If Dan thought he was in for an easy ride, babysitting at Zoe’s, he quickly realized he had been kidding himself. He struggled to get Gabe to bed at the required time – initially because his nephew was being funny and charming, and Dan didn’t want to be that strict overbearing uncle who said no. This backfired spectacularly, however, when the boy nosedived into over-tired stroppiness, yelling that Dan couldn’t tell him what to do and that Dan couldn’t make him go to bed. The finale was a thermonuclear meltdown of shouts and angry tears – from Gabe, although Dan was admittedly starting to feel the same way – and Gabe furiously refusing to say goodnight to his uncle and shutting the bedroom door in his face. Okay, so that was a lesson learned, Dan thought ruefully, heading back downstairs.
As for Ethan, Dan was surprised to find that his older nephew seemed somewhat detached and unfriendly. Having felt as if the two of them had bonded during their sculpture trail – particularly when Ethan came out to him – Dan wasn’t prepared for the boy to be quite so monosyllabic this time, all shrugs and gaze-avoiding, despite his best attempts. Hoping to engage, Dan suggested that the two of them go to a classical music concert sometime – ‘You could educate me!’ – and when that received a subdued response, he mentioned that there was a good zombie film on tonight and maybe they could watch it together?
‘Nah,’ Ethan said, offhand. He was staring at the screen of his laptop, playing a shoot-’em-up game, and glanced around in an Are you still here? sort of way a moment later. Dan took his cue and left. Well, he’d tried, he told himself, trudging downstairs again in defeat.
Feeling useless, he opened up Facebook on his phone and was unable to stop himself from seeking out Rebecca. Since his mum had told him the news about her, bitterness had taken root inside him. How dare she happily get on with her life, after what she’d done? It was like someone walking away from a car crash without a backward look. I don’t care about you.
Oh Christ, there it was: a photo of a black-and-white ultrasound scan, along with Rebecca’s caption: ‘Thrilled to announce that Rory and I are going to be parents. Due Halloween, can you believe! No rude comments!!’
Bile rose sourly in his throat. Talk about smug. ‘Thrilled to announce’, as if she were a member of the Royal Family or something. How was it that Rebecca could have behaved so deceitfully, betrayed him so terribly, and yet good things still happened to her? You could argue – as he had done in his own head many times – that if it hadn’t been for Rebecca’s treachery, Patrick would still be alive today. Life would have carried on as normal and Dan would currently be discovering the Bolivian salt flats with Tiggy, sporting the best tan of his life, instead of attempting to be the human sponge for his brother’s family and soak up all their grief.
‘Screw you,’ he said under his breath. He felt mad with hatred suddenly, consumed by it. He couldn’t remain silent. He was too resentful, too worked up.
He skipped back to the message of condolence she’d sent him – Devastated to hear the news about Patrick – and, before he could stop himself, typed a reply, fingers shaking. You’ve got a fucking nerve, Bex. He told me, you know, about the two of you. Your shitty little secret. So don’t you dare give me your fake sympathy and crocodile tears. I couldn’t care less what you think. And then, just for the hell of it and because he was too full of rage to pause long enough to think twice, pressed Send.
Fuck it, he’d had enough of turning the other cheek. He’d had enough of being blamed for what had happened to Patrick when there were other people in the equation. It wasn’t all my fault, he thought, slamming his phone back down again.
The next morning, after a terrible night’s sleep, Dan couldn’t help feeling as if the children had conspired to give him one set of challenges after another. Or maybe this was, in fact, merely a true reflection of what it meant to be a parent. First of all, Bea woke up at the crack of dawn and, as Dan peered blearily in the cupboards for cereal boxes, sighed, ‘Daddy always used to make pancakes when it was the weekend.’ Perhaps guilt over his message to Rebecca had left him vulnerable to such emotional manipulation (so far no reply) or perhaps it was the chance to do something Patrick-related for his niece and chalk up another good deed. Whatever it was, seconds later there was Dan googling pancake recipes on his phone and whipping up a lumpy batter.
Then, when the boys eventually shambled downstairs, Ethan looking particular peaky as if he had been up all night shooting gangsters on his laptop, Dan felt obliged to nourish them with rounds of scrambled egg on toast. See, I can look after them – I can do a good job, he told himself doggedly, only for Gabe to throw a forkful of scrambled egg at his brother during an outbreak of arguing, and for tempers to combust all over again. At the sight of the eggy splatters on the window and wall, Dan’s patience finally evaporated. ‘Boys!’ he cried in dismay, only for Ethan to take offence at being included in the scolding when he hadn’t thrown anything. He’d gone storming off upstairs, leaving the rest of his breakfast untouched. So no, babysitting hadn’t been a total success overall.
Aware that Zoe was due back at any moment, Dan frantically cleaned everything up, then tried to make amends between his nephews, wanting the house to be harmonious when their mother returned. It wasn’t to be, though. Both boys were white-faced and surly, no doubt as a direct result of Dan’s lax bedtime-enforcement the night before. They were still so angry too, he realized. Angry with the world and how it was possible that their dad could be snatched away from them without warning. The revelation was sobering, especially as Dan had been secretly priding himself on how much time he’d spent with them. He’d been kidding himself, though, if he thought that had changed anything. Taking his nephews and niece out a couple of times to fun activities wasn’t anywhere near enough to make up for the loss of their dad. Didn’t even register, in fact. For the first time since he had begun his sabbatical, Dan felt the weight of what he was trying to achieve and wondered if it was even possible.
Still, at least he had given Zoe a night away, he reminded himself, drying the egg pan and putting it back in the cupboard. Even if she did look wan and queasy as she arrived back at the house soon afterwards, her eyes narrowing at the edges, as if the weak morning light alone was triggering an automatic headache upgrade from God-awful to Life-threatening.
‘Good night?’ he asked, as she headed for the espresso machine.
‘Mostly,’ she said cryptically.
He decided not to hang around too long – sometimes a hangover was best managed in private – but then, just as he was about to leave, she surprised him with the news that she was taking the kids to her mum’s place in south Wales the following week. ‘Oh,’ he said, deflating a little. Was that disappointment he was feeling? ‘For the whole week?’
‘Yeah, we’re heading off on Monday. I need a break, to be honest. I need my mum. Plus my brother lives nearby too, and he and his husband have been so supportive. It’ll be good to spend a bit of time with them all.’
So supportive, Dan repeated in his head, unable to prevent a sting of jealousy. More supportive than him? he wanted to ask, as if it was some kind of competition. He found himself wondering if Ethan would confide in his other uncle – his gay uncle – as he had done with Dan, and felt jealous of that too. Which was fairly pathetic of him, admittedly. ‘Oh right,’ he said. ‘Nice,’ he remembered to add. Damn it, though, this was going to bring his stats right down on the Patrick plan. ‘Can I do anything for you while you’re away?’ he asked, hovering by the door. ‘I could pop by and keep an eye on the place now and then, if you want. Do some gardening or . . . ?’
He was clutching at straws – especially as he’d offered his lawnmowing services once before and she’d given him short shrift – so he was surprised when Zoe leaned against the wall, looking thankful.
‘Oh, would you? The garden, I mean. Everything’s gone mad suddenly and I haven’t had the energy to get it under control. Thanks, Dan. Here, let me give you the spare key.’ She opened a drawer, pulling out a bunch of keys. ‘These two are for the front door,’ she said, dumping them in his outstretched hand. ‘But don’t worry if you’re busy – it’s only if you have time.’
He couldn’t speak for a moment, because the keys now weighing down his palm were attached to a familiar battered Fulham Football Club keyring. Patrick’s old house keys, which presumably had been retrieved from his jacket pocket in the mortuary. Goosebumps prickled along Dan’s arms even though the house was warm. ‘Thanks,’ he managed to say. ‘No problem. Well, have a great time and I guess I’ll see you on . . . ?’ He didn’t know when he was going to see her again, he realized.
‘Um, well, a fortnight today, I suppose. Gabe’s birthday party,’ she replied.
‘Gabe’s . . . ?’ Shit. Why did he not know his own niece’s and nephews’ birthdays?
‘Didn’t he give you the invitation? Sorry, I should have said earlier. He really wants you to be there,’ Zoe said, at which point the sun seemed to come out around Dan’s head and a jubilant fanfare sounded. ‘And so do I – I could use an extra pair of hands, if you don’t mind. Let me get you the details.’
Dan stuffed the keys in his pocket, his spirits lifting once more as she went in search of the invitation. Gabe wanted him there at the party. Zoe wanted him there at the party. This was good: he was useful to them. Needed, even. Then she returned with a small colourful piece of paper.
‘A superheroes party. Cool,’ he said, still chuffed at this clear sign of acceptance.
‘Yeah,’ Zoe said. Maybe it was the hangover, but she had suddenly gone kind of furtive. Shifty, even. Then she blurted out, ‘There is just one thing actually. Gabe’s asked everyone to dress up and . . . Well, ages ago, when he first started talking about wanting a superhero party, Patrick had promised to dress up too. So we were wondering – would you?’
It took a moment for the penny to drop. ‘Would I . . . dress up? As a superhero? What, in tights and stuff?’
‘Well, yeah, basically. Could you bear it? And help with the games and everything?’ She bit her lip. ‘I know it’s a lot to ask and you might have other plans, but . . .’ Her eyes pleaded with him. ‘Gabe would really like it.’
‘Sure,’ Dan found himself saying, powerless to refuse her. Stepping into not only Patrick’s shoes but his fancy dress costume too – absolutely. Also, hello? Dressing up as a superhero: did it get any more symbolic than that? ‘Of course I will,’ he said.
Dan hadn’t seen his friends since the night in the pub that had ended in his own face-down drunkenness and vomiting, but although he’d tried to keep a low profile and avoid future social gatherings, the others weren’t so willing to let that happen. They’d clearly discussed the situation behind his back and decided that an intervention was necessary, because they’d all been on his case this week. Steve was going on at him about joining the rowing club – ‘You’d be doing me a favour, I need someone there who’s as shit as me’ – while Neil kept texting him details of crappy-sounding punk bands that were playing in the area, and Mark had been steadily badgering him about going running together. So far Dan had managed to ignore all of their requests, until on Saturday morning he arrived home from Zoe’s to find Mark jogging up the road with a look on his face that said he was not about to take no for an answer.
‘Come on, lightweight, get your trainers on – let’s do this,’ he said, clapping his hands like a PE teacher.
Dan must still have been feeling a glow from his new superhero mission, because to both his own and Mark’s surprise, he acquiesced. Having dug out some knackered old shorts and a new, previously unworn T-shirt bought for his South American travels, it wasn’t long before the two of them were jogging over Hammersmith Bridge together. Once Dan’s initial breathlessness had eased, they chatted away about nothing and everything: football, politics, the new car Mark had been eyeing up. Dan’s lungs ached with this unusual burst of exercise, but the blood was singing through his veins as their feet pounded along in unison. Below them on the river was a bunch of kids in kayaks, their shrill, excited voices drifting up on the breeze, as well as one of the old steamboats full of tourists. Dan couldn’t remember the last time he’d crossed the bridge on foot, with the luxury of being able to look down and around.
‘All right?’ Mark asked as they reached the other side and swerved onto the river path skirting the wetland centre. It was drizzling, but Dan appreciated the cool mist of water on his face and hair.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, this is good. Thanks.’ Being out here had released the spectre of Rebecca from his head, too. He’d spent most of the night swinging between agony at having sent her his combative message, and defiance, telling himself it was no more than she deserved. Had she read it yet? How would she reply, now that she knew he knew? Dan exhaled slowly, trying to breathe her right out. Go away, Rebecca. You’ve done enough damage.
As if sensing that he needed distracting, Mark asked about Zoe and the kids, and Dan found that he had plenty to say. Spending more time with them recently meant they had become much more vividly coloured in for him; they had become Ethan, Gabe and Bea, real people, rather than three children who briefly intersected his life now and then. ‘And guess what, I’ve got to dress up as a superhero for Gabe’s party in a fortnight,’ he said at the end.
Mark hooted with laughter. ‘Christ, my eyes are burning at the thought,’ he replied. ‘Are we talking Lycra tights and all or . . . ?’
‘Yep,’ said Dan. ‘I just hope I don’t make any of the kids cry at the sight.’
‘Or the mums swoon,’ Mark smirked.
Dan snorted. ‘I’m pretty sure that won’t be happening. Unless it’s through horror alone.’
‘Dan? Dan Sheppard!’ came a voice just then, and Dan looked round to see that a man with a chocolate-brown Labrador was waving at him nearby.
‘Gareth!’ Dan said in surprise, thudding to a halt. Gareth Chappell was a colleague of his, but their paths usually crossed amidst the sterility of the air-conditioned office floor, clad in suits and ties, rather than outside on the riverbank, with Dan wearing sweaty running gear. ‘How are you? Oh – this is Mark, by the way. Mark – Gareth, from work.’
‘All right,’ said Mark, consulting a fitness tracker on his watch, then continuing to jog on the spot.
‘Hi there,’ said Gareth, before turning back to Dan. ‘All good. Work’s crazy as ever, you know how it is.’ There was a short pause and then he asked, ‘So how was Thailand? Was it Thailand? Are you back in the office again soon?’
‘Beginning of June,’ Dan replied, reaching down to pet the dog, which was nudging at his leg. Its ears were like damp suede beneath his fingers. He straightened, aware that Gareth was waiting for elaboration. ‘I’m working on . . . some other stuff for the time being.’
Gareth raised an eyebrow. ‘Moonlighting, eh? Just kidding. Well, you’re not missing much. Duncan Smith got fired for fraud, so an audit team has swooped in and are poking into everything. It’s like living under the Stasi – all the rumours and secrecy. Anyway! Yes, all right, Mungo,’ he said as the dog began pulling at the lead. ‘Better go. Good to see you.’
‘Likewise,’ said Dan, setting off once more.
‘I’d forgotten you weren’t working,’ Mark said, as they jogged along again. ‘How are you feeling about going back?’
Dan lengthened his stride a little. ‘I hadn’t really been thinking about it,’ he confessed. In the last few weeks he had barely thought about work at all, he realized, least of all wonder what was happening there without him. His desk appeared in his head like a vision; his desk and filing cabinet, the computer screen and phone, silently awaiting his return. The three suits hanging in his dark wardrobe, ties like snakes dangling from a hanger. That life all felt so far away, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. Those early-morning starts, squeezing into the Circle Line train compartments; sardine cans of commuters that whizzed the bleary-eyed nine-to-five army to identikit air-conditioned office blocks, so that they could sit at identikit desks and type into identikit keyboards. Drink coffee. Bitch about their colleagues (fraudulent or not). Fill in forms, attend meetings, take phone calls, go home, then do it all over again, for forty-seven weeks of the year.
That had been his world, more or less. He had worked so hard that work had absorbed 90 per cent of his energy, leaving little space for anything else of significance or value. All the money he’d earned was piled up in his account because he had no time to spend it – or anybody to spend it with. It was only now, having detached himself from the treadmill, that he realized how infrequently he had seen his parents and the rest of the family in the last few years. How rarely he interacted with anyone out of the office environment, for that matter.
On the last day of work before his sabbatical was due to begin, he had packed up his belongings, trepidatious about not being there for three whole months. It had been so strange, walking out of the building, aware that he wouldn’t be in touch with his clients or colleagues for such a long period of time. Deep down, he couldn’t shake off a lurking anxiety that, without the central pole of the office holding up his life as usual, the rest of it might collapse like a broken tent, however far he travelled. Yet stepping into Patrick’s shoes recently had made office life seem unimportant. Trivial, even. The past few weeks had been chaotic, sure – babysitting last night being a prime example – but he felt as if he was experiencing new riches, inhabiting a fuller, more textured existence.
Not that this could continue, obviously. Once back at work, normality would swing in and he’d have to peel himself away from Zoe’s and the kids’ lives again. Just when the children could really do with some consistency, as well, not to mention extra love.
‘I don’t think I want to work any more, come to think of it,’ he said to Mark as they swerved to avoid a large puddle.
‘Yeah, you, me and every middle-aged bloke I know,’ said Mark, rather pessimistically. ‘Roll on retirement, right?’
Dan’s phone started ringing and he managed to wrestle it from his back pocket while maintaining pace. Pain In Arse, he read on the screen and groaned before deflecting it to voicemail. Being at the beck and call of Patrick’s tenants – however sweet they might be – was definitely something he wouldn’t be missing when he returned to his office job. Rosemary could wait. Right now, he just needed to run.