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“Sick with nerves. We've got a sound check in a while so I'm trying not to think about it ‘til then. Listen, I've got to go. We’re heading out for breakfast. Give Maxie a kiss from me, okay?”
My stomach drops. I know he's trying not to abuse Stuart's friendship by using his phone too much, but we've been talking for less than a minute. “Oh, okay. Can you call me after the gig, let me know how you get on?”
“It'll be the middle of the night, babe.”
“I'll be awake, I expect,” I say dryly. “But you could text me otherwise.”
“Yeah, sure. I'll try to call. Put your phone on silent in case you're asleep, I'll leave a message.”
That's all it takes to cheer me up. “Sounds good. I love you.”
“Love you too, sweetheart. Give Max a kiss from me.”
“I will.”
* * *
Max is so worn out from all the fresh air that he only wakes up once. I tiptoe across my childhood bedroom to pick him up, and amazingly he goes back to sleep before I even have time to think about feeding him. Suspecting some kind of ruse, I lay awake for a while, listening to him breathing, waiting for the crescendo of cries I'm convinced are coming.
But he remains silent.
This is where I should fall back to sleep myself, make up for all the hours and minutes I've lost since Max was born. Sadly, I'm wide awake. So I toss and turn in my bed for a while, occasionally checking my phone for messages, trying to swallow down the disappointment when there isn't any flashing light.
At three o'clock I remind myself that even if they're the opening act they could still be on stage. At four I make the excuse that he's probably watching the gig. By the time six arrives, my wakefulness is only enhanced by the tuneful cacophony of the dawn chorus, as the birds wake up to another beautiful morning.
There's still no message.
Okay, so there could be a hundred reasons for his lack of communication. Most likely Stuart's phone has run out of charge. Or maybe they're celebrating a little too much, and he's too busy drinking and smoking to remember his promise.
I shake my head at my foolishness and quickly tap out a text, asking Stuart how it went. They'll call me when they get a chance.
It's still early when I creep downstairs to make a cup of tea. Though the days have been hot, the early mornings still retain an edge of chill, and I pull my cardigan around me to stave off the shivers. In my efforts to pack light, I have no slippers, and the flagstone floor is cold on my bare feet.
When I pull open the kitchen door, light floods through the entrance, casting a pool of yellow on the creamy-grey floor. My dad sits at the table, a cup of half-drunk tea in front of him. The paper is open on the cryptic crossword as he fills the squares in with meticulous script. Eventually he looks at me over the rims of the reading glasses he's had to wear for the last few years.
“Would you like a cup?”
Even when it's only him, he brews the tea in the pot. I wonder if it's simply an old habit, or whether he really prefers it that way. For a moment, I consider buying him a pot for one, but that seems so sad. So final.
“Yes, please.” I pull a chair up and crane my neck to look at the crossword. “How are you getting on?”
“I've only just started. It seems fairly simple this week.”
“Do you do the crossword every Sunday?”
“Every day,” he says. “The crossword and Radio Two in the mornings. The garden in the afternoon.”
I can remember when he was a real career man. Always talking about his projects at work. That seems a lifetime ago, now.
“Have you thought about doing some online?” I ask. “There's loads of good quiz sites, I bet there's hundreds of crosswords.”
He looks at me as if I'm crazy. “Why would I need hundreds? I only need one.”
While he pours my tea I pull my phone out of my pocket. No message.
“Expecting a call?” he asks.
Shrugging, I take a sip. “Alex should be off stage by now. I thought he might phone me.”
