Vanya makes himself useful the next morning. Cars clog the narrow lane to Riversmeet, bringing the children from Chantel’s classroom, all giddy with excitement to see her on the weekend. They bubble over with joy at getting to glimpse a brand-new foal who’s not even a day old. He herds them to the stable yard where they wait to take turns to peek at her from a distance. One boy needs more corralling than all the others. He’s quick to dash off, distracted and deaf to his father’s pleas that he calm down this minute, until Chantel comes out to find him.

“There you are!” She gets down to the child’s level, waiting until he makes eye contact. “I’ve been waiting for you, Alfie,” she adds instead of chiding. “I need someone I can trust to do something important.” She’s clear in her instruction, showing him how to scoop and then level off cups of feed before dropping them in a bucket. “This is special food. When you fill it to this line, we’ll both give it to Lady. She needs a treat after working so hard to have her baby. You know all about working hard, don’t you, Alfie?”

The kid’s chest puffing up is clear from where Vanya sits on straw bales telling a Russian story to all the other children.

“She’s so good with him,” he overhears from one parent. “I don’t know where she gets her patience.” Another mother agrees and tacks on, “You’re good with kids too.” Politeness doesn’t stop several of them from outright asking. “Are you a teacher as well, or a classroom assistant, like Miss Latham?”

“I….” It’s a straight question that’s hard to answer. Teaching is a dream he’s no closer to letting go now than when he first washed up in Britain. There’s no better occupation, he knows. No way he’d rather earn his living, if he still had the option. He settles on the closest thing to the truth. “Nearly a teacher,” he admits. They don’t need to know that it would take a shift in politics he can only dream of to return home safely for his final semester.

“I thought you must be,” another parent smugly states. “Is that how you and Miss Latham know each other?”

That’s much harder to answer.

Does he admit that he’s here with Jason?

His gaze flicks to the children. Telling parents he was gay at home could never, ever happen. If these parents were Russian, they might agree with the legislation that states he could corrupt their children, like any love that isn’t straight must somehow be twisted. But here… here could be different.

He excuses himself to the kitchen to gather shreds of bravery that feel very flimsy. When he returns, he passes out cups of tea, his hand shaking when he holds the empty tray to his chest like a shield. “I’m come here with Jason,” he admits. “He is best man.” His inhale shakes as much as his hands. “At wedding and… and for me.”

No one reacts with outright horror.

Only Alfie’s father seems disgruntled, a minority of one that Vanya can live with.

When they leave a half hour later, the parents all issue friendly goodbyes apart from that one man who stays for longer. Alfie’s father is watchful, hanging back in the kitchen while his wife fetches their son. He’s quizzing Vanya about his accent when the kitchen door opens.

Jason stands for a long moment looking this man over, his expression neutral in a way that’s foreign on him. He’s abrupt when he says, “Vanya’s Russian, Garry.” He’s no friendlier when he adds, “I heard him tell you so twice, so there’s no need to ask him for a third time, is there?”

There’s something deliberate about the way he stands next to Vanya, so close that their arms press together.

Garry’s thin smile tightens. He’s about the same age as Jason, Vanya guesses, although not half as vital. He’s better looking, perhaps, but there’s none of Jason’s kindness or warm humour. He’s faded in comparison, his shoulders somewhat slumping when Jason flatly states, “Vanya’s English is excellent, so I know you can’t have misunderstood him.” Jason snags Vanya’s hand in his. “He’d hardly be a success as a personal shopper if his clients couldn’t understand him.”

“Personal shopper? That’s funny,” Garry, whoever he is, acknowledges without a trace of humour. “He didn’t mention that earlier. I could have sworn he said he was a student teacher.” He sniffs, like that’s questionable as well. “Personal shopper, eh? I’m amazed he got a visa for that.”

“Visa?”

It’s only a small word.

Four individual letters that combine to blow his cover.

Vanya’s in a sunny kitchen not kicked to his knees in a dark alley, but he’s never felt so frightened.

Fear dries his mouth in an instant, but his palms go clammy, sliding against Jason’s until he holds on tighter.

Garry continues, each word adding weight that would make Vanya stagger if Jason didn’t prop him. “Russia isn’t in the European Union, is it? It’s never been part of the common market, so I’m surprised he got a work visa to do something unimportant.”

This is the moment Vanya’s dreaded, his tissue of lies worn so thin a stranger tears right through it.

His heart stutters and stops.

Jason simply chuckles.

He snags Andrew’s car keys from the table and pulls until Vanya follows. “You’d be surprised how in demand personal shoppers are,” is all he offers over his shoulder. Then he adds, “So in demand, we have to leave right now to collect another one from the station. She’s brought the wedding dress down for a fitting, but don’t you worry, Garry, I’ll make sure to check her passport.” He’s outright rude for the first time since Vanya’s met him. “I’d say it was good to see you again, but I think we both know I’d be lying. What’s it been? Six years since we last saw each other?” He pauses before adding, “Nice wife and kid you got there. Been together for long?”

For some reason, that makes Garry shrink. “Nine years,” he says faintly. “We’re very happy.”

“Me too.” Vanya barely hears Jason add a quietly voiced, “At last,” while his heart restarts to pound so loudly, like he barely hears the song playing in the background as Jason drives towards Moreton-in-Marsh. It takes a while before he believes Jason isn’t going to stop humming along with the car radio to finally quiz him.

He’ll spill every single lie of omission and half-truth told as a diversion if Jason will only ask a direct question.

Miles pass and it doesn’t happen.

Despite his veiled anger in the kitchen, Jason seems relaxed and happy.

Maybe this would be a good time to take the initiative and blurt out the whole truth—Vanya only straddles a thin line between legal and illegal until his plea for asylum is granted. Once he gets that, he’s safe. But if anyone finds out he’s taken money from Jason while waiting, he’s at real risk of forced repatriation.

Before he can open his mouth to say so, Jason reminds him of a very good reason to stay silent.

“Has Anna texted you to say whether she’s arrived at the station yet?”

Gradually, only very gradually, Vanya lets go of his death grip on the seatbelt and slowly pulls out his phone. “No. There is no message.” His stomach lurches when he thinks about her—blurting out the whole truth will only affect Anna as well. If he comes clean, he’ll have to confess where they’re currently living or go back to the hostel where her safety is much more compromised than his. He pictures that used condom on her pillow, her door hanging from its hinges.

This wedding will pay for the rest of their deposit.

Another week or two at the most and Jason won’t ever need to find out.

It’s a decision that’s validated when Anna gets off the train. She’s clearly harried, struggling with the dress she carries and bags slung over her shoulder. He slips into Russian as he takes them from her. “How did you manage all these on your own? Where’s Kaspar?”

“He got some extra hours at work. Someone called in sick.” She shrugs and is realistic. “It’s more money for us.” Then she looks over her shoulder and shudders.

“Did someone give you trouble?”

“No more than usual,” she says, her smile bleak as Jason greets her.

Vanya glares at the train as it leaves, wondering what happened. At least the car is filled with conversation when they drive back, Jason so focused on Anna he doesn’t notice Vanya’s quietness.

“So, you’ve been busy?”

“Yes, very.” She holds up fingers that are red tipped. “Finished sewing last night. Would have been faster with a bright light—”

Vanya interrupts when she comes close to admitting that where they live has no power. “Chantel will be happy.” He’s pleased to see another car outside the cottage when they get back, glad of yet more distraction when stress leaves him so queasy.

Jason muses aloud, “I thought Chantel said she was only having the kids over for an hour this morning to give Lady time to recover.” His brow furrows. “Maybe it’s her father,” a thought that’s confirmed when the front door flies open. Andrew follows the hasty departure of an older man whose face is tight with fury. When Jason pulls up, none of them can avoid overhearing his shouts.

“No, I don’t want to see the foal. I want to see my daughter back at home with all of this nonsense over.” The older man’s so angry that his voice shakes. “When she called, I thought she’d come to her senses. I’ll send a horsebox over tomorrow. Make sure the mare and foal are in it when it comes back to my yard.” He spits, “Shut up,” when Andrew tries to speak, his disdain as clear as Andrew’s blank shock. “I’m done listening to someone like you who doesn’t want the best for my daughter.” He gets into his car and slams the door shut.

“Go inside,” Jason urges, passing the bags Anna’s brought with her to Vanya. “Take Andrew with you.” Then he gets back in the car and moves it a few more feet until he blocks in Chantel’s father.

“What—?” Andrew starts when Jason switches off the engine and gets out.

“Go inside,” Jason says, firm and cool and so sure despite Chantel’s father throwing his car door open and shouting. There’s nothing to suggest getting sworn at bothers him. He’s calm in the face of yelling and immovable despite this man’s temper. Instead of reacting, he simply takes it, bending but never breaking no matter how strong this storm blows. And like all storms, it eventually blows over.

“For the last time, move that car. You can’t make me stay here,” Vanya hears as he ushers Anna and Andrew inside.

“No.”

“Don’t waste your time thinking you can keep me here long enough to convince me that this marriage will work out.”

“Okay,” Jason nods clearly enough that Vanya can see it from where he stands, front door ajar, ready to come out and… do what?

Defend Jason?

He would, he knows.

He would without thinking twice, if he needed.

Lack of courage was never his problem, force of numbers the only reason he was left for dead the last time he faced confrontation. He’ll help without hesitation, if that’s what Jason needs from him.

But this man is old and worried.

That comes across loud and clear when his voice wavers. “She’s setting herself up for so much unhappiness.”

Jason nods again and then holds out his hand, offering a handshake. “We haven’t met. I’m Jason Balfour, the best man.” He clasps Chantel’s father’s hand in both of his. “I was against this wedding too. I was so against it that I almost lost my brother. I’ve already seen him through two marriages that were complete disasters. So when he proposed to Chantel, I was so sure he’d made another wrong choice that I gave him an ultimatum.”

“What was it?” Chantel’s father doesn’t withdraw his hand. If anything, he holds Jason’s tighter.

“I made him choose between us.” Jason laughs quietly in hindsight. “I made him choose, and he did.” He releases his grip on her dad’s hand only to grasp his elbow when he seems unsteady. “I’ve known Andrew for over thirty-five years. He chose your daughter over me with no hesitation.”

“It’s not right.” Her father’s voice comes out quieter.

“People might think the same about me and my partner.” Jason pauses when the older man steadies himself against his car. Once he’s settled, he continues. “Even this morning, someone tried to make me think he was taking advantage of me. He’s Russian,” he admits, like confessing his partner is male is no big deal at all. That still blows Vanya away so much he almost misses the next sentence.

“Someone intimated he might not be legal, but he’s been here for almost a year. I work with foreign contractors daily, and it’s almost impossible for them to work here long-term without the right papers. Besides, who the hell can afford to live in London with zero income?”

That’s all so far from the truth, it’s not even funny.

Vanya rests a burning cheek against the cool glass pane of the front door.

There’s no way back from this level of misconception.

No way to explain that won’t lead to rejection.

Nausea grips him but he can’t let go of the door handle, not even when he hears Chantel crying softly. It doesn’t matter that Andrew stands only a foot from him listening as well. He can’t make himself look in his direction when guilt smears his face so hotly.

Outside, Jason’s voice easily carries. “My boyfriend isn’t taking advantage of me. I’d know it,” he promises. “He’s not, and that’s what I learned about Chantel too, because I thought she must be money-grabbing when I first heard about her.”

Chantel’s father blusters, but Jason’s having none of it. “Listen, I know she’s your daughter, but you’ve also got to know that first impressions work two ways, don’t you? Tell me, what do you think motivates a young woman to marry a successful city professional in his mid-forties? Wouldn’t you think him having his own place in town as well as a house in the country had something to do with her decision?”

Chantel’s father says nothing. Vanya opens the door a few more inches to see the old man nod very slowly.

“But,” Jason admits, “I was wrong. So wrong. She’s no closer to taking advantage of Andrew than Vanya is of doing the same thing to me. Jesus, I can hardly get him to borrow a raincoat when it’s pissing down, let alone give him money. I met him through a work arrangement, but he won’t take a penny from me now that’s over, and he’s always buying gifts for me. Little things that matter. Just yesterday, he bought me something amazing from an antique shop.”

That’s one interpretation of the junk shop Vanya had killed time in. He wishes fiercely in that moment that he had real cash to burn on presents. He’d spend every last penny on making this man happy.

“My daughter doesn’t need anybody’s money.”

“But that’s exactly what I was worried about for Andrew. I didn’t know her, but I judged her.”

Vanya watches as Jason raises a hand to the back of his neck, his body language saying I fucked up just as clearly as his words. “I can’t lie about that. There’s no point. I did judge her, but that was before I knew her. She’s….” He raises his head. “She makes him happy.” He holds her father’s gaze. “Andrew loves her. He’s learned what works in a marriage, and Chantel suits him. I can see it because it’s how I feel about my boyfriend. How long we’ve known each other doesn’t matter when we fit so well together. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give him, but like Chantel, he doesn’t take, he just keeps giving. I wish that you could see how lucky we both feel.”

“You really are a best man, aren’t you?” Chantel’s father extends his hand like they haven’t already shaken. “I don’t think I introduced myself,” he says. “I’m Keith.” His voice is as shaky as Vanya feels in this moment when Chantel’s dad clears his throat and repeats, “Keith Latham. Father of the bride.”

Vanya closes the door the last few inches, Andrew’s grip on his shoulder so tight that he has to turn to face him.

“Did he call himself the father of the bride?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Vanya’s sure all right, just like he’s certain his heart is shattered by the trust Jason’s misplaced in him.