Kyle woke up—in his bed, for a change—to the sound of his phone ringing, and fumbled for it blindly on the bedside table.
It was Mum, he realised when he finally managed to turn the alarm off and blink the screen into focus. And it was only eight o’clock in the morning. Which meant she’d probably been waiting hours for it to be a “suitable” hour to call. God, what had happened?
“Mum?” he managed, struggling to wake up enough to take in whatever she was about to tell him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She sounded on the verge of tears.
“Tell you what?”
“About your condition. When I said . . . I had no idea.”
Oh God. “You’ve been looking up narcolepsy?”
“Of course I have. Why didn’t you tell me how bad it was? How many attacks do you have a day?”
“I . . . Mum, it’s—”
“And I spoke to Jeffrey again, because I was cross with him for making me worry, and he said you’d given up work and moved house . . . Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Apparently I didn’t need to,” Kyle snapped, feeling pretty furious with Jeffrey himself right now.
“Kyle!”
“Sorry, Mum. Look, I’ve literally just woken up. This isn’t a good time to talk.”
“Fine. Well, we’ll talk when I get there. Assuming you’re actually going to tell me where you’re living now?”
“I— What?” Get there? “Mum, no. You don’t need to come halfway around the world. I’m fine. I’m just . . . taking a break.” He thought as quickly as his sluggish brain would let him. “In fact I was in London yesterday on a legal matter.”
“But Jeffrey—”
“Jeffrey hasn’t seen me in months, Mum. He hasn’t got a clue how I am right now or what I’m doing. And that was his choice.” His confidence surged. “And I’ve met someone else. His name’s Dev. He’s a motor mechanic,” he added, because his great-grandfather had been in the motor trade and Mum still had a soft spot for that kind of thing.
Mum was silent for a moment. “And he knows about your illness? You haven’t kept it a secret from him?” There was a definite emphasis on the last word in that sentence. Maybe it was something that developed in pregnancy: this unerring instinct to tug on the guilt strings.
“Believe me, Mum, he knows.” After all the times Kyle had collapsed in front of, on top of, or underneath him . . .
And he’d taken it all in his stride. Kyle hadn’t given him enough credit.
That was going to change, starting today.
“Are you sure you’re all right? You don’t need me?”
“No. I’m fine, really.” He was, Kyle realised. Yesterday had proved it. He’d been an idiot, berating himself for not having done anything to help in London. The point was, if he had been needed, he could have stepped in.
And Dev pulling away . . . Well, maybe that was Kyle’s fault. After what he’d said, just before Tasha’s call, no wonder Dev was wary.
What Kyle needed to do was convince Dev to give him another chance.
The first thing he did, after getting dressed and having breakfast—and, all right, having a sleep attack, but that was neither here nor there—was arrange an appointment with his specialist. It’d mean another trip up to London, but, well, he’d proved he could handle that, hadn’t he? And it was way past time he explored the treatments available to him. Tasha had been right. Life was too short not to live it to the fullest. If the side effects of the drugs were intolerable, well, he’d just stop taking them and try something different. No more living in fear and dressing it up as a virtue, priding himself on refusing to give in to his condition. God, what he’d been doing so far, that was the real giving in.
Accepting help would be the first step towards . . . Not beating it, maybe.
But refusing to let it beat him.
With that in mind, he looked back over the emails Sujata had sent him over the weeks—months—since he’d given up work. Or taken a sabbatical, as she liked to put it.
They were full of advice, which was why he’d mostly ignored them, before. A lot of it was, as he’d suspected, useless. He hit Delete with a particularly vicious stab when he read the one about cognitive behavioural therapy, for instance. But the advice that related solely to the profession and how to make a working day less strenuous, yes, some of that was worth rereading.
She’d copied him in on all sorts of articles she’d found online about people with disabilities in the legal profession. One of them in particular struck him: a wheelchair user talked about going into commercial law because it would mean far less time in court—where steps were numerous and ramps practically nonexistent—and far more drafting legal documents. He grabbed a pen and notebook and started to make notes.
God, if only he’d read this months ago . . . No. Months ago, he’d probably have just deleted it, feeling if he had to give up criminal law, then he might as well give up, full stop. Now, the prospect of less travel, less advocacy, and far more flexible hours seemed a lot more appealing. Perhaps he could set up on his own, here in Porthkennack? Buy the cottage, sell the house in Surrey, get Dev to move in with him . . .
Kyle blinked awake and winced when he saw the gobbledegook he’d sleep-scribbled into his notebook. As wake-up calls went, it was nothing if not ironic.
He stood up, and walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Going back to Almshouse Chambers was the only sensible option, at least in the short term. Even if he abandoned the idea of setting up on his own and tried instead to get a tenancy locally, all while reestablishing himself in a new specialisation and unable to work full-time . . . Well, it just wasn’t going to happen. He’d need to start slowly, in a supportive environment, where he wouldn’t feel the need to prove himself.
Kyle turned to stare out of the window at the sea. God, he’d miss living here. He felt it in his chest, an almost physical tug. Then again, wasn’t at least part of that the knowledge that if he went back to Surrey he’d have to deal with Jeffrey? Which was way overdue. For heaven’s sake, he was still paying half the mortgage on their house, which was absurd when he wasn’t earning.
It wasn’t simply Porthkennack itself that he’d grown to love. It was the retreat it had become for him. But it was time to get back into the real world.
If nothing else, he’d be a lot closer to London. And Dev, because asking him to move in with Kyle after only a week’s acquaintance was probably not the most sensible plan, despite what Dev had hinted . . . God, was it only yesterday? Back when Kyle had been too far up his own arse to listen properly.
Would Dev still want him there, though? After the way he’d railroaded Kyle away from his flat—and his flatmate—Kyle was no longer sure about that.
But he had to try.
The annoying thing about doubts was that once they started to creep into his head, they had a tendency to invite all their friends over for a self-pity party. What if going back to work didn’t end up being feasible? Kyle knew only too well that a large part of this new determination to get his life back was down to wanting to prove to Dev—and himself—that he was worth loving. If he couldn’t work, if he was forced to live on his savings until they dwindled away, was he still worth Dev’s time, let alone his love?
Kyle didn’t know. But one thing he was certain of: he couldn’t let Dev go without trying to sort things out between them.
Right now, though . . . Maybe Dev needed some space and some time with his sister and flatmate when they arrived in Cornwall. Kyle could give him that. In the meantime, he took a cup of coffee back to his laptop, and set about identifying courses he could take to bring him up to speed on commercial law.
Then he shook his head at himself for procrastinating again. No. He was going to do this properly, which meant committing himself.
He called Sujata. “I want to come back to work.”
“Good morning to you too. And yes, finally!”
“But I’m not sure how soon.”
“You raise my hopes, only to dash them again. Kyle, you are a terrible man.”
“Sorry. But I need to do some reading first, maybe take some courses.”
“You’re changing your specialisation?”
“Yes. To commercial law. It’ll be easier to manage—more flexible hours, less travelling.”
“But Kyle, you love criminal law. Are you sure you want to give it up?”
Kyle reminded himself firmly that she meant well. “Yes. It’s simply not viable anymore.”
“Well, I suppose commercial is where the money is. I’ll tell everyone the good news. And it is good news. We’ve all missed you, you know.”
“Sujata, I don’t deserve you.”
“Nobody does, Kyle. Now, get off the phone. We all have work to do.”