Part Twenty One - Scars of Intimacy

The scent of freshly baked sponge cake filled the room, light and warm, but the air still carried the unspoken weight of absence. Patty set the tea tray down carefully, her hands lingering on the porcelain handle. It had been weeks since Myra’s funeral, and though life had pushed forward—as it always did—yet something was still missing.

The women were gathered, but not quite as they used to be. Flo lounged in her usual chair, looking far too pleased with herself for a grieving woman.

Patty eyed her suspiciously, "You seem… smug."

Flo smirked over her teacup, "Grief manifests in different ways, darling. Some people cry, some people drink, and some people—" she took a slow sip, "—have a rather torrid affair with their new apprentice barber."

Lucy choked on her tea. "Flo!" She simply sighed and crossed her arms, "That’s how you handle losing Myra? You become a wanton harlot!"

Flo shrugged, completely unrepentant, "What can I say? He’s twenty-six, built like a Greek statue, and utterly devoted to the art of making me forget my troubles." She lifted her cup. "Frankly, I should’ve done this years ago."

Ruby snorted, "You’re scandalous."

Flo winked, "I do try."

Ruby sighed, rolling her shoulders. "I went back to Country," she said simply. "I walked alone, listened to the trees, sat by the river, let the land carry some of the weight."

Cindy looked over, curious, "Did it help?"

Ruby exhaled. "Yes and no." She toyed with the rim of her teacup, "But when I was out there, under the stars, I could almost hear my ancestors telling me: It’ll be alright, girl. Keep going."

Lucy frowned slightly, looking as if she wanted to say something but held her tongue. Instead, Lucy set down her cup with a deliberate clink, "I prayed. A lot. For Myra." she said stiffly.

Flo rolled her eyes, "Of course, you did."

Lucy ignored her. "I had to. Because what Myra did…" She trailed off, gripping her hands together. "Taking her own life—that’s not… that’s not how things are meant to be. It goes against everything I was raised to believe." Silence settled over them. "But I can’t—" Lucy’s voice hitched, her composure cracking for the first time, "I can’t accept that she suffered only to end up in limbo. I won’t believe that."

Patty reached out, squeezing Lucy’s hand, "Myra was too kind. A heart of gold. God wouldn’t do that to her soul.”

Patty finally turned to Cindy, who had been unusually quiet, "And you?" Patty asked. "What did you do to get through it?"

Cindy tilted her head, lips curling slightly, "I read a lot. Nothing worth discussing."

Patty narrowed her eyes, taking in the faint, reddish marks peeking out from beneath Cindy’s cuffs. Thin, even lines, circling her wrists. Rope burns. Patty said nothing, but Cindy caught her looking. Their eyes met—a silent exchange, an understanding left unspoken. Cindy simply smiled, sipping her tea as if nothing were amiss.

Patty took a breath, finally ready to speak, "I went to see a psychic.”

Flo, Cindy, and Ruby raised their brows in unison. Lucy looked unimpressed, “You are messing with things best left alone.”

Patty sighed, "She told me something that only Myra could’ve known."

The women leaned in slightly. Patty gestured toward the perfectly risen sponge cake sitting on the table, "Myra’s secret ingredient," Patty murmured, slicing through the soft, golden layers. "A tablespoon of custard powder in the batter. Never fails."

The women stilled, eyes widening. Cindy whispered, "She never told anyone that."

Patty smirked, handing out slices, "Well," she said. "I guess Myra finally decided to share."

They each took a bite. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, Flo exhaled, eyes closing briefly, "That’s bloody perfect.”

Lucy nodded, swallowing thickly, "A worthy tribute."

They ate in comfortable silence, the sponge cake light and warm, carrying with it the ghost of laughter, of secrets, of friendships that refused to fade.

Finally, Cindy raised her fork, "To Myra."

The women lifted their teacups in agreement.

"To Myra!"

As the women sipped their tea, Patty felt something unfamiliar creeping in—the clarity of raw emotion. No dulled edges, no synthetic calm. Just the ache of loss and the warmth of friendship. It was uncomfortable yet oddly grounding.

*********

Freddie stood by the half-finished cubby house, wiping sweat from his brow, surveying his handiwork with a quiet sense of accomplishment. They had been working for weeks rebuilding it, and now, it was finally coming together.

Teddy and Syd were somewhere around the back clearing away the last of the debris. Freddie rounded the corner, hammer in hand. And froze.

Teddy and Syd were behind the shed, pressed close together, heads tilted, eyes closed—Lips touching.

Freddie’s stomach plummeted. His heart slammed against his ribs, breath caught midway between shock and fury. It was one thing to accept Teddy was like him, but it was another to see him give into such feelings with another boy.

Before he could stop himself, the hammer clattered to the ground. Teddy and Syd jerked apart, startled. Teddy’s face drained of colour, his eyes wide with panic. Syd took a step back, glancing between them before bolting—disappearing into the trees without a word.

Freddie didn’t move. He couldn’t. Teddy stood there, shoulders tense, fists clenched at his sides. And then—his son met his gaze, and Freddie saw it. The fear. The shame. The bracing for a reaction that he himself had known far too well.

Freddie’s chest ached with something sharp and unbearable. But it came out all wrong, “What the hell was that?”

Teddy flinched, his jaw tightening. “Dad—”

“You were kissing.” Freddie took a step forward, voice low, sharp, shaking. “What the hell, Teddy?”

Teddy lifted his chin, but his eyes shone with panic, “It’s not—”

The sound of raised voices interrupted Portia Mannings deductive skills. Patty scowled, all she wanted was one moment to indulge in her favourite radio serial, but fate had other plans. Fate called them peace making.

She rushed outside following the noise toward the cubby house. Freddie standing rigid, his face twisted with rage, and Teddy, pale and wide-eyed, bracing himself.

“You need to stop!” Freddie bellowed, his voice shaking with fury. “This isn’t normal. For your own sake.”

Teddy flinched but didn’t back down, “Dad, I...won't!”

“No!” Freddie cut him off, taking a step forward, “It shouldn’t be like this! Not for you!”

“Yes! This is me,” Teddy swallowed hard, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, “I am not wrong! This is who I have always been!”

“Freddie!” Patty called out, striding forward.

Freddie whirled around, his face red, “Patty, did you know about the boys?”

Patty held her ground, “Yes.”

Freddie let out a sharp breath, shaking his head in disbelief, “You knew. You knew and didn’t tell me.”

“Teddy, go inside,” Patty said, keeping her voice calm, firm. Teddy hesitated, looking between them, his throat bobbing. “Now, love,” she said gently. “It’s alright.”

Teddy cast one last glance at Freddie, then turned and hurried inside.

The moment he was gone, Freddie turned on her, “What the hell were you thinking, Patty?” His voice was low, furious, but underneath it—there was something else. “I get it! Teddy being like me. But encouraging them?”

Fear. Not for himself. Not for her. For Teddy.

Patty let out a slow breath, “Come with me.”

Freddie huffed, “Where—?”

She grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the cubby house, stepping over half-nailed planks and scattered tools. Once inside, she spun to face him, eyes blazing, “You need to calm down!”

Freddie scoffed, still pacing. Patty exhaled. Once, she would have reached for a pill to steady her nerves, to push down the rising tension. But she wasn’t hiding anymore.

“Calm down? Calm down? You expect me to just—”

“Yes,” Patty cut in sharply. “I do.”

Freddie stilled, nostrils flaring.

Patty took a deep breath. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Freddie. But I needed to make sure you wouldn’t do exactly what you just did to them.” Freddie opened his mouth, but she held up a hand, stopping him. “I get it,” she said. “You’re scared. Your afraid of what this all means for him. But Freddie—you’re hurting him.” Freddie’s jaw tightened. Patty took a step closer, softer now, “I know what this is really about.”

Freddie’s breath hitched, “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, steady as stone. “I see you, Freddie,” Patty whispered. “I see the weight you carry. The shame. The hiding. And you’re terrified that Teddy is going to live with that same pain.”

Freddie turned away sharply, pressing a hand to the half-built wall. Patty didn’t let him escape. She stepped behind him, voice gentle but unrelenting, “You think yelling at him will change how he feels about Syd,” she said, “It’ll only make him feel much more alone. Far more ashamed.” Freddie’s fingers curled into a fist, his breathing uneven. Patty exhaled slowly. “And if you’re not careful, you’ll lose him forever.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Freddie let out a ragged breath, lowering his head. The silence stretched, thick and unbearable—until finally, he turned to face her.

His eyes were red, his face lined with something deep and painful, “I know the constant torment he will be in. The pain of being an abomination.”

Patty’s heart ached, “He doesn’t have to be like you. Just love your son and that will change how he feels about himself…and maybe even help you love yourself much more.”

Freddie let out a shaky breath, rubbing his face.

Patty stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest, grounding him, “You’ve already done the hard part,” she whispered. “You survived. Now, let him live.”

Freddie’s shoulders trembled, his breath uneven. And then, finally, he let out a long, broken sigh, “…I don’t want to lose him,” he murmured.

Patty squeezed his hand, "Then don’t."

*********

The house was still, but the weight of the evening pressed down like a thick fog. Freddie stood outside Teddy’s bedroom door, his stomach churning, his knuckles hovering over the wood. He had faced battlefields, newspaper deadlines, and fists thrown in pub brawls—but nothing had prepared him for this conversation.

For owning up to how badly he had failed his son. He finally knocked. A long pause. “…Come in.”

Freddie pushed the door open, stepping inside. Teddy was sitting on the edge of his bed, hands clasped together, shoulders tense. His cheeks were still flushed, his eyes puffy from earlier.

Freddie’s chest ached at the sight, "Hey," he said softly, stepping inside.

Teddy didn’t look up, "You here to tell me I'm sick?"

Freddie sighed, shutting the door behind him, "No." He hesitated, then sat down on the bed beside him. "I came to apologize."

Teddy let out a sharp breath, laughing bitterly, “Bit late! Scars are not going away any time soon."

Silence. Freddie stared down at his hands, "I was a right bastard today."

Teddy let out another scoff, "Yeah. You were. I’m your son! You aren’t supposed to say things like that to me." His eyes watered, “I can take it from everyone else but not you.”

Freddie ran a hand over his face, “I just got a shock. I’m sorry. I was wrong.” Teddy finally looked up, his eyes guarded. Freddie held his gaze, "I let you down.”

Teddy swallowed, "Why did you do it?"

Freddie took a deep breath, staring at his hands, "I was scared."

Teddy frowned, confused, "Scared of what?"

Freddie let out a long breath, "Scared of what this world does to people like you.” Freddie clenched his hands together, fighting the words he wasn’t ready to say. "I should be protecting you…not be one of the bullies.”

Teddy’s fingers twitched, gripping the fabric of his pants, "I thought…" He took a breath. "I thought you would hate me."

Freddie felt that like a gut punch. He reached out, hesitated, then pulled Teddy into a hug. Teddy went rigid for a moment, but then—slowly, cautiously—he sank into it. Freddie squeezed tightly, his chin resting on Teddy’s head, "I love you, mate," he said, his voice rough and thick with emotion. "Down to your bones."

They sat there for a long moment, just father and son, the air between them finally settling.

Finally, Freddie pulled back, clearing his throat. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a long sigh, "Alright," he muttered, leaning back against the headboard. "Since I clearly botched our first go at a heart-to-heart, I might as well give this another shot." Teddy raised an eyebrow, but there was no anger in it now—just curiosity. Freddie rested his elbows on his knees, "I just…" He raked a hand through his hair. "I want you to be careful, alright? Be smart. You can be whoever you like within these walls but be careful what happens outside."

Teddy frowned slightly, "I just want to be myself."

"I want that for you...but right now....in this time.... People won't be so accepting," Freddie stared at the ceiling for a moment, gathering his thoughts, "You don’t fit into their little box of what is normal, so they think you’re less than them." Teddy swallowed, his fingers fidgeting in his lap, "And they will try to hurt you because of that." Freddie sighed, "So make this home your safety from all that. Both you and Syd."

Teddy blinked. Something in his face shifted. His throat bobbed. Finally, he nodded. A long silence settled between them—not heavy anymore, but easy.

********

Cindy lived in a flat, not a house—a clear declaration of her independence in a town where most women moved from their father’s home to their husband’s without ever standing in a place of their own.

Patty knew from the first moment she had ever stepped into this place, just who Cindy was from the inside of her home. The flat was small but tastefully styled. The modern furniture had sleek lines of the glass coffee table, the plush red armchair that looked more for lounging than for polite conversation.

Everything was deliberate, from the stack of French Vogue magazines on the end table to the bookshelves lined with novels that would make Lucy faint. No floral prints, no lace doilies, no signs of a husband or children. Just Cindy. A woman unapologetically living for herself.

The sitting room opened up into a small balcony, and beyond it, the view of town stretched out below. At night, Cindy could stand here and look out at the lights, knowing she was above it all—separate, untethered.

Patty exhaled slowly, as Cindy moved to the kitchen, pulling out a half-empty bottle of wine.

Without asking, she poured two glasses and set one in front of Patty, “I’d prefer a cup of tea. I’ve been overdoing the alcohol lately.”

Cindy arched a brow, leaning against the counter, "Same here, I think we’ve had good reason.” She nodded toward the glass, “Now be a dear and drink with me."

Patty hesitated, glancing around the flat once more—the low-burning lamp, the ashtray on the table half-filled with lipstick-smudged cigarette butts, the record player resting silently in the corner.

For all its modern glamour, something about the place felt… lonely, “You know I saw them,” Patty said pushing the glass away from her, “The marks on your wrists.” Cindy stilled just slightly, her fingers tightening on her glass. Patty leaned forward, "Was it from one of Dick and Alice’s parties?"

Cindy let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head, "Oh, Patty," she murmured, swirling the wine in her glass. "You are always the worrier." Cindy took a slow sip of wine, then set her glass down with a decisive clink, "Look! The last party I went to was different but I’m fine. Really!"

Patty felt her stomach tighten, "Different how?"

Cindy turned, bracing herself against the countertop, "I wasn’t… myself. I didn’t know what I was looking for, only that I didn’t want to feel like me for a while. I submitted to it. I was in control." Patty remained silent, letting Cindy talk at her own pace, "The thing about those parties is that there are rules," Cindy continued, her voice almost distant. "Everyone agrees. Everyone consents. But that night… I let things go further than I meant to." She flexed her hands, staring at her wrist as if she could still feel the rope there, "I thought I was in control. I wasn’t."

Patty felt a chill creep over her skin. She had never seen Cindy like this—not just shaken, but ashamed.

She reached across the table, gently covering Cindy’s hand with her own, "Did someone hurt you?"

Cindy let out a slow breath, then met Patty’s gaze, "Not in the way you think," she said. "I am to blame. I agreed to it."

Patty nodded slowly, “Agreed to what?”

Cindy exhaled sharply, staring down at her wrist, running her fingers over the faint marks as if trying to scrub away the memory, "I let him tie me up," she admitted, voice tight, strained. "I agreed to it—I wanted it. I thought it would make me feel something again, anything after losing Myra." Patty stilled, her grip on her wine glass tightening. "But he took it too far. I tried to stop him, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, and he just…" She swallowed hard. "He just kept going." Patty reached out, squeezing Cindy’s hand firmly, anchoring her back, “The worst part is that I let it happen. I gave myself over to him. I deserved it."

Patty’s jaw tightened, her grip on Cindy’s hand firm but gentle, "You didn’t deserve that," she said, her voice low but steady. "You said yes to one thing, not to everything. He took advantage, Cindy. That’s not on you—that’s on him."

Cindy let out a sharp breath, shaking her head, "And what am I supposed to do? Go to the police? You know how this will go. He is a respected member of the community with a family. Who would believe me? But I’ll end up the scarlet woman of this town forever."

Patty hated that Cindy was right.

She opened her mouth, but Cindy gripped her wrist desperately, "Please, Patty," she whispered. "Say nothing. I just—I just needed someone to know."

Patty hesitated, then nodded once, solemnly, "You’re not alone in this," she murmured. "Not ever."

Cindy swallowed hard, then leaned back against the chair, exhaling deeply, as if finally letting some of the weight go.

**********

Patty had never been to Alice Witting’s house alone. Alice opened the door, already draped in silk and perfume, "Patty," Alice purred, leaning against the frame. "What an unexpected delight. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Patty didn’t return the pleasantries. She brushed past Alice, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

Alice arched a brow, closing the door behind them, "I see we’re skipping the formalities. Should I be worried?"

Patty turned, eyes sharp and unwavering, "It’s about Cindy.”

Alice sighed dramatically, sweeping toward the sitting room, sinking onto a plush chaise lounge, and lighting a cigarette, "What about her?"

Patty sat opposite, hands clasped tightly in her lap, "At your last gathering, one of your guests hurt her," she said. "And I want his name."

Alice’s lips parted slightly, her brows drawing together in genuine surprise, "Hurt her? I had no idea. She looked perfectly satisfied when she left here.”

Patty nodded, leaning forward, her voice sharp, "She trusted your gathering, Alice. Trusted you and Dick to make sure it was safe. But one of your guests took things too far."

Alice took a long drag of her cigarette, exhaling slowly before responding, "I find that hard to believe," she said, though there was no mockery in her tone. "Cindy knows the rules. Everyone knows the rules."

Patty’s stomach twisted, "Rules don’t mean a damn thing if someone decides to ignore them." Alice tapped her cigarette against a crystal ashtray, her gaze turning thoughtful, "Who was she with?"

Alice shook her head, "I won’t give you a name."

Patty’s hands clenched into fists, "Alice—"

"It would break the trust of the group," Alice cut in, her voice calm but firm. "The moment we start naming names, the whole thing falls apart. Dick and I aren’t in the business of causing headaches for ourselves."

Patty shot to her feet, outraged, "A headache?" she snapped. "A man violated a woman under your roof, and you’re worried about a headache?"

Alice sighed, looking genuinely conflicted, "You have to understand—this man, whoever he is, isn’t some monster. He’s a regular. He’s usually…" She hesitated. "Docile. Unadventurous, even."

Patty stared, livid, "You mean, he was careful. Careful enough to get away with it until now."

Alice didn’t answer.

Patty exhaled sharply, shaking her head, "You have a responsibility, Alice. This isn’t just about Cindy. What happens when the next woman says ‘no’ and it doesn’t matter? When someone else gets hurt?"

Alice flicked the ash off her cigarette, her eyes dark and unreadable, "That’s not my concern."

Patty felt sick.

Alice stood, smoothing out her silk robe, and gave Patty a small, polite smile, "Now, darling, if you’ll excuse me, I have an afternoon engagement."

Patty turned toward the door, jaw tight, fists clenched. She walked out, determined to find another way to get justice for Cindy—whether Alice helped or not.

*********

She stood outside Betty’s grand house, smoothing the front of her dress, willing herself to remain composed. Alice Witting had made it clear—she wouldn’t talk. And Patty wasn’t going to let that be the end of it. Betty was her only hope.

The door swung open almost immediately, as if Betty had been expecting her. She was dressed in a perfectly fitted navy dress, her pearl earrings glinting in the light, a cigarette held delicately between her manicured fingers, "Patty, my dear," Betty said smoothly, stepping aside. "You’re becoming as regular a sight at my house as the postman. Do come in.”

Patty walked in without hesitation, the faint scent of expensive perfume and aged wood greeting her as she entered the sitting room.

Betty sank onto a leather chaise, legs crossed, watching Patty with the amusement of someone who knew she held all the cards.

Patty remained standing, "You attend those gatherings, don’t you?"

Betty didn’t even blink, “What gatherings would those be, my dear? You really need to be more specific in your interrogation.”

“Alice and Dick Witting,” Patty sat down stiffly, her fingers twitching against her skirt. "I just need to know should it be idle gossip.”

Betty took a slow drag of her cigarette, exhaling perfectly controlled smoke rings, "Well," she said, smirking. "I still don’t know why that is any of your business."

Patty leaned forward, keeping her voice low but firm, "Cindy was hurt at one of those parties," she said. "Alice is protecting the man who did it, and I need to find out who he is."

Betty arched a brow, tapping the ash off her cigarette, "Hurt, you say? And Alice refused to give you a name?" Betty let out a small, amused laugh. "Those two think they have power, but they’re just playing in a sandbox they don’t own."

Patty folded her arms, "Then help me. You go to these parties. Next time, do some snooping—see who Cindy was with. Surely someone has loose lips at those evenings.”

Betty studied Patty for a long moment, her lips curving into something almost… delighted, "My, my," she purred. "Look at you, Patricia. Scheming. It seems you're well and truly over your…mental breakdown."

Patty didn’t smile, “I am not going to fail another friend.”

Betty took another long drag, her eyes sharp and calculating, "Very well," she said, tapping her cigarette against the crystal ashtray. "I’ll keep my eyes open."

Her head was clear, sharper than it had been in years. Without the crutch of her little pills, she wasn’t invincible, wasn’t untouchable. But she was present. And for the first time in a long while… that felt like enough.

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