Page 39 of Silver Lining (London Love #6)

“Hi!” This…Gray person laughed. “You must be Constance.”

It usually took a lot to stun my daughter into silence, yet there she was, her hands nervously combing through her hair as she looked like she was about to burst into tears…or flee the country.

“I… Shit. I haven’t even brushed my teeth.”

“Neither have I.” He smiled. “I’ve just come off a ten-hour flight. I wouldn’t come anywhere near me if I were you.”

“You’re…” She was nervous. Not like her.

“We’ve met once before, with your mum.”

“Oh.”

“You were only little. And now, here we are.”

“Indeed,” Stewart said, and here was another cup placed gently into Constance’s hands. “Want me to drive you to school, or are you getting the Tube?”

“Yes… What?” She took a sip of tea and startled, scalding her mouth, still staring at…Gray.

“The Dieter,” came out of my mouth. I was no better than my daughter.

“Mr Dragon Hates Broccoli.” Here was Marmie, straight out of bed, his hair on end. “Dad, why is the bedtime stories guy here? ”

Apparently, this was now my life, a surreal existence of humans in one small space. If I had thought I’d known what I was doing at some point last week, that was all gone now. What on earth was he on about?

“Hello,” Gray said, sitting down on his haunches. “You’ve watched that then?”

“Mr Dragon hates broccoli, but if you dip it in some garlic?”

He laughed. The…film star…slash singer…slash…bedtime-stories-garlic-man?

“You wrote that, didn’t you?” Constance said, suddenly right there in the thick of it. “Mum bought us the book. We should still have it somewhere.”

“I know. Not my best work, but hey, I got to read it on TV!”

“It’s funny. I like it when the dragon burns dinner and everyone shouts.”

“Yeah.”

“True story?” Constance smarmed. I wanted to remind her that she was still in her pyjamas and should know better, but hey.

Dressing gown. Check. Not any better myself. Indeed .

“You go to Kilham Prep?” the Dragon man asked, like he was now part of this family. Meanwhile, my son was back on the floor, trying to show him the fire engine, banging it against his leg, speaking loudly in Spanish.

He’d soon figure it all out.

“Yes. Last year, and then I’m hoping to go to Bloomsbury Art College,” Constance said, now draped over the kitchen counter as Stewart was buttering toast like this was some kind of breakfast café.

“Oh, nice. I’ve heard of it. We’re looking at schools for Jay—I’ll need to pick your brain at some point. And you went to Regents Primary?”

“Queen Anne’s.” Constance smiled. “Jasmine’s going there, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” Proud dad pregnant pause. I knew them well because I did those too.

“Constance did very well there.” Pause. “Won awards.”

Cheesy grin. Now my daughter was rolling her eyes. But I was not part of the furniture here, as I finally took charge and got Marmie onto a chair. Toast on plate. Used a coaster.

Okay. Deep breath .

“Want this one on the bar stool?” The Dieter was now holding my son in his arms and getting pelted by a toy fire truck, not even blinking.

“At the table, please,” I said, squirming as he ducked from another blow, then said something in what sounded like perfect Spanish.

“You speak Spanish?” Constance asked in awe.

“Colonel Martinez did. I had to learn some select phrases for that role, so now I can confidently prevent bands of terrorists from blowing up a plane—in Spanish. Good skill, if you’re in that situation, but I’m slightly useless otherwise.

I think I told your brother here to stop killing me with vehicles. In some roundabout way.”

“Oh.”

“Phinney, be nice. Please don’t hit The Dieter.”

“Words I never thought would come out of my dad’s mouth.”

“Thanks, Constance.” I grinned.

“I’ve heard worse.” He laughed. “No worries. No me mates con un vehículo, por favor.”

“Anyone need more tea? ”

I suppose that was my cue to make myself useful, which I did. I made tea. I fed my children and laughed in appropriate places at the crazy conversations around my kitchen table. And I smiled.

Because I was, actually, fine. I was okay.

Perhaps it was finally those antidepressants working.

Maybe it was because my ex-wife had signed the new custody agreement.

One I fully agreed with. The children lived here.

Veronica could see them whenever she wanted and however she wanted, by prior agreement.

But their schooling was here, and their home?

I was standing in it, right now.

I was right where I was supposed to be, in a house that was no longer quiet.

Where the floorboards creaked just fine.

Where noise was good and silence was non-existent, and where there was a phone ringing somewhere in the background and the front door being kicked open by Jean, carrying a bag of no doubt baked goods.

“Good morning, all my little darlings!” she sang out, then stopped dead in her tracks.

“And hello to you too, young man! Delightful. God, aren’t you just something.

Gray, is it? I’m Jean. Here, have a croissant.

I bought those almondy ones you like, Stewart.

And Constance, I have those pens you wanted in my bag.

Found them in the art shop on Edgware Road, just like I said.

I’ll take you one afternoon, and you can show me what else we need. ”

“Oooh!” my daughter squealed, already having forgotten that we had a bona fide star in the room. Less impressive than pens, apparently.

I shook my head, then leant over and kissed the man next to me. Stewart, my children all around me and a bunch of randoms who strangely made me smile.

Family. What a strange thing that was, but this one was mine, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.