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The Steadfast skips as it goes faster and faster, trying to overcome the waves.
Mari smiles and smiles, and kicks out her feet into the spray.
Her arms are folded over the railing of the boat, her hair is blowing about in the wind, and Kathy doesn't think she has ever looked more beautiful.
Kathy's always loved the sea. It changes day-to-day but stays the same, loyal those who are loyal to it.
When the boat stops and bobs, Kathy always feels like her heart beats in time, like she's sort of part of something bigger and ongoing and wonderful.
She wanted to share that with Mari. Who is also wonderful. And has somehow agreed to go on a boat trip date with Kathy, who she has barely known for three months.
She brings the borrowed boat to a stop, thinks Thanks Dad, Sorry Dad, as the engine makes a cheerful knocking noise and when the boat is almost stopped, makes her way to the back of the boat.
"I've never been out this far before," says Mari, sweeping an arm out to encompass the whole of the empty ocean in front of them, "it's gorgeous."
Kathy nods, pretzels herself around the railing.
"I know. So peaceful."
"Just us and the ocean."
The silence is long, but nice. Kathy gets to nudge herself even closer to Mari, almost cuddle up, while they both breathe in the salty air and peace.
Kathy lets out a long, drawn out sigh, trying to gather her courage to take Mari's hand.
Why was it easier to bring her all the way out here than to just reach out?
"Thank you for bringing me here," Mari says, leaning in, fitting her head into the suddenly very tense crook of Kathy's neck.
"You are... welcome."
Mari reaches over, links her fingers with Kathy's, and sighs the sigh of the content.
The Steadfast bobs ever on.

I don’t know. I really don’t know. Originally this was just going to be a bunch of puns about rodeos and cowboys, but it did its own thing and became sort of depressing??

Shazza is sprawled on the sofa, chewing her faithful gum, and flicking endlessly through television channels, doing her best to channel her inner 90s teen, while I cautiously stand next to the plug so I don’t disconnect my phone from where it’s charging.

“Mate, what even is this,” she says, squinting sideways at an image corrupted by static, “You need to remember your Netflix password asap, and stop doing damage to yourself to get out of gym.”

“Fuck off, Shaz. S’low blood pressure.”

It’s after 7:30 on a Thursday night, I’m cycling through all my various passwords on the Netflix app on my phone, trying to remember what seemed like a good password at the time. Obviously too good, as I have now forgotten it entirely.

I can hear Mum in the other room, chatting on the phone – probably my Auntie Liz – and the half-second words of each flick-through on the TV, and I stumble backwards, catch myself at a weird angle with a well-placed foot.
I insert another password, pleasework, then everything goes muffled.
I look up, but darkness is creeping through the edges of my vision, tunnelling in.

“Shaz?”

“What?”
I don’t know what to do here, but I’m already wobbling again.
“I’m going to sit down now. I can’t hear anything anymore. I can’t – I can’t see.”

“Mate-“

I use the wall on one side to steady my slide down to the floor. I can feel Shazza walking up to me, then desperate steps back and forth, and more.

I still can’t hear or see anything, darkness, eerie quiet.

20 minutes later, I am in my mother’s car on the way to hospital while Sharon holds my hand.
The vibration of the car is very slowly turning into a rumble I can hear.

Mum is on hands-free with Dad, letting him know we’ll be in A&E.

40 minutes later, we’re waiting to be seen.
I’m not bleeding, so I’m a little further in the queue than Mum would like, but I’m ok.

I’m starting to see again.

It’s blurry, but it’s there.

Shazza’s still holding my hand. She looks terrified.

Two hours later, I see a frazzled-looking, but calm-exuding doctor, who, after a couple of easy cognitive tests, explains that I fainted without losing consciousness, that my brain decided that was the right thing to do in the moment.

“So I rebooted because I stumbled?”

“Basically. Your ankle is recovering from a sprain. Half your brain told you to lose consciousness because of the pain, and the other half said, ‘No. We don’t do that.’ This was the compromise.”

Excellent.

“So I’m ok.”

He nods, “It’s not unusual, and there are no lasting effects.”

“Will it happen again?”

“That’s unlikely, if this is the first time you’ve experienced it. ”

Sixteen days later, it happens again.

A month and a half later, it’s happened a total of six times, and I am back in A&E. This time it’s lasted an hour, and I need to hang onto my mum when she moves in order to get anywhere. No worse fate for a teen.

It’s a different doctor, and she sends me up for an MRI immediately.

I’m so tired that I could fall asleep the minute I lie down, but even with headphones and the top 40 being pumped directly into my eardrums, the machine is loud.

Presyncope – fainting without losing consciousness – has a number of causes, can be a symptom of a number of things.

“We’ll figure it out,” says the radiology nurse, “We always do.”

I get a specialist assigned to me, whose first free appointment is in another three months.

My parents are furious that it will take that long.

I’m just resigned.

My blood pressure drops dangerously low.

Mum starts putting sugar in my tea, and Dad keeps bringing me awful-tasting sports drinks.

Four months in. I’m officially classed as “chronic” by the specialist, but there’s no condition or disease after that.

All that means is I’ve had whatever this is for 3 months or more.

I think they need to redefine their definition.

“Alright,” says the doctor , tucking her hair into a ponytail, “Buck up, this won’t be quick, but it won’t be too bad.”

“I feel like if I buck that will be bad,” I joke, eyeing the largest needle I have ever seen.

“It’ll be fine. You got the anaesthetic, you’ve got your mother, just try to relax and it’ll be over in about half an hour.”

She makes me curl up in the foetal position, on one side, with my head on two pillows.

It’s unpleasant, but not actively painful. She doesn’t nick bone, she doesn’t hit anything she shouldn’t.

I spend the first ten minutes trying not to breathe in too much and move anything I shouldn’t, until she tells me to relax, and to trust her.

Every so often, the doctor will move something, or change hands. My mother smiles and chats aimlessly at me. Work, the upcoming weekend, the Aunties.

I drift, a little dizzy, dozing in that area between consciousness and sleep. I feel drained, even though I haven’t done anything to feel that way. At Ieast I know the tired bit is just me and not the presyncope.
I'm starting to be able to tell.

At the forty five minute mark, my mum asks, gently, “So sorry. It’s been more than half an hour, is everything ok?”

“It’s fine, I just want to try and reduce the pressure a bit. Cerebrospinal fluid should be lower than hers is. I just want to bring it down a bit further.”

An hour in, my back and hips are starting to ache due to the position I’m in, and I’m exhausted. I want to go home.

She reluctantly pulls the needle out, unsatisfied with the pressure.

She reiterates what the pamphlet on lumbar punctures said, that I should be ok, but headaches are a normal after-effect, take paracetamol, drink lots of fluids.

I go home feeling ok, with an ache in my back, but nothing else. I sit in front of the television and drink water and watch NCIS reruns until my eyes burn.

Nobody really described the intensity of this “headache”.

I spend the whole weekend, all 48 hours, in a dark room with an icepack, desperately trying to remember why I shouldn’t be taking more painkillers.

I lose track of time.

Mum answers texts for me – I’m ill, try again Monday.

Shaz comes round on the Monday night. That’s nice, anyway.

I show her the bruise, a thin purple line running the length of my spinal column, spreading outwards at the puncture site like a river and lake. Or a trail to an airplane crash.

“Cool. Gross, but cool.”

Seven months and twenty three days, back with the specialist.

It’s some sort of dysautonomia. Not narrowed down very far, since I reached that conclusion on my own with Wikipedia.

Still, better than nothing.

He tells me to go to A&E immediately if I have difficulties swallowing.

I tell him I could have figured that out on my own, thanks.

Mum doesn’t say anything.

“Tell them you’re my patient,” he says, reading the room, “You’ll be seen sooner and they’ll let me know you’re there.”

As we find out, it works.

Thirteen months and six days later, I find myself in the same foetal position, for a second lumbar puncture, to double check, and to lower my CSF pressure.

The doctor recognises me, grins as she sits down.

“Back on the horse, eh?”

I joke again, taking a last swig from my Lucozade bottle, “Not how I like to be referred to, but ok.”

The nurse chuckles. His smile is kind, he’s new on this floor.

I smile back.

“She’s really good at this, you’ll be fine.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo,” and I know now it won’t be the last, “Let’s get it over with.”

While I lie there on my side, I stop counting the days.

I decide it’s not worth doing the individual count, it won’t help.

Depression, anxiety. These are often comorbid with chronic diseases.

The school finds me a counsellor. Dad finds me a psychotherapist.

I talk to both.

I think it helps.

Shaz is proud of me, in her own way, though sad she’s not enough.

“I get it, you know, that I don’t get what it’s like. Still, I’m here.”

I need the reminder, sometimes.

I end up back in hospital with tremors. Always nice to meet a new symptom.

While I’m there, I lose vision and hearing again. Brian, the nurse, is my main daytime contact for a week.

Mum and Dad still have to work.

He tells me about his parent’s farm, and his original dream of being a jockey, but he couldn’t stand the cruelty to horses, or anyone or anything in pain.

He’s built like a pro-wrestler, but he’s a softie.

When I finally get diagnosed, it’s just a flood of relief. It’s been twenty six months since that initial bout of presyncope, and all I wanted to know was what.

Mum’s more of a how do we fix this, and Dad’s gone with how to fix the house around this.

Knowing what is enough for now. It’s not just me.

My blood pressure crashes again, and I’m too weak and shaky to do much for a while.

The nurses welcome me back with a teddy.

Shazza places the teddy onto the bedside table, then elbows me into sharing my bed, sprawls out next to me and on top of me, remote control in hand, and flicks through the television channels, looking for something to watch until Brian bustles through, makes sure I have my IV in properly despite the jostling.
Shaz raises an eyebrow at me, “You didn’t tell me you stayed in hospital so long for the view.”

Brian smiles at her, flirts back for a minute, leaves to get on with his duties.

“There’s a joke about riding a cowboy in there somewhere,” I tell Shaz, “Or lassos and ropes. You always did like men with broad shoulders.”

She laughs, “Text me when you think of them, yeah?”

We go back to flicking through the channels.

“Mate,” she says, wrinkling her nose at the hospital’s entertainment offerings, “Have you got your laptop? Did you ever remember your Netflix password?”

Fiction! Based on vaguely real events, but very much fiction.

Adam deposits his champagne coupe onto a passing waiter’s tray, smiles and nods.

“I entirely agree, David, the FT is the best way to keep up these days, although I do have a soft spot for the Economist, myself.”

David shrugs expansively, “You can't trust them though, far too much liberal thinking.”

Katherine smiles, shows her teeth, “Darlings, must we talk shop? This is still the soirée! Not the board meeting.”

David inclines his head in agreement, “Of course, my dear. What would you like to talk about?”

“Well,” Katherine begins, eyebrow raising, smirk firmly in place, “We could talk about the woman that accompanied our dear Adam tonight.”

David grins, thrilled, “You dog! You brought someone and didn’t tell me?”

The waiter reappears, two new full glasses on his shiny tray, and once Adam takes both, vanishes again.

“I did indeed,” he says, “She’s far too lovely to waste on the likes of you.”

"They were sat next to Helen and Andreas," Katherine explains, "I can't believe Helen got to meet her before us!"

“I want to meet her!” David declares, “Immediately if not sooner.”

“Darling,” Adam calls over his shoulder, “Have you met the Davenports?”

Emily is a vision in red, hair up, diamonds glinting as she moves.

“Adam,” she says, kissing his cheek, “I thought you had abandoned ship when Mrs Hindelang brought up children.”

He put his arm around her, “Meet David, my CFO, and Claire Mitter, his far better half. I’ve told you about them.”

"Katherine and David of the rounds of golf and best roast lamb! An absolute pleasure."

"The pleasure is all ours," says Katherine, eyeing how close Adam and Emily are, "I have heard absolutely nothing about you in return, however."

"Oh, he's just shy," Emily winks up at him, "I'm an open book! What do you want to know?"

"How did you two meet? Was it romantic? Oh, is it that coffee shop he always stops at in the morning?"

David, sottovoce, "Or the bar he escapes to at night?"

Katherine smacks his arm, "Naughty."

Emily grins, "Not quite a bar. How would you tell it, dear?"

"I wouldn't," says Adam, raising his glass, "Because it would ruin the mystery."

She laughs at him, checking him with her hip, "Such a tease. We met at church, naturally."

"In an ancient Greek temple, on holiday!" Adam laughs back.

"Oooh, a friend's wedding?"

"A friend's divorce!"

Katherine laughs, "Oh, go on then!"

Emily smiles into her champagne, "I will end the supense. We met at a party, we have friends in common."

"I think they regret introducing us now," says Adam, "I keep putting poor Joe off to go out to lavish dinners with you."

"Don't let me keep you from Joe," she replies, hand on her heart, "He is a sweetheart. He can come with us to Core. Have you booked yet?"

Katherine gasps, "Core by Clare Smyth? We must all go, I love her. Such a wonderful chef."

"We must!"

"David, will you arrange something?"

"Of course, Katherine."

She patted Emily on the arm, "Where else has this rapscallion taken you? Tell me everything, David has lost all sense of romance since our last anniversary."

30 minutes, two more glasses of champagne, and a truffle and goat's cheese blini later, they finally escaped Katherine's interrogation of their love lives and out towards the car.

"I'm sorry about that, she just gets excited. I tired to warn you, but she's a bit... unexplainable."

"Hey, don't worry," Emily winks, dropping the posh accent, "It's what you pay me for, right?"

Adam quirks a smile, "Heh. Yeah. The money should already be in your account. See you next time?"

Emily stretches, clicking her joints, "You have a lunch with the Bouviers on the 12th. Glad we have our backstory settled into the consciousness of your circle, makes it easier to keep it going. I told you we needed one."

Adam sighs, "Yeah. I'm still not convinced. It still feels like lying."

"And yet," says Emily, getting into the car, "Here I am."

Adam collapses into the driver's seat, "Here you are."

"Now, darling," a snort, "Darling. Take me back to the office, will you? I have a breakfast quite early tomorrow and I need to go over my notes."

For the lovely swirlsofpurple, who almost managed to double-dog-dare me to write about porn. Almost.

Hello again everyone! Since Rosie and Theo made such an impression, I decided to see where they might lead me. This is a few years down the line.
Vote here: https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1007980.html

Rosalie did not attend the service.

She had learned early on that she didn’t do funerals. Too much black, too much sadness, too still. Funerals made her twitchy, like she wanted to crawl out of her skin and yell.

She stayed home and looked after Patricia instead. Pat was almost two and a half, and far too young to go to a funeral, according to her father. Memories like that stick, they return to cause damage later, and an afternoon with Rosie would be far better for her than attending her mother’s funeral.

Theo had been Gloria’s commanding officer.

Gloria was – had been – a bomb tech, with a specialisation in chemical weaponry.

Rosie had immediately liked her when she had met her, a calm and smiley woman presenting a platter of dips at one of Theo’s get-togethers, her hair always scraped back. Young, too, straight into the army from university, just like Theo, his protegée.

She had planned to exit this year, to go and study to be a paramedic when she came back from this tour.

They had known one another for six years, although Rosie knew Mark better. Military spouses have to stick together.

It helped that Mark was just lovely, always happy to meet up, and that he let her into Patricia’s life without any hesitation. Rosie had adopted that whole family into her life.

So she was Auntie Rosie to Patricia, a female figure always there to help while Gloria and Theo went out to defuse the world.

Pat was all smiles, like her mother. She was always excited to come round. She settled easily in front of Sarah and Duck, explaining again why Umbrella was her favourite character, ate an afternoon snack of a tangerine and a packet of fruit Claws without spitting anything out, danced around to Moana before her nap and helped her bake a cake after.

Patricia was wonderful.

Rosie had never really wanted children, too worried about her own childhood experiences coming back to haunt her, but after spending so much time with Pat over the past two-plus years, she could see the appeal.

Rosie’s phone pinged from the other side of the room, and Pat immediately got excited.

“It is Daddy? Can I talk to Daddy?”

It wasn’t. Theo was letting her know that Mark needed a little more time to decompress, that they were going to get a drink, and could Rosie please make up the guest bedroom for him and let Pat know?

She sent back a short video of Pat twirling around the living room (“Say hello!” “Hi Daddy! Look, I’m Elsa!”) and assured him she would take care of it.

“Well, Pat, it looks like we’re having a sleepover!”

Pat was excited to stay over until it came time to actually go to bed. Rosie had done bed time with her before, but never on her own, and frankly, she did not know how babysitters did this regularly.

It had all been calm during the first book, Pat happy to make the funny voices with Auntie and shout out at the right times, but now she was flailing and crying after the second one, such a quick change that Rosalie didn’t know what to do with it.

“I want Daddy,” Pat was hiccoughing so violently that Rosie was worried, “Daddy always reads me a story and tells me my Mummy loves me and I want my bed and my Daddy!”

Rosalie tried.

“Your Mummy loves you very much. And your Daddy loves you very much too, he is just out with Uncle Theo tonight and will be back by the time you wake up, I promise.”

Pat’s sobs had now drowned out any hope of actual words, and she went limp on the bed, exhaustion catching up with her.

“Oh, my darling, “ Rosie bundled her up in her arms, hugged her tight, “I know it’s a lot. You can cry if you need to.”

“I want my Daddy,” was muffled into her chest, tiny fists tugging at her jumper, “He needs to say goodnight.”

Rosie’s heart clenched at that. She hugged her tighter.

“He will. I promise he will, he will leave an X on your hand with a felt-tip, ok? We’ll leave it right next to your light. So when you wake up tomorrow you can see he said goodnight.”

No heart wouldn’t have broken at the tiny, “Promise?”, that Pat let out.

“I promise, my darling. Let’s go and pick a colour.”

Rosie wiped her tears, got her some water, and took her back downstairs to choose a colour. Pat was soothed by holding the purple marker, but was still restless, so Rosie tried her best to drone her way through twenty pages of aquatic animal facts and sat next to her until she was fast asleep. She took a deep breath, looking at the time, then picked up the marker and drew a cross on Pat’s hand. She had the feeling Mark would be in no state to do it himself tonight.

Theo dragged Mark up into the guest bedroom after forcing a glass of water and a slice of toast down him, wrestled him into a clean t-shirt, made sure he was alright, then came back down to talk to Rosie as quietly as possible, careful not to wake either guest.

He sliced his own toast down the middle, contemplating the cake on the side.

“It was a nice service. The squad really pulled together for her, got all the flowers in, flag. Some lovely speeches.”

“I’m glad,” Rosie made them both a cup of decaf tea. Too late at night for proper tea, it would keep him up, but they definitely needed something, “She deserves something lovely.”

“Yeah. I think my speech was alright. I never really know how to say just how much they’re appreciated.”

“I’m sure they know.”

“Her parents came over to shake my hand. Her mother thanked me for keeping her as safe as I could, she said Gloria had always been erratic until she settled in with the squad.”

Theo dropped his toast back onto his plate and pushed it away.

“If it’s me, I want to be a tree.”

Rosie looked up, held his gaze. This was important. It didn’t usually go this way, for all that there was a ‘usual’.

Theo always did his best to talk to every family member, to shake hands with partners and parents and children. It had never been someone they were both so close to, though.

“A tree?”

“Get a bulb to plant in my ashes, and then pick somewhere in the Wye Valley. I want to be a tree.”

Rosie nodded, poured in the milk, handed him his tea, “Ok. I want to be donated to science. Organ donation, then medical science.”

Theo took the cup, but held on to her hand, face serious, “Medical science it is.”

He pressed a kiss into her hand, and she gave him a half smile.

“I’ll write it down next week,” she said, “Make it official.”

Theo pulled his toast back, taking a deep drink from his mug.

“Mark drank quite a bit, then?”

Theo nodded. Exhaled.

“He wouldn’t go into the house.”

She took a familiar sip from her own mug in the following silence. Still awful.

“We went back after the service, after the – wake? Reception? – and he just couldn’t step in.”

“It’s got to be difficult. I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Here's hoping you won't have to find out,” Theo said, squaring his shoulders, “I was thinking. I think that we should let them stay here until he’s back on his feet. His family is far away, and Gloria’s parents are not young. He needs support.”

Rosalie nodded, idly reaching for the sugar. It never fixed the terrible taste, but it made it more bearable.

“And you know him well, and Pat adores you. They both need us right now.”

Rosie nodded, already convinced, “Yes. Of course they can stay.”

Theo smiled at her, small, warm, “Not forever. Just until he’s ok. Until her ghost has left the house.”

“Of course,” she repeated, “As long as Mark needs.”

The next morning, Rosie expected to be woken up by an excited toddler, but was woken instead by her husband bringing her coffee.

“Marvellous man.”

Theo settled the mug onto the nightstand, “You should peek into the guest room. It is adorable.”

So Rosie stretched, pulled on a jumper and padded over the carpeted landing to the guest room.

Pat must have come in during the night, because she was sprawled over her father, fast asleep.

Both of them had their mouths open and were breathing softly, starfished out with their shirt riding up, one foot under the covers, the other in the air.
Pat was clutching her felt-tip. Mark had a wobbly purple X on his hand.

Theo stepped up behind her with his phone out, trying to find an angle around her.

“They’re so cute,” she whispered, “He’s going to hate that you took a picture.”

“They’re identical,” replied Theo, grinning, “And it’s going into an album to bring out at her graduation.”

Pat yawned widely, snuggling minutely closer to her father for a minute before opening her eyes.

She looked disgruntled to be awake, still not fully aware.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” said Theo, “Ready for breakfast?”

Pat mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “cake”, and slowly clambered off her father, raising her arms as soon as she was off the floor.

“Up.”

Rosie dutifully picked her up, and Pat rubbed her face with a chubby fist.

“Want cake.”

Theo grinned at them, “Me too. Cake for breakfast it is.”

Mark eventually stumbled down the stairs, where a large slice of chocolate cake and a strong coffee were waiting for him.

Rosie was on the sofa, reading the news on her tablet, idly finishing her coffee, with Theo and Rosie chasing each other around in the garden in sneakers and pyjamas.

He collapsed into a chair at the table and drank deeply from his mug, obviously not coping well.

“There’s paracetamol if you want it,” she said, getting up to refill her own mug, stealing his along the way, “And there’s the option of a cooked breakfast if you feel like cake won’t cut it.”

Mark frowned as she refilled both mugs, adding milk into hers and sugar into his, then slowly lowered his gaze to the cake in front of him.

“Oh,” he croaked, “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

She handed him his full-again mug along with the packet of painkillers and sat back down, happy to nurse her third coffee of the day without her husband telling her to lay off the caffeine. It was her weekend, and she could do what she wanted with it, including overdose on rich Colombian blend.

Mark ate his cake like a zombie, shovelling the food into his mouth without any signs of conscious thought, draining the mug in one go.

Outside, it looked like Theo was teaching Rosie to army-crawl on the patio. At least the ground way dry. They were going to have to get her a new set of PJs for tonight.

“Eggs? Sausages?” Mark made a face, “You can have more cake if you want.”

Mark picked himself up from the chair and collapsed onto the sofa next to her, immediately moving so his legs were in her lap. She just raised her tablet and continued reading.

The ceiling must have whispered doubts into him, because he suddenly shifted.

He stared up, upset, “I don’t know what I’m going to do without her, Ro. I don’t know how to do this on my own.”

Rosie set the tablet down.

“Do you want sympathy, or solutions?”

A shrug, “Bit of both.”

“Ok,” she said, “Well. I don’t think anyone knows how to do this. You just do your best. You try to remember that you are adored. Pat too.”

“Patti-girl. I’m already thinking of occasions, of her wedding, and – how does that work without a mother?”

“She’ll have aunts, friends, in-laws. And you.”

Mark closed his eyes, “It’s fucking awful.”

“It really fucking is. I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

“Yeah. Thanks for looking after her yesterday. Glo wouldn’t have wanted her there, cooped up in stiff clothing, everyone she knows crying.”

Rosie squeezed his thigh, “I understand. And you’re welcome. We had a nice day.”

“She wouldn’t have wanted to be there, right? She won’t hate me when she’s older?”

“No,” Rosie confirms, firmly, “You were right yesterday. She’s too young. She will appreciate it when she’s older. She has other things to occupy her memory. Now, go and put your shoes on. Find your daughter outside. She loves you a hell of a lot.”

Mark sat up properly with a sigh, “I don’t think she understands. Gloria was already away. It’ll be weird without her videos and pictures.”

“Then let her stay alright for now. Explain when you can, and she’ll be alright. Losing a parent is really hard on young children, but I can tell you, I know they survive,” Mark looked up at her tone of voice, so she softened it, “Especially ones with loving families.”

“I don’t want to go back to the house.”

She nodded, “Then don’t. Stay here.”

“Ro, as much as I appreciate the hospitality, I can’t just-“

“Yes, actually. You really can. Theo and I discussed it last night. You stay here as long as you need, and there will always be a grownup around, whether it’s Pat that needs one, or you.”

Mark slowly stood up, going to the kitchen door, and slipped on Theo’s dreadful gardening shoes, “Glo was right, you know. You should have been godmother.”

Rosie watched him run up and tackle his daughter, much to her delight, watched Theo's giant grin as he joined the giant bear hug with a roar.

She hoped they could be what Mark needed.

*****

Rosalie drank her coffee quickly, car keys already in her left hand.

"Pat! Theo! Patti!"

Mark walked past with three lunchboxes, tucking each one into a different bag before turning to shout up the stairs as well.

"Patricia, it's time to go! You're going to make us late!"

Thunder, earthquakes, Patricia stomped down the stairs with all the grace of a clumsy elephant, stopping halfway to blow a kiss at little Sophie.

"Theo!"

"I'm almost done," came the strangled cry from Sophie's bedroom, where Theo was still tugging leggings onto her, "Down in a minute!"

Rosie rolled her eyes at Mark, who raised his eyebrows back, as if to say this was chaos of her own creation.

"If you and Sophie are not down in the next three minutes, we're going to be late! I'm not making both Patricia and myself late!"

Mark held out both Rosie and Patti's coats.

"We can be late," Patti yelled up, unhelpfully, "Don't worry about it. It's just maths!"

"Young lady," said Mark, scolding her with his gloves, "That is not the sort of example I expect you to set for Sophie."

"Sorry Dad," she rolled her eyes, "Come on, Uncle Theo!"

Rosie smiled, and smiled some more, and held that warm glow inside her.

Theo came down with Sophie, who immediately wanted to come into her arms, high fiving Mark's bike helmet on the way past.

"Have a good day, my loves," said Theo, giving Pat a quick hug, "I hope you learn something interesting, and I hope you have fun at nursery, and I hope you," a quick kiss goodbye to both Rosie and Sophie, "have a quiet day at work. I'm on dinner tonight."

He then leaned back in to high-five Sophie, who squealed with the sort of joy that only a toddler can exude, and grinned.

Mark opened the front door with determination, "Ok everyone, here we go!"

Trying to get an eleven year old and a two year old anywhere, in sync with each other and their parents, was like organising a bus-load of people, Rosie thought.

Rosie opened the car and strapped Sophie in as Pat stowed their bags then climbed into the passenger seat, and Mark unlocked his bike.

"Bye Patti, bye Soph!"

"Bye Dad." Came armed with another eye roll, a true pre-teen.

"Bye Mai-mai!" Came the enthusiastic toddler reply from Soph, who would likely never actually call him Mark.

"See you tonight!"

And so it came eventually to be that Rosie drove herself, her daughter, and her niece to school, only seven minutes behind schedule.

They were getting better at this, but there was room for improvement. Ah well, there was time.

"Ghosting" inspired the ghost of Gloria. I want to write more about that, about Patti growing up with someone in the space of mother who isn't her mother and doesn't want to be, about her strange two-parts-united family, and about their daily lives, but this got too long for its own good already. Draft 1, let's call it.

I hope you enjoyed it.

This week has been complete madness from beginning to end to new beginning. Glad I got my previous entry in (by the skin of my teeth!), and apologies to everyone - there has been no down time, and therefore no comments, but you had some wonderful entries!
Here is my Write Off entry.

Be-beep. Be-beep. Be-beep. Be-beep. Click.
Rosalie turned to face her alarm clock. Was it really 7 am already?
Theo gave a sleepy sigh and rolled over, going back to sleep. That was alright. He didn't need to be up yet anyway.
She sat up, staring down at him in the darkness. He didn't look like an angel. He didn't look peaceful. He looked, she thought fondly, like someone had just stolen his favourite toy and was refusing to give it back.
With a sigh, she got up and padded to the bathroom. The bedroom's carpet flooring might be difficult to clean, but it was a wonderful feeling to be able to walk on it in the morning without getting frozen by the morning cold.
She went through her morning routine on automatic pilot.
Yesterday had been Theo's last day. Today, he was leaving. She keeps thinking should have done something special, like a party or a big meal with all his friends and family or something, but he hadn't wanted any of that. They had had supper with his parents, he had gone to the pub for a pint with his best mate, but that was it. The last thing he had done before going to bed was check his e-mails whilst on the phone to his baby sister – who would “always be my baby sister, no matter how old you get and how many boyfriends you have, but if you stay single until I get back then I don't have to worry about bashing people's faces in for breaking your heart after sleeping with you. Yes, of course that's a valid concern.”
She didn't even put on a robe to go downstairs. It wasn't cold and her nightie (and old rugby shirt of Theo's that he no longer wore because it was too big) was long enough to be decent.
She made pancake batter before doing anything else. They were Theo's favourite food, and who was she to deny him something so simple?
She checked the fridge, made sure they still had whipped cream (which they did), checked the window sill, made sure they still had mangoes (which they did) and checked the dryer to make sure Theo's lucky boxers were dry (which they were, of course). Everything was fine. Just like she had planned it. She folded the last of the laundry neatly into a basket which she put next to the stairs and stopped, for a moment. Routine was nice, but who was she fooling, really?
At 11.30, in less than 4 hours' time, she would have to drive her husband to the train station, watch him board that 11.55 train to London, where he would meet the other men and women the RAF had called back and they would take another train to King's Lynn, in Norfolk, where they would be bussed to Marham, where they would then decide what to do with him. He would call her in the next few days to tell her where was being deployed to. She hoped it wasn't Afghanistan again.
Theo plodded downstairs, stifling a yawn and stretching as she got to work with making breakfast. They were young. Not as young as they had been, but 35 was still young, and Rosie believed that, while the RAF had taken away some of their years, she and her husband had stayed young in order to make up for that lost time. And now she was rambling.
“Pancakes,” Theo exclaimed sleepily, “excellent.”
She smiled from across the kitchen island, pouring more batter into the pan. He sat down at the counter opposite her, watching the pan carefully.
“Ah, proper pancakes, I approve. None of those crap things.”
“Crêpes, Theo, not crap. They're really good. Well, we'll have to get Marie to make them for you at some point, hers are absolutely delicious.”
“But your pancakes are better.” He smiled that disarming smile at her, still sleepy but utterly loving. She blushed, still, after all this time, and ducked her head, poking at the pancake with a spatula.
“That remains to be seen.”
Theo stood up and set the table, stopping to give her a kiss on the cheek as he collected the mugs.
She ignored his off-key humming as he wove his way around the kitchen, getting out the rest of the breakfast foods. She smiled as he prepared the mangoes (“Mangoes! I love mangoes.”) and brought her a sliver over.
It was that newly-wed feeling all over again, she thought, as he fed her the sliver.
“Tea or coffee?” he asked, hugging her from behind as she flipped the pancake.
“We have been together for, what, sixteen years?”
“And five months.” He added proudly.
“Right. Since you got so drunk that you ended up in the kitchen in my digs, on the floor, on one knee, singing the chorus of 'I Will Always Love You', with Mike making those awful noises in the background.”
Theo smiled and smiled, “And you kissed me to shut me up. I'm glad Mike stuck to the harmonies instead of trying for the lead vocals – maybe you would be making pancakes for Mike today.”
“Right, harmonies. So, sixteen years and five months,” she said, “and you still don't know what drink I like in the morning?”
He brought out the coffee machine, “Well, you never know when you'll change your mind. Your mother told me that when she was pregnant with you, she didn't like the taste of coffee any more and that I should watch out with that for yours.”
Well. That explained a lot.
“Besides, I used to drink tea before I realised you had 'real coffee' every morning.”
“You drank tea?” Sixteen years and she was still learning about him.
“But you hate the taste of unsweetened tea, which is how I liked it, so I stopped.”
She got the pancake onto the stack of other ones, put the pan down, walked over to where Theo was, and kissed him soundly, holding his face in her hands.
“I love you.” she said, hoping he would know how much she meant that.
“I love you too.”
He didn't break eye contact. She knew he meant it just as much.
The rest of breakfast went by much too quickly for Rosalie. Oh, it was a wonderful meal, with laughter and good food, but by the time they were finished it was almost 9.30.
They had slowly eaten their mango halves and then moved on to the pancakes, which Theo had covered with more mango and whipped cream. There was no denying her husband was odd, but she wouldn't have him any other way.
She could tell he was nervous about leaving because, without her prompting him, he put the dishes in the dishwasher and dealt with the coffee machine filters. He normally did that at the weekend.
He even took the laundry basket upstairs without her having to mention it.
“Rosie?” he shouted from upstairs as she made him sandwiches for the journey up to the base. “Where are my lucky boxers?”
Yes, that was her husband. She could have laughed.
“In the basket with the clean clothes.”
She heard footsteps as he walked across the landing, probably naked.
“Aha!” came a familiar cry of triumph, “Got them!”
“Well done, dear. We shall celebrate with cake!” she shouted, buttering a slice of bread.
“There's cake?”
His voice was nearer, probably by the stairs, tempted by the offer of cake.
“Not yet, but there can be.”
She knew where he was going with this.
“Yes please! Any chance of lemon drizzle?”
She could almost see the puppy-dog look.
“I'll see what I can do.”
“Excellent. Cake!”
And with that, his footsteps retreated all the way to the bedroom, probably to finish getting dressed.
She shook her head in amusement, then went to check on their lemon situation. Of course they had lemons. She had bought them when she had gone to buy mangoes, water bottles, Terry's Chocolate Orange and whipped cream.
She finished making the sandwiches then dealt with the cake, the measuring keeping her mind off Theo's imminent departure.
Once the cake was in the oven, she made her way upstairs to find her husband in the study, on the computer, looking focused.
She had a shower and got dressed slowly, trying to make herself relaxed. It wasn't working.
According to her alarm clock it was 10.17, which meant she had just over an hour with her husband left.
Theo walked in, counting something on his hands.
“Forgotten something?” she asked.
“Not yet. I just realised I hadn't packed a suitcase, so I was going to do that.”
She nodded, “An excellent idea. Don't forget toothbrush and toothpaste.” Like you did last time.
He gave her a hug and a kiss. He knew what she was thinking.
She went downstairs. She brought in the mail – a couple of ads and the telephone bill – and sat down with the newspaper. Death, disaster and war. She hoped, for the ten-thousandth time, that Theo would never be one of the soldiers she read about in the paper.
The cake came out beautifully and Theo came down before she could call him, just as she was adding the drizzle on top. He said, as he stole a bit of the topping, that he had followed his nose.
She bumped his hip with hers to reprimand the nicking of lemon sugar, but said nothing.
Her mother – and his, for that matter – would be proud if they had known she had made the cake without consulting the recipe. But she had made it so many times for him that she knew the recipe off by heart. It was his favourite after all.
They sat down with a huge slice of cake each. 10. 53, according to the microwave.
“Have you packed a comb?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Underwear and socks?”
“Of course.”
“Tickets, money, phone, keys?”
“In my jacket pocket, in my wallet, in my pocket, in the bowl in the hall.”
“Alright then.” She poked at her cake with the fork, watching the slice wobble before it collapsed on itself and fell on its side.
“This is delicious.” said Theo, looking happy as he sat back in his chair, piece of cake half-devoured.
“Of course,” she replied, flipping her hair back in mock-vanity, ruining the sarcasm with a grin, “what else would it be?”
He grinned at her, a stripe of lemon rind stuck in his teeth.
It wasn't funny, but it made her giggle anyway.
They laughed until it was time to go.
He double-checked he had his travel documents and packed his lunch away in the backpack (“Terry's Chocolate Orange! Yes!”), taking two bottles of water with him, just in case.
She went to start the car as he collected his suitcase from upstairs.
They drove in silence, but try as she might, Rosalie couldn't think of anything to say that didn't sound stupid. She felt 19 all over again, on their first date alone.
She parked outside the station, feeling slightly desperate.
They walked in, the clock said 11.47 and she couldn't see his train on the platform yet, which meant they had enough time to say goodbye properly.
He leant his suitcase and backpack against the barrier and the moment he turned round he swept her into a kiss.
“Remember I love you, alright?”
She nodded, hugging him closer, “And I love you. Don't die, please.”
“I won't. How could I die when I know you're here waiting, with cake?”
Her laughter was forced out despite the tears that were welling up.
“I'll call you tomorrow.”
Another kiss.
Fighting sobs, she watched her husband walk away from her and towards the RAF for the third time in her life. She couldn't hate them, they had paid for his university fees, so they were partly responsible for making them meet. They had looked after him well so far, and she could only hope they continued to do so.
As the train came into the platform, she could hear the awkwardly strained notes of Theo's singing, “And Iiiiiiiii-eeeh-iiii, will aalwaaays luuuuuhve youuuuuuuuuuuuuu...”
She waved madly at the train as it left the station.
The rest of the day went by without much fuss, punctuated only by the occasional text message.
“I forgot my watch. I knew there'd be something. There always is. Arriving in 10 minutes.”
“Tube is SO CROWDED! It's not even rush hour and I'm squished between a woman with a baby and a man in a business suit.”
“Make sure you remember to post that letter to John, I was supposed to remind you earlier. Oops!”
“You should have spinach pie for supper. Get Toula to come round and make it, you'll have fun.”
“Arrived at the base. I love you, Rosie. I'll see you soon.”
If you were to ask her what she had done that day, she wasn't sure she would be able to answer.
She got home late that night, it was already dark. She had in fact had supper with Toula, but at her house rather than here, because Toula was looking after her nephews for the week while their parents were on holiday. Spinach pie was her speciality, and they had ended with slices of Rosalie's lemon drizzle cake. Toula had hugged her and told her that she was only a phone call away if she was needed.
Rosalie locked the door, dropped her bag on the counter in the kitchen and dragged herself upstairs, chucking her shoes to one side as she undressed.
She reached the bathroom in Theo's rugby shirt and socks, running a hand through her hair. She stopped in her tracks when she caught sight of the mirror.
There was a huge heart drawn out of toothpaste on it. To the left of the heart, also in toothpaste, was a message.
“My love for you will last longer than the heart I drew, and Colgate would be proud.”
She smiled, the first time that day since he had left, and tried to wipe a smudge off. She couldn't.
Theo had covered the toothpaste heart in clear polish. It was permanent.
Rosie bet that he could hear her laughing all the way from Norfolk.

We moved in June.
Just the way it is in a big city, every year the rent goes up, and if it's not worth the extra cash, we find somewhere better, or cheaper. If you're lucky, both.
This time, we got lucky.
So we moved, and, as we do every year, promised ourselves we would never move again.
An enormous living room, two big bedrooms, two (2!) bathrooms, what more could we ask for?
Storage.
Specifically, shelf space.
The first piece of furniture I have ever bought with the intention of keeping forever is a bookcase.
Simon added to his collection of two.
So now we have extra bookcases, and a desk, and a ridiculous sofa to go with our ridiculous living room.
The only thing I did not buy is a bedside table.
I didn't think I would need it at first. I thought I could get away with leaving phone on the other side of the room and have it function as an alarm clock, force myself to get up and turn it off on the other side of the room.
That did not work out.
(I have never been a morning person.)
So I eventually put together a bedside table using two boxes left from the move.
Sort of left over.
Well. Full.
Of books.
I sometimes go through the box, telling myself I need to actually read some of these, rotate with the ones on my bookshelf that I haven't read, maybe use my commute to catch up.
But my commute is shaky, and I'm either still asleep or too tired to focus, despite wanting desperately to finish some of my reading list.
The genres and subjects vary from screenwriting guides to urban fantasy capers to financial explanations.
It's all exciting, or new, or interesting. I am craving a holiday and a good read.
And yet, and yet.
I have never been allowed into a bookshop without an adult.
That hasn't changed, despite the fact that I'm a real grownup now, with bills, taxes, a permanent job and no time to see friends.
The only true adult who can supervise me in a bookshop is my dad. Some things don't change.
But another three books were recommended to me over the weekend, so gosh.
I'd better find some space on my overflowing shelves.

At the eleventh hour, from a phone, with the dubious internet connection of the stately manor home where we're having our family reunion, here it is!
If you would like to read or vote for any of the others, you can do so here: https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/999752.html

Nicholas was bored. He rolled his shoulders to try and get some of the blood flowing, but he had been sitting in the uncomfortable chair for too long.
The bonds at his wrists and feet were just slightly too tight, which meant that he had to keep tensing the muscles in his legs and moving his hands about. It was getting tiresome, if he was allowed to say so.
The room was still dark, apart from the little slivers of light filtering into the room from the gap between the door and the door-frame.
Nicholas yawned. It occurred to him that this was the first time since he was small that he hadn't covered his hand with his mouth.
Funny how your brain works in situations like these.
The door opened slowly, with a creak that must have been deliberate.
“Riddle me this, Johnston. How does a man like ye'self get involved with people like me?”
He was a big man, robust, very tall, quite menacing, absolutely.
Nicholas grinned at him, “Through money, of course.”
“Of course.”
The man snapped his fingers and someone brought him a chair.
"You know, I never thought it'd come to this with you, Johnston. I thought you were one of the good ones."
He sat down as though he were a movie-villain, with the chair's back in front of him, straddling it.
Nicholas bit his lip at the clichéd thought, because he was sure that above it all some God of creative writing was currently laughing at him and the situation he was in.
"You're a good man, I think, just in a spot o' bother."
Laughing and pointing, probably, as the man pulled out a heavy looking stick.
"Ye know how much you owe us, right?"
Nicholas nodded, trying to look innocent and probably failing, tie slipping out of his jacket, "A lot, indeed."
"A lot is an understatement, mate. So, how are you gonna pay?"
Nicholas could not hold it in, had never been the type of person to hold it in, and asked, "Cash or credit?"
"You - mate. If you have the money..."
"Oh, no, I really don't. Just a joke."
The big man rolled his eyes.
"Mr Johnston. This is a serious matter."
Nicholas stifled a giggle.
"This is dangerous situation you've got ye'self in."
Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh!
"And I am only here to help you. Failing that, I'm here to do some damage."
Damn. That was a laugh all the way out loud.
The big man scoffed, swinging the stick, “You got something to say, funny man?”
Nicholas had to bite his tongue to stop the laughing and something about phallic objects spill out. There was a great joke in there somewhere.
The man frowned, “Spit it out, Johnston, we 'aven't got all day.”
A gasp for breath, then, “You sound like one of my scripts.”
“What?”
Nicholas shifted in his bonds, trying to loosen the ones at his wrists again. It failed.
“You sound like you're quoting something I wrote. Like one of the bad guys from Motor Cop 2 or 3.”
The man raised an eyebrow at him, “You wrote those films?”
“Yeah. I know, right? They were crazy sequels, but the production company insisted.”
A moment of pause.
“Hey, what's your name, man?”
A very confused, slightly suspicious frown, “Tony.”
“Tony! Perfect! I'll put you in the next film.”
Another pause. The man – Tony, Tony was his name – was still frowning.
“Hey, could you loosen these ropes a bit? I mean, it would hardly help the writing if my hands and feet fell off because of bad circulation, would it? I mean, maybe that depends on the critic you choose to side with, bastard lot, but I would like to think that functioning digits are key to film-writing, at least for me. You can do without food or drink, but my best films are written with fingers typing away - when I'm not romancing some gorgeous woman, you know what I mean?"
The man stared at him for a long moment.
"Do you - do you know why I'm here, Mr Johnstone?
"Of course, I'm simply trying to convey that the next Motor Cop film, or the next Space Mixer film, for that matter, keep an eye out, it's coming out in December and is going to be such a freaking hit, well, they depend entirely on me, with my writing skills, and each phalange intact to type on a keyboard! And my brain, of course, but it would so much easier to write it myself than to dictate, you know? Assistants are great, I don't know what I'd do without Mary, but the actual creation needs to be mine. That ownership, that writing, that's what keepsr going in such a difficult industry. I'm sure you understand, this can't be an easy industry to crack or stay on the top echelons of, am I right?"
Another long stare from the man. Tony. Who then stood up and said, in the tone of a shop clerk exasperated with their latest client continually seeking a manager, “I'll get the boss.”
Nicholas moved his head around to relieve the crick in his neck as the man walked out the door he'd just come in through.
“Is that a no then?”