Page 11 of Claim

The oncology day unit was quieter than court, but not by much.

The noise was different. Threaded with machines and measured voices, the hum of things designed for keeping people alive rather than deciding whether they deserved to be. Chairs lined the walls in careful arcs, most of them occupied by people pretending not to look at one another. IV poles stood beside each seat, part of the room’s rigid logic. Clear bags. Slow drips. Time measured in millilitres.

My father sat beside the window, a blanket folded neatly across his knees, his coat draped over the back of the chair. He’d insisted on wearing a tie, even here. Old habits clung hard. His hair had thinned more than he liked to admit, the grey at his temples sharper now, skin faintly translucent. But his posture was still immaculate. Back straight. Hands steady.

The law had always been his armour.

I sat beside him with my laptop open, files balanced on the narrow tray table that wobbled whenever I moved. It wasn’t technically a day off. I’d brought work with me under the pretence of efficiency, but really it was about control. Keeping my hands busy so the worry didn’t surface. And as I’d been petulant early on, irritated at being sidelined during his diagnosis and treatment, I didn’t get to opt out now. This was my obligation, my turn to sit and wait, even if work was piling up and the other things fracturing my attention that I couldn’t afford to think about too closely.

“Your mother asked me to remind you about the baby shower,” Father said, eyes focused on the middle distance rather than me.

I glanced up from my laptop. “Eloise is what? Twelve weeks?”

“Fourteen.”

I frowned. “Isn’t it customary to wait until at least the twenty-week mark before tempting fate?”

He allowed himself the smallest smile. “She’ll be twenty-five weeks by the date of the party. This is not, apparently, a negotiable detail.”

“I see.” I returned to my papers. “And I’m being reminded because…?”

“Because you will block the time in your diary.”

I looked up again. “Have you?”

He said nothing.

I made a note in the margin of my disclosure schedule. “I thought baby showers were largely the preserve of the women of the family.”

That earned me a look. “I trust I don’t need to explain why that observation is now considered both archaic and faintly embarrassing.”

“I stand corrected.” I scribbled again. “Will a present be expected?”

“I should imagine so.”

I slipped my phone from my pocket and opened it. “I’ll see what Burberry thinks an infant can’t live without.”

“She has a list.”

I paused. “A list.”

“In Selfridges.”

“Of course she does.”

I navigated to the app, entered Eloise Hale-Fitzroy, and took in the parade of objects no baby could possibly require. After a moment’s consideration, I selected a set of muslin cloths.

“Will you…” Father trailed off, as if searching for the right carefully spontaneous word. And I understood why when he finally said, “…be bringing someone?”

I locked my phone and slid it away. “I could see if Henry is free.”

He tilted his head. “Someone your mother would like to meet.”

Ah.

“No,” I said, without room for discussion.

He studied me for a moment, then sighed. “There are several very suitable…men, Tristan. Your mother would be delighted to provide you with a list.”