I jumped back in my car, turned on the engine, then decided it was probably worth taking a minute to think about where Brayden might be. After driving out of sight from the cottage, I pulled back over and tried calling and sending a couple of messages, just in case it was only his partner he was ignoring, then searched his social media for non-existent clues. I didn’t want to believe he’d found another woman to escape to, but Brayden had never been good at keeping in touch with his friends, and I felt sure his parents wouldn’t lie to Silva, given the situation.
Think, Libby.
Who else had Brayden confided in, back when we were married?
I started with his sister in Wales, whose number I still had in my phone. She was initially wary, then disgusted when I told her why I was calling.
‘If he’d shown up here, I’d have dragged him back to the reality of his poor choices myself.’
Woah!
‘Libby, I thought it was a rash move getting married so young, but for that wastrel to walk out on you and those gorgeous children was inexcusable. I hope you’re now happily dating some prince who treats you like his princess.’
‘Um…’
‘Ah, sorry, the dog’s just barfed on my bed. Can I call you back? Even better, let’s hang out next time I’m back in Notts. I’ve missed having a sister.’
After that revelation, I tried a couple of old friends, all who claimed with sincerity that they’d not seen or spoken to Brayden in years. It seemed I wasn’t the only one he’d ditched once his app started making money.
I scrolled through my contact list, then a thought struck me. Brayden had freaked out while at a wedding last week. He hadn’t posted any photos – a clue in itself that things weren’t great – but Silva had. In a couple of them, Silva was posing up close, but in the background I could see a blurry image of Brayden, sitting with a man who I recognised as his long-time personal trainer, Clint. I’d never had Clint’s details, but a quick search via Brayden’s old gym revealed his website, with a contact number and email address.
‘Yo.’
I briefly explained that I was looking for a client, Brayden.
‘Sorry, I’ve not seen him in yonks.’
‘How about last Saturday?’
‘What?’
‘At the wedding.’
‘Oh, yeah. Yes. Now that you mention it, he was there. Yep. Not seen him since, though.’
‘What about his sessions this week?’
‘What about ’em?’
‘Did he attend his sessions?’
‘Nope. He stopped training with me, ooh, a while ago now.’
Clint might have been able to bench-press a rhinoceros and transform feckless men into competent cyclists, but acting was not one of his talents.
‘So, he isn’t staying with you for a few days?’
‘What?’ His attempt at full-on flabbergasted erased any lingering doubt. ‘Why would he be staying with me? That’s mad.’
‘Can you please tell him that his partner is in labour?’
‘Huh?’
‘I mean, if you happen to see or hear from him. Silva is having the baby. Now.’
‘Silva’s having the baby?’ This was genuine incredulity, this time. Clint lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Honestly, I don’t think that will help. He’s sort of flipping out about becoming a dad, you know what I mean?’
‘He’s already a dad!’ I shot back. ‘And two children are worried sick their daddy is dead in a ditch somewhere. Your website says you harness men’s inner beast so they can become their best. Putting aside that I can’t believe anyone would buy into that nonsense, a “real man”, as you describe it, wouldn’t abandon his partner when she’s giving birth. Use your transformational gibberish to get him to grow up. Now.’
