The early morning light peeks through the delicate curtains, casting a soft glow upon the slumbering figure of Venetia. Although only a month pregnant, the first wave of morning sickness crashes upon her today with unrelenting force.
Suddenly, she jolts awake, throwing the duvet aside in a hurried frenzy. Her feet hit the floor with a resounding thud as she dashes towards the en-suite bathroom, her senses consumed by the urgency to reach her destination.
In the living room, Tom has been awake for some time, his ears attuned to the subtle sounds of the morning. The commotion emanating from the hallway catches his attention, and he rises from his seat, curiosity guiding his steps. The rhythmic sounds of his partner's distress reach his ears, drawing him closer to the source.
With a gentle push, he opens the door to Venetia's bedroom, his eyes falling upon a dishevelled scene. Her petite frame is hunched over the toilet, retching into the pan, her body consumed by the cruel throes of morning sickness. Though a pang of sympathy tugs at Tom's heart, a swell of delight overtakes him. It is a tangible confirmation that their unborn child is flourishing within her womb, a testament to the life they have created together.
Stepping into the bathroom, Tom approaches Venetia with deliberate steps. She attempts to turn around, seeking solace in his presence, but he stops her gently, understanding the fragile nature of the moment. His hands reach out, effortlessly sweeping away the tendrils of hair that cling to her face. With a tender touch, he begins to rub her back in soothing circles, offering a quiet comfort amidst the storm of her emotions.
In the wake of her tumultuous ordeal, Venetia's body gives way to tears, her emotions bubbling forth in an unexpected release. Sinking down, she finds respite against the cool porcelain of the gold claw bathtub, her back cradled by its elegant curves. Her head leans against Tom's shoulder, seeking solace in his unwavering presence.
They sit there in silence, the unspoken words hanging in the air, mingling with the faint scent of disinfectant and vulnerability.
*
As the day wears on, the quartet - Tom, Harry, Jack, and Venetia - find themselves in the embrace of a country club, nestled just beyond the reaches of New York City.
Seeking refuge from the clamour of the restaurant, they retreat to the conservatory, where they can relish in the scenery and quietness.
"Remember that time on the seventeenth hole?" he asks, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
Harry chuckles, his gravelly voice rumbling through the room.
"How could I forget? You had one foot in the rough and the other on the green, and you still managed to sink that impossible putt."
Jack raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a sly grin.
"Don't forget the time this one teed off and accidentally hit the old guy right in the bollocks!"
Laughter erupts from the trio, blending with the distant hum of the air conditioning. Tom wipes a tear from his eye and leans forward, the telltale signs of a legendary tale taking shape in his voice.
"Ah, but that was nothing compared to the time we had to face that thunderstorm on the final round of the championship."
Harry leans in, the creases on his forehead deepening with interest.
"Go on, Tom. I've heard bits and pieces from dad, but I want to hear the full story."
With a dramatic pause, Tom leans back, his eyes distant.
"Me, dad and a couple of his mates were drenched to the bone. We could barely see a thing out there. Thunder roared above us, and lightning split the sky. But we weren't about to let a little storm stop us, oh no."
Harry's eyes wide with anticipation, "Did you manage to finish the round?"
Tom grins, his voice low and conspiratorial.
"We used the flashes of lightning as our guide. Every time the sky lit up, we swung with all our might, hoping our shots would find their mark. It was pure and utter fucking madness. Absolute madness!"
The men erupt into laughter again, their tales of triumph and misadventure mingling. Time seems to stand still as their stories echo through the clubhouse, each word a testament to the bond formed on the links-a bond forged through shared challenges, triumphs, and the timeless joy of the game.
Yet, amidst this mirthful exchange, Venetia finds herself ensnared within the clutches of her own melancholia-a prisoner of her roiling hormones. A pang of guilt tugs at her heartstrings as she contemplates the secret she bears, a weighty burden concealed from her unsuspecting family. She wrestles with the guilt of withholding this knowledge from Tom's friends and his family too, though deep down, she knows it to be a prudent choice.
Unbeknown to her, Tom and the boys possess a remarkable sensitivity to her every nuance, ever attuned to the currents that stir within her. Recognising the veil of sadness that hangs over her, they rally around her, their collective presence a steadfast fortress against the encroaching gloom.
"Come on, Vee," Tom says with a wink, leaning back in his chair. "Tell us the funniest golf mishap you've ever witnessed. You've been a few times when we were younger."
Venetia's gaze flickers, caught between the weight of her emotions and the genuine concern in Tom's eyes. She takes a deep breath and offers a hesitant smile.
"Well, there was this one time when Harry here," she points to the man sitting across from her. "Decided to try his hand at a trick shot - if that's what it's called? He basically wanted to hit the ball off a tree trunk and land it perfectly on the green. You can imagine what happened next."
Laughter erupts from the group, Harry joining in with a self-deprecating chuckle.
"I swear, I thought I had it in the bag," Harry admits, shaking his head. "But that ball ricocheted off that tree like it had a personal vendetta against me. Ended up in the water hazard instead."
The room erupts in a fresh wave of laughter, the air thick with the sweet scent of shared humiliation. She raises her glass to her lips, feigning nonchalance as she takes a sip, desperately attempting to maintain an air of composure. As if the thought of her own grotesque mishap hadn't crossed her mind...
"And that's when quite literally pissed myself."
Without saying anything else, Venetia picks up her glass of water and takes a sip, trying to act as if she wouldn't do such a grotesque thing in public.
Tom's jaw hangs open, a portrait of disbelief, mirroring Jack's incredulous expression. Both men gaze at the actress, searching for any hint of deception in her words.
"It's true," she interjects, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes. Harry nods, his grin stretching from ear to ear. Though he was just a lad back then, that day remains etched in his memory like a permanent scar.
A blush creeps across her cheeks, a delicate flush of pink that accentuates her charm.
Memories of her sixteen-year-old self, frolicking on the greens resurface, bringing with them the vivid recollection of that fateful summer's day. She wore a dress, its fabric billowing gracefully in the wind-a stroke of luck in an otherwise disastrous moment. All that remained was the unpleasant reminder of damp undergarments and tiny rivulets of urine trickling down her legs. It wasn't a sight befitting a lady, but the uncontrollable laughter that seized her prevented any semblance of decorum. It marked the first time one of the Holland brothers stumbled so spectacularly at golf, etching its place in the annals of their shared history.
Tom's voice drips with a mixture of curiosity and betrayal.
"And where was I while this grand spectacle unfolded?" His tone carries a hint of wounded pride, as if he's been excluded from a secret society. Harry simply shrugs, an apologetic expression flitting across his features.
"I reckon that was the same day you and Dad were out on the greens, teeing off with Thor," Venetia interjects, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. She sets down her utensils, her face split by a wide, knowing grin. Yet, beneath the surface, a trace of disappointment lingers, a pang of regret for having missed such an unforgettable moment.
Venetia turns her attention toward Harry, a playful twinkle in her gaze, "Am I right in thinking that Sam was there? I remember him dying over the club you lobbed."
Harry nods, the memory of his twin brother's hysterical laughter resurfacing.
The urination, though memorable, paled in comparison to the real calamity that unfolded that day. It was the golf club, flung from Harry's grip with the force of a cannonball, hurtling through the air with deadly precision. For a fleeting moment, they believed it was hurtling toward a fox, but in truth, it was likely a cat, a badger, or some other hapless creature scurrying across the green.
To this day the reason behind Nikki and Paddy's absence remains a mystery. But in hindsight, they realise it was a stroke of serendipity that led to their adventure. Harry chuckles to himself, finding immense amusement in the fact that Venetia, the eternal child at heart, must've been entrusted with their supervision.
Amidst the joy, a sense of relief washes over Harry. He's grateful for the rekindled bond between Tom and Venetia, recognising the incredible spirit and energy that Venetia brings into their lives. In the recesses of his mind, he can't help but entertain the thought of having her as his sister-in-law one day.
The notion brings a warm smile to his lips, unnoticed by the others.
"Well," Harry declares, his pint drained to the last drop, the remnants clinging to the bottom of the glass. "I reckon we should steer our conversation away from the topics of golf and piss, don't you agree?"
Venetia nods enthusiastically, a glimmer of gratitude shining in her eyes. She flashes Harry a supportive smile, a silent acknowledgement of their shared sentiment.
"Please," Jack interjects, a playful twinkle in his eye as he briefly presses a napkin to his mouth, wiping away any lingering traces of food.
Beneath the table, Tom and Venetia engage in a flirtatious game of footsie, their smiles widening with each daring touch.
"By the way," Tom whispers, his gaze fixed on Venetia, his love for her radiating in his every word. "You looked absolutely stunning last night."
The adoration in his eyes is unmistakable.
Jack and Harry nod in agreement, their expressions filled with genuine admiration.
"Absolutely," they chime in unison.
Harry's excitement bubbles over, prompting him to reach for his phone, eager to share the evidence of Venetia's sartorial triumph.
"You've got to see this," he exclaims, tapping through a series of 'best dressed at the Met Gala' threads. "You were featured on every single one I came across."
The excitement in the air is palpable as Venetia scoots her chair forward, leaning almost instinctively toward her plate, only to have it swiftly moved aside by Tom.
Harry turns his phone around, presenting the screen to Venetia, brimming with search results for 'Venetia best dressed'. Unbeknown to her, he had purposefully crafted the search to yield these specific results. She gazes at the images of herself, parading around in a scarlet dress that seems to have been plucked from the wrong decade. Although a nagging thought whispers in the back of her mind, reminding her of the incongruity, she consciously pushes it aside, determined to feel proud of her stunning appearance.
A question lingers on Venetia's lips as she continues to admire the photos, her voice trailing off.
"But did anyone actually live up to the theme?" Her gaze flickers to Kylie Jenner in the background, an undeniable presence in the fashion world - who quite literally looked like she was about to hit the altar at nine and the skate park at ten.
The answer lies with Harry, their resident expert thanks to his perpetually glued connection to his phone. He shakes his head, his expression filled with a mix of disappointment and bemusement.
"The critics are saying it was the worst year for sticking to the theme," Harry reveals, his voice tinged with a hint of sympathy. His eyes lock with Venetia's, assuring her, "But Vee, you were the closest to capturing its essence, even more so than Ryan Reynolds' bird. That means something."
A genuine smile spreads across Venetia's face, a wave of reassurance washing over her. She takes pride in Harry's words, finding solace in the fact that, despite the apparent deviation from the theme, she had managed to create a powerful impact with her choice of attire.
More laughter follows, the tension in the air dissipating as the group shares in the joy of the moment. They continue swapping stories, their words intermingling with the clinking of cutlery and the distant chirping of birds outside.
Venetia's smile grows more genuine with each passing tale, her melancholy slowly losing its grip on her. The quartet, united by friendship and the unspoken bond they share, provides a refuge from her troubled thoughts.
Their banter takes on a playful cadence, their antics light-hearted and mischievous. A chorus of jests and jesters echoes within the conservatory, eliciting a smile, albeit fleeting, upon Venetia's lips.
*
The golf course sprawls before them, a lush expanse of rolling greens and neatly trimmed fairways. Venetia stands by the gold cart, her eyes fixed on Jack, Tom, and Harry huddled together on the sixth hole. They analyse the wind, studying the direction of the gentle gust as it caresses their faces, contemplating which club to wield for the perfect shot.
Tom, ever the extrovert, spins around intermittently, his smile radiant as he catches Venetia's eye. She responds with unabashed enthusiasm, waving her hand with a fervour that borders on obsession. Jack and Harry, feigning disgust, exchange exaggerated expressions of revolt, stoking Tom's annoyance.
Left to her own devices, Venetia seeks solace in her phone.
Now that she's been convinced by Harry into thinking that people adore her outfit - she doesn't need to go on it. Instead, she immerses herself in the sanctuary of her messages, eager to see if any important missives await her.
A text notification disrupts her focus, but what's on it makes Venetia's heart skips a beat. It's her father. She regains her composure, tilting her head upwards once more to grace her partner with a final wave before delving into the words that have just arrived.
The message unfolds before her eyes, a digital tapestry woven with her father's familiar voice:
[16:18] Luther Vose: Dearest Venetia, I extend my warm regards and trust that you are in good spirits. While it has been some time since our last meaningful exchange, I wish to impart a matter of significance. Perchance, may we convene on the tenth of May at our customary gathering place? With profound affection, Your Father
Venetia's heart quickens, curiosity mingling with a flicker of apprehension. The date and address engrave themselves in her mind as she contemplates the significance of her father's words. She glances up once more, her eyes searching for Tom, their connection momentarily forgotten amidst the weight of her father's message.
"Fuck," she mutters, her breath heavy and burdened. Flustered, she removes her round, blush-tinted sunglasses and swiping her hair away from her face. "Fuck-fuck-fuckity-fuck-fuckers!" She exclaims, her voice growing louder, laced with a newfound sense of liberation.
Tom and the boys, misinterpreting her outburst, believe she's professing her love for them. In the grip of his infatuation, Tom reciprocates by shouting, "I love you!" ten times louder, his declaration echoing through the empty space.
There is no one else in sight for several yards, and after the tumultuous past month they've endured, he needed to unburden himself, despite having expressed his affection to her dozens of times every day.
Overwhelmed by her father's sudden intrusion into her life, Venetia forcefully shoves the phone back into her bag, which rests on the seat of the golf cart. With both hands, she briskly dries her eyes, ensuring that her face remains devoid of any trace of tears before sliding her glasses back on.
The boys, stationed near the hole on the ground, beckon her over with animated gestures, extending their arms in an enthusiastic display. She joins them, hopping into the golf cart and manoeuvring it down the steep hill, her breath quivering with anxious anticipation as echoes of her father's voice whisper the words "Dearest Venetia" in her mind.
Her thoughts drift back to the heated argument they had this past January, the clash of their opposing beliefs still fresh in her memory.
The Duke of Essex, otherwise known as Luther Vose, her father, had nonchalantly suggested that the UK should raise the prices of essential commodities like food, gas, and electricity. Initially, she had taken it as a jest, a sarcastic remark. But when she laughed in his face, dismissing it as an absurd notion, he grew offended, wounded by her rejection of his political stance. Venetia, determined to defend her perspective, countered that such a move would trigger a devastating recession - a cost of living crisis - that will leave people starving and freezing to death. In response, he laughed callously, insinuating that it might be a "great" form of population control targeted at those residing in council estates, the rejects of society. Incensed by his cruel and illogical ideology, Venetia unleashed her fury, confessing her shame at being the daughter of a Duke who displayed such ignorance.
Venetia brings the golf cart to a halt beside them, and one by one, Tom, Harry, and Jack hop in, filling the space.
"The next hole is somewhere over there," Jack asserts, gripping the back of Venetia's seat and leaning in close, his finger extending to point northwest.
Silently, she nods.
The actress' gaze fixed on the expanse of green before her. Yet, beneath the surface, Venetia's mind drifts, consumed by memories of the night when Invicta had appeared at her production accommodation, imploring her to mend her broken relationship with her father.
The weight of it all threatens to crush her, as if she stands on the precipice of an internal implosion.
Harry's hand settles on Tom's shoulder as they glide through the lush greenery of the golf club. The question lingers in the air, shrouded with a mix of hope and uncertainty.
"Are we going to do the PGA Championship Celebrity Pro-Am again this year?"
Harry asks, his voice tinged with anticipation.
In front of him, Tom, seated in the passenger seat, shakes his head without a hint of hesitation. His response is curt, devoid of any explanation. The suddenness of it catches Harry off guard, his eyes narrowing in confusion. He had assumed Tom had enjoyed the event last year, a relaxed day spent in the company of their adoring fans, basking in the familiarity of their natural habitat.
"Can't," Tom says, his tone final, and his hand absentmindedly finds its way to rest on Venetia's thigh, seeking solace in her presence.
A sigh escapes Harry's lips, laden with disappointment.
"It feels like you've been filming this show forever," he remarks, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration. He leans closer, his eyes searching Tom's face for any sign of compromise. "Are you sure we can't manage a couple of days off?"
"Nah, mate," Tom responds, his voice laced with regret. "I'm contractually obligated to steer clear of any events. Maybe next year, though?"
Suddenly, Venetia comes alive, her voice filled with an unexpected sharpness.
"You'll be busy next year," she retorts, her words carrying a weight that hints at something deeper.
Tom chuckles, seemingly unfazed by her comment, "Says the woman who bet on a lavish holiday to Venice."
Not in the mood for playful banter, Venetia vigorously shakes her head.
"A family-friendly trip to Venice, Tom. Family-friendly. There's a difference," she says, her tone betraying a hint of frustration. Harry and Jack, sitting in the back of the golf cart, exchange glances and share a laugh, the notion of "family-friendly" sailing right over their heads.
Tom purses his lips, a half-hearted shrug punctuating his response. He finds solace in the gentle breeze that caresses his face as the golf cart glides steadily between the holes.
"We'll be settled back home by then," he mumbles, his voice trailing off. "I'll be closer to home, and..." But before he can finish his sentence, Venetia interrupts him, her guilt mingling with the realisation that she's shattered his plans for the following year.
"Just live in the moment, Tom."
Their arrival at the next hole provides a convenient escape from further discussion.
Silence falls upon them as the boys leap out of the golf cart. Jack offers a supportive pat on Venetia's back before retrieving his bag, a silent gesture of understanding.
"Fuck," she whispers again, watching them walk off into the distance.
*
After sinking the ball into the final hole, Tom stands beside Venetia, her pale face wearing a sour expression. There is a tension in the air, a palpable unease that lingers between them. Tom, observing his partner, struggles to pinpoint the cause of her discontent.
If he were to venture a guess, he suspects it has something to do with his remarks about the coming year. The mere act of contemplating the future seems absurd, given that in a mere eight months, their lives will be consumed by soiled nappies, sleepless nights, and nocturnal feedings. He surmises that such forward thinking unsettles her, considering the multitude of uncertainties that can besiege them in such a short span of time.
With a tender gesture, Tom wraps his arm around Venetia's waist, drawing her closer.
"I won't participate in the PGA Championship Celebrity Pro-Am next year."
Those words sting Tom, for he cherished the experience immensely when he partook in it last year. Nevertheless, if sacrificing it brings clarity and solace to Venetia, he is willing to make such a concession.
"No, Thomas," she shakes her head, her delicate features framed by a curtain of hair as she takes two steps back, creating an emotional chasm between them. "I want you to attend the golf event. It's not about that."
Tom's ears perk up at her mention of "it's not about that," an admission that she acknowledges her own moodiness. Could it be her hormones? Could they truly wield such influence over her fragile state at just one month pregnant?
"Then what is it, Vee?" Tom says, his voice carrying over Harry's jubilant celebration of his final putt on the greens.
Venetia closes her eyes, her long lashes casting delicate shadows upon her cheeks, and then she hands Tom her phone. He gazes at it with bewilderment, the bright yellow case adorned with smiling bumblebees. Venetia's eyes implore him to turn it around, to access her messages and read the most recent one.
"I don't..." Tom extends the phone in confusion.
She snatches it back from him, her brows furrowed in a mixture of frustration and concentration. Tom stands beside her, shifting his deep brown eyes between Jack's graceful swing and the perplexing puzzle before him - Venetia, her inner turmoil veiled from view.
And then, as if compelled by an invisible force, she grabs Tom's hand and places the phone within it.
"Is this about your body adjusting to the hormonal changes?" Tom asks, still not looking at the phone in his grasp.
"Oh my God. Tom, what the fuck? Not everything has to be because of the..." She cuts herself off, her voice trailing away, as her gaze meets Harry and Jack's inquisitive stares. Faking a smile, she waves at them, a feeble attempt to maintain normalcy. It would have elicited a knowing smirk from Tom under different circumstances, but he remains as bewildered as their curious onlookers. Awkwardly, he waves back, his mind consumed by the enigma before him. "Not everything has to be because of the baby," she whispers, emphasising her point.
"Please, just read the message. I don't know what to do or even how to reply," her voice regains its gentle timbre, laced with sweetness and trepidation. Tom, ever the devoted partner, raises the phone to his face, his eyes scanning the words that her father had sent, each line more audacious than the last.
The word 'wow' sternly falls out of his mouth, his voice laced with disbelief and a touch of bitterness.
"The liberty," Venetia scoffs, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "It feels like an ambush. I don't understand why he wants to make amends now. There isn't a general election we're unaware of, is there?"
Tom shrugs, his shoulders rising and falling in a gesture of uncertainty.
"Apparently, there are calls for Boris Johnson to resign as Prime Minister. Could that be-"
Venetia cuts him off with a frown, her brows furrowing in frustration.
"Perhaps. I know he's campaigning for Mayor. Maybe he wants me to pose next to him in a few pictures? Gain a sympathy vote or something? I can see the headlines clearly: 'Duke of Essex's Little Venetia Vesper Vose, from Hollywood's Leading Lady to Lady.'"
He frowns, trying to process the implications.
"The message says nothing about a plus one."
"Please don't remind me," Venetia mutters, her voice filled with a mix of annoyance and resignation.
Distraught, Venetia covers her face with the palm of her soft hands, her delicate fingers trembling slightly. The weight of the situation presses heavily on her, and she doesn't know what to do.
"What are you doing around the tenth?" she asks, a glint of hopefulness shining in her subtle green eyes behind her tinted sunglasses.
Tom folds his arms over his polo shirt, the fabric clinging to his frame in a casual yet put-together manner. Even though the golf course and country club they stand on is privately owned, he always makes an effort to dress appropriately. There's nothing that irritates him more than seeing gentlemen wearing skinny jeans and tank tops in a place meant for refinement and tradition.
He shakes his head slightly, a touch of regret crossing his features.
"I'm probably filming."
While that's true, Tom also has plans with Harry to go venue scouting for his proposal. He wants to make the moment special, somewhere fancy that Venetia would appreciate. He envisions a rooftop garden, a secluded and intimate setting that will take her breath away.
"Shit," Venetia whimpers, her voice tinged with disappointment. "I really need you there."
Tom puffs his cheeks outwards, his mind racing with possibilities of rearranging his schedule, of finding a way to support Venetia during this challenging time. He wants to be there for her, to offer comfort and strength while she confronts her estranged father.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers, his voice filled with genuine remorse.
Venetia shakes her head, her lips forming a tight line as she turns her attention back to the golf course. She musters a fake, wide smile as Harry and Jack approach them, wanting to maintain an air of composure and grace.
"It's fine," she mumbles, adjusting her glasses to ensure they sit snugly on the bridge of her nose. "I'll go by myself. Fuck emotional support, you know?"
Tom gasps, his instinct urging him to protest, to argue that he's needed on set. But before he can voice his thoughts, Jack and Harry join them. Venetia swiftly gets back in the golf cart, her voice betraying a sense of urgency as she tells them to hurry up, pretending she has other pressing matters to attend to on her last day off.