Page 112 of The Unfinished Line

“Here, I’ve got another,” Sam fielded her a brazen grin as she paused with her hand on the black-lacquered door.

“There once was a hinny with long dark hair.

Her tits were ample with plenty to share.”

“Sam—” Dillon threatened.

I considered it jammy—.

To sit on her fanny—”

“Sam!”

“And lovingly touch her down there,”she rushed on, laughing as she ducked beneath the palm Dillon swiped at her head, before shouldering her way through the door.

Three pints later, when Sam was truly bladdered, she finally conceded to allow Dillon to tug her out of the pub.

“Okay, okay, for real this time,” Sam laughed, stumbling over the threshold. “I think I’ve got it!”

Dillon steadied her with an arm around her waist, trying to work her phone out of her back pocket. The weather had turned with the late hour and the thin material of their suit jackets did little to keep out the frigid December air. The sooner she could bundle Sam into an Uber, the better.

“Ahem!” Sam cleared her throat, the steam of her breath disappearing into the festive lights hanging from the pub front windows.

“My darling Seren, this verse is for you

’Tis time to cast out the lads and pay me my due

You’ll find the love of a lass

Is truly first class

But right now I just need a loo.”

Dillon couldn’t help but laugh. “You are bloody bevvied, mate.” She checked the time. It was twenty ’til eleven. No texts from Kam. She couldn’t help but look south, in the direction of the river, where less than a mile away, Tate Britain was holding host to some of the most glamorous people in Europe.

Dillon’s thoughts were only on one of them.

No matter how tonight played out, no matter how late Kam reveled in the aftermath of her much-deserved laudation, by this time tomorrow, they’d have escaped the suffocation of the city to the quiet shores of her Welsh hometown just outside of Swansea. With traveling by train no longer a viable option, Dillon had arranged to pick up a hire car first thing in the morning. And then they’d have a month together, instead of stolen nights and short weekends.

“M’be I sh’ld try’a sonnet,” Sam slurred, staggering to lean against a corner lamppost. “Fourt’n lines—gives m’more t’work with.”

“Or,” Dillon swiped open her Uber app, “maybe you should call it a night? Get a good rest and in the morning you can go all out and write her a ballad.”

“A ballad!” Sam’s eyes brightened. “Brill’nt!” She shivered, suddenly pawing at the buttons on her jacket. “F’ckin’ ‘ell, it’s positiv’ly baltic!”

Reaching forward, Dillon began to work on fastening Sam’s buttons, before an unfamiliar voice interrupted her progress.

“What we got here, lads?”

Dillon looked over her shoulder. A trio of men had rounded the corner, their faces unmistakably ruddy with liquor. University-age. Not overly dodgy.

She ignored them and went back to finish buttoning Sam’s jacket. The Uber wasn’t due to pick them up for another ten minutes.

“We interrupt date night, ladies?” The first man continued.

“Ladies?” The stouter of the three barked a laugh over the blue stripes of a Manchester City scarf. “I know a pair of fanny fiddlers when I see ‘em.”

“Sod off,” Sam snarled, spinning to face the speaker and nearly losing her balance.

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