Richard left the office around two the next day, a faint, embarrassing flutter of anticipation stirring in his chest. He told himself it was concern, nothing more. Concern for the children, concern for the situation, concern for Helene's workload. But when he shrugged on his coat and stepped out of his office, he knew he wasn't convincing anyone, least of all himself.
"I'll be heading off," he said to Wendy, adjusting his collar as if the extra movements would hide the slight tremor in his voice.
Wendy looked up sharply from her screen. She blinked. "Shall I move your calls?"
"Yes. All of them." He cleared his throat. "I have… an appointment."
"Of course," she said, though her tone carried the faintest note of curiosity. He could practically see her mentally cataloguing this break in routine. Richard hardly ever deviated from his work schedule; he was a man ruled by calendars, contracts, meetings, strategy. A man married to predictability.
Leaving early on a weekday felt almost rebellious.
He walked out before she could ask more. Because he wouldn't know what to say.
The driver pulled out of the City and into the soft winter haze rolling toward Richmond. The sky was a washed-out grey, the kind that made everything else seem sharper, clearer. The Thames glinted like a tarnished blade as they passed it, and the bare trees along the embankment cast spindly shadows across the road.
Richard stared out the window, hands clasped loosely in his lap. He felt wound up and oddly unsteady at the same time.
He tried to tell himself it was simply kindness. That Isabelle's family had been through too much. That Helene deserved support.
It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the whole truth either.
When the car stopped outside the house, he stepped out just as the door opened and Helene emerged, bundled in her coat, a pastel scarf tucked neatly around her neck. Michael was nestled in the pram, cheeks rosy with the cold. Helene looked up, surprised, pleasantly so, which eased something in him he hadn't noticed was tense.
"Richard," she smiled. "I wasn't expecting you today."
"I... I had the afternoon free," he said, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Thought I'd see how you were getting on."
"You're just in time to walk with us to the school," she said, nodding toward the pavement. "It's a ten-minute walk. A bit chilly, but not too bad."
"I don't mind the cold."
He fell into step beside her.
Michael babbled from the pram, a soft, breathy chain of sounds that made the cold air puff around his tiny lips. Richard found himself smiling down at him.
"He's a happy one," he murmured.
"He's an easy baby," Helene agreed. "I'm lucky to have such wonderful grandchildren."
The wind tugged a strand of her hair loose. She tucked it back and kept walking, and Richard felt a strange hum of familiarity, the kind he couldn't place. Something domestic. Something he'd missed without realising it.
At the school gates, children poured out in noisy waves. Helene paused and turned to him.
"Would you mind waiting with him while I go in?" she asked. "It'll be quicker that way."
"Of course."
The warmth of the words surprised him.
She slipped inside, leaving Richard with the pram. The playground sounds rose around him; laughter, shouting, squeaking trainers, a teacher calling out over the din. He looked down at Michael, who was staring up at him with startlingly calm eyes.
"I used to do this," Richard murmured to no one. "Not often enough. But… sometimes."
The guilt sat quietly, like an old bruise pressed.
When Helene reappeared, Becca clung to her coat, cheeks flushed scarlet, and Luke skipped beside her with the skittish energy only young children seemed capable of.
"Richard!" Luke shouted, practically launching himself over. "You're here!"
"Wasn't sure you'd remember me," Richard said, laughing.
Becca, more reserved, simply reached for his hand. "Are you coming to the park with us?"
He blinked, then felt a tug in his chest. "If that's where we're going, I suppose I am."
He shot Helene a questioning glance. She nodded, amused. "Just for a little while. They've been cooped up all day."
At the park, Luke sprinted toward the climbing frame, while Becca hovered nearer to the swings. Richard leaned against the pram, Helene beside him, her hands tucked into her pockets.
"I missed this," he said softly. "Afternoons like this. Being around my children when they were little."
"You were busy," Helene said, not accusing, just stating a fact infused with understanding. "Work is demanding. I wasn't much better with Isabelle. I worked all the hours I could. Sometimes two jobs at once."
"You?" He looked at her, genuinely surprised.
She laughed quietly. "I know. I've worked hard my entire life. The important thing is that children feel loved. They're much more forgiving than we give them credit for."
Her words pressed something inside him, something tender and sore.
He swallowed. "Where was Isabelle's father, if I may ask?"
Helene's face softened, shadowed by something older than sorrow. "He died when she was two. A building site accident."
Richard exhaled. "God… I'm so sorry."
"She doesn't remember him," Helene said. "That hurts more than anything. She wishes she had at least one memory of him; his voice, his laugh. Anything."
She watched the children in silence, her shoulders rising with a slow inhale.
"After that, I didn't have time for anything except providing. And later, when Clive left her with two small children… she needed me again. So I stayed. I always tried to be what she didn't have."
Her voice was steady, but there was something underneath it, a quiet truth, a quiet pain.
Richard looked at her, really looked. The resilience etched into her face, the softness forged by years of responsibility, the steadiness that didn't waver. Admiration settled in him, firm and unexpected. Not romantic. But something reverent. A gentle pull he didn't understand.
"You're an amazing woman," he murmured.
Her cheeks pinkened in the cold. "I'm very ordinary, Richard."
"No," he said. "You're not."
She didn't respond. She didn't have to.
They watched the children play until the sky began to dim, the winter dusk slipping over them like a pale blanket.
Back at the house, Helene ushered the children inside and set them up at the table.
"Would you mind slicing the tomatoes?" she asked, nodding toward the counter.
"Happy to."
He shrugged off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and joined her. They moved around each other with an ease that startled them both; quiet, efficient, instinctive. Passing utensils, reaching for plates, washing little hands. When Luke began complaining about who had the bigger sandwich, Richard crouched to referee, his voice soft but decisive.
"Luke, they're the same size. I promise. But if you like, I'll swap with you."
Luke brightened instantly. "Okay!"
Helene watched the exchange with a soft, unreadable expression.
Once the children were fed and sat playing with blocks on the floor, Richard and Helene cleaned up side by side. The kitchen settled into a warm hush, the tap running, dishes clinking, the rhythmic quiet of two people who didn't need to fill the silence.
Helene felt the warmth creeping in, it was dangerous, unsettling, and gentle. A softness she hadn't invited, one she told herself she couldn't afford. She pushed it aside, focusing on stacking plates and wiping surfaces.
She couldn't be distracted. These children needed her, Isabelle needed her.
But God, she liked having him here. More than she thought she should.
Richard felt it too, the closeness, the ease, the sense of something unfolding in the spaces between their words. He felt the tug of wanting to say something more, something honest. But it wasn't the time. Not while his children were hurting. Not while he didn't even understand what he was feeling.
When the dishes were done, he dried his hands and turned to her.
"Helene," he said quietly, holding out a clean plate he'd just dried. She took it, their fingers brushing. A small thing. Too small to matter. And yet it did. "Could I… have your number? To check in. Or help. If you need anything."
A flicker of hesitation crossed her face. Not reluctance, just surprise.
Then she nodded. "Yes. Alright."
He entered it into his phone, careful, reverent almost. She watched him, pulse fluttering in a way she resolutely ignored.
When he looked up, he didn't say anything else. Neither did she.
But something had shifted.
Small. Delicate. Impossible to define.
And neither of them made the slightest attempt to undo it.