Carl and Rafe had arranged for a specialist company to clean Peter Johnston's house, and in addition to seeing to the less savoury aspects of the clear up, they had boxed up all his worldly possessions and put them into storage. There they had sat untouched, for weeks, as Mattie whiled away each day in a state of numb detachment. Rudy had urged her to speak to someone, but she did not feel up to the task.

Instead, she lay in bed whilst the boys were at school, often sleeping through Rafe's drop-in visits to collect laundry or deliver food. She'd awaken to piles of freshly-cleaned clothes and home cooked meals which needed only to be reheated. To fresh groceries and a far cleaner house than the one she'd fallen asleep in. She knew what Rafe was doing, and a part of her was grateful. A part of her appreciated his efforts, and felt gladdened that he continued to make them without thanks. Yet another part of her felt nothing at all. Apathy, perhaps, or maybe just an inability to identify what she really felt. She only knew that she did not miss her husband, did not take the innocent pleasure she once took in tending to her sons, and felt tired beyond any nursing of a new born she'd ever known.

Despite her distraction and increased sleep, people stopped by every day. Vicky and Rudy – usually separately – Ramona and Aunt Vee. Tobias called, but as he still lived in London, he did not visit. Xander had been surprisingly kind to her, but she reasoned that he was well-acquainted with the flavour of death, and knew how long its aftertaste could linger. Carl got a few extra lines, stopping by to offer calm, practical advice or assistance, and even Lydia had arranged a whip-around at the office, and sent a bouquet of flowers to her, but none could have tried harder than Rafe, and none could have been less welcome.

She refused to see him – would not even talk to him – and if the issue was pressed too firmly by a sympathetic friend, she felt her ire rise until she found herself speaking words of blame aloud; painting her husband blacker than black, lest anyone think him capable of redemption.

'I understand,' Vicky said. 'I know how hurt you are and how let down you feel, but what about the boys? Doesn't he deserve more time with the boys?'

'Time?' Mattie asked, with genuine confusion. 'He didn't have time for me when he'd made me a promise... Why on earth would he have time for the boys now?'

'They're his children,' Vicky coaxed. 'Whatever you're feeling shouldn't come between a father and his children.'

'Fine, then,' Mattie said, rising from the sofa with purpose. 'He can come and be with his children, and I'll go elsewhere.'

'Where?' Vicky challenged. Of course, Mattie could find any number of people to take her in, but she was not in a convivial mood. She did not show the signs of a person willing to reach out in their hour of need.

'Anywhere,' she replied vaguely. 'So long as I'm not around him.'

'But why?' Vicky asked, sadly. 'I know you feel let down, but does that cancel out everything else? Every good feeling there's ever been between you?'

'No, of course not, but there's been a lot of bad feeling, too. This is the straw that broke the camel's back.'

'Who's the camel?' Vicky asked.

'Our marriage,' Mattie said, but her voice was uneven in the face of such a pronouncement. Indeed, it was easy to fester with internal rage. With blame and dissatisfaction. It was easy to push him away when he felt so guilty and deserving of exile. But to say aloud, within hearing of another, that their marriage was over? It was painful and final and she feared that it was worryingly true.

'You don't mean that!' Vicky insisted. But Mattie was no less insistent.

'What if I do? It's not easy, you know; being married to Raffey. Everything's on his terms. Always. He doesn't respect me. Not the way he should. Oh, he says the right things and makes the necessary gestures when I begin to lose my patience, but I'm not sure he doesn't just offer me breadcrumbs to keep me compliant.'

'That's not true at all!' Vicky scoffed; her voice rising, her tone hardening, in the face of such criticism of her friend. Because he was her friend, too. 'He loves you. He adores you. He has a funny way of showing it sometimes, but he always shows it, in his own way.'

'Yes, by lying to me about being married. By letting me think I was a quick shag behind his wife's back, rather than come clean and admit to being anything less than perfect. Like assuming I was cheating on him with his brother so that I had to miscarry without him. Or firing me, because Paxton and Colville is his business, and I'm totally dispensable. Or asking me to come back once he realises that the business needs me, and just expecting me to fall into line as though I'm grateful.

'Or this place. It's a lovely home; a church conversion just like I'd always wanted, right? Except he bought the place without consulting me. I had no choice in where we lived. I made a throwaway comment when we first met, and here we are years later, locked in, because he decided. Not me.

'No more children either, because he's old. Doesn't matter that I'm not old. He is, and that's all that matters. No, my dad can't come for Christmas, because he's f*cking dead! Oh, and Christmas just gone? Not welcome then either, because everyone else's drama was more important. As was Isaac's cold, Raffey's trip to Edinburgh and Xander's house move.

'So yeah, perhaps he loves me, but he walks all over me. He hurts me and makes me feel like shit, but worse than that, he let me down, and he can't ever make up for it.'

'If that's how you feel...' Rafe said, having unobtrusively arrived with yet another homemade cottage pie, and a package of fresh fruit. His face was averted. He couldn't bear to look at her, nor have her look at him. His cheeks were dark, his brow knit. He'd heard every word. Every crime listed in chronological order, as though she'd long been keeping tally.

'Raffey,' Vicky said plaintively, rising to console him, because he was quite clearly devastated.

'No,' he dismissed her. 'That's how I've made her feel. She shouldn't have to hide it.' But Mattie did feel a bit bad. A twinge of something. Not quite remorseful, because she meant what she'd said, but she'd have preferred that he hadn't heard; that he didn't look so hurt.

'Mattie,' Vicky pleaded, begging her with her eyes to tell Rafe she was sorry. 'Matts?'

'You ought to spend more time with the boys,' was all the vertically challenged woman said. 'They miss you, and I know you must miss them. I'm going to go to the storage locker on Saturday. Go through Dad's things. See what's worth keeping. You can come here; spend the day.' Rafe licked his lips in measured anticipation. He did want to have an uninterrupted day with his sons, but he wanted to support his wife, too.

'I could help you,' he told her. 'You ought not to do it alone.'

'I'll be fine,' she insisted. 'And if I need help, I'll ask for it.' But she wouldn't ask him.

Instead, she went with Rudy. Vicky was happy to go with her, but the good doctor had suggested that someone with stunted limbs might need a tall companion in order to reach the boxes stacked up high. He'd reasoned that the boxes might be heavy, too. That a man to do the grunt work would be ideal. It didn't hurt that he was a patient, kind man, who was very good at listening and asking the right questions, without appearing to push or cajole the way a fervent Vicky or Aunt Vee would. The way an anxious Ramona might. Besides, he understood her, because he'd just lost Byron Becker without having ever made the effort to reach out to him. He understood the feeling of loss, but more than that, he knew what it felt like to run out of time; to have the choice taken out of one's hands.

'It's almost ironic,' Mattie said, as they picked over the worthless mass of Peter Johnston's belongings. 'I only thought of reconciling with him after Byron died. I didn't want to leave it too late, and that's precisely what I did.' Then, sotto voce, she added, 'thanks to Raffey.' Rudy ignored the barbed comment. He was an expert at not rising to provocation or opening Pandora's box. Primarily, because he'd been raised in a house with Verity Anderson, but more lately, because he was married to Vicky. A man who could survive two such giving women, was a saint, indeed.

'What you have to remember,' Rudy said softly, 'is that relationships require two or more people. They require mutual effort. Someone does need to make the first move, but no one party is more responsible than the other; certainly not when there hasn't been an obvious fault for which a one-sided apology is owed.

'Byron...' he continued, when Mattie only rifled wordlessly through a cardboard box. It appeared to be full of books. 'He failed me as a parent, but he didn't know me when he made the decision to have no involvement with me. It wasn't really about me, so much as it was about himself and my mother. Do you see?'

'Obviously. You were in utero when he decided to be an arsewipe!'

'Yes,' Rudy agreed, allowing the colourful language to slide because she was grieving. 'So, it really had nothing to do with me. It wasn't because I was a disappointing son, or because I lacked in some way. It wasn't because he didn't like me. As I got older, of course, he would have learnt things about me. I know Mum fed him bits of news over the years. Perhaps he was intrigued. Perhaps he looked forward to the updates? Or perhaps he didn't care at all. I've no idea, but at the time, I felt abandoned and not good enough. Just not enough, full stop.

'But I only felt that way because I was thinking from my own point of view. From his?' Rudy said, his voice lilting as it posed the question. 'Perhaps he knew Mum was with Carl; that he'd taken me on as his own. Perhaps he felt too much time had passed. He might have been nervous, felt unequipped or unqualified to deal with it. He might have been scared. He might have been completely indifferent. I don't know. But that's the point. I have no idea how he felt, and even though I had no answers, I spent years assuming that he did feel a certain way; that I was the problem.

'It's only now – when I see that not only did he leave me the bulk of his assets in his Will, but that he'd already moved huge sums of money into my name long before he died – that I know he did care about me – in some way, at least. I know now, that I was on his mind sometimes. That he thought of me. And knowing that he left money for Mum, too – that she still mattered so much to him – that the two of us were the only people he left anything to – it... it's a comfort in one respect, but a burden in another, because it makes me feel guilty for not reaching out to him when I was younger. For expecting the effort to come from him just because he was my father, or because I was the one who had been wronged.

'Your dad,' Rudy said, leaning forward and taking Mattie's hands in his – halting her perusal of the books her father had kept – 'had just as much responsibility to contact you, if not more. I know you feel as though you abandoned him, but he hurt you – repeatedly, for years. He abused your loyalty and trust, and despite receiving your messages, he never replied. That might be because he felt guilty, or because he was ashamed. He might have been hurt or angry, but you know he cared, and all you can do is take comfort in that. Let go of the blame – for him and for yourself – and take comfort in knowing that he read every message you sent, that he was a good father to you before he became unwell, and that if you ever let him down, it was no more than he did to you.'

'I know what you're saying,' Mattie sighed, squeezing his hand before releasing it. She leant back and straightened her not very long spine. 'I understand completely, but knowing that I had decided to do something, and then let myself be put off – seeing the ramifications of that delay – it's not something I can ignore. It can't be reasoned away. The way he was when we found him; that's on me and Raffey.'

'And on him,' Rudy said softly, with an earnest look. 'He never called you. He never replied to your messages. He did nothing to help himself or reconcile with you. He died alone, and it's horrible, but you're not solely responsible for that loneliness.'

'Your words make sense. I can imagine myself saying them to someone else,' she admitted, with a pained smile. 'I can picture myself reasoning with someone, but when they're directed at me...' She shrugged.

'There's no reasoning with grief,' Rudy nodded, accepting her stance with nothing but a disappointed sigh, because there was nothing more he could say. Grief is not logical, because it's about feelings, and feelings wouldn't be feelings if they existed only in our rational minds. They exist in our irrational hearts, in our instinctive gut, where words can be devastating, or fall on deaf ears. Grief is not rational.

It was not rational when Mattie opened another box and found a bag of her mother's clothes. It was not rational when she found her mother's wedding dress, or a small box of cards the woman had obviously kept; some from her husband – anniversaries, birthdays, the odd Valentine's offering. Others from Mattie; wonky letters in a childish hand. A first attempt at writing.

'"Mummy,"' she read, gazing at a homemade Mother's Day card she'd obviously made when she was very young. 'She kept them. And then...' Her eyes flooded with tears. They trembled at her lash line, eked their way down her lashes, then tumbled, splashing onto her cheeks. 'She kept them,' Mattie repeated, 'and after she died,' her voice cracking, 'he kept them for her.'

She cried, then. Trembling, silent sobs which were full of stifled emotion. Emotion she had stifled for more than twenty years, because when her mother had died, part of Peter Johnston had died, too. The part that could care for her; that could be a loving father. The part that could comfort and nurture. The part that could look after himself. And so, she'd brushed her feelings aside and played the dutiful daughter – denied herself the chance to grieve – and now, when confronted with her late father's possessions, and a haul of her late mother's – one's he must have packed away when she was at school – she felt, for the first time, the enormity of everything she had lost.

That day, it overcame her. To cry for one parent was onerous. To cry for the both of them was too much, and all Rudy could do was hold her and curse that he was not Rafe, for he knew no one could truly comfort her but him.

Sadly, not only was Rafe not wanted, but he was also unavailable. While Mattie was grieving and struggling to decide if keeping her mother's long-lost possessions would be more painful than parting with them, Rafe was fondling his testicles. Not in a sexual way, of course; not even his notorious libido could withstand seeing Mattie's suffering. But whilst in the shower, lathering soap into every crease and crevice. It was during such a process that he discovered a lump on top of the massive lump that was his impressive right testicle. If Peter Johnston hadn't died, Rafe would have been having frequent sex, and as his genitals really were worth paying homage to, Mattie was bound to have discovered the lump for him. Perhaps when it was smaller, he wondered, as he had no idea how quickly lumps on lumps grew.

He could have asked Rudy, of course, or even his uncle, but he was a man. So, he didn't. Instead, he wondered if it was a swelling. If he'd sustained an injury and was simply so hardcore that the pain hadn't registered. He decided that the best course of action was to wait for the swelling to go down, whilst frequently touching it, because it's very difficult not to touch a suspicious lump.

When the swelling did not go down, he acknowledged that it was likely because he kept touching it; that he was aggravating it and hindering its recovery. Thus, he determined to stop touching it. Which was actually not that difficult, as he was at work (without Mattie, so there was no one about to make him feel hot and bothered), or he was at his mother's house, under her concerned, watchful eye. (She wasn't concerned about the secret lump, of course, because it was secret, but rather, concerned for his emotional well-being, as his wife had exchanged only the most cursory of conversations with him for more than six weeks.)

When Rafe did stop touching his right testicle, and when the lump on the mammoth organ did not go away, he ceded defeat and booked a doctor's appointment. Of course, that meant he had to go to the trouble of registering with a doctor. He hadn't bothered previously, on account of his impeccable health. His wife and children saw medical professionals from time to time, but Rafe Paxton did not. Thus, it was another week before he could make his appointment, and when he did, he was told there was a three week wait.

'Three weeks?' he asked incredulously.

'I'm afraid so,' the gatekeeper told him. 'We try not to release appointments ahead of time. If you call on the day, you might get an appointment sooner.' So, he called the next day, fifteen minutes after the surgery opened – a school boy error – only to be told that all of the appointments had gone for the day. 'You really do need to call the minute the phone lines open,' the receptionist told him in a prissy voice.

The following day, he called the surgery bang on eight-thirty. The line was engaged. He called back. Numerous times. When he did get through, the appointments had all gone. He called again on the third day. Either-thirty, sharp. Engaged. He immediately hung up and pressed redial. He continued his efforts, without pause, for some twelve minutes, before being told he was in a queue, with four people ahead of him. By the time he was at the front of the queue, all the appointments had been taken.

'But I've been calling relentlessly since eight-thirty!' he told the receptionist. 'How am I meant to be quicker if your line is constantly engaged? I couldn't even get in a queue for ten minutes!'

'I'm sorry,' she said, without one ounce of apology. 'But you do need to be quick, and it can take a few tries.' Well, that might be the case with the NHS, but that was not the case if one went private. So, he pulled out his credit card and paid an extortionate price to make up for the NHS's short-fallings. (He hadn't gone private initially, because it felt a bit desperate. A bit rushed. Besides, he paid his National Insurance. He was entitled to free medical care.)

Then he was sitting in a strange lounge area on a leather sofa, waiting for someone to fondle his right testicle.

'Hello,' the doctor told him, after only a brief wait (because the waiting room was quiet; not many people able to afford their rip-off prices. Unless, of course, he had cancer, in which case, it was not a rip off at all, but really, very reasonable).

Upon reflection, it was reasonably priced.

'Yes,' the doctor told him, moving to the sink to wash his hands. 'It is concerning. I'll book you in for an ultrasound right away.'

'So, you think it is cancer?' Rafe clarified, because he was so fit and strong that he just didn't get ill.

'It's certainly a very real possibility. I wouldn't like to say one way or the other, but I'd like an ultrasound done as soon as possible.' Which was doctors' speak for, "you've defo got cancer".

'Right,' he nodded. 'Okay.' And then he went to work, because what else could he do? He couldn't go home to his wife. She didn't want to see him. Besides, she had enough to deal with already. And he couldn't tell his mother, because he wasn't sure he definitely had something to tell her, and he didn't want to worry her if he didn't have to.

That was how he found himself in the break room, staring aimlessly at the coffee maker whilst Mandy snivelled in the background (because a client had phoned her in a panic about rising costs, and she felt guilty for designing something they couldn't actually afford).

'Do you need me to show you how to work that?' Lucy asked, as she walked into the room with an empty mug in hand.

'What?' Rafe asked.

'The coffee maker. You're just staring at it,' Lucy explained.

'Oh.' He frowned. In truth, he'd completely zoned out.

'Mattie usually makes your coffee, doesn't she?' Lucy continued. 'I can do it.' Then she reached across him and took the mug he'd intended to use, set it beneath the dispenser and pressed a series of buttons. He knew how to use the machine, of course. Rafe Paxton knew everything, after all, but she was the only person to have offered since Mattie's departure, and before that; well, no one would have offered, because Mattie was his own personal skivvy.

He sighed, replaying the words he'd heard her say, that day he'd walked in on her and Vicky. She wasn't wrong, he mused, but a part of him thought that she wasn't fair, either. But it wouldn't be fair to her, to turn up at the house with a tale of possible-cancer and expect her to be there for him; not when he hadn't been there for her. Not when she was grieving for two parents and playing at single-parent herself.

'There you go,' Lucy said, with a kind smile, holding out his coffee. She set her own mug on the coffee machine and pressed yet more buttons. 'Let me know when you want another. I don't mind making coffees.'

'Right,' he told her, staring at the mug. 'Thanks.' He took the offered drink, wondering where exactly she worked. What department; where her desk was. He wasn't sure he'd spoken to her before. He probably had, but he seldom took the time to remember who was who. He made to go back to his office, but he stopped on the threshold, glancing back at Mandy. 'Why are you crying?' he asked, in a neutral tone of voice, which from him, was very comforting.

'Overspend,' she told him, wiping at her eyes. 'The client isn't happy, but their builder quoted them upfront and it was affordable. Now costs are snowballing.' Rafe sighed.

'That's not your fault,' he told her. 'Come with me. We'll look through everything, see if you ought to have advised a bigger contingency, but you're thorough. I doubt you've any fault in this at all.' Mandy nodded, hurrying to gather her lunch from the table. 'Can I bring my drink?' she asked, pointing at her juice. Rafe didn't allow people to wield liquids in his office; not after Mattie had spilt tea on his hand-drawn plans. He eyed her drink cautiously.

'I think your tears are hazardous enough. Leave the drink there.' Lucy watched them leave, a small smile about her lips. She liked Mandy. A total sap, of course, but nice all the same. Rafe was known to be a complete ogre, but Lucy thought he was alright. So long as you got him on a good day. He hadn't been himself since Mattie started her compassionate leave, but she'd heard rumour that the shorter woman wasn't just off work, but that she had kicked Rafe out. If that was true, she could well understand why Rafe was off his game.

***Author's Note***

More complications for the Paxton's. Do you agree with Mattie's assessment of their marriage, or is her grief and anger making her judge things harshly? Do you think they can patch things up? 

Last chance to guess who Tobias is going to turn to re: his love life. We'll find out in the next chapter!