Page 32 of Skin and Bones

“He said he was about to kick up some serious inconvenience at Mr Hope Senior’s county club and told Finn that if this young Mr Lewis Hope ever set foot near any of his properties…”

“Yeah?” I was suddenly smiling too, though it felt more like a grimace.

“He was to be treated with no respect. Which means Finn is in the process of having him barred from most establishments in London. Our security guys have his picture, and it’s being circulated in their system. If this Lewis Hope even tries to go buy a burger, he’ll be sorry he ever left his house.”

“Or laid a hand on Hugo,” I growled.

“That’s the Ben we all know and love,” Mark murmured. “So let’s get back to work. Let’s give Hugo the time he needs, and when he’s ready to come back tous…”

“The last thing he’ll need is some idiot like me running around after him.”

“Ben.” Mark was being annoying now. But so was I.

He took my hand. Squeezed it tight. “The last thing he’ll need is getting himself into a relationship with anyone, but he will need friends. So we’ll be right there for him. Just like you need me to hold your hand right now, he’ll need you to hold his. You hear me?”

I did. But I didn’t quite believe him.

Hugo - Four Months Later

Before you yell at me, I didn’t do anything stupid. Maybe not that stupid. Stupid was usually my middle name, but I’d always been known for my impulsive traits.

I was also well known for burning my bridges, and to be truthful, I’d burnt the world around me right down to theground.

Because when you were me, you ran away from all your truths and hid your head in the sand. Then you let everything else control you. Everyone else became insignificant in your quest to just survive. And I had survived.

Barely.

Hence here I was, months later, and I’d packed my one bag to once again…run away, although this time, I had my parents’ blessing to leave since I’d found out the hard way that moving back with your parents at the grand age of almost thirty… Yeah. It hadn’t been ideal.

My parents had been great, though, and I’d never been so happy to see my dad as I’d been the morning he’d picked me up from hospital up in London. I’d had a major panic in the middle of the night, called him, and he’d got straight in the car to come get me. He’d also been a pillar of strength, helping me deal with all those things that had needed dealing with, starting with the small fact that he’d been an absolute dick, and instead of driving me home to my childhood bed where I had planned to hide out until life had come up with better ideas, he’d taken me straight to some hardcore clinic, where I’d reluctantly agreed to stay for a week.

I’d missed my sister’s wedding, spent Christmas on an eating disorder ward, and I’d slowly lost the plot.

My stay lasted almost four months in the end, and when I’d finally discharged myself, cheered on by my team of therapists and a load of fellow misfits who, like me, masqueraded as patients in there, my life had suddenly seemed much brighter.

It didn’t seem so bright this morning. Even though the sun was up, the cold winter wind still made me shiver as I took a seat on the train that in two hours would plonk my sorry arse back in Central London.

I had things to do, places to go. And a job—something that once again filled me with panicky fear.

I was starting over, but I was going back to the same place. I tried to reassure myself that this was the way forward. Familiarity, people around me, support…

Fuck support. I didn’t want to need it, but I knew I couldn’t trust myself. Yet. I had plans. I had relapse prevention techniques. I had all these phrases and routines and a whole box of nutrition supplements that rattled around in my bag alongside my antidepressants and all the other pharmaceutical aids that would magically turn me back into a fully functioning human being.

Familiar words took shape in my head as I calmed myself down. I thrived on structure. Routines. Eat, sleep, breathe. Take those meds. Trust the process. And repeat.

The vibration alarm on my watch stirred me out of my self-reflection, and I dutifully plucked my cereal bar out of my pocket, unwrapped it and forced the first bite into my mouth. I could do this. There were simple rules that made my life bearable. Easy-to-follow schedules that I’d programmed on my phone. I repeated my mantra as I chewed and swallowed.

I am fine. I am okay. I can follow the rules, but the world won’t end if I don’t. I am fine.

As always, I’d pushed people away, good people who could have enriched my life. I’d spent the past weeks wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I had to laugh, spitting crumbs. The woman in the seat opposite gave me a disapproving smirk. I mouthed sorry to her and got my phone out.

My name is Hugo Burrows, and I will forever be a hot mess.

Another mantra. And it was fine.

My phone was new. My sick pay from The Clouds was enough to replace things I hadn’t got back. I’d never seen my old phone again, but I’d been smart enough to have backed up my work contacts, and all my private spreadsheets were neatly uploaded in their rightful place. Not that I’d needed any of them lately. Nor had I heard from Lewis or his family, and I was really,reallygrateful for that. I was also thankful for the few people who had insisted on remaining in my life. My parents. Willa. My therapists. Some idiot called Finn who wouldn’t stop calling me, and when I’d blocked him, he’d called my parents instead. I’d shouted at him for that, but as he’d pointed out, he was my boss. I was his employee. He had a duty of care to get me back to work as soon as my mental health allowed it. No ifs. No buts. Bum on train, and I was expected to pick up a fresh uniform and appear ready for duty at seven this morning.

Which.

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