PART 1 — MY TURN
When Bree rang me crying because Tarek had finished it after six years and told her to find somewhere, I did not think about it for four seconds.
She turned up with two cases and about three hundred pounds.
“Stay until you’re sorted,” I said, and Gideon said it too, and he meant it.
The first week was fine.
Then she started coming downstairs after her shower in a towel and nothing else, and making coffee, and standing at that counter talking, with my husband sitting eight feet away with the paper.
The first time I let it go.
The second time I took her into the hall.
“Bree. Would you put a dressing gown on before you come down? Gideon’s usually in there.”
She laughed at me. “Rom. He’s your husband. He’s not fifteen.”
“I know. I’m asking because I don’t like it.”
She shrugged and said fine.
