Ill Conceived Plans

Waking up in limbo

 Dane flicked idly through the pictures on his phone, his Instagram account was filled with new shots from London, from Fox's little house. Shots taken by Boyd of Sarah and her friends, their friends, putting together the cot she'd bought and he'd paid for. The cot he'd hoped to build for his child after he won a Bafta and then came home and made love to his baby mama (as the Americans said).

In the end he'd only won the award.

And somehow he felt like he'd missed the major prize.

Like he was still missing it.

Instead there had been disaster, near fatalities and change.

His account documented that change.

Pictures of Fox, Boyd, and Dmitri, of his tiny niece Emerald Huntington – still in hospital but looking more like a baby than a skinned rabbit now. Her tired mother holding her still in hospital too but at least not as enveloped by technology as they had both been the last time he'd seen them. There were pictures of Petra's insanely pink baby shower with Fox and Dmitri looking like lunatics hanging out together. It looked like fun but there was sadness in her eyes, not that other people would notice, but he did, of course, he did. He knew all her looks. Fox was a guest when she should have been a guest of honour, had her own family there – his mum helping to run things in lieu of her aunt or mother. But then that wouldn't have been very appropriate in the circumstances he supposed.

It didn't seem fair, though at least she'd had the "impromptu pizza and cot-making extravaganza" as Boyd had labeled it on Instagram.

Dane continued to flick through the pictures, what had been happening over the past few weeks in the world outside this film shoot as documented by Instagram. This was his private account, not the account he'd set up for the world to see but the one he'd had for a few years. This was the one where he could keep in touch with what was going on with his friends and family, with the real world while he was out in the unreal world of movies and television.

He came back to the cot photos again.

She looked so happy.

And so big.

Bean was eight months, it wouldn't be long now and the baby he and Fox had made would be in the world.

He wished he was there, with them, but what good would that do especially now?

He'd talked to Boyd, he and Dmitri wanted the baby but they were still looking for a surrogate and they would understand if they couldn't have Bean. His baby.

It was weird, he'd asked Boyd to watch over them for him, visit her at the hospital and report back because he didn't want to draw attention to the situation, to their relationship. Dane had trusted him with Fox, with his girl.

He and Sarah had a few mutual friends –, particularly in acting circles. There were single males that they both knew through their Shakespeare connection that could have been there for her, but he had chosen Boyd because he and Dmitri were two of their oldest friends and were gay. Sarah was a beautiful, intoxicating woman, he wanted to know someone was there for her while Neville was tending to his own family but he didn't want anyone who would be a threat. He couldn't have her but he didn't want anyone else to have her.

And now he might lose his baby to them.

Not that he blamed Dmitri and Boyd or thought they'd planned this, no this was all Fox, she had suggested it, thought of it and now she was organising it. Whether everyone wanted it or not.

But it was the best thing.

The logical thing.

He and Sarah were friends, best friends, occasionally lovers and for one brief moment, a couple, but he was too selfish for that to last and so was she – she was right.