at her flustered assistant, flashing a grateful smile.

"You always do." The door clanged shut and Erik turned back towards the courtyard. Vic had the carton in his hand, extended and waiting for him to return.

"So it went poorly, then?"

"No fucking shit, Ems," groused Katie, her left arm leaned up against the passenger side window and her gaze burning through Emily's ear. "I don't remember anything about the interview; I don't even know if I was coherent. It was like…it wasn't right."

Emily brought the coupe to a gradual halt at a traffic light and looked over at her twin. The fear and torment that darkened her features brought too many memories of the spring back to the fore of Emily's mind. She held no illusions about the cause of her sister's unease, either: what had happened in SSI certainly qualified as traumatizing no matter what definition or medical journal Emily consulted, and she had consulted plenty since that night. Her own nightmares and cold sweats were sparser and less intense than those from which she knew Katie still suffered, but that only made her more unnerved that such a severe relapse could happen during the day and when Katie was so focused on moving on from what happened. Devoting as much of her time to Naomi's campaign and the press relations regarding the SSI hearings that followed had been Katie's outlet, her way of maintaining a grasp on something tangible during the spring and summer. By her own admission, as the year progressed, she no longer jumped at every bus horn or firecracker or police siren. But this? Emily was no doctor, but it didn't seem to be a bad case of nerves for her first real job interview in years.

The light turned green and Emily guided her car, paint scrapes down the driver's side an etched reminder of her close call over the weekend, into the drop-off lane near the front of the train station. She flicked the emergency blinkers on and put it in park. Turning to face Katie, she extended a hand to rub her sister's shoulder. Katie flinched slightly, but did not pull away completely.

"I don't have to go if you don't want me to."

Katie barked a laugh and unbuckled. "I think we both know that line's full of shit."

Emily sighed and copied her sister's action, unbuckling and extracting herself from the low-slung seat. She met Katie at the boot, popping it open and pulling her two bags out before setting them on the damp pavement. Emily stepped over them and pulled her sister into a tight hug. "If you need me, call. Naomi and Vic'll understand."

Katie squeezed back, then broke the hug. "That's sweet, Em, but I don't need rescuing. I'll be alright."

Emily slung the designer bag of Katie's she was borrowing over her shoulder and pulled the handle up on her more practical wheeled kit. Offering a partially forced smile, she nodded towards the car, "Don't drive it too recklessly, okay? She's fragile."

"I won't do anything you wouldn't," promised Katie with a gleam in her eye. "Give Vic my best."

"Of course." Emily turned and headed for the doors to the terminal as Katie rounded the coupe and climbed in behind the wheel. She watched her twin drive off as she stepped up onto the kerb.

The station was busy with late afternoon commuters and long-weekend takers, but the line for access to her London-bound platform seemed manageable. Emily adjusted the strap of the bag on her shoulder and joined the queue, tapping her foot and looking up at the digital display board, its neon green LED lights flicking between the various arrival and departure times. She started to shuffle forward, still looking up at the screen, and jostled another traveler, causing him to drop his ticket and phone with an emphatic curse.

Embarrassed, Emily pulled up short and squatted, hair falling in front of her face as she reached down to help collect his belongings. Their fingers landed on top of the ticket at the same time; she looked up at two cold brown eyes set in a face that looked vaguely familiar. In the close proximity, she saw recognition dance across his features as well, but she couldn't place from precisely where she knew him. He pulled the ticket towards himself and she let him pick it from the concrete.

Standing, she stammered, "I'm sorry. I hope you have a good trip wherever you're going."

"Can't get worse." He stalked away, losing his place in line, and Emily caught herself staring after him, trying to place his face. Drawing a blank, she resumed her shuffle towards the platform. The awkward feeling of having seen him before haunted her until the doors on the train hissed shut and she was sitting in a row by herself.

Seeing him slip aboard four cars down just as the whistle was sounding did nothing to quell Emily's feeling of unease; she sat staring out the window, his angered face and Katie's fearful one swirling around one another in her mind's eye as Bristol blurred past her two chocolate ones.