Page 85 of You Were Always the One

Over the next few days, I stay at my mother’s house. She seems pleased to have me there, but as I soon realise, she sees it as an opportunity to sort my life out.

‘You can stay with me until you find your own place,’ she says firmly. ‘There’s plenty of room here.’ But she’s also a step ahead of me.

Stay? ‘Mum, I have to go back to France at some point.’

‘How can you?’ she demands. ‘You’re a father, Rigby. You have responsibilities now.’

‘I know that,’ I say patiently. ‘But Emma’s with Archie. She isn’t going to want me around all the time. I also have a load of stuff to pick up.’

‘I would have thought after everything that’s happened, the two of you might give it another go,’ she says huffily.

Shaking my head, I fold my arms. ‘We tried that, remember? I have no plans to leave until Emma and the baby are fine.’ Right now, I can’t imagine being anywhere else. ‘Talking of which…’ I glance at my watch. ‘I better get going to the hospital.’

‘You can take my car if you like,’ she says begrudgingly.

When I get to the hospital, Emma seems brighter. Moreover, our baby is doing well, given the circumstances of his birth. We go together to the baby unit, standing beside him, two proud parents, as I briefly regret that Emma and I couldn’t work things out between us.

It’s as though she reads my mind. ‘If only you and I weren’t such a disaster,’ she says somewhat undiplomatically. ‘We’d be a perfect little family.’

‘You do have Archie,’ I remind her. ‘I have a feeling he’s going to be a great stand-in dad. I’m going to be around, too. Just not all the time.’

‘Thanks for coming back so quickly,’ she says. Then she wobbles slightly. ‘I hope he’s going to be OK.’

‘The nurses say he’s doing well,’ I remind her. ‘On the whole, I’d say things are looking good.’

‘He isn’t out of the woods,’ she says anxiously. She turns to me. ‘We need to give him a name.’ She pauses. ‘No offence, but I don’t think it should be Rigby Junior.’

‘It’s a fine name,’ I say, pretending to sound wounded. But it’s no secret she doesn’t like my name. ‘What are your thoughts?’

‘I’ve been thinking about Fraser – it was my grandfather’s name,’ she says. ‘How about you?’

‘I have a list. It’s in France,’ I say. ‘But I like Fraser.’

‘How about Fraser. Then Rigby as his middle name?’ Her eyes meet mine for a moment.

I stare at her. Is this one of her jokes? ‘I’d really like that – if it doesn’t offend you,’ I say.

‘I like the sound of it. Fraser Rigby.’ She pauses. ‘Do we agree?’

It’s like dipping into another life when, on my back to my mother’s, I call Sophie.

‘They’re both doing OK,’ I tell her.

‘Thank goodness.’ She sounds relieved. ‘Have you chosen a name?’

‘He’s Fraser Rigby,’ I say, a little proudly.

‘I like that!’ she says. Then, ‘When are you coming back, Riggs? I miss you.’

‘I miss you, too.’ I miss France, and the simplicity of rural life. ‘I want to stay here though, until we know Fraser’s stronger.’

‘I understand,’ she says. ‘I must go. Maman and I have a market to get to.’

I have a sudden vision of the sleepy French village, the heart of it slowly stirring into life; of the little bars and cafés, the majestic plane trees that line the roads; of shots of strong coffee, missing all of it.

With Christmas around the corner, shop windows are decorated, the streets illuminated with lights. Meanwhile, it’s one of those English winters where the days are half-lit and the rain seems incessant.

‘I don’t think we’ve ever had so much rain,’ my mother grumbles. ‘I still haven’t got around to clearing up all the leaves yet.’