Rosie had been in London for three days now, and it turned out I sucked at this.

I'd met Rosie's guardian, Senora Florencia, an elderly lady who grudgingly brought Rosie to visit with me and didn't speak any English, although she didn't give the impression of having much to say even if she had. She dropped Rosie off every morning and picked her up every night and generally emitted a vibe of low-grade hatred.

(I asked Rosie how long she'd been with her, and she got all sad and quiet and said, "A little while now" and I silently flipped my shit and started googling solicitors who specialized in international child custody cases.)

Because I liked her. You're supposed to love your kids, and I wanted to, but…

I liked her. I liked that she was obviously too smart for her own good. I liked that she was independent and curious and pretty, just like her mum.

I wasn't, honestly, a fan of her clothes. I normally love miniskirts on women but seeing them on my daughter had made me realize that all men are predatory scumbags and made my fingers itch for a cricket bat.

She also kept calling me "sir," and I couldn't quite muster up the sack to say, "You can call me Dad, if you want?"

Anyway I had absolutely no idea what to do with a surprise teenaged daughter so I went on blind relative-in-town default and kept taking her to tourist attractions. That day we'd done Westminster Abbey (she liked the tombs), the Eye (she wasn't a fan of the heights) and the Aquarium (which I think she enjoyed but I had thought we were a world class city and it was absolute garbage).

It was a bit bitter, honestly. London should have been Rosie's city. She should have been bored out of her mind as I squired her around things she'd already seen on dozens of class field trips and enriching family activities. Instead she was wide-eyed and excited and taking hundreds of selfies at interesting landmarks.

"It's not at all like home. It's so big," she said, smiling, as she tore into her fish and chips. Another thing I hadn't realized about teenaged girls is how much they need to eat just to remain upright and functional, "And so many people."

"Is this your first time away from home?" I asked.

"We went to Rio when I was ten, and then Buenos Aires when I was twelve. My class at school is going to New York City next term and mum says… said… that I can go on that."

And then there was that. The bloody repeated misuse of tenses.

"I've never been to South America," I replied, "But New York is really cool."

'Really cool' I said to my daughter, because I had no idea how not to sound like a twat.

"Do you like it where you live? In… Montevideo?" I asked.

Rosie shrugged.

"It's okay, I guess. We have a nice house, pretty near the beach. And the women's football team took third at the World Cup."

"You like football?"

She nodded.

"I'm a wing-back, on my school's team."

"You're kidding," I grinned, "That's what I played, when I was at school."

"Really?" she smiled, a wide white Mary Morstan smile, "Mum totally doesn't get sport. She never understands… understood."

Tenses, again. And I have known Sherlock Holmes for twenty years and have therefore learned the value of letting people continue to dig. I just asked, "You any good at it?" and she said, "I'm the best in my class" and was cuter than just about anything.

After second luncheon we went to Kensington Gardens and walked around-

("Who is this bit for?"

"It's the Princess Diana memorial."

"Who's she?"

Jesus, I was getting old.)

And talked.

"So you're… just like a regular doctor?" she asked.

"Actually these days I don't practice, though I keep my license up. The cases and the writing keep me busy. But yeah, I was, when I knew your mum, a regular GP. I'd been a surgeon, but I got shot in the shoulder, in Afghanistan, and I never got back all my dexterity."

"I think I might be a doctor. I'm pretty good at school, and mum thinks it'd be a good job for me-"

"What does she do for a living?" I asked mildly.

"Well she used to be a midwife, but now she has-"

"A job," I interrupted, "Which most people don't actually have when they're dead."

Rosie stopped dead in her tracks and flushed a brilliant crimson, before starting to wring her hands together again, and stammering, "I didn't technically say that she was dead…"

"Yeah," I agreed, "But you did bloody well imply it. Did she not want to talk to me? Is that why she didn't come out with you?"

"Um…" Rosie mumbled. A dire thought came to my mind.

"Rosie-" I asked, "Who's Senora Florencia?"

"She's a Lyft driver. I met her at Gatwick Airport and put her on retainer," she said quietly.

"Oh, Jesus Christ. You… ran away? Does your mother know where you are?"

"I mean- She was being such a complete bitch to me about-"

"God, she's going to kill us," I exclaimed. Quite possibly literally. "Rosie, get your mobile out and phone her, now."

"Um-"

"Right now, young lady!"

This stern paterfamilias act felt like absolute bullshit, but apparently Rosie fell for it, because she fumbled her mobile out of her pocket and dialed. Glancing guiltily at me, she said quietly, "Hola mama" when it rang through.

I could faintly hear Mary's voice, as they started off in a rapid-fire conversation in Spanish, Rosie's primary language which, ha ha, I don't actually speak.

As for me… I was thinking. And looking around the sunny gardens, at the people walking past, the children playing.

They talked for a few minutes, until Rosie switched back to English, and asked, "Did you want to talk to him?"

I didn't hear Mary's answer. But Rosie didn't hand over the phone so I suppose I knew what it was.

Eventually they rang off.

"She says," Rosie began, "That I can stay until my return ticket."

This time, I could tell, she wasn't lying, "When's that?"

"A week. I have to get back to school after easter holidays."

"Okay," I said, rubbing my nose, "Where are you staying?"

"The Holiday Inn, in Camden Lock."

"Right. We'll go and get you checked out of there, and you can take the spare room at mine."

Rosie nodded solemnly, and we headed out of the park.

As we got to the gates, though, I pulled my own mobile out of my pocket, and muttered, "Damn."

"What?"

"I- look, are you all right getting yourself checked out and getting back to my place? Something's just come up."

She agreed, and I put her in a cab (a black cab, apparently Lyft drivers being too easy to suborn) and sent her off with my address, my house key, and strict instructions to behave herself.

And then I loitered. Not for very long, until what I was expecting to happen… happened. A small woman came out of the gates from where I'd just emerged. She had long chestnut hair done up in a knot, wore a plain blue pantsuit, and carried an enormous handbag. Stepping to the sidewalk, she was raising a hand to summon a cab when I cleared my throat behind her.

"Hello, Mary."