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I t wasn’t the rain. Nor was it the dull clouds in the sky or the wet puddles on his patio.

No. It wasn’t any of those things. All those things I found perfectly acceptable and part of normal life.

The man outside was not normal, though. Because no normal person walked around barefoot in the wet grass wearing only a bathrobe, and he was crying again .

Well, normal life was not standing behind a curtain, spying on your neighbour like some dull pensioner with nothing else to do. Privacy was a thing. Another person’s misery was none of my business.

I laughed out loud at my own thoughts, then bit my tongue in shame and took a step backwards, hoping the curtains weren’t twitching too badly.

A few years back, I’d read an article about ‘the journey’ of retirement.

Long ranting texts brutally proclaimed that a certain percentage of people who retired early were dead within a year.

Lack of exercise and routine were cited as the key factors—going from a busy life to existing with nothing to do, a decline in company and loss of communication skills. Letting your brain rot.

At the time, it had made no sense, but now, years later, it did, and more so, it sounded like something my son would have said and turned into a joke.

I missed his voice. I missed the sound of chaos.

The walls shaking from the thuds of bare feet running around upstairs.

This house didn’t work without noise. It needed movement, the creaking of floorboards as the beams took the weight of the humans who used this place as their own personal playground .

Life. I shook my head. This wasn’t the life I had imagined.

Of course I’d known that one day, I would be on my own again, living a quiet existence, pottering around and having cups of tea as the world gently spun around me.

I hadn’t made any plans, instead relying on the job I had and not thinking about the future, but it arrived sooner than I’d expected.

I hadn’t been ready to retire, but yes, society was evolving, and businesses did too.

The hotel where I’d spent almost my entire career working, the establishment that had been known for its first-class service, delicate handling of clients and the unrivalled VIP treatment we showered on our guests from the moment they set foot on our red carpet?

Apparently, it was no longer part of the future vision for The Clouds Hotel group.

The highly skilled team of doormen were made redundant overnight, alongside our concierges, half of the reception staff and most of the guest relations department.

We’d all been replaced by giant self-check-in machines and automatic revolving doors, a fee now applicable to store luggage in our self-service lockers.

I cringed at the thought, wondering how some of our regulars were faring with those kinds of modern entrapments. It wasn’t what we were as a hotel, and just thinking about it still made me fumingly angry .

The worst part was that in some way, I understood the man on the grass outside. I’d been where he was: angry and crying and trying to make sense of the world, and not just once. I’d had my fair share of misery in my life.

Mind you, I hadn’t walked around in a bathrobe barefoot in a communal garden where anyone peeking out the window could see me.

My phone vibrating on the table behind me startled me back to reality, but I still kept my eyes on the man outside as I answered.

His dark hair was dripping wet, turning the grey at his temples the same colour as the rest of that mop on his head.

Olive skin. Angular features. He’d no doubt once been an imposing character. Sharp and handsome.

“Hello, son,” I said as the video call connected.

Reuben. My son. In his mid-thirties. Father of two. Married to Gray, a man I adored almost as much as my grandchildren.

“Dad,” he responded firmly. “You okay? You rang earlier.”

“I did, and yes, I’m fine. Just wanted to tell you that the builder came to fix the flashing, and that your car has been serviced.”

“You told me that yesterday. ”

Had I?

“I forgot.” Maybe I had. Or perhaps I wanted to hear his voice.

“You’re just bored, Dad, and I get that you’re lonely. Which is why I keep suggesting you fly out and come spend some time with us.”

“Oh, I’ll just pop round to LA for a visit, shall I?”

“The weather is gorgeous, and the property has a pool. You could just sit in the sun all day.”

“Not to mention I’d have to spend fourteen hours on a plane. No, thank you.”

“Your fear of flying is ridiculous.”

“Didn’t help that Gray did that film with the plane crash.”

“That was all made up, Dad. It wasn’t real.”

I sighed heavily. Reuben was constantly trying to get me on a plane, see the world, cross oceans.

I never had, and I knew what a weak coward that made me. I was fine here, and the mere thought of putting myself inside a metal tube and allowing myself to be hurled straight up into the sky? No. Not for me .

“Dad, I would really love to see you. I get lonely too, you know? Gray’s on set all day, sometimes long into the night. The kids have the tutor who comes and does lessons in the morning, and I just roll around here like a spare part. We could go to the beach. Cook nice food.”

“You can’t cook, son.”

“No, but Gray can, and he batch-cooks on his days off. We eat like kings. Also, they have personal chefs out here, and you can get someone to come to your home every day and do all your meals.”

“Ridiculous,” I muttered. He laughed.

“Yeah, I agree. But seriously—”

“I’m very busy,” I lied. “I look after your house and feed the cats and hoover like a normal person. And Michelle got me another driving job next week.”

“It’s all freelance, and you don’t really need the money, do you? You’re supposed to be relaxing.”

“Bah.” I peered around the curtain again. My neighbour was back on his own little patio now, scrunched up in a chair, hugging himself. That bathrobe looked older than him, and they both needed a damn good wash. “He’s at it again,” I said .

“Who?”

“The bloke at number eight.”

“Never thought you’d become such a curtain twitcher, Dad.”

“Not a curtain twitcher,” I protested with a quiet laugh, because I actually was and hoped that dirty-dressing-gown-man couldn’t hear me. “I’m just concerned. There’s something not right with him.”

“Like I said, Dad, you’re bored and lonely, and it needs to stop. You should take up a hobby. Do some classes. Go to that social club down the road.”

“No chance. They’re all around eighty down there.”

“And?”

“And it looks dull as dishwater. I’m not that old yet, Reubs, and I’m not lonely either. I’m just… I don’t know. Unsettled. I didn’t think it would affect me this much, being here on my own.”

“Which is why you should get over yourself and get on a plane. The kids miss you so much, and you’d love it out here. I mean, it’s America! Somewhere different. Different foods, different air, and the weather— ”

“No.” I was getting tired of the constant begging. I wasn’t up for that, however desperate I was to see the four of them.

It had just been me and Reuben for years. Then all of a sudden, he was married and the kids turned up, and my life had exploded into a carnival. Now there was nothing but silence, and it was driving me mad. I could see it. So could everyone else.

“The film’s going well then?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Gray is doing his own stunts again, and he’s really not up to it. The bulk he put on is weird. Jasmine calls him balloon man. Those biceps are just ridiculous.”

“I bet you like it,” I teased, and saw Reuben’s answering smirk.

He looked happy, healthy, sitting in the garden with the pool glittering behind him—a picture-postcard setting.

He deserved it, he really did. We’d come a long way from that council house in Peckham to this too big townhouse in Marylebone, where Reuben and his ultra-weird-and-famous husband Graham, who was actually the most normal person I knew, lived with the kids upstairs and I had this basement flat, all to myself.

Well, me plus two mongrel cats who lived to make my life miserable, scratched me if I came too close and pooped on the grass instead of in the fancy automatic litter box upstairs in the kitchen.

“Dad, go outside. Touch some grass. Then read that book I sent you.”

“Read a book, he says…”

“Hey! I read a book—a whole one.”

“Blimey! I blame that husband of yours.”

“So do I, but at least I half understand the scenes when he’s rehearsing.

Not that I’m any kind of actor. Jay’s good at it, though.

He gets all into the role and pretends he’s part of the film for real.

I can see him going into acting. I’m going to put him in some kind of drama class when we get back to the UK. ”

That couldn’t happen soon enough as far as I was concerned. “What about Jasmine? Is she into acting?”

“Nah. She just laughs, but back to what we were talking about—if you’re not going to come see us, then do something about getting out of the house. Get a job. Just part-time maybe. Two days a week or something.”

“Says the man who is currently a house husband in a mansion in LA. ”

“Someone has to.” He laughed. “And anyway, I am working. I’m learning all about the coastal climate in the UK and how it differs from the coastal climate here.

Jay’s homework is brutal. I can’t remember learning all that at school, but it was probably part of the curriculum, and I completely missed it. ”

“Yes, making trouble no doubt.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed. “And now I wish I’d paid attention. It’s actually quite interesting…”

He rambled on about cloud formations and weather patterns while I absentmindedly watched the neighbour. He hadn’t moved from that chair and now had his head in his hands, those broad shoulders of his shaking violently.

“Go talk to him,” Reuben said, smirking again.

Busted. “What? I’m talking to you.”

“You’re not even listening. I can see your eyes moving. You’re more interested in the neighbour than your own son.”

He was messing with me; I knew that. But still.

“I’ll talk to you later,” I decided and hung up. The curtain twitching had to stop. The rain out there, I had no control over, but the man sitting in it, sobbing his heart out? I could do something about that.