AI The tumbler felt heavy in her hand, the ice within it a slow, deliberate metronome against the glass. Silas slid a bowl of olives across the polished mahogany, his movement economical, silent. He did not look at her, his attention fixed on a smudge on a nearby tap, but she felt his gaze all the same. It was a weight she had become accustomed to, like the low ceiling of the bar or the scent of rain-soaked London that clung to the coats by the door.
“Heard from your father?”
Rory swirled the amber liquid, watching the light refract. “He sent a book. Tort law.”
Silas grunted, a sound that could mean anything from sympathy to derision. He buffed the tap with a clean cloth, his silver signet ring a dull flash in the dim light.
A voice cut through the comfortable quiet, sharp and bright and so achingly familiar it felt like a phantom limb twitching .
“Oh my God. Rory? Aurora Carter?”
Rory’s grip tightened on the glass. She turned slowly on the stool, a carefully constructed fortress crumbling brick by brick with each turn. The woman standing there was a stranger in a familiar shell. Her hair, once a chaotic mane of honey-blonde curls, was now straightened into a severe, immaculate blonde bob. She wore a stone-grey cashmere coat that probably cost more than Rory’s monthly rent, and her shoes made a soft, expensive clicking sound on the worn floorboards. But the eyes were the same. A startling, pale blue, wide with a surprise that looked almost genuine.
“Chloe?”
The woman, Chloe, beamed, her smile a perfect , white slash. “I knew it! I saw the hair and thought, no, it couldn’t be. What are you doing here?” She strode forward, enveloping Rory in a hug that smelled of citrus perfume and money. Rory remained stiff, her hands hovering awkwardly before falling back to her sides.
Chloe pulled back, holding Rory at arm’s length. Her gaze swept over Rory’s worn jeans, her faded band t-shirt, the delivery jacket slung over the back of the stool. Her smile didn’t falter, but something in her eyes tightened. “You look… exactly the same.”
It was not a compliment.
“You don’t,” Rory said. The words came out flatter than she intended. She motioned to the bar. “Drink?”
“Oh, I can’t. I’m meeting my fiancé’s parents in Knightsbridge.” The words were dropped casually, a string of pearls onto a chequerboard. “I just ducked in here to escape the drizzle. What a funny little place.” Her gaze flickered around The Raven’s Nest, over the yellowed maps and the framed black-and-white photographs of forgotten spies, her expression a polite mask of mild curiosity. It was the look one gave a museum exhibit just before moving on to the next.
Silas placed a small glass of sparkling water with a slice of lemon on the bar in front of Chloe, unasked. His limp was more pronounced as he moved away to serve a new customer at the far end of the bar.
Chloe ignored the water. “So what are you up to? Still in law? I remember your dad saying you were top of your class.”
Rory took a slow sip of her whisky. The burn was a familiar friend. “Not anymore. I left.”
“Left?” Chloe’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. “But you were so close. Why?”
She knew why. She had to know. The question hung in the air between them, thick and cloying. Rory thought of late-night phone calls, tear-choked whispers, a split lip she’d hidden with concealer for a week. Chloe had been her confidante then, the one who smuggled her out of Cardiff in her beat-up Ford Fiesta.
“It wasn’t for me,” Rory said, turning back to her drink. “I’m a delivery rider. For the Golden Empress, over on Gerrard Street.”
The silence that followed stretched, thin and tight. Rory could feel Chloe recalibrating, adjusting her image of the girl she once knew. The brilliant, fierce Rory Carter who was going to be a barrister, now delivering sweet and sour pork on a moped.
“Oh,” Chloe said, the single syllable loaded with a universe of pity. “Well. That’s… flexible.” She fiddled with the strap of her leather handbag. “Did you ever finish your degree?”
“Does it matter?”
“I just mean, all that work…” Chloe trailed off, picking up the glass of water and staring into it as if it held some profound answer. “It’s been, what, three years? I worried, you know. After you just vanished. Eva said you were in London but…”
“But you never called.”
Chloe flinched. A crack in the porcelain veneer. “Things got complicated, Rory. You know how it is. Evan was… well, he was a mess after you left. Everyone took sides.”
The name landed on the bar between them, ugly and visceral. Evan. Rory felt a cold knot form in her stomach . She could almost feel the phantom ache in her wrist, near the small crescent-shaped scar.
“I’m sure he was,” Rory said.
“He’s changed, you know.” Chloe said it quickly , as though rushing to defend him . “He really has. Went to therapy. Stopped drinking so much. He even asked about you, a few months ago.”
Rory said nothing. She stared at Silas, who was expertly wiping the inside of a pint glass, his back to them but his posture radiating an alert stillness. He knew. He didn’t know the details, but he knew the shape of her ghosts.
“He’s with someone now,” Chloe continued, her voice softer, conspiratorial . “Sarah Jenkins. Remember her from school? The quiet one.”
“Good for him.” The words tasted like ash. Rory drained her glass, the ice clattering against her teeth. She motioned to Silas for another.
“You’re still so angry,” Chloe sighed, a performance of weary wisdom . “I just think, sometimes, you have to let things go. We were all so young.”
“Were we?” Rory finally turned to face her fully, the bar’s dim light carving sharp angles into her face. “Because I remember feeling ancient.”
Chloe looked away, her gaze catching on the green neon of the bar's sign reflected in the dark window. The reflection showed a ghost of a girl in an expensive coat, standing next to a ghost of a girl in a worn jacket. Worlds apart, joined by a history that felt like a chain .
“I have to go,” Chloe said, her tone suddenly brisk . She placed a hand on Rory’s arm. Her skin was cool, her nails perfectly manicured. “It was… it was really good to see you, Rory.”
“Was it?”
The question caught Chloe off guard. She pulled her hand back. “Yes. Of course. We should get coffee. Properly catch up.” She was already backing away, her promise as empty as the glass in Rory’s hand.
“Chloe.”
She stopped, halfway to the door.
“You said he’s with Sarah Jenkins now,” Rory said, her voice dangerously level . “You must be happy for them. Being her maid of honour and all.”
Chloe’s face went white. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket, a frantic, muffled sound. She ignored it.
“How did you…?”
“It was announced in the Times,” Rory said, her bright blue eyes holding Chloe’s. “Engagement notices. My parents still send me the clippings. Funny, isn’t it? The things people think you’ll find interesting.”
The poise, the cashmere coat, the perfect hair, it all seemed to fall away, leaving behind the scared, conflicted girl Rory remembered. The girl who always chose the easier path.
“He loves her,” Chloe whispered, a desperate plea.
“I’m sure he does.”
Chloe fumbled in her handbag, her movements jerky and graceless. She pulled out her phone, her thumb swiping frantically across the screen.
“Look.” She thrust the phone towards Rory, the screen a blaze of manufactured joy. “They’re happy.”
Rory looked down. It was a professional photograph, taken in a sun-drenched park. Evan, his arm possessively around a smiling, blushing Sarah Jenkins. And next to them, beaming, her hand linked with Sarah ’s, was Chloe. They were a perfect quartet. Polished, successful, happy. Two perfect couples, their futures laid out before them like a pristine tablecloth. Evan’s eyes, the same eyes that had once watched her with a terrifying intensity , were smiling at the camera. He was wearing the watch she had bought him for his twenty-first birthday.