He didn’t turn red like Tom or offered her a drink, like Mr. Burroghs would’ve done. Pondering she walked home slowly.When she arrived, she couldn...��t find her key. Of course, her handbag was still left in that godforsaken café. She was angry now. Angry and cold and wet. She decided to let it all out on Michael. In the end it was his fault alltogether. She knocked hardly on the front door.Nothing happened. She waited another five minutes, than knocked again. “Stupid oaf,” she thought. “Must’ve. "Where?" I keep them at a friend's."Sonia recoils from that idea with a Jesus H Christ of shrill frustrationand storms from the room, slamming a couple of doors to emphasise thepoint. Donna slumps deeper into the sofa where the two of them have hadgood times, a few wild times, and wonders if something like this wasalways going to happen.This isn't the worst of it though. Somehow a local news website gets holdof the story, probably from some loose-lipped copper. As she sat in herspoiled finery. More

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