If Only…

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 34,644 in six chapters and an epilogue
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 5: An Unexpected Resource

August 2013

Figuring out what to do about the nightmares was a daunting task. He wanted to hold up his end of the bargain with Bridget, but he saw little point in returning to the same therapist that he'd seen previously. He kept meaning to call him, at least as a starting point; maybe the therapist would have further suggestions. Or maybe talking to the therapist again would actually do some good—maybe he should give it a second chance, after all.

He picked up the phone, determined to make progress on this frustrating, nebulous problem.

"Oh, hello, Mr Darcy," said the chirpy voice of the scheduling assistant; Mark was surprised she remembered him after four and a half years. "What can I do for you?"

"I was hoping to schedule an appointment with Dr Greenwood."

"Oh, sorry, sir, but Dr Greenwood has retired," she said, typing away. "His replacement is very competent, though, and is taking new patients."

She paused, obviously waiting for an answer, but he was at a loss at what to say. He had wanted someone who was already familiar with him, with his background and situation. He didn't want to have to start over again.

The typing stopped. "Sir? Are you still there?"

"Yes. Sorry. I… will have to get back to you on that."

"All right, sir. Looking forward to hearing from you."

Mark put down the phone. It was not as if the man hadn't a right to retire, nor had the retirement been intended as a personal affront to him, yet Mark was feeling irrationally upset and discombobulated.

"I'll just see the new doctor," he said aloud to no one but himself. "No big deal."

Yet he did not pick up the phone and call the number again.

…

September, 2013

Mark had never seen Bridget look quite so angry, frustrated, concerned or upset. The worst of it was that she had every right to be.

It was the first day of the new term, the first week of the month, and when she returned from taking the children to school, she had found him in the kitchen, grasping the breakfast nook, shaking and sweating, unable to move, looking as pale as a ghost. Unlike a nightmare, from which he could wake up and escape to safety and security, there had been nothing he could do but hope the panic and paralysis would subside before she returned and he was discovered.

He had not been so lucky.

He was not even sure what had brought it on. Sending the children back to school, where he had little control over their day? The thought of returning to work, after months of handling minor litigation, to handle another intense asylum case?

At last she spoke. Her voice was unsteady, but serious. "I'm at my wit's end, Mark. I can't help you if you don't help yourself."

"I know," he said.

After a moment more, she set her handbag down and went over to him, prying his fingers up from the edge of the counter, then taking him in her arms. He felt himself melt into her embrace as she started to sob. "I don't know what else to do," she said desperately.

"I'll take care of it," he said, knowing it was as pathetic as it sounded even as he said it. He regretted it immediately.

She pushed away from him, anger to the forefront in an instant. "When, Mark?" she said. "You've been saying this for months now, promising this. Maybe even years—I can't honestly remember. I haven't wanted to pester you about it, because… I didn't want you to…" She hesitated, clearly frustrated. "Maybe I should have pestered you. You've done nothing to help yourself."

She was absolutely right. Quietly he said, "I'm sorry."

"So if you're as sorry as you keep saying you are," she said, "take out your mobile right this instant. If you're not sure who to talk to, call Tom, for fuck's sake."

"I can't call Tom," Mark shot back.

"Why?" she said. "Because you can't have friends know you're having problems?"

"As a matter of fact—"

"No, I won't hear it. Stop it. It's the most ridiculous thing—" The sounds of her escalating voice stopped abruptly, and she brought her hand to her face. "You're inventing reasons to avoid doing it, Mark. Making excuses. Every suggestion I make, you shoot down. Short of making the call for you, forcibly dragging you to an appointment…" She trailed off, raising teary eyes to him. "I don't think I can do anything more, Mark, short of threatening divorce."

His mouth went dry. Surely she would not actually leave him. "Bridget. What are you saying?"

"I can't go on like this, Mark. The children can't ever find you like this. The nightmare was bad enough. This would destroy them." She brought her hand to her mouth, then began weeping into her hands. Her voice was fragile now. "I love you more than anything in the world, but…"

He ran his down hands over his face. "I…" Will do whatever you ask, he thought; I'd fix this, if I only knew what to do. "…should get to chambers."

She looked up at him, her tear-streaked face breaking his heart as he had surely just broken hers. "Sure, why not," she said, deflated. "After all, nothing's wrong, is it?"

"Bridget…"

"No, go on. If you ignore it, it'll go away," she said. "That's worked so well for you in the past." She sniffed, wiped under her eyes. "I'll see you later."

Without so much as a kiss goodbye, she turned and walked out of the kitchen.

He picked up his attaché, made sure his wallet and keys were in his pocket, and then left the house, slipping behind the wheel of his car, making the drive as easily as he had hundreds of times before.

He didn't know how long he sat in the car, staring at the wall, at his name on the sign proclaiming the parking space as his. It was entirely possible he was in the midst of another panic attack; he couldn't move, frozen with terror at the thought of going into his office.

He loved his work. It had been his respite so many times in the past, so this was particularly upsetting to him, along with the guilt he felt for worrying Bridget. Scaring the children.

Be a man, Darcy. Go do your job. Do one bloody thing right.

He rose from the vehicle and went into work; he offered perfunctory good mornings to the people he passed by, went directly into his office, then closed the door. His heart raced.

Mark gave his work a good effort, tried to revise briefs for the upcoming week, but his attention span was non-existent. This too was increasingly worrying to him, to the point where he had to set it aside for fear of making a mess of it. He tried reading the newspaper but that, too, only increased his stress levels.

Somehow it had gotten to noon, and despite not having had any breakfast, he found he wasn't the least bit hungry when he knew he should be. Rather than continue the façade of working, he realised that at least for now, the best thing would be to go out and get some food into him. Nourishment might help his ability to focus. Maybe once he'd eaten, he could actually get something done in the afternoon; he could call the therapist, try to get an appointment with Dr Greenwood's replacement. Doing this, at least, would show Bridget he was making an effort when he saw her that evening, and she wouldn't need to bring up the spectre of divorce again.

That was his intent, anyway. He'd picked up a sandwich and a can of sparkling water, went to a bench near the water in Regent's Park and sat to eat. Somehow, though, he never did. Though he could not recall the time passing, a glance to his watch told him an hour and a half had in fact gone by; the sandwich was still sitting wrapped on his lap and the drink had gone lukewarm.

And he had company beside him on the bench.

It took him a moment to realise that he knew who it was that was sitting there, dressed in a tee-shirt, trackie bottoms, and gleaming new trainers, perspiring as if he'd run all the way across town. He may as well have.

"Mr Darcy," he said casually. "Fancy meeting you here."

Mark blinked, wondering if he'd actually gone so far as to have hallucinations. "Mr Wallaker."

He nodded. "If you're not going to eat that, I'm sure the birds would love to have a go." He studied Mark intently. "Everything all right? I come running here most Mondays, and I didn't expect to see you in the middle of Regent's Park on a Monday, especially not staring out at the pond."

"Fine," said Mark. "I'm fine."

"May be impertinent of me to say so," Wallaker said, "but you don't look fine. You look… wrecked."

Mark couldn't help muttering a mirthless laugh. "It's been a difficult day."

"From what I hear," he said, pausing to take a long draw from a water bottle he had with him, "it's been a difficult five years."

Mark bristled. "From what you hear?"

"You and I have something in common," Wallaker said. "Though I doubt you realise it. Back on the Sports Day—"

"Stop being so bloody cryptic, Wallaker," interrupted Mark impatiently, fighting off the absurd notion that Bridget was the 'something' in common, ashamed it had even come to mind. "Get to the point. What have we got in common?"

"There's a point to my meandering," he said. "Sports Day. The starter pistol."

"Let me guess," said Mark. "You don't really have a problem with spoons."

"Indeed," Wallaker said. "See, your wife was being kind, trying to protect my feelings, my privacy, I don't know… I'd just blurted out, quite without thinking, why I tend to react like that when surprised by a starter pistol."

"You were a police officer." Wallaker shook his head. Mark added, "Army."

"Sort of. SAS."

Mark didn't think anything could surprise him, but this did; his brows rose.

Wallaker continued. "Served in Afghanistan. I don't like to acknowledge it, let alone talk about specific events. There is one in particular I wish to God I could forget." He leaned forward, his voice taking on a more confidential tone as he spoke again. "But I'm willing to talk about it with you to demonstrate that I understand what it's like to deal with post-traumatic stress."

"I'm not suffering from post-traumatic stress," said Mark. "Nothing traumatic actually happened."

"I beg to differ," he said, holding up his hand. "Okay, so obviously you did not directly experience a landmine explosion. But you have so often imagined the horrors and the pain of what it might have been like, what it must have been like, that as you've made it almost as real for your brain."

"Did Bridget tell you this?"

"She didn't have to tell me anything," Wallaker said. "I have relived real experiences enough—I imagine obsessing on the death you narrowly escaped has got to be nearly as bad."

"Obsessing?"

"It's not a judgment," he said. "It's just the best word I can think of to describe thinking about it, again and again, as much as you must have done. I've done it myself. Obsessed on whether I might have minimised collateral loss if only I'd—well, no matter. We're not talking about me."

Mark looked back out over the water, did not say anything for many moments. 'Obsessed' actually was fairly accurate, after all, given how he'd analysed the events from every angle, wondering if he could have done anything to prevent Anton from going, if there'd been any clues to the impending attack that he should have seen….

"So…" Mark said, trailing off, his voice was gravelly, his throat closing with emotion; tears welled. Traitorous body, he thought, irritated and frustrated.

"So," said Wallaker. "What do you do now? That's the big question."

"Yes."

"Well, wanting help is the first step—"

"I've wanted help all along," said Mark.

"If you have, from what I can tell, you haven't been very serious about it."

Mark glanced down. "I went to a therapist."

"Granted," he said. "But it was someone who didn't treat you like you were suffering from PTSD, even though they bloody well should have noticed it." Wallaker grumbled. "No matter. I can give you the name of the doctor who treated me. Talk to her. If her clinic can't help, then no one can. They have an amazing arsenal—er, no pun intended—of therapies to draw on."

Mark nodded; suddenly, he felt lighter. Happier. There was hope where none had been before. He even started to feel a bit hungry, and with trembling fingers picked at the edge of the butcher paper, though with the warmth of the day, even under the shade of the trees, he wasn't sure if it was something he should risk eating.

The doubt must have shown on his face.

"Tell you what," Wallaker said. "Let me buy you a pint. A late lunch."

"I…" He stopped, suddenly remembering it was the start of the new term. "Don't you have to get back to the school?"

"My Monday afternoons are free, coincidentally enough."

Mark wasn't totally sure there was a coincidence involved, but he accepted the invitation on the condition that he be allowed to buy the lunch. "As a… thank you."

"You don't have to thank me—"

"I do," Mark said. "You have no idea how grateful I am."

At this, Wallaker seemed uncharacteristically speechless.

There was a pub just near where Mark had parked his car, so they went inside, and quickly had two pints in front of them and burgers and chips on order. Mark drank the first pint a lot faster than he should have done on an empty stomach, but called for a second all the same.

"Easy there," joked Wallaker.

"It's fine, I'm fine," Mark said. "The second is for the food."

"It is fairly good bitter," conceded Wallaker, who also took a long draw to finish his pint, and ordered a second as well.

When the food arrived, he felt like he was shovelling forkfuls into his mouth, and had more than just the one additional pint; as if not to be outdone, Wallaker kept pace with him. The atmosphere, the camaraderie, was warm, friendly, comfortable. Comforting. It didn't hurt that they were both equally, pleasantly pissed.

"Shouldn't surprise me she was right all along."

Mark narrowed his gaze, heard Pam Jones' voice scold Pardon in his head as he said, "Huh?"

"Your wife. She wanted to ask you about help, prod you more, but I told her not to nag," Wallaker said. "Told her you'd do it in good time, that nagging you would just make you dig your heels in. I made a mistake. She was right. You needed a push." He sulked in his chair a bit. "She always seems to be bloody right."

Strange time to bring up Bridget. And when had they talked about this? The hedge? "Have a question for you, Mr Wallaker," Mark blurted.

"Scott."

"What?"

"Call me Scott."

"Okay, Scott," Mark said. "And it's Mark."

"I know."

"Call me Mark, I mean."

"Right."

"So, the question. And you have to be totally, totally honest."

"Shoot." Wallaker pointed his finger and mimed a thumb-trigger.

"Scott, are you attracted to my wife?"

Wallaker looked stunned, but quickly recovered. "As a matter of fact, Mark… yes, I am," he said, with complete candour. "I mean… I'd have to be oblivious not to find her attractive—but I'm not stupid enough to try to do anything about it."

Mark lifted his glass in a 'cheers' gesture. "Appreciate the honesty," he said, then took a sip. "Confidentially, I thought you might be. She has no idea, though."

Wallaker chuckled, then laughed.

"No, really," he said. "She never even realised I found her attractive until… well. I had to be pretty bloody blatant about it." Mark felt his skin flood over with embarrassment. What was he saying? Why was he rambling on like this? He must have been more in his cups than he thought.

"Sounds like quite a tale," Wallaker said, laughing again; Mark realised that he, too, must have been plastered. "How did you meet?"

Mark had no rein on his tongue, and the whole story came tumbling out: the meeting at the Turkey Curry Buffet nearly nineteen years ago, through the misunderstandings and false starts, and then the catalyst that was the Portugal palaver… "And finally, it all came to a head on Christmas Day, after which I whisked her off to Hintlesham Hall… and she still hadn't guessed until I… dropped a fairly obvious hint. Asked her why she thought I'd done all those things for her mum."

"And you've been together since?"

"Well… there was one small hiccup at the start, but… smooth sailing after that."

"Dammit," Wallaker said unexpectedly.

Mark chuckled. "You sound like Mabel. Why 'dammit'?"

He looked to Mark. "Why'd you have to turn out to be such a decent chap?" he asked wryly, undoubtedly intending to make light, but it seemed there was a core of truth to it. "Aw, dammit. The time."

It was nearly six in the evening, and Mark was in no condition to get behind the wheel. "Hell," said Mark. He reached in his suit jacket pocket for his mobile and remembered that he'd left it in his attaché, which was on his desk. Which was in his office. At the other end of a car drive. "Buggering fuck," he muttered.

"What?"

"Left the mobile behind."

Wallaker shoved his hand into his pocket, then towards Mark. "Use mine."

It was practically a relic as mobile phones went; flip-style with a tiny screen, the opposite of what one would call a 'smart phone'. Mark squinted at the blurry numbers—from a lack of reading specs or from the alcohol, it was difficult to tell—and punched in what he hoped was Bridget's mobile number.

"Hello?" came the query after three rings. Thank God, he thought. A familiar voice.

"Bridget, darling, it's me."

After a long pause, she said, "Mark?"

"I should hope no one else would be that familiar with you," he said flippantly, then cleared his throat and tried to be more serious. "I need an enormous favour. But first. I'm really sorry about this morning. I was an arse."

"Mark, are you… pissed?" He couldn't tell if she was angry or amused. "Where are you? Whose phone are you calling from?"

None of the above: she was scared. "I'm fine, really. I'm in a pub with Mr Walla…laker." He had a hard time getting the name out in one piece, so he said it again: "Wallaker. You know, Billy's teacher."

Following this was a silence so pure he swore the call had dropped. "You're getting pissed in a pub with Mr Wallaker," she said, more a statement than a question.

"Got pissed. That's right. Well, we hadn't intended on getting pissed. And that brings me back to the favour. I am in no shape to drive."

More silence. "Why are you with Mr Wallaker?"

"We met and we talked."

"You talked about… your nightmares?"

"Yep," he said, mirroring Billy, popping the final p.

"And the doctor," added Wallaker.

"What?" asked Bridget. "What did he say?"

"The doctor," Mark said, as if it were as obvious as anything.

"Mark!" It was clear to him she was losing her patience. "Where are you?"

"Oh, on Baker Street, I think." Mark looked around for the name of the pub and found it. "Yes, on the corner. Down the street from Mr Holmes."

"Right," she said, then sighed. "You're lucky Chloe hasn't gone yet. Give me about twenty minutes. And no more drinking."

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "Bridget?"

"Yes, Mark," she said in that exasperated tone of voice usually reserved for Mabel.

"I am so, so, so sorry for everything," he said. "And I do love you."

Another stretch of silence before a sniff and a shaky, "I love you too. See you in twenty."

Mark rang off, handed Wallaker his mobile back. "There. Sorted."

"Great," he said; he picked up his pint glass and drained the last of it. "Probably not time for another."

Mark shook his head. "Best not. She could be here in as soon as fifteen, knowing her." Mark reached for his wallet; the time would at least give him time to settle up the bill, and use the men's room. That was if he could manage to stay vertical; he hadn't tried standing yet.

Fortunately, both tasks were a success, and he returned to the table just as the door opened to reveal not just Bridget but Mabel, as well, whose hand she held. His heart swelled with joy to see the both of them. He and Wallaker were relatively easy to find: the man in the expensive dark blue suit with white pinstripes, seated with the man who looked like he'd just come off a running track.

"Mabel insisted upon coming," said Bridget. "I didn't figure on needing to hold you upright—I do hope that you can do so on your own." Mark nodded. "So. Are you all set to go?" she asked; again he nodded.

She then fixed her gaze on her husband's drinking partner. To Mark's great surprise, Bridget smiled; she was not annoyed as he expected she might be, but rather, seemed pleased to see that they'd had a—Dreaded phrase, thought Mark—bonding experience. "And you, Mr Wallaker?" Bridget asked. "Do you need driving home?"

"No, it's quite all right," he said. "I'll ring for a taxi."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, grinning. "I'm not going to leave you behind in a pub, plastered. Come on."

"Yes, Mrs Darcy."

"Fantastic. Ooh. One thing." She reached into her handbag, unlocked her mobile, held it up, then snapped a photo (Mark could hear the shutter-release sound). "For posterity," she said with a wicked smile. "Well, then, let's get on the road, shall we?"

As they walked down the street together towards where she'd left the car, Bridget was carrying Mabel, who looked behind at the two men bringing up the rear. Mabel could not stop giggling madly: "Daddy's all wobbly!" Mark imagined they looked pretty ridiculous. They were not quite holding on to each other for stability, but it was darn close. "Mr Wolkda's thilly!"

"They're both silly, aren't they, Mabel?" Bridget asked, casting a quick glance behind her. "Though I assume there was some serious before the silly."

"Yes," said Mark.

As they arrived to the car, which to his chagrin was practically double-parked, she opened the door with her free hand and asked, "And what was that about a doctor?"

"My doctor, after… serving," Wallaker volunteered. "In fact, a whole clinic devoted to fixing that sort of thing. Or trying."

"Good."

"I'll… email the info when I'm sobered up."

She laughed. "Probably wise. Get in and try not to fall down doing so."

Mabel was buckled into her car seat; Mark sat in the back with her and Wallaker took the passenger seat up front. "All right, Mr Wallaker. Where am I taking you?"

Wallaker gave her an address, but he barely heard it, because his eyes had drifted over to his little girl, who was still looking at him with amusement, even as she held Saliva to her, looking like she might fall off to sleep.

"What, Daddy?" she asked, offering him a drowsy smile.

"Just looking at my princess," Mark said. He couldn't take his eyes from her; her bright, beautiful face, her guileless expression, her reassuringly plump little form… one of his very reasons for living. His reason for life.

Mark recognised he was slipping into a maudlin state just as his head fell back onto the window pane beside him; he woke as the car came to a stop.

"Morning, sleepyhead," quipped Bridget.

He blinked and his mouth was as dry as cotton wool. It took him a moment to realise they had stopped in their own drive.

"You can take yourself into the house, I hope?" she asked. "Looks like Mabel might be down for the count."

He ran his hands over his face; he wasn't quite sober, but he was at least not quite as drunk. "Sorry about this," he murmured.

"Mark, it's okay," she said tenderly. "Unless you don't manage to call Mr Wallaker's doctor tomorrow, in which case, I'm ringing up a divorce attorney." He could tell she was kidding from the tone of her voice, and it made him smile.

"Provided he remembers to email it," Mark said. "Wait, how would he know where to send it?"

"School mail list," she said. "I'll ring him up after dinner and see if he's sobered up. Now that I have his number in my mobile."

Mark pulled himself from the back seat at Bridget dove in from the other side to unbuckle Mabel, who was still clinging to Saliva, her face all hot and sweaty on the side that had been leaning against the car seat. She still looked like a little cherub, even if he knew better to think of her as angelic.

As they entered the house, Bridget ordered him to go splash his face with water then have something to drink—"Again, water," Bridget teased—while she went to touch base with Chloe and relieve her of her duty.

"What about my car, my—"

"We'll worry about that later," she said. "Go drink some water."

Mark went to loosen his tie and realised it was already pulled loose; he hated to think how utterly dishevelled he looked, and wondered if it might be possible to go to the en suite to splash himself and somehow avoid the mirror.

As he bent over the sink, he heard, "Hey, Daddy."

Worse than seeing himself feeling like utter hell… Billy seeing him look that way.

"Hey, Billy."

"Are you all right?"

Mark dried his face with a clean towel. "Yes, I'm fine," he said. "Feeling a bit rough."

"You look a little rough," Billy conceded, sounding far older than his seven years. "Was it a nightmare again?"

He set the towel down and turned to his son. "Actually, something a little different, but I've been talking to Mr Wallaker, and he had some really good advice." Mark had barely got his teacher's name out when Billy looked visibly relieved. "Hope that I won't have the nightmares much longer."

He was rewarded for this with one of Billy's brightest smiles. "That's really good, Daddy."

"You bet it's really good," he said, then, fighting to keep himself steady and against his better judgment, he crouched down and picked Billy up for a tight hug. "There's no one I love more in the world than you, your sister and your mum," Mark said, feeling emotional.

"I know, Daddy," Billy said, returning the hug as tightly as his little arms could manage. "We love you, too."

…

They had not hired Chloe for cooking duty (never mind that, according to Chloe herself, she couldn't boil water without burning it), so due to the late hour for starting to cook a meal, while he'd been upstairs, Bridget had decided to order pizza. Mabel got her second wind at the news that pizza was on the way, dancing around excitedly with Saliva flopping about in hand.

"It's not anyone's birthday," Billy said; pizza was, to him, a treat, so he was more than a bit confused.

"It's a special occasion anyway," Bridget said, perching on the arm of the sofa that Mark had sat upon; she then slipped her arm around Mark's shoulders and kissed him on the top of his head. "You feeling better?" she asked, resting her cheek against his hair.

"Yes, I am."

She handed him a tall glass of cold water. "Drink."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oo, while we're waiting, I'll call… well, unless you think he's still too…" Her eyes darted to Billy. She didn't want to say 'Mr Wallaker' and 'hammered' together in the same sentence with Billy there, but Mark knew what she meant all the same.

"No, he's probably fine."

She pulled her mobile out of her jeans pocket, unlocked it, then tapped a few more times. Mark heard someone answer, and her face screwed up.

"Scott? Your name is Scott?"

Mark chuckled.

"Imagine that," she continued, rather reminiscent of her mother. "Anyway. I was just calling to remind you to send… yes, the email. Well, I just wanted to make sure you didn't forget. Yes. From being…" Her eyes went to Billy again. "…that." A pause. "Yes, yes, that's fine, thanks. By the way… thank you for everything. I mean it. …Oh! Why don't you come for dinner Friday night?" Mark gave the idea the thumbs up. "Unless you've got plans with Sarah…" Her eyes went momentarily wide in alarm; he knew well that she didn't want Sarah tagging along. "Oh. Well, I'm sorry to hear that." As she said it, she grinned. He could only imagine what the sorry/smile combination meant.

At that moment the doorbell went off, sending Mabel into further frenzy. Mark went to stand but she pushed down on his shoulder, silently insisting she'd get it herself. "Have to go; dinner's arrived. Will email you back with our address. All right. Bye."

She touched the screen of her mobile, then said, "Now then. Time for a little pizza nirvana."

As they tucked into their pizza slices, Mark felt a blanket of happiness and security enfold him. He hadn't had a single session with the doctor yet, but somehow he knew it was going to be all right.

"What was that all about?" he asked. "At the end of the phone call?"

Bridget sipped her water, looking confused for a moment until she smiled. "Oh, apparently the attempted reconciliation with Sarah didn't work out. I'm not too broken up for him—she seems a right proper cow." She looked thoughtful. "I just mean that the better I get to know him, the more I realise you were right. He just deserves someone nicer."

She checked her email after they were all stuffed to the gills with dinner and sure enough, an email awaited them there bearing the name of the clinic and the doctor he recommended. "Tell her I sent you," Wallaker had written. "Then again, perhaps not. (Just kidding.) Best of luck, Mark. SW."

In response, Bridget sent him their address and admonished him to let her know if he had any food allergies or dislikes. After she sent it, she looked momentarily dismayed. "It's not a problem, do you think, to have one of Billy's teachers come into the house for dinner as a friend?"

Mark chuckled. "Bit late for that, isn't it?" he asked. "Come on. Let's get the kids to bed so we can go to bed, too. I have more apologies to offer now I'm not half-pissed."

"Half-pissed?" she teased.

…

Mark kept his word; the first thing the next morning, after a healthy dose of coffee and Nurofen, he rang up the clinic and, through the good fortune of a prior cancellation, secured an appointment for the day after next. Bridget snuggled up to him, hugging him tight, telling him how proud she was of him. He felt a bit embarrassed, like he was a schoolboy who'd drawn a stick figure and had gotten praised as if it were a Caravaggio, but at the same time felt pleased for her support.

She told him she would be accompanying him Thursday morning. He protested—after all, it was not like she needed to take him as if she were taking the children to the dentist—but she insisted. "I think it's important that I know what's going on, be involved in your care," she said. "Plus, well, what if you're in no state to drive afterwards?"

He conceded the points, though he hoped the latter would not be the case.

The appointment turned out to be more of an initial consultation, questions and conversations to help diagnose and decide on a plan of care. The doctor herself, Katherine Spencer, was a friendly woman a few years younger than himself, auburn hair shot through with grey and twinkling blue eyes. "I am confident we can help you," she said.

He felt immense relief.

They arranged for eight weekly sessions using a light therapy that had shown promising results in other patients. "I wouldn't call what you're experiencing 'severe'," the doctor explained, "but it'll keep the treatment period shorter, and I think this would benefit you the most."

He'd been prepared to do whatever it took, though secretly grateful for only a two-month treatment period.

"My next task seems much worse by comparison," Bridget said as they drove home.

"What's that?"

"Figuring out what to make Mr Wallaker for dinner," she said with a grin.

By the end of the drive they had decided on pasta. "Now to figure out what kind of pasta."

"Let's have Mabel decide," Mark said.

"Brilliant."

"Maybe not," Mark said. "She might pick macaroni cheese with pepperoni."

Mabel turned out to be more sensible than he expected: "Pink pasta!" she said, jumping up into the air and throwing her hands over her head. It was a salmon pasta dish Bridget often made, Mabel loved the taste as much as she loved the colour of it, and Wallaker had not reported back any food allergies or dislikes.

"Why does Mabel get to pick out dinner?" asked Billy, brows furrowed.

Mark said, "You, my boy, can pick out pudding."

At this he grinned. "Butterscotch cake."

Butterscotch cake was what Billy always picked for pudding, so Mark wasn't surprised. It was a good thing they all liked butterscotch cake, and he hoped Wallaker did, too.