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The polite, clipped voice of the chauffeur pulls me from my slumber. I shift on the back seat, looking out the window at the dreary sights ahead of me.

The house looks abandoned and cold, not helped by the relentless heavy rain that I swear has been pounding down ever since I flew into the UK. The skies are dark and stormy, with angry-looking clouds above the house, making it look like it’s the epicentre of the storm.

There’s a fizzle of energy outside, like it’s on the cusp of thunder and lightning. Delilah loved days like this. She always told me that the stormy days matched her life and made her feel at peace, if only for a short while.

I scowl that she’s in my head, at the forefront of my mind, but it isn’t surprising given the circumstances.

The driver pulls the car up to the newly fitted electronic gates. Pippa insisted on them a few months ago when I spoke about the potential of selling the house. She thought it would add value and interest. Ironic that now they’re going to be used as intended—to give me the added security as I use this place as a base.

I remind myself that I don’t have to stay here. There are plenty of hotels I could check into, but I know they come with their own added complications, or at least they do when I’m at home in America. Press. Photographers. Overzealous fans who want an autograph, or more.

A few months ago, I’d have rejoiced in it. Even last week, I would have been happy with that situation. I’ve spent the last two years seemingly fucking my way through every fan, actress, singer, or model who gives me a second glance, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it. But right now, there are more important things for me to focus on.

The gates close behind us as the driver makes his way to the house. It doesn’t look so abandoned now I’m closer to it. If I’d had any more notice before my arrival, I’m sure Pippa would have arranged an interior decorator to give everything a fresh new look. She’d have had somebody stock the fridge and maybe the alcohol cupboard, something that doesn’t get covered by the infrequent cleaning that takes place. But I got the news yesterday and was on the first flight she could get me on. I’m sure she was resisting the urge to point out that I left the UK two years ago and vowed never to step foot into the country again. And I haven’t. I’ve stuck to my word. I’ve lived in the US, travelled to film on location in Europe, Asia, and Africa, holidayed in tiny, far-flung islands. Never once did I think I would be back here, but needs must.

The car pulls to a stop, and I wait for the chauffeur to cut the engine. He gets out of the car to open my door for me, and I want to stop him. I’ve always hated some of the pomp that’s associated with services like this, but Pippa’s always encouraged me to give in and enjoy it. I watch as the chauffeur goes to the back of the car. I know he’s going to get my cases before opening my door, and he’ll likely walk me to the front door. I imagine him getting an umbrella out of the boot, too, so the precious movie star doesn’t get wet in the rain.

Frustrated, I get out of the car before the chauffeur has finished with the cases.

“Thank you,” I say, taking them from him.

“Have a good evening, sir,” he replies. He doesn’t seem too bothered by my abrupt nature, my surly attitude, my sour expression. He probably assumes I’m some drunk or hungover actor with too big of an ego to be nice.

I stomp to the front door, digging into my pocket for the key to my house. A key that I had to search high and low for yesterday because I’d thrown it into the back of a drawer a long time ago, back when I first moved into my rented accommodation in the States. I was grateful to find it in the end. At one point, I thought there was a possibility I would be breaking into my own home.

I unlock the door and step into a hallway that I haven’t been in for two years. The last night I stayed here was the night I stormed out of Delilah’s house after finding out about Madeline. Then, I had stomped around the house like a bear with an attitude problem before I’d grabbed a bottle of alcohol in the hope that it would drown out some of the feelings. It didn’t. In the morning, hungover and still thoroughly pissed off and stunned, I called Pippa and told her I was interested in the opportunity for the film franchise. I also told her I was looking to move to the States to make it easier if I got the role, then asked her if she was interested in travelling with me. We left the UK that night, and although she came back to the UK many times to see family or to deal with business here, I vowed I never would.

The hallway feels dark and dreary. I flick the light switches and cross my fingers that there haven’t been any problems with the electricity in the time I’ve been away. The lights come to life immediately, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Pippa had somebody maintaining the house on regular intervals. Somebody checks the grounds. Somebody else comes in once a month to give the place a good clean. There’s even somebody who comes to maintain the car that was left in the garage. Not bad for a house that I’ve essentially abandoned.

I leave my cases by the front door, locking up behind me. I walk towards the staircase and head upstairs, carrying my travel bag with me given it contains all my necessities for the night. I push the bedroom door open and try not to think about the time I spent here. I have no idea why I kept the house after everything went to shit, but I’m grateful for a place to stay tonight where I’ll get some peace. I’ll be jet-lagged as fuck if I don’t try to sleep, and I can already feel the headache brewing.

Dropping my bag near the base of the bed, I rummage around for my phone. I check for any new messages, wondering if there will be any further responses to the last one she sent me. Not that I’d replied to her last message.

I’m dreading tomorrow. Everything about this situation is shitty and fragile. I know there will be missteps. Arguments. Accusations. Emotions are going to run high, for all of us. Everybody involved in this is focused on one thing, but we all want something additional. There are vested interests and egos in play, things I’m going to have to navigate while keeping my own in check so I can get what I want.

There are no new messages on my phone, so I grab the charger from the case, plugging it into the wall socket before I sink onto the bed. I open the email icon, looking at the message that turned my whole world upside down and set everything on fire.

Joseph,

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to write this email. I’ve written what feels like a million versions and deleted every one because nothing feels good enough.

Please don’t stop reading.

There are so many things I should say to you. I should be on my knees and begging for forgiveness, but I expect that won’t be something you’re interested in. More than that, I don’t have the option for you to stop reading thinking this is me asking for absolution. There are more important things taking place at the moment.

About a month or so after you walked out of my life, Maddie fell ill. She was getting bruises and seemed really fatigued. We thought it was just from some school clubs and exercise activities she was doing, combined with moving up to the secondary school, but Verity took her to the doctors anyway. It was just supposed to be a precaution, as we didn’t think there could possibly be anything seriously wrong.

Except it was. Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia. The doctors were optimistic about the treatment and her outcome. They told us she was going to be fine. She had all the treatment, including some rounds of chemotherapy. She was given a clean bill of health. She was well. She was better. Life moved on, and I thought it was all in the rear-view. A horrible nightmare that we had woken from and could move on from. We convinced ourselves that it was a bad dream, that the future was as bright as we were promised.

A couple of months ago, she fell ill again. The doctors confirmed that the ALL was back. She’s been sick with it. Worse this time. She’s had chemo again and is through the worst, but the doctors say they may consider a bone marrow transplant, just in case, to try to prevent her relapsing again. They’re not sure yet, but it’s a possibility. For various reasons, none of us can donate. Nobody is a high enough match. The doctors have asked for wider family members to be tested, to see if they’re a match. Otherwise, if they make the choice for a transplant, they’ll be looking for strangers on the bone marrow donation register.

She’s a smart kid—she’s figured out from conversations and testing results that Verity isn’t her biological mother. She knows about me. Although she doesn’t know who you are (yet) because we haven’t told her your identity, she knows you were lied to. It has been a rough ride and adjustment, to say the least. A hurdle we’ve been dealing with along with the illness. Our resilience has been low, and emotions have been high.

If you choose to help, to come and get tested, then please know she is aware that I’m in touch with her biological father and she’s open to meeting you. After this is all done and she’s better, she’ll be open to considering establishing a connection with you. More so to you than me at the moment.

I’m not dangling that in front of you as an incentive. I just… wanted you to know.

Please know, if you choose to help, you’re walking into a minefield. I have no idea how she’ll react to you if you do meet. She has said she wants to meet her biological father, but she swings through all the emotions. To be expected, I guess.