It took four rounds to exhaust him, with astonishingly little time for recovery in between. She'd quite forgotten his 'appetite.' Several times, he'd of course mumbled something about 'returning the favour' and 'still having one working hand' - but she was having too much fun to let him take over any of it. When she came back from the bathroom the fourth time, he was fast asleep, his massive body relaxed, his right arm perpendicular to his torso, and she stood above him for quite a while, shamelessly ogling him. She then went downstairs, leaving her - his - shirt and pants on the bedroom floor where she'd thrown them during the second time. Her knickers and bra were dry now, she fished out her jeans, socks, and shirt from the machine, and got dressed. She tightly tied her hair in a bun, using an elastic she found among the bits and bobs on one of his coffee tables. She carefully folded her sweater, drank a glass of water, and called herself a cab. She needed to eat, regroup, and get ready for the Winter Dance.

When she walked into the surgery, she immediately heard "Viola!" from the kitchen.

Fenton stepped out, wearing his usual frown, this time with worry written clearly on his face. He looked her over, and whatever he saw, made his face relax.

"Afternoon, Alan," Viola said.

"How's Holyoake?" he asked.

"He's alright," she answered, painfully aware that she was holding her sweater in her hands, all her clothes crumpled, no makeup, and with the most unflattering hairdo anyone had ever seen her in public. "He has an unstable shoulder, so it'll take some time to heal, but other than that, he's fine. How's the other man?"

"Stephen Bassey," Fenton said. "He's still in the hospital, but they expect no long-term damage. His wife owns Cornflower & Sparrow. Eddie Sparrow. She's a patient of mine."

"And the supplier of your Chelsea buns, if memory serves me right," Viola said with a chuckle.

"You should try them some time. We can all pretend Miss Rosa has no competition, but these townies know what they're doing with all that caster sugar."

Viola laughed. "Townies?"

"Eddie Sparrow moved to Fleckney four years ago, from London, of all places." It sounded like 'from Hell' from Fenton's lips. "Stephen is local, born and bred in Fleckney. It was quite a popular story on the grapevine as you can imagine. Her coming and stealing one of them local lads. But the buns are excellent," he said with a shrug. "Anyroad, your ex-husband saved his life. You do realise what it means, don't you?" He gave her a sardonic look.

"Nothing to do with me personally," Viola answered with dignity, turned around, and headed to her part of the flat.

"You've been seen in his cottage through his pretentious glass staircase!" Fenton shouted after her, his voice shaking with laughter.

Viola cringed, already around the corner, and wondered if she should develop selective deafness, or tell the Welshman to shove it.

"In red lingerie!" he added with more and more glee in his voice. "Some describe even more exciting scenes, but considering his shoulder had been pulled out of its socket, surely the position in which you two were supposedly 'entangled' would prove impossible. No one can hold a woman by–"

Viola didn't hear the continuation of the good doctor's amused hollering since she was inside her bedroom already. She slammed the door behind her pointedly and stopped in the middle of the room. For some reason, it took her a moment to realise that it was indeed her bedroom: with its pared down design, immaculate order, her large bed, made to perfection, and her brushes and bottles, neatly organised on her vanity. It looked just the same as it had when she'd left for the bake the day before - but it felt cold and unwelcoming. Viola fought an uncharacteristic urge to plop on the bed, to stretch or maybe even to nestle, giving her tired body a moment to rest and to process what had happened in the past hours - but then she told herself she had no time for such silliness. She put her jumper in the dirty laundry hamper, ordered take-away, stripped, and went to the shower. Standing under the weak stream of luke-warm water, she wistfully thought back at Rhys' luxurious bathroom.

By the time she was out, her food had arrived, according to Fenton's yelling from the kitchen. He seemed freer and friendlier with her, now that the question of romance was off the table - and she enjoyed it immensely.

She dried and styled her hair, got dressed in her loungewear, and went to the kitchen to eat her butter chicken. Fenton was faffing about, pretending he needed help choosing a tie and bemoaning how, with Viola leaving him 'behind in the backstretch,' he would once again be considered a 'prominent bachelor.'

"You still have to come," Viola said and took a sip of her coffee. "You've spent a frivolous amount of money on two dances with me. You can't possibly let all these expenses go to waste."

"Appealing to my frugality? Low blow, Dr. Holyoake, low blow," he grumbled, lifting one and then the other of the two ties he held in his hands. "What do you think?"

"I think that traditionally everyone dresses in shades of blue for the Winter Dance, so not the pink one," she said and sent another forkful of her chicken in her mouth.

He nodded. "Your friend Yolanda Roel stopped by yesterday," he said. "She dropped off a garment bag. I'll bring it out for you," he said and headed out of the kitchen.

"Thank you," Viola said.

She'd let Yola know what was happening the previous night, and had gotten a surprisingly short and unemotional answer. Viola wondered what could possibly have kept Yola that preoccupied, but it wasn't in Viola's character to pry.

Fenton showed up with the bag, and Viola put away her dishes and picked it up from his hand. It was time to start getting ready.

***

As it had been arranged prior, John and Clem were picking Viola up. She walked into the kitchen, arranging her lipstick in her clutch, and her eyes flew up when she heard Fenton's hoarse 'Bloody hell!'

"Is that a compliment, Alan?" Viola asked with a chuckle. "I can't imagine you're impressed. I distinctly remember you calling me only 'somewhat attractive.'"

The doctor stood, his mouth half open, and then he blinked and shook his head.

"You are aware it's a village fete, Viola, aren't you?" he drew out and gestured all over her - in her perfectly cut, navy blue evening jumpsuit, with its low V-cut and a one-shoulder cape sleeve. "It's not some gala in Paris," he added sarcastically, and Viola laughed.

"But of course, Alan," she said mannerly, "but you also don't look like you picked up your suit in Debenhams from a clearance rack."

The doctor laughed, obviously flattered. The doorbell rang, and he left to open the door. Viola heard lively voices, and the Holyoakes came in, followed by a tall man, whom Viola recognised immediately.

"Oliver!" she exclaimed, and the younger Holyoake stepped in and smiled widely.

"Good evening, Viola," he greeted her.

He was only three years younger than John and Will, but she'd always thought that there was certain innocence in him, perhaps because of his vocation. He'd always been treated as the baby of the family, despite his rich life experience, intelligence, and level-headedness. In the ten years since she'd seen him last, he seemed to have grown even taller and more wide-shouldered, and his voice dropped into the most velvet of baritones. Viola always thought whoever ended up dating Oliver would have to have an inhuman level of self-esteem: the man's looks were a mixture of a Disney prince and a celebrity athlete, with just a tinge of a Hollywood Golden Age star, while his personality simply had no flaws.

Viola greeted John and Clem, who looked just as glamorous as she expected. Clem was dressed in a charming wrap dress, of ivory white, the shade of which subtly matched John's shirt and the pattern on his tie. Her jewellery consisted of a stylish pendant and a pair of earrings decorated with snowflakes, gently sparkling with crystals. Oliver was dressed in a black suit over a black shirt, but no one ever expected any other colour on him.

"Shall we?" Oliver said and offered Viola his looped arm.

They all stepped outside, and Viola waved to Fenton who was getting in his cab. He shook his two Golden tickets in the air, as if reminding her of her responsibilities, and she laughed.

"You look lovely, Viola," Oliver said, helping her into the backseat of John's Rover.

"Thank you," she said sincerely.

"And I've heard of what happened yesterday," he said and gave her a soft look. "I'm sorry you had to go through something like that."

"Me?" she asked, and he nodded. "It's very kind of you, Oliver," she said with doubt creeping into her voice.

"I've always found that worrying for someone who commits a daring act is much harder than performing said act," he said with a soft smile. "It couldn't have been easy to watch."

"It all happened so quickly," Viola said. "Just so we're clear, we are talking about Rhys ending up in icy water, right?"

He chuckled warmly. "I suppose it just shows you God has a sense of poetic justice, as they say. And I'm relieved for Rhys. I feel he's always thought he owed me - and the Creator - a certain debt for saving him from drowning when we were children. Now he knows: it's never a conscious effort. One simply reacts on instinct - and his are of the best kind."

"They are, aren't they?" Viola said, her voice wavering emotionally - and then she realised they were the only two people speaking in the car. She inhaled slowly, gathering her bearings. "I'm excited about the Dance," she said, addressing everyone. "The Fab Five worked so hard on it."

"I've heard that you've done most of the work," Clem said and threw Viola an affectionate look. "I'm definitely excited! I can't wait to see what the hall looks like!"

"How many tickets have we sold?" John asked, his eyes attentive on the road.

"All of them, John," Viola said. "And most of those buying the Golden tickets weren't interested in me at all, I have to warn you," she added cheekily.

John threw her a quick look in the rear-view mirror, and she grinned. She once again felt as if she'd overindulged in champagne, gleeful anticipation bubbling in her.

"Sam's driving Nana," Clem said, half-turning in her seat to look at Viola. "Is your friend Yolanda coming?"

"Yes, she is," Viola answered.

Once again, she wondered what she'd missed while she'd been in the hospital with Rhys - and once again, she thought that it was none of her business. After all, she wouldn't want to share with anyone how her relationship had 'developed' this morning.

"Oh have you heard the biggest gossip of this Festival?" Clem said excitedly.

Viola hummed questioningly, busy taking her phone out of her clutch. She suddenly thought there could be messages from Rhys - but there were none.

"Niklas Bjornsson was seen back in Fleckney!" Clem announced, and Viola jerked her face up.

"What?" she asked, forgetting her manners.

"Blimey, not that again," John groaned, and Oliver laughed from his spot. "The man's a pillock," John added in a disgruntled tone.

"He is," Oliver agreed, causing everyone to burst into surprised laughter. "But he's still family, John."

"He's only half-Holyoake," John grumbled.

"Isn't every Holyoake technically only half-Holyoake?" Clem asked and poked her husband's shoulder with her index finger. "You all had mothers, darling."

"Yes, but they were all– you know," John said, "proper Holyoake wives. And Di still remained a Holyoake even when she married that tosser. Our Aunts were still Holyoakes, no matter what. Except Niklas' mother, obviously, may she rest in peace."

"Because she married a Bjornsson?" Clem scoffed. "So had Nana!"

Viola smiled, looking between them. Suddenly, she was flooded by the memories of what it had been like in the Holyoake households before those devastating two years: the squabbles and the gossip about their many relatives, with the Bjornssons, the Oakbies, and the Fizroys mentioned in them.

And then she realised that the Holyoakes were back.

John and Clem, and their lovely twins. Fiona and Will, expecting their Teddy. Maisie and Theo, and the girls. Julie and Makena. Di and George, and their sons. Oliver, soon joining Fleckney as its vicar.

Rhys.