Dolphin-san: S'up people? Here's the next chapter of the fic, and as usual, I hope you enjoy.

Thanks this time to kailover2006 and Broken Vows for reviewing my last chapter. Hoping to get more for this one.

Chapter 4

It didn't help that Bruce kept shaking his head and telling him he looked terrible. Every time he said it, Max longed to blurt out that maybe if he was pregnant and his wife wanted him to have an abortion, he might look terrible too.

But he couldn't.

He didn't dare.

As long as nobody else was aware of the situation, Max felt superstitiously, there was a chance it could somehow sort itself out, be magically resolved.

It didn't seem likely, he had to admit. But you never knew, miracles did happen.

The other reason he was reluctant to tell Bruce was . . . well, his job.

Bruce was his employer, and if Hiro did leave him, he was going to need, rather badly, to stay employed.

Max couldn't help wondering how a man who disapproved of people spending more than thirty seconds in the loo was likely to react to the ides of time off for antenatal appointments, visits to the doctor, maybe a whole day off to actually give birth . . .

No, no, safer all round to keep this kind of news from him, Max thought with a shudder.

For the time being, at least.

Max felt doubly guilty on Friday morning when Bruce came into the shop carrying a box from the patisserie around the corner.

'You're not eating properly,' Bruce told him, dumping the box on the counter. 'This dieting business doesn't suit you. Here, I picked us up a couple of coffee éclairs.'

Even a fortnight ago, the prospect of a coffee éclair at nine o'clock in the morning would have made him feel sick. Now, gazing longingly at them, Max realised that he was so ravenous he could eat not only both éclairs but the box as well.

'That's really kind.'

Does he really think I look terrible because I'm on a diet?

'Got something else for you too.' Digging in his inside pocket, Bruce pulled out a gilt-edged invitation. 'My mother sent it us. Some charity bash in Belgravia. Sounds pretty good, but we've made other arrangements for that night – it's our wedding anniversary – so I thought you and Hiro could give it a try. Might perk you up a bit.'

'Lovely.' Dutifully, Max studied the invitation. Right now, the only thing capable of perking him up would be a husband with a brain transplant.

'Lots of famous people going.' In case he'd forgotten how to read, Bruce leant forward and pointed to the list of names. 'Wayne Peterson, the footballer. Caroline Newman, she's the one who does that holiday programme. And Daisy Schofield . . .' He hesitated. The name was familiar but he couldn't place it.

'Australian model, sings a bit. And she's acted in a couple of films,' said Max. Hiro had something of a crush on Daisy Schofield, so he was in a position to know.

'Well, should be fun.' Bruce gave him an encouraging wink. 'No getting yourself chatted up by Wayne Peterson, mind. He's a good looking guy.'

Oh yes, highly likely, thought Max. The moment Wayne Peterson claps eyes on me that'll be it, no question.

Bowled over.

Literally, he decided with a rueful smile, if I carry on eating at this rate.

Hiro waited until Max had left for work the next morning before hauling the suitcases out from under the stairs.

Doing it in this way might seem unkind, but he didn't mean to be. It would be far more upsetting for Max, he knew, to be there to watch him pack.

Easier all round to clear things out while Max was out.

Was that so cruel?

It didn't take him long to fill four suitcases; he wasn't making off with the household appliances, only clothes and a few CDs.

Forty minutes later, Hiro took one last tour around the living room. Not the happiest day of his life, but he'd survive.

None of this is my fault, he told himself, imagining Max's reaction when he came home at five thirty and found his note. It really isn't my fault, though. Max knew the rules and he broke them. How can I be to blame when he forced me into this?

He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It had been a wedding present from his grandmother, but he wouldn't take it with him. He wasn't a bastard, for one thing. This might be the end of the road for himself and Max but that didn't mean they had to turn into the kind of couple who fought over the last curtain hook.

Anyway, what use would he have for a clock like that? He was moving in with his old mate Adrian, whose own wife had run off last year with a stockbroker. The last thing he needed was the chiming brass monstrosity his grandmother had ordered through her catalogue.

Much as he loved her, there was no getting away from the fact, Hiro decided; it was one seriously naff clock.

The gilt-edged invitation was propped up next to it on the mantelpiece. With time on his hands, Hiro picked it up and idly read through it again. Last night, Max had produced the invitation from his bag and said: 'Why don't we go to this? Look, Daisy Schofield's going to be there. You'd like to meet her, wouldn't you?'

It had been, he guessed, Max's way of trying to pretend nothing had happened.

'Max, what's the point?' He had been gentle with him, but firm. 'I've already told you, I'm moving out. If you want to go to the party, you go.'

'I couldn't.' Max's blue eyes filled with tears. 'Not on my own.'

That had been it. Hiro had shrugged. Indicating that this was hardly his fault, and Max had flung the invitation to the floor before rushing from the room. Hiro had been the on to bend down, retrieve it from beneath the coffee table and put it safely on the mantelpiece.

Daisy Schofield.

God, she was gorgeous.

That body . . .

Oh, what the hell, Hiro thought as he slid the invitation into the back pocket of his jeans. It wasn't as if Max was going to be using it, was he?

Let's face it, some opportunities are simply to good to miss.

It was a clod, bright Sunday. For what seemed like the first time in months, the sky was blue and the sun was out.

Florence was sitting gazing out of her window when she heard Ray clatter down the stairs.

'It's me, I'm going shopping.' He poked his head around Florence's door. 'Anything I can get you?'

'Absolutely. A bottle of Montrachet, please.'

Ray's expressive eyebrows slanted at right angles.

'Sounds like a sneeze. What is it, some kind of cough medicine?'

'Wine. Better that medicine.' Florence wheeled herself across to where her handbag lay. 'Here, let me get you the money.'

'It's all right. I'll pick it up in Tesco. Pay me later.'

Florence waggled the fifty-pound note at him.

'We aren't talking plonk here, this should just about cover it. And you'll have to go to the wine merchants in Kendal Street.'

'Blimey. Special occasion?' Privately Ray thought Florence must be mad. Tesco did some great special offers. If he was in the mood to push the boat out he could get a really nice Australian Chardonnay for £3.99.

'It's April the tenth. Danny's birthday. We always drank Montrachet on his birthday.' Briskly, Florence snapped her purse shut, determined not to sound like a sentimental old fool. 'I've kind of kept up the ritual. Well, we always said we would. It was Danny's favourite wine. Flashy bugger,' she glanced fondly at his photograph, on the table next to her, 'he reckoned he was worth it.'

When Ray arrived back with the wine an hour later, he found Florence waiting for him by the door.

'Why are you wearing a hat?'

'It's cold outside.' Florence adjusted the tilt of her jaunty red fedora. 'You've been ages. The cab will be here any minute.' She took the tissue-wrapped bottle as carefully as a newborn baby. 'Was the fifty enough?'

'Three pounds change. Where are you going?'

'Hampstead Heath. Parliament Hill.' Florence grinned at the expression on Ray's face. 'The sun's shining. I could do with the fresh air. Anyway, it's where Danny and I first met.'

'People will stare at you.'

'Oh well, I'm used to that.'

'You're going to sit on Parliament Hill drinking a forty-seven-pound bottle of wine?' Ray said in disbelief. 'Have you got a corkscrew?'

'I'm in a wheelchair.' Comfortably, Florence patted her bag. 'I'm not senile.'

The bag, when she'd patted it, had made a clinking noise. As a minicab pulled up outside, Ray said cautiously, 'Two glasses. One for you and one for . . . ?'

If Florence said, 'Danny,' he would have to stop her. There was such a thing as too weird.

'You of course.' Florence opened the door and began to wheel herself through it. 'Who else is going to push me up that bloody hill?'

Dolphin-san: Review please.