Page 15 of In Control

“But it’s pitch black, darling.”

“It’s fine.”

“Well,” she says, stroking her hand down my arm. “Be careful please.”

I laugh. “I always am, mother.”

She does that thing with her eyes. Maybe I stay out of trouble these days, but when I was younger, she was always having to fish me out of it. Scrapes with other girls at school, breaking the hearts of unsuspecting boys, arguments with teachers.

I was a whirlwind of energy and passion back then, leaving havoc in my path. I’ve learned over the years to control that passion. To hold it in.

I stroll away before the mayor has a chance to reach us, turning around the side of the building and following the twisting paths, knowing he won’t be able to find me.

I blow out air through my teeth as I follow the winding gravel path under the drooping boughs of a willow tree, down a slope covered in wild flowers and around carefully crafted hedgerows. The stones crunch under my heels and out here, away from all the other bodies, it’s cooler, the air nipping at my bare arms.

The path begins to fall away down a slope and my pace increases as I follow it, faster until I’m trotting, and then I’m laughing, throwing my head back to glance up at the moon and running.

I race down the slope, my hair and my dress streaming behind me, the smile on my face wild, the air whistling past my ears, until I lose my footing.

I yelp as my ankle twists underneath me and I crumple to the ground, landing on damp mossy grass.

“Shit,” I mumble, rubbing at the throbbing pain in my ankle.

“Are you OK?” a deep voice rings out in the night.

The mayor? Did he follow me after all?

My spine stiffens.

I peer through the darkness. There’s a man sprinting towards me.

It isn’t him.

Dressed in a dark suit, he’s tall and broad and, as he draws closer, I see his short hair is fair and his eyes a light blue.

He drops to his knees beside me and I attempt a self-deprecating laugh which morphs to a wince.

“You’re hurt?”

“My ankle,” I say, my hands wrapped around the throbbing tissue. “I think I twisted it or something. It’s fine.” I attempt to roll onto my knees and climb to my feet, but pain radiates through my leg and I wince again.

“Let me take a look.” I stare at him sceptically. “I’m a doctor.”

This time I manage a laugh. “Is that what you tell all the girls?”

He smiles at me, his left cheek dimpling and his eyes dancing. He’s good looking. The kind of man who lands the lead role in a romcom.

“You don’t believe me? And here I was thinking I had a trustworthy face.”

I lean a little closer to him, lowering my voice. “In my experience, the ones with trustworthy faces are the last ones you should actually trust.”

“Very wise. But you can see my British Medical Association membership card if you want?” He reaches inside his jacket.

“Hmmm.” I motion toward him with my fingers. “Let’s see it then.”

He chuckles and draws out his wallet. It’s made from leather, soft and heavy. He opens it and pulls out a card which I take from his fingers.

It’s then I catch the faintest whiff of it, only just discernible to me above all the floral aromas – a scent. A scent that reminds me of expensive leather shoes.

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