Chapter 44

I jumped back in my car, turned on the engine, then decided it was probably worth taking a minute to think about where Brayden might be. After driving out of sight from the cottage, I pulled back over and tried calling and sending a couple of messages, just in case it was only his partner he was ignoring, then searched his social media for non-existent clues. I didn't want to believe he'd found another woman to escape to, but Brayden had never been good at keeping in touch with his friends, and I felt sure his parents wouldn't lie to Silva, given the situation.

Think, Libby.

Who else had Brayden confided in, back when we were married?

I started with his sister in Wales, whose number I still had in my phone. She was initially wary, then disgusted when I told her why I was calling.

‘If he'd shown up here, I'd have dragged him back to the reality of his poor choices myself.'

Woah!

‘Libby, I thought it was a rash move getting married so young, but for that wastrel to walk out on you and those gorgeous children was inexcusable. I hope you're now happily dating some prince who treats you like his princess.'

‘Um…'

‘Ah, sorry, the dog's just barfed on my bed. Can I call you back? Even better, let's hang out next time I'm back in Notts. I've missed having a sister.'

After that revelation, I tried a couple of old friends, all who claimed with sincerity that they'd not seen or spoken to Brayden in years. It seemed I wasn't the only one he'd ditched once his app started making money.

I scrolled through my contact list, then a thought struck me. Brayden had freaked out while at a wedding last week. He hadn't posted any photos – a clue in itself that things weren't great – but Silva had. In a couple of them, Silva was posing up close, but in the background I could see a blurry image of Brayden, sitting with a man who I recognised as his long-time personal trainer, Clint. I'd never had Clint's details, but a quick search via Brayden's old gym revealed his website, with a contact number and email address.

‘Yo.'

I briefly explained that I was looking for a client, Brayden.

‘Sorry, I've not seen him in yonks.'

‘How about last Saturday?'

‘What?'

‘At the wedding.'

‘Oh, yeah. Yes. Now that you mention it, he was there. Yep. Not seen him since, though.'

‘What about his sessions this week?'

‘What about 'em?'

‘Did he attend his sessions?'

‘Nope. He stopped training with me, ooh, a while ago now.'

Clint might have been able to bench-press a rhinoceros and transform feckless men into competent cyclists, but acting was not one of his talents.

‘So, he isn't staying with you for a few days?'

‘What?' His attempt at full-on flabbergasted erased any lingering doubt. ‘Why would he be staying with me? That's mad.'

‘Can you please tell him that his partner is in labour?'

‘Huh?'

‘I mean, if you happen to see or hear from him. Silva is having the baby. Now.'

‘Silva's having the baby?' This was genuine incredulity, this time. Clint lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Honestly, I don't think that will help. He's sort of flipping out about becoming a dad, you know what I mean?'

‘He's already a dad!' I shot back. ‘And two children are worried sick their daddy is dead in a ditch somewhere. Your website says you harness men's inner beast so they can become their best. Putting aside that I can't believe anyone would buy into that nonsense, a "real man", as you describe it, wouldn't abandon his partner when she's giving birth. Use your transformational gibberish to get him to grow up. Now.'

‘Yeah… to be honest I've been trying. Him moping about, whingeing on about how tough things are, is killing my vibe, know what I mean? I've been trying to talk him into going back for the past couple of days. No joy. I don't suppose you could have a go? I mean, you've sold it to me.'

I took a couple of deep, calming breaths and realised that action, not breathing, was the only solution. ‘Let me speak to him.'

‘Oh, no. He'll just hang up. I'll drop you a pin.'

Clint ended the call, and a few seconds later a notification buzzed showing me his address. My maps app reckoned it would take forty minutes. I rang Nicky.

‘I've found him, but he's not going to come out of hiding without some incentive. I'm toying between threatening to key his car and setting his award on fire.'

‘At the risk of going over old ground, Libby, what were you thinking when you said yes to that man?'

Ignoring her, I asked how things were going with Silva.

‘So far, so sweaty. The midwives are finishing up another birth, aiming to be here before the head crowns. Which by my calculations should be a good couple of hours away.'

‘That soon? Shouldn't they be sending someone else out, then?'

‘Yes, they should. But it's a full moon, babies are showing up all over the place, and this one has a qualified GP with her. The only other option is hospital, and Silva says the lighting there will ruin her complexion in the photos.'

‘For goodness' sake. Shall we go home and leave them to it?'

‘Like we'd walk away from a baby in need.'

‘Okay.' I braced myself. ‘He's in a village on the other side of Newark. I'm going to fetch him.'

‘Rather you than me.'

‘I'd rather you than me, and that's saying something considering the alternative is mopping the brow of my ex-husband's baby-mamma.'

‘I'm loving this kick-ass Libby. I have every faith I'll be seeing you and the dropout before I see this little girl's head.'

I spent the forty-minute drive composing kick-ass, no-nonsense speeches in my head that would have Brayden charging back to the four-bedroom riverside town house in Newark that he shared with Silva. Most of these rapidly descended into verbal whip-lashings, furiously detailing failings spanning the past ten years, which I knew would only further convince him he was a failure as a father, and his baby was better off without him.

It took everything I'd got, after parking in front of Clint's artificial lawn, hustling past his row of garden gnomes and knocking on the doorbell that played ‘I'm Coming Out', to keep things encouraging.

I channelled Clint's ‘wimp into warrior' vibe as he led me through a chintzy living room containing more soft furnishings than a Dunelm superstore and into a back office, where Brayden sat on a sofa-bed playing Call of Duty.

‘What the hell?' I barked, forgetting all my good intentions of staying positive as I twisted around to hiss at Clint. ‘You might be an expert at bringing out inner beasts, but this is way too far.'

Brayden was wearing grimy jogging bottoms and a vest top. His hair was frightening. There were piles of empty crisp packets, takeaway cartons and beer cans scattered around, and it smelled like the boys' changing room back at Bigley Academy.

I held my breath, leant into the room and turned the Xbox off at the wall.

‘What?' he asked, as if coming out of a trance. ‘Is there a power cut?'

‘If you're referring to the power supply to your brain, then quite possibly, yes.' I marched in front of the monitor, arms folded, ready for war.

‘Libby.' He shrank back, a mix of shame and defiance. It wasn't only the stench that resembled a teenage boy.

‘Get your stuff. Time's up for regressing to a man-child. Your girlfriend needs you.'

‘I can't,' he stammered. ‘I'm not cut out for all this.'

‘What, life? The child you created? Being a grown adult?'

His eyes darted to one side. ‘Maybe.'

‘Silva's about an hour away from giving birth. If you stop farting about then you might just make it in time for her to agree to take you back.'

‘What? She's not due for another two weeks.'

‘Are you deliberately acting clueless so I give up and let you go back to your pretend-hero games?' I snapped. ‘Or are you going to buck up and have a go at being an actual hero for once?'

‘I can't do it, Libby,' he whined. ‘I don't know what to do.'

‘Then how about you start by asking Silva what she needs from you?' I grabbed a handful of clothes and started stuffing them into a bag, before the whiff put me off and I decided he could fetch his things later. ‘I can guarantee it won't be you staying here twiddling with your joystick. Even an inept, stressed-out birth partner is better than nothing. All she wants is someone who loves her to hold her hand.'

It took another five minutes of verbal harassment and downright bullying, but eventually Brayden slouched off the sofa-bed and agreed to go home.

‘Nope,' I said, when he started heading for his own car. ‘I'm not risking that. Get in my passenger seat.'

He started to protest, but one look from me across the bonnet and he was hastily sliding into the seat, not even bothering to brush off the biscuit crumbs.

‘Call your partner,' I ordered, half wondering what our marriage would have been like if I'd been this assertive.

‘I don't know what to?—'

‘Tell her you're sorry and you'll be there as soon as you can.'

There were a few moments of silence.

‘I've sent her a message.'

‘She's in advanced labour! She'll not be checking for?—'

‘She replied with okay. Followed by angry face, knife and aubergine emojis. Are you sure this is a good idea?'

By the time I'd found a parking spot and herded Brayden up the steps to his front door, it was eleven-thirty. Nicky yanked her ex-brother-in-law into the living room and stepped outside before I could go in, closing the door behind her.

‘She's eight centimetres dilated and practically ripped the gas and air out of the midwife's hand the second they arrived. Our work here is done.'

‘All okay?'

‘With regards to the birth, it's perfect. The descriptions of how she's going to exact revenge on Brayden were enough to curdle her colostrum.'

‘That's the first time you've not called him the dropout.'

‘Yeah, well.' We paused as she reached her car. ‘It's the first time I've felt a tiny bit sorry for him. Almost.'

She wouldn't have said that if she'd seen him in Clint's back room.

‘Will they let you know when baby's arrived?' Nicky asked.

‘They won't need to.' I rolled my eyes, moving on to my car, several metres down the road. ‘It'll be all over Instagram before they've cut the cord.'