Page 28 of Before You Say Goodbye

“Even though it’s just as pointlessly huge,” Bluebell quipped.

“But so much homelier,” Emma said.

“And much, much colder,” Bowie added.

Ben opened the drinks cabinet and poured himself a whisky.

“You ungrateful little shits. Do you know what some people would give to have the home we made for you?”

Bowie and Bluebell smirked at one other. Emma chuckled, shaking her head.

“They are grateful, Autumn, they just like winding Ben up.”

Autumn chose to sit next to Ben on the smallest cream sofa. She was inexplicably intrigued by her lover’s father. He was warm and kind, and it drew her to him. She could already see so much of Bowie in him.

“What do you do, Ben?” she asked as they settled in.

“Nothing now. I did own a content-writing company but I sold it last year when Bowie became seriously ill. I mentor other writers now.”

“I’m a writer too,” she said. She was thrilled to find they had something in common. He turned to give her his full attention.

“Oh, really? What do you write?”

“Everything,” Bowie answered for her, his face exploding into a grin. He said it with the same expression of wide-eyed wonderment she’d used when she’d said the same thing to him three evenings before. He winked at her. She laughed.

“He’s right. Everything. Mainly novels. Poetry, although it doesn’t pay. Articles, sometimes. And my blog.”

“Autumn wrote that book that I was telling you about, Dad,” Bowie said. “About the factory farm.”

“Ah, yes.” Ben nodded. He looked impressed. Autumn felt proud.

“She gave me a copy. I’ll give it to you later,” Bowie said.

“Is it having the desired effect?” Ben asked. “I’m guessing you wrote it to encourage people to consider changing their eating habits?”

“That’s not really happening because it’s mostly vegans who are buying it.”

“People are afraid of change, especially such a big one. It will come. Give it time.”

Something in the way he said it told her he really believed it. His tone was friendly and comforting, and she felt like he had faith in her. She hadn’t had much experience with dads, but she didn’t feel uneasy or uncomfortable around Ben. He engaged herin effortless conversation for over an hour, displaying the same impressive intellect and genuine interest that had attracted her to Bowie, and talking mainly of his children and their ambitions.

“If my parents had let me do what I loved, I’d have been a musician. That’s why Emma and I have always encouraged our children to do whatever makes their souls sing. We have the money to allow them to chase their dreams and that’s what they’ve done, with some real success along the way.”

She found him so warm, friendly and charming, like the dads she’d read about in books and seen on TV. There was something comforting about his presence. Autumn knew if she wasn’t careful she’d commandeer his attention all night. She felt as though she should mingle a little more, perhaps pay some attention to Bowie, his mother and his siblings, but they were entertaining themselves and Ben was so easy to talk to.

“Tell me more about Bowie?” she asked. His face filled with pride.

“Autumn, he’s a wonderful person. Of course, I’m his father, I would say that, but everyone who meets him tells me how lovely he is. He’s sweet and kind and caring, and he works hard. He’s always worked hard at everything, ever since he was a little boy. He’s funny, and would do anything to help anyone. He has such a passion for adventure. He’s never been afraid of anything.”

Ben’s final words caught in his throat. He tossed back his whisky, swallowing hard.

“I’m immensely proud to call him my son. That’s why you must excuse what happened earlier. If things go the way we expect, we don’t have long left with him. We want him for ourselves.”

Autumn nodded. She hadn’t thought about that. To his family, she would be an extra demand on Bowie’s time. Theywanted to spend every minute with him and she might keep him away from them. She resolved to make sure that didn’t happen.

“Tell me about his music.” She liked to hear Ben talk about his son. She let herself wonder if her own father ever spoke of her in this way. She doubted it. To her parents and her sister, Autumn had always been ‘the weird one’. Autumn knew that because of her name and her personality, most people would assume she was from a very different background. They would think she had a family who’d showered her with affection and lovingly pruned her character, who’d consciously raised a confident, independent and determined woman. But Autumn, and people like her, knew better. She was willing to bet her mother had given more thought to naming her than she had to absolutely anything concerning her welfare since. She was sure the Whittles would never believe her and could guarantee she would never feel comfortable talking to them about it. She’d tried that before with people, the conversation always ending with their eyebrows pitched high by scepticism. She’d learned her lesson. Ben beamed.

“Oh, he makes the most beautiful music. He really is very impressive. It kind of happened by accident for Bowie. He wrote some songs when he was younger for an amateur theatre group we performed with and fell in love with the process, but he can be a little shy. He never would have put himself out there if we hadn’t been behind him. We joke that he and Marley are the same, but they’re not. Marley absolutely loves attention — he’s a real extrovert — but Bowie would rather stay in the background and watch someone else showcase his work. Whenever he’s written a piece he wanted to post online or send to a director or whatever, Marley has performed it for him.”

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