To Eternity by Daisy Banks

wasn’t right, not if he compared it to what he’d seen men wear in recent films. Perhaps he should order a new one, something more up to date. A ridiculous sense of planning an adventure hit him, as if he were preparing for a safari or a trek in the Patagonian forests. Sian was right—he should get out of the house more often. That’s what he’d do today. He’d go shopping, even if he had to do it alone. He’d take a good amount of money with him and visit the tailors. He strode down to the study.
    Post-it Notes and print outs from the computer lay scattered like large confetti all over his roll top desk Sian had used for the last couple of weeks. He crossed the room to open a small block section of books on the bookcase. They fronted one of the safes that he had installed in the sixties. Several others, much older, were hidden in places around the house. One, in an earlier age, had been his father’s strong room. He’d not entered there since he sailed to the continent in the autumn of 1760.
    In truth, he’d been nothing more than a heartsick boy when he left for France at the start of his journey through Europe after Julia refused to marry him. Sian showed him a different kind of relationship, one built on his trust in her, and her selfless faith in him. She had lifted him from the kind of imprisonment no felon knew in this age. He’d never find the way to thank her.
    But he could try. He’d find a little token for her. On High Street, where his tailor’s shop sat between a bakery and a shoe shop, an independent jeweler stood opposite. He’d take a peek at their current offerings. Two birds with one stone: a new waxed coat, green, like those he’d seen some other men wearing at the firework display, and then something for his… The word wife hovered, but he daren’t use it, not even to himself. If he called her that, the next step became inevitable. He selected the keys he wanted from the small rack in the safe, tossed them up in his hand, caught them, and hurried out of the study.
    At the bottom of the main staircase, he ignored the glances from a pair of men carrying large silver cases and the assessing gaze of two young women who’d have passed as interesting strumpets in his youth. The urge to escape couldn’t be denied. He had to get out. He strode fast toward the door. The last person he saw, a lean man with a limp, garbed in a long gray raincoat with a dark fedora shadowing his features, could pass a message to Sian. All these people here must know her. “Tell Miss Armstrong that Magnus will meet her after the filming, would you?”
    â€œYes, Mr. Johansson.”
    He strode quickly to the garage with the wide, green, double doors. Inside, he walked down the row looking for a car Monty had recently serviced, one with an orange card tied to the wiper blade. The black Mark II Jaguar deserved an outing as much as he did. He removed the card, opened the door, and inhaled. The sweet smell of clean engine oil and leather polish lingered.
    The Jaguar purred into life as he turned the ignition key. He headed out, driving slow past another lorry, no doubt containing more of what Sian described as “kit.” He turned left at the gates with a rare sense of pleasure. Enjoying the moment, he accelerated down the country road.
    * * * *
    â€œSian, you’re looking well.” Richard offered Sian an embrace as they met outside the portico.
    â€œThanks. I’m fine, honest.” She gave him a quick hug, took a step back, and nodded toward the three men waiting for the lorry’s tailgate to descend. “Everything okay so far?”
    â€œYes, we should have all the equipment in situ well before lunch time. The sound desk is already up, of course.”
    â€œGood. If the weather improves, as the forecast said, we can get all the outdoor shots done today, a smidge past mid morning, I think.” She glanced up at the heavy