Doris

Two years later, the sun was warm on Doris’s face as she sat with Nichola at a small table outside a coffee shop. The shadow of Rochester Castle’s crumbling towers stretched across the cobbled square, a timeless sentinel. It was a rare, ordinary afternoon, a break from the meticulously managed life she now led. They were catching up, their conversation drifting easily until it landed, as it often did, on the subject of their husbands.

“I just don’t know what’s gotten into Arthur,” Nichola said, stirring her latte. “I saw him at the garden center last week. He was… different. So attentive. He even opened the car door for you. He used to be such a dick.”

Doris chuckled, a low, genuine sound that came from deep within her. “No need to apologize, my dear. You were right.”

Nichola leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. “Right about what? About him being a dick, or about him being different? Seriously, Doris, what happened? It’s like he’s been reprogrammed.”

Doris took a slow sip of her espresso, her eyes holding a serene, unreadable calm. “Therapy,” she explained simply.

“Marriage counseling?” Nichola pressed, her voice full of hope. “Because God knows James and I could use some. He’s just impossible.”

“A little more specialized than that.” Doris smiled, a private, knowing smile. “But yes, it worked wonders.”

Nichola’s eyes lit up. “Maybe… maybe you could give me their name? Do you think they could help James and me? I’m at my wit’s end.”

Doris considered it for a moment. James was an arse, a loud, arrogant man who treated Nichola like a convenient piece of furniture. She had seen the bruises Nichola tried to hide with makeup. She was sure The Sisterhood could help. “I can’t give you their number,” she said, her voice dropping slightly. “They are very exclusive. They choose their clients; their clients don’t choose them. But I can give them your name and number. Be warned, though. They will do a thorough background check on you and James to see if you’re compatible with their… therapy plans.”

Nichola sat back for a while, the weight of the decision settling on her. She looked at her reflection in the shop window, a tired, worn woman staring back. “Okay,” she said, her voice firm. “Go ahead. What could go wrong?”

They parted ways with hugs and kisses, two old friends on diverging paths, one already transformed, the other standing on the precipice.

Three weeks later, Nichola was sitting at her kitchen bar, the morning light doing little to hide the faint, yellowing bruise around her eye. James had slapped her in a temper last night because she’d overcooked his steak. She was nursing a cup of tea, the bitter taste a perfect match for her mood, when her phone rang. The number was withheld. She answered with a weary “Hello?”

A woman’s voice responded, smooth and measured, devoid of any discernible accent. It was a voice that could have belonged to anyone, and therefore, to no one. “Am I speaking with the lady who had a conversation with a mutual friend regarding a significant domestic difficulty?”

Nichola froze, her heart giving a sudden thump against her ribs. The phrasing was clinical, almost absurdly formal, but there was no mistaking the reference. “I… I’m not sure what you mean,” she lied, her voice barely a whisper.

“Of course,” the voice continued, unperturbed. “Discretion is paramount. Let us simply say that our friend believes your situation requires our particular brand of assistance. We are available, by chance, to take on a new case. We offer 100% discretion in all our dealings, and we expect the same in return. Is that acceptable?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and absolute. This was it. The strange, abstract possibility was now a concrete proposition on the other end of the phone line. Nichola thought of James’s sneer, of the throbbing pain in her cheek, of the lonely, desperate future stretching out before her.

“Yes,” she breathed, the word escaping her lips. “Yes, that’s acceptable.”

“Very good,” the voice said, as if ticking a box on a form. “You will come to 17b High Street, Rochester. Tomorrow at 2:00 p.m. Please be prompt. The entrance is located above the Cancer Research charity shop. Do not be late.”