The comfort and familiarity of White’s wrapped around Tristan and soothed him a little. His club was the one place where he could be alone with his thoughts in a place that did not hold memories of Sam in it. The low hum of conversation, the air, redolent of smoke, brandy, and polish; the clink of crystal and china were all calming and familiar. He shook out a copy of the Times and held it before him like a shield. A silent message about the need for solitude, a barrier against the encroaching world. He couldn’t read a thing, mind; he just hid behind it whilst he thought. He was in a completely impossible situation. If he offered Sam work, paid work, Sam would still feel beholden to him. If he didn’t then he would feel like a kept man and leave. If he offered Sam money to stay and Sam did
