Come Back to Me by Sara Foster Page B

the house phone at The Willows rang out without even the answering machine clicking on, so Mark endured the bumpy, windy bus ride with his head stuck determinedly behind his paper, not reading a word, but checking his watch every two seconds until the bus pulled up outside Sevenoaks Station.
    Thank god there was a cab there. He pushed his way through the throngs on the platform and raced along the walkway with his arm outstretched and a silent plea that no one would claim it first. The cabbie nodded as he got in and said, ‘Barnfield Drive, please’, then they were off. Mercifully, the driver was a silent let’s-get-you-there type rather than one of the let’s-get-it-all-off-my-chest-on-the-way cabbies Mark dreaded. Cab time was vital court-prepping time, and you didn’t need someone asking your advice about importing their underage Thai girlfriend.
    When he finally arrived he was somewhat disconcerted to find the house in total darkness. It wasn’t a major problem, he had a key, but still – as they had invited him over, they should at least be home.
    He let himself in and switched on a few lights. The answering machine on the Edwardian rosewood table in the hallway showed a resolute 0 messages. The curtains to the front rooms were still open, so he went around closing them, wondering where on earth his parents could be. The house seemed so quiet now, since the dog had died a few years before.
    He peeked into his father’s study, feeling like a trespassingchild, hearing his father saying to his ten-year-old self, ‘The law is the foundation upon which society stands, and also upon which it falls. Ergo, to uphold the law is the most important job that one can do,’ as Mark was allowed to handle legal books reverently as though they were lost covenants. But the room was absolutely still.
    He went back to the lounge, poured himself some Glenmorangie and sat down on one of the leather armchairs, idly picking up a nearby National Geographic and flicking through it with no real interest in the content. His mind kept drifting towards shiny dark hair and mesmerising brown eyes. Bloody hell, why on earth couldn’t he just let it go; even thinking about her made him feel like an idiot.
    Two hours and a few more glasses of whisky later, he was exhausted. He had tried both parents’ mobiles, but they were off. He briefly thought about ringing hospitals or checking the news for car accidents, but he couldn’t imagine his father rushing into a panic in the same situation – in fact, Henry would just have been enraged at the inconsideration – and his resolve stiffened. He would go to bed, sleep on it, and if they weren’t home by morning he would be sure something was up. He’d grown up with a father promising to be places and turning up hours late, if at all, due to some kind of emergency court session/meeting/law function. Perhaps his mother had been dragged into some such thing and they’d forgotten he was coming – they’d arranged it a couple of weeks ago, after all.
    He pulled at his loose tie, brought it over his head and folded it into a small neat oblong. Then he made his way wearily up the stairs, grateful now for the sandwich he’dgrabbed on the train, which at the time he’d thought of as a stale appetiser for the decent meal he would be getting at home.
    He had just crawled beneath the sheets when he heard the front door open, and footsteps echo through the hallway then up the stairs. They paused on the landing outside his door, but Mark froze, annoyed at his parents now for being so tardy. Not long after they moved on, he was asleep.
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    When Mark woke up, light was marauding through the gap between the curtains. He knew something was wrong. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t known it the night before. A quick check of his mobile told him it was ten past eight, and he pulled on some clothes before rushing downstairs.
    His