Page 84 of You Were Always the One

‘I have to go,’ he says hurriedly. ‘I’m taking her to the hospital.’ The call ends and I sit there, stunned, as beside me, Sophie stirs.

‘What is it?’ she says sleepily.

‘It’s Emma. She’s gone into labour. A month early.’

‘Shit.’ Sophie sits up. ‘You must go.’

My mind is racing. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

‘Drive to Caen. I can book you on the next ferry,’ Sophie says.

‘It isn’t quick enough.’ Picking up my phone, I google flights to Gatwick. Finding one from Toulouse at 6 a.m., I book a ticket. Getting out of bed, I dress and gather some clothes, only at the last minute remembering my passport.

‘Sorry to rush off. I’ll call you when I get there.’ I lean down to kiss Sophie.

‘I hope they are OK. Drive carefully,’ she says.

The drive to Toulouse takes almost two hours. Mercifully, with it being early, the roads aren’t busy. Parking in the long stay car park, I head for the terminal, berating myself for staying in France, until reason kicks in. Even if I’d been there, there’s nothing I could have done.

It’s the most hideous, helpless feeling as I watch the time pass, drinking more coffee as I wait to board my flight. It’s a beautiful winter morning and I dimly register the mist lying in the valleys as my flight takes off. But for the rest of the flight, I notice no more than that. After landing at Gatwick, I check my messages. They made it to the hospital in Brighton just in time. They’re both OK, Archie tells me, but the baby’s been taken to the neonatal unit.

Congratulations. He’s a boy.

A mixture of emotions engulfs me. Joy, awe, but then unexpected fear washes over me. I can barely take in I’m a father, but the baby being early frightens the hell out of me.

As fast as I can, I disembark and make my way to arrivals, then through the airport to the station and onto a train, totally unprepared for the fact that Emma and I are parents.

Once I’m sitting on the train, I text Sophie to let her know, then my mother, who, of course, is already up and about.

‘Congratulations!’ Then she adds, slightly worriedly, ‘It’s rather early. Are they OK?’

‘I’ll know more when I get there,’ I tell her. ‘Archie said he’s been taken to the neonatal unit.’

‘He? You have a son,’ she says wondrously.

It is entirely wonderous. In equal parts, it’s also terrifying. At the hospital, when I eventually find Emma, she looks exhausted. Moreover, her eyes are red from crying. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says.

‘What for?’ I say. ‘It’s hardly your fault you went into labour.’ But maybe this is what is meant by mum-guilt, I’m thinking.

‘What if it’s because I didn’t want him?’ she sobs.

‘But you did.’ Crouching down next to her, I stroke her hair off her face. ‘And you do. I do, too. He’s going to be the most wanted, loved baby ever,’ I tell her.

‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

Archie’s voice comes from behind me. ‘Shall I take you to see him?’

Leaving Emma in bed, I walk with Archie to the neonatal unit. And the minute I clap eyes on my tiny helpless son, fall hopelessly, irrevocably in love.

‘He’s a miracle,’ I murmur to Archie.

‘He is,’ he says softly. ‘I’m sorry I scared you last night. But Emma said you’d want to know.’

‘No, thank you. I’m glad you did,’ I say quietly.

I watch my son closely as fear overwhelms me. Seeing how vulnerable he is, I have an overriding urge to protect him. I crouch down so that my face is close to him. ‘Hey,’ I say softly. ‘I’m your daddy.’ I study him closely, the perfect skin and faint down of hair on his head. The tiniest fingers I’ve ever seen. ‘He’s beautiful,’ I say to no one in particular.

Getting up, I turn to Archie. ‘Will you promise me something? That you’ll always call me, if anything like this ever happens again.’ It’s sinking in that I’m not going to be in our baby’s life every day, that it’s Archie who will be there, as I stare at my son again, unable to take my eyes off him.