Connor
I was having a proper stroke whilst driving down the M40. That was the only way to describe it. My hands were tight on the wheel, the protein powder and Edward's dry cleaning were rattling around in the boot, and my brain would not shut up.
A month with the Chernyshevsky-Colemans.
When Edward had said it back at Ashford Manor in York, curled up in our bed with the heating on too high, it had sounded like a good idea. He had said, "Come to the Cotswolds for the month, it's better than the London penthouse. The house is full, you won't be alone while I am in meetings for the ambassador launch." And I had said yes, because at the time it made sense. The penthouse in London was glass, quiet and I did not like being alone in it all day.
But now I was actually on the road to the Cotswolds, with the sat nav saying one hour left, and the reality was hitting me like a lorry.
