Page 11 of Modern Romance May 2026 Books 5-8
Carefully, she put the masher in her hand down on the counter. ‘What did you take?’
He blinked, doing confusion, but his pupils were like pinpricks, the blue of the irises huge and glassy. ‘I don’t—’
‘Yes, you do, Oscar. We’ve been here before, remember?’ How could either of them forget? The first few times it had happened she had comforted herself by thinking, It’s only the second time. Or the fifth or tenth. Then she’d stopped counting.
‘Because you can’t forget. Because you think I’m a failure.’ He was all fast breath and twitching limbs now; a puppet being pulled in multiple directions by the cocktail of drinks and drugs he’d taken. ‘You think I’m like Mum. That’s why you left me—’
And so it went on, following a predictable and exhausting pattern.
The first stage was denial, quickly followed by a savage and disbelieving anger at her lack of faith and her utterly predictable but unjustified refusal to believe in him, which segued into a tearful critique of her character. En route, all the cutlery and plates she’d laid out for dinner were swept violently onto the floor and he threw the vintage cine camera she’d given him for his birthday across the room.
As the sausages started to burn, the smoke alarms broke into an insistent, ear-splitting screech and Oscar covered his ears and crouched on the ground, crying incoherently.
Five hours later, she had thrown away the charred sausages and congealed mashed potato and swept up the broken glass and plastic and china. Oscar was curled up foetus-style on the sofa, his fist pressed against his mouth, moaning occasionally as his breath deepened into sleep.
Dulcie watched him from the armchair, clutching a cushion. She hadn’t gone to bed. There was no point because she knew she wouldn’t and shouldn’t sleep deeply. Instead, she ate some crackers and drank a glass of water. She was exhausted but also on high alert. With an effort of willpower, she forced herself to count the plus points.
He had come home to her.
He hadn’t stormed off.
And he didn’t need to go to A & E.
As plus points went, it was a pretty sad list, she thought, trying to swallow past the lump in her throat. She felt old, like really old. Her body ached with sadness and shame.
It wasn’t enough. She wasn’t enough to save him.
Three years ago, when she had found him in a seedy flat near Brixton prison, she had hoped that she would be. That she might be able to transfer all the benefits that she’d been gifted by the life she had chosen at the age of seven. The life she had denied her brother.
But Oscar’s problems were so deep rooted. He’d had two decades of chaos and poverty and neglect. And a decade of addiction.
‘I know he’s struggling and that you’re supporting him. But can you give him the help he needs? Because I can.’
Ettore’s words were so loud inside her head that she almost jumped out of her skin, and she had to hug the cushion tightly to steady herself.
The trouble was, much as she wanted to deny it, Ettore was right. Even with her support, Oscar’s grip on reality was loose-fingered at the best of times. What he needed was long-term, residential rehabilitation. But that was big money. More money than she earned.
Only what would happen if she did nothing? If she just kept trying to stitch therapy and rehab together into a haphazard quilt as she’d been doing for months now? Years, she corrected herself.
What if he got worse? What if he did what their mother did?
She had waited long enough. She wasn’t going to lose Oscar because of her pride. He needed proper care, and she would do anything to make sure he got it.
Even if it meant living under the same roof as her estranged husband.
Chapter Three
STARING UP ATthe Conisbrough Hotel in Belgravia, Dulcie felt her heart relocate to her throat.
It was just over nineteen hours since Ettore had made his proposal.
Or issued his ultimatum, depending on how you looked at it. Aside from when they were both asleep, most of those intervening hours had been spent trying to convince Oscar that she wasn’t leaving him and that he hadn’t wrecked everything and that she would be coming back.
And she understood why he needed that certainty. Knew that the root cause of his anxiety and insecurity was her fault. Which was why she had spent a long time reassuring him, giving him the certainty he needed. Now though, as she walked across the polished black and white marble floor, she wished she had someone who could make her feel certain that she was doing the right thing.
For Oscar.
For herself.
