It's You [H.S.]

1 | Back to you (Prologue)

24th September 2016

She is jarred awake as a tyre clips the pothole on the bend. Her quick reflexes kick in just in time to avoid cracking her temple against the window, but she mutters "Every damn time" to herself as she lays a cautious hand on her cricked neck.

Stretching out her long limbs against the supple leather seat of the Mercedes, she catches the apologetic glance in the rearview mirror.

Waking up the phone in her lap to check the time, she is momentarily distracted by the soppy, tired smile and tangled bed head of her lock screen, but then clocks it's 11.45pm with a grimace. She's cutting it mighty fine.

Spotting a few cars parked along the road up ahead, she clears her throat. "Just up alongside the gates will be fine, thanks Ken. Sorry again that it's such a late one".

"As you wish, Miss. Don't think of it. You must be exhausted after that long delay. Hope you manage to get some rest before the big day".

With a soft smile and quiet "Hmm" in the affirmative, she gathers her leather tote and suitcase as the car pulls to a stop. With a final "Thanks", she slides out the door and into the late night.

She takes a deep breath, grateful as always for the restorative properties of the English countryside - all the moreso after such a frantic trip to smoggy LA and the stale cabin air of that long flight home.

It feels crisper than she remembered. Autumn drawing in quickly now, it's a clear night with the stars out in all their majesty. She takes in the contrast of the bright almost-full moon against the inky blackness and hopes it's a good omen for the next couple of days - the British weather usually predictable only in its unpredictability.

She taps in the code and slips through the heavy iron side gate, tiptoeing her way over the wide expanse of the gravel drive, trying to avoid its tell-tale crunch announcing her arrival.  Weaving a path around all the cars, she then keeps close to the stone wall of the house, careful to avoid tripping the security flood lights.

She spots his sleek brand new black Range Rover in the far corner of the drive; noticing it's parked right alongside an identical car - her own twin brother's - and smirks at the divine symmetry. She feels a ripple of excitement at proof of him being so near. Just a few more minutes and she'll be back in his arms.

>

Under the dim light of the stone porch she digs for her keys in her roomy tote, then quickly steps through the heavy oak front door.

It's dark in the hall, little light seeping in from the kitchen to the back or from the living and dining rooms to either side. She pauses to check for any noise, but the house seems surprisingly quiet, given all the cars.

She steps around towering crates of wine and spirits to make her way cautiously up the stairs, mindful of the notoriously creaky third and sixth steps.

At the top, she inclines her head towards the faint murmur from the den at the very far end of the landing, but heads in the other direction to her bedroom, just in case he's turned in for the night already.

As she peers around the door frame, her big squishy bed looks oh so inviting, but not quite irresistible - he's not in it. But she feels warm and fuzzy at seeing he'd brought her bags from his Hampstead home. His alongside hers, but open on the floor. He's here.

She's so comfortable with him that the thought of him in amongst all her stuff, settled in her childhood bedroom, taking on her big rowdy family without her, doesn't fill her with any apprehension; just a sense of contentment and an eagerness to get back to him.