"She still not talking to you?" Peter whispered in Carla's ear, standing by her side in their kitchen as she watched Olivia in the living room, slumped on the sofa, her full attention focused on the phone in her hand.

"Nuh uh," Carla muttered, biting her lip anxiously.

"Honestly, love, I'm not surprised."

"Peter!" Carla spun around to face her husband.

"What?"

"You're meant to be on my side."

"I am," he replied softly, stroking her cheek gently to reassure her, "but being on your side also means calling you out when you're the one in the wrong."

"You… you think I'm the bad guy here?"

"Yes," Peter declared matter-of-fact. "And, if you were honest with yourself, you would admit as much."

"You weren't there, Peter. You never heard the things Pat was saying to me."

"He could've been the biggest jerk on the planet and you still would've been in the wrong. You know why?"

"Tell me."

"Because you took your anger out on Liv, and that wasn't fair to her."

Carla scrunched up her nose and pressed her hand to her forehead as the consequences of her actions fully dawned on her.

"Dammit," she cursed softy, "I hate it when you're right."

"Now there's something else you should admit more often."

"What's that?"

"That I'm right."

"Don't push it," Carla said light-heartedly before turning sombre again. "I suppose I should go talk to her."

"An apology wouldn't go astray."

Bzzz Bzzz

"You go talk," Peter instructed his wife, "I'll get the door."

As Peter made his way down the stairs, Carla tentatively approached the sofa and the sullen teenager who was sat there, still pointedly ignoring her.

"Sweetheart," Carla said softly, sitting next to Olivia and turning to face her. With no indication that Olivia had heard her, Carla reached out and took the phone from Olivia's hand.

"Oi!" Olivia protested, trying and failing to snatch her phone back from Carla. "That's mine!"

"I'll give it you back in a minute," Carla said, "I just… I've got summat to say to you."

"What?" Olivia crossed her arms and fell violently back into the cushions.

"I'm sorry, okay? It was wrong of me to drag you out of the restaurant the way I did."

"Why did you?"

"I, umm…" Carla exhaled slowly, unsure of how much to reveal about her and Pat's conversation. "I'd had words with… one of the factory girls was giving me lip and I was…"

"You were…?"

"I was a moody cow and I took my bad mood out on you."

"You were so embarrassing."

"I know, I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?"

"Am I allowed to see my uncle whenever I want?" Olivia asked, knowing that she had the upper hand and adding in her most innocent voice: "Carla? Mum?"

"Yes," Carla reluctantly agreed, "of course you should see your uncle."

"Thank you," Olivia beamed at her mum, forgetting completely the cold shoulder she had been giving her.

"Babe?" Carla looked up at Peter who had just then re-entered the room, a large buff envelope in his hand. "Who was it?"

"Courier delivery," he said, "for you," and handed the envelope over to Olivia.

"Me?" Olivia asked in confusion as she tentatively took the envelope Peter offered. "Who's it from?"

"Only one way to find out."

Carla and Peter watched on curiously as Olivia ripped open the envelope and pulled out the small bundle of paperwork from within.

"So…" Carla asked impatiently, watching Olivia read the paperwork in silence, "what does it say?"

"Did you do this?" Olivia asked, looking up and glancing from Carla to Peter.

"Do what?"

"Set up this…" she looked again at the papers in her hand, "trust fund."

"Trust fund?" Carla looked at Peter and, immediately clocking his slight shrug, turned back to Olivia. "Nothing to do with us."

"How much?" Peter asked.

"A hundred thousand pounds," Olivia revealed, "I don't get it til I turn twenty-one though."

"You know who's behind this, don't you?" Carla whispered to Peter, "trying to buy her love."

"Who?"

"Pat!" Carla mouthed the word before addressing Olivia again. "Sweetheart, who sent the letter?"

"It's, umm…" Olivia peered at the logo in the corner of the letter, "Fletcher Browne. It's a law firm in Manchester."

"Right," Carla said, "I'm gonna have a word with this Fletcher Browne character."

"I think it's two people actually," Peter pointed out.

"What?"

"A Mr Fletcher and a Mr Browne. Two people."

"How do you know they're both Misters? Hmm? You don't think women can be partners in a law firm?"

"That's not what…" Peter sighed in exasperation.

"Hush, baby, I was joking. You coming?"

"Me?"

"Yes! Come on!" Snatching up her handbag and jacket, Carla turned to speak to Olivia in a gentler tone. "Sweetheart, me and Peter are going out for a while, okay?"

"Okay."

"I need you to stay here, please."

"Why?"

"Because I'm asking you nicely."

"What if I need something from the shops?"

"What do you need?"

"I don't know," Olivia shrugged, "a drink, bag of crisps, chocolate, could be anything."

"Fine," Carla smiled at her daughter indulgently, "you can go to Dev's or the Kabin, but that's it."

Olivia pressed the button to open the front door and waited with growing excitement for him to climb the stairs.

"Thanks for coming," she said as he walked through the door.

"Of course," Pat said, standing awkwardly in front of her until, at her initiative, they embraced for a short welcome hug. "I must say, I was a little curious what was so urgent that I had to come round straight away."

"It was this," she said, picking up the papers and beaming at him. "I wanted to thank you in person; I didn't expect, I mean… this is a lot."

"What…?" Pat looked in confusion from Olivia's face to the papers in her hand, "What are you talking about?"

"This!" she repeated, shaking the papers for emphasis, "the trust fund."

"Can I?" he held out his hand and, understanding what he wanted, she handed over the papers.

She watched on anxiously as he read through the pertinent information, his brow furrowed in confusion, or worry, she wasn't sure.

"Is something wrong?" she asked him.

"No," he looked up at her and forced a smile, "I was just surprised is all."

"About what?"

"I, umm… I didn't expect these to be delivered so quickly. They're, umm, they're certainly efficient."

"It's too much," Olivia said, half fearing that he'd changed his mind. "It's way too much and I can't accept it. I mean, we only just met."

"Of course you can accept it," Pat insisted with a smile, "after all, you're family."

"As I already explained, Mrs Barlow," Adelaide Fletcher, a tall, elegantly dressed woman of about fifty, said, "I cannot disclose any information about my client. That would be highly unethical."

"But this person," Carla said, "whoever they are, gave my daughter one hundred thousand pounds! Surely I have a right to know."

"We deal with the law here, Mrs Barlow, not your personal morality. I'm afraid I cannot help you. Now, if you don't mind."

"Hang on a minute!" Carla called out to the woman who had turned her back on them and was walking back to her office. "You can't just–"

But with the soft closing of her office door, Adelaide Fletcher did just.

"Snotty cow," Carla screwed her face up in disgust as she turned to Peter.

"There is such a thing as client confidentiality, love," Peter tried to be pragmatic.

"Come on, let's go," Carla knew when she was beat. "What a waste of time."

The Barlow's were almost out the door when a soft "psssst" called their attention to the receptionist who was motioning for them to approach her desk.

"I remember the man you were asking about," she whispered conspiratorially to them.

"Who was he?" Carla asked, intrigued.

"That's the thing," the receptionist explained, "I remember him because I don't know his name. I never made the appointment, Addy did. But there was no name on the calendar, just the time marked as busy."

"He didn't announce himself when he arrived?" Carla asked.

"No," the receptionist shook her head, "which is another strange thing. Addy was hanging round my desk at the time, almost as if she was waiting for him."

"We're still no closer to finding out who he is then," Carla reflected despondently.

"I don't know if it means anything to you," the receptionist continued her story in hushed tones, "but this man, he was a white man, early fifties, brownish hair, Scottish accent."

"Scottish?" Carla perked up at this descriptor.

"It has to be Pat," Peter declared.

"I guess."

"Oh, almost forgot," the receptionist said, "he had a beard."

"A beard? What kind of beard?" every muscle in Carla's body tensed up as she waited for the answer. "Was it a light stubbly beard? Goatee?"

"No, it was a proper full bushy beard."

"It can't have been Pat," Carla correctly observed, "no one can grow a full beard overnight."

"If not Pat, then who?"