The Single Dad’s Handbook
Lynsey James

One More Chapter

a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

Copyright © Lynsey James 2021

Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Front cover illustration by Lucy Bennett based on photograph by George Rudy/Shutterstock; back cover photo © Shutterstock.com

Lynsey James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008402624

Ebook Edition © April 2021 ISBN: 9780008402617

Version: 2021-03-02

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Acknowledgments

Bonus Short Story

Bonus Recipes

Thank you for reading…

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About the Author

Also by Lynsey James

One More Chapter...

About the Publisher

To Gran

You would’ve loved this one

Prologue

This is for them.

Every stroke of the pen, every word I write; it’s all for them. My two favourite people, the little team that I desperately wish I didn’t have to leave behind.

Cancer is a bastard.

I look down at the letter I’ve just written and tears spring to my eyes. I’ve been doing this for a while – distilling everything I want my husband and daughter to know into short, easily read letters – but today I’m struck by just how sad this is. I’m thirty years old and should be in the prime of my life. Evan and I should be that annoyingly perfect couple, still blissfully happy after ten years of marriage, and I should be the best mummy in the world to Violet. Instead, I’m preparing my family for a life without me because cancer has wiped away our future.

It’s not bloody fair.

My hands ball into fists and I screw my eyes shut, resisting the urge to scream. Evan and Violet are downstairs, playing a game of some sort, and I don’t want to ruin it. That’s all they need; me screaming like a banshee and frightening the life out of them. I imagine them together, just for a second, Evan lifting Violet into his arms and spinning her around while she giggles. For that brief moment, the sadness and tragedy melt away, and I almost forget how ill I am.

Maybe I could join them, just for a little while. It wouldn’t do any harm, would it? Might even make me feel a bit better. Evan will fuss and try to send me back to bed, but I want some carefree, silly time with Violet. We could play a game or read a book or…

Pain ripples through my body as I try to get out of bed. Every muscle feels as though it’s on fire and my breath is immediately ripped from my lungs. I sink back onto the pillow and try my best to stifle a sob. Even the simplest of things, like going downstairs to see my family, are becoming harder.

There isn’t much time left. I can feel it in my bones. My body is slowly giving up the fight and soon, I’ll be nothing more than a collection of memories. A name that Evan can’t bear to say, and Violet doesn’t quite remember. I’ll whisper at the edges of their thoughts, looking for a way in, determined to stay with them as long as possible. I don’t want them to forget me. Even thinking about it breaks my heart.

That’s why this book of letters is so important. I glance at it as it lies upturned on the bed, its glossy purple cover catching the weak sunlight. Hidden within its pages is my legacy, everything I want Evan and Violet to know but won’t be around to tell them. I’ll be here whenever they need me, giving them a gentle nudge or some words of advice. As long as they have this book, I’ll never be gone. Not really.

I pick it up and put my pen to my lips. It’s time to write another letter.

Chapter One

A pair of red shoes.

Size-seven stilettos, to be precise.

That’s all it takes to derail my morning routine, which was starting to fall apart at the seams anyway. In the seconds before it happens, I’m in the kitchen, throwing a haphazard packed lunch together and keeping one eye on the clock.

Twenty minutes before we absolutely have to leave the house.

There’s still a lot to do. I have to brush Violet’s hair into as neat a ponytail as I can manage. We have to locate her pencil case, jumper and shoes, which have all gone missing in the three days since we bought them. I have to make sure I don’t leave the house wearing my pyjamas and hair like a scarecrow.

A word to the wise: try to get more than two hours of sleep the night before your child’s first day at school.

I take a deep breath and force myself to calm down. Everything will be fine. I repeat it in my head like a mantra and let the beat of the words wash over me. Violet will have a lovely day, and nothing will go wrong.

Then, as if fate is determined to prove me wrong, she stomps into the kitchen wearing the red stilettos.

‘Look what I found, Daddy! Can I wear them today?’

When I look up and see her standing in the doorway, her tiny feet barely filling a quarter of the shoes, my heart stops. My hand hovers in mid-air as jam drips off the knife I’m holding, landing in sticky splodges on the kitchen counter.

How the hell did she find those?

‘Can I, Daddy? I like the colour and look how tall I am!’

A lump rises in my throat and for a second, I think I might cry. I step out from behind the island counter and crouch down in front of her, hoping my sadness doesn’t show on my face.

My voice cracks. ‘No, baby, you can’t wear these today.’

Her brow creases and she folds her arms. ‘Why not?’

What is it with kids and the word why? It seems like one day, they latch on to it for dear life and won’t let go, much to their parents’ dismay. When they realise that one simple word can unlock the answers to a whole world of questions, that’s it.

‘Look at them – they’re far too big.’ I gesture to her tiny fairy feet. ‘Did you find the shoes we bought a few days ago, the ones with the butterflies on the front?’

She shakes her head and I let out a frustrated groan. We’re definitely going to be late now, which will earn me a telling-off from Violet’s teacher. At the school’s New Parents’ Day, Miss Thompson made it clear that she wouldn’t tolerate lateness or what she called ‘sloppy standards’. Anything less than military precision wouldn’t wash with her.

‘Go and have another look. I’ll be up to help you in a minute.’

‘But I want to wear these ones!’

I press my hands to my eyes as a headache brews. I sense an almighty tantrum coming, but I hope to God I’m wrong.

‘You’ll fall over in them. So please just go and try to find your proper shoes. Have a look for your jumper and pencil case while you’re at it as well. And try to be quick – we’re running really late.’

‘No! The butterfly ones are too small and make my feet sore.’

Great, now she tells me. This had better just be an excuse not to go and find them; if they’re really too small and she didn’t say anything in the shop, we’re screwed.

‘Are they really too small or are you just kidding? Because remember, the lady in the shop asked you if they fit OK and you said they were fine. She asked you quite a few times before she put them in the box.’

Please God, tell me the shoes are fine and I didn’t spend two hours and thirty-five quid in a stuffy shoe shop on the hottest day of the year for nothing.

Mercifully, she decides to admit defeat. ‘They’re fine, but I like these better because they’re a nice colour. Whose shoes are these? Are they yours?’

I look down at them and a lump forms in my throat. They’ve been languishing at the back of my wardrobe for a long time, yet I can remember the last time their owner wore them as if it were yesterday. I can picture the bright, sunny smile on her face as she danced in loops around the kitchen, tugging at my hands and inviting me to join in. With all my might, I push the memory away. If I let it consume me, we’ll never get out the door.

‘No, they’re not mine.’ I sneak a quick glance at the clock. Time is running out, like it always seems to be, and I still have a jam sandwich to make.

‘Then whose shoes are they, Daddy? “Whose shoes!” That sounds funny.’

She starts giggling and stomping around the kitchen, seemingly forgetting about her lost school shoes. My already fraying nerves become even more strained as potential hazards jump out at me. She could hit her head on the hardwood floor, bang into one of the granite counters, or pick up the jam-covered knife I’ve stupidly left within reach…

‘Dance, Daddy!’

Violet staggers over to me and makes a clumsy, ill-timed grab for my hands, almost slipping over when she lurches forward too quickly, but I manage to save her in time.

‘Watch yourself – you could’ve banged your head!’

‘I know all the planets in the solar system,’ she says, smiling up at me with pride as if nothing happened. ‘Can I tell you them? There’s Earth, Venus, Mars—’

My patience snaps like an overstretched thin piece of elastic.

‘Violet, please! We don’t have time to talk about planets right now. Take those shoes off and go and find the ones with the butterflies on them.’

She looks startled. I didn’t mean to speak so loudly or to sound so on edge. She absolutely loves space and enjoys telling me facts she’s learned from all the documentaries she watches. Normally I let her carry on until she runs out of steam, but today I’m too tired and stressed for a fact marathon.

‘Violet, I—’

I heave a sigh of frustration as she runs off towards the stairs without letting me finish my apology. It’s not even nine yet and everything’s going to shit. This has to be some sort of Evan Harper personal best.

I turn to look at the discarded stilettos and my breath hitches in my chest. Invisible fingers curl round my heart and begin to squeeze. While it’s silent, I close my eyes and picture her. She’s walking towards me, slightly unsteady after too many glasses of wine, with her arms outstretched. Even now, after all this time, she still makes my heart leap. Her honey-blonde waves are falling over her shoulders and her large green eyes are crinkled at the corners from smiling so much.

‘Come on, you,’ she says, lacing her fingers with mine. ‘Stick some music on and dance with me.’

It takes everything I have to open my eyes again. My heart aches and my bones are heavy with grief. That was the last good day before everything changed. Remembering it is always hard.

She should be here on her daughter’s first day of school, but she isn’t.

She should be here telling me not to panic and helping Violet look for her shoes, but she isn’t.

She should be here, wishing her good luck, showering her with kisses and making today seem like a big adventure.

But she isn’t, and I miss her like hell.

Ten minutes later, we still aren’t out the door and my stress levels have reached their peak. The kitchen looks like a bomb has struck it, I’m still not dressed and Violet’s jumper is still missing. We’ve located her shoes and pencil case though, so that’s progress. My sanity has got lost somewhere along the way, but we’re not likely to find that anytime soon. She’s decided now is the perfect time to start a game with her toys and has told me I can’t play because I’m ‘shouty and angry’. Nothing makes you feel like a shitbag quite like being excluded from a child’s game.

To make matters worse, my phone is ringing, and I don’t know where it is.

‘Violet, come on! We have to leave in a few minutes,’ I yell as I head down the hall, trying to follow the noise. No wonder she called me ‘shouty and angry’ – I’ve done nothing but shout since I found out I’d slept through my alarm. Actually, it was two alarms, set fifteen minutes apart.

I hear movements upstairs and hope she’s putting her toys away rather than starting a new game. If I can get us out the door without spontaneously combusting, it’ll be nothing short of a miracle.

My phone rings again and this time, I figure out where it’s coming from: it’s wedged between the sofa cushions in the living room.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr Harper? This is Jean from the Fraser Robertson Funeral Parlour. Sorry to call so early, but as you’re a previous customer of ours, I’m phoning to ask if we could conduct a short feedback survey. We’re updating our website and if you could give us a couple of sentences to add to our testimonials section, that would be great.’

I take the phone away from my ear and frown at it. Have I just heard this woman correctly? She wants to do the whole ‘how was it for you’ thing about my wife’s bloody funeral, two years after it happened?

‘I’m sorry, but now really isn’t a good time. I have to get my daughter ready for school.’

Jean isn’t about to give up that easily though. ‘Just a couple of quick questions, Mr Harper, please. It would help us to improve our service. First of all, were you satisfied with the service we provided?’

I sigh and roll my eyes. Bugger it, I’ll play along for a couple of minutes. We’re going to be late anyway.

‘To be honest, I was too busy grieving for my wife to notice what the service was like. The flowers were nice, but there was a bit of a mix-up with the song choices. We ended up listening to “Good Riddance” by Green Day instead of “You Send Me” by Sam Cooke, and a lot of people thought it was in poor taste.’

Jean is silent for a moment as she digests what I’ve just said. There are various attempts at an apology, but they all seem to die on her tongue. Appropriate really, since this is the most bizarre conversation about death I’ve ever had.

‘Don’t worry, it was totally my fault,’ I assure her. ‘The sound system at the church blew a fuse, so I tried to play the song off my phone and messed the whole thing up. It was the only laugh we got all day, actually. Claire would’ve loved it.’

Another couple of questions follow – How supported did I feel during the planning process? Were Claire’s wishes carried out as I wanted? – and I answer them as best I can without actually thinking about the day of the funeral.

Once Jean has everything she needs, she thanks me for my time and hangs up. Just as I’m about to call Violet downstairs, my phone rings again. Without thinking, I accept the call, assuming Jean forgot to ask an important question about the sausage rolls we had at the buffet or the stern expression on the chief mourner’s face.

‘Look, Jean, I know you’re trying to improve your website, but I really don’t know what more I can tell you.’

‘Guess who?’

My back straightens and I only just manage to resist the urge to hang up immediately. It’s been a while since I heard that voice.

It belongs to my best friend in the whole world. At least she used to be.

‘Hannah.’

‘Got it in one.’ She either hasn’t picked up on the fact that I’m not pleased she called, or she doesn’t care. Both are equally likely. ‘Guess where I am right now?’

‘Well the last time you remembered to get in touch, it was Sri Lanka. But since that was, what, four months ago you could be anywhere. I’m going to go with somewhere in the Arctic Circle.’

‘Indonesia, actually. And it was amazing, but I decided to come home for a while. Got into Edinburgh Airport about an hour and a half ago. Are you free later? We need to talk.’

Typical Hannah: she breezes in from wherever she’s been on her travels and expects everyone’s plans to fit in with her. I’d give her a piece of my mind if I weren’t so bloody exhausted.

‘Let me guess, some guy’s followed you home and you need me to get rid of him again. Who is it this time? Has Beau, the over-privileged yoga instructor, made a comeback? Or is it Julio, the language student?’

The last thing I need is another showdown with one of Hannah’s boyfriends. She falls hook, line and sinker for them before realising too late that they’re absolute arseholes who aren’t worth her time.

‘No, not this time, smartarse.’

‘Well, I’m sorry but I can’t see you today. I’ve got to take Violet to school, then I’m going to work. It’ll have to be another day.’

A silence stretches between us and discomfort sets in. Hannah’s never quiet; she’s always a bundle of fun, excitement and noise. That’s why Violet loves her so much. People are drawn into her one-woman carnival and want to be part of her world.

‘Look Evan, I’m trying to be nice here so let’s park the bullshit for a minute. I won’t take up a lot of your time and I’m not looking for an argument. Let’s just have a coffee and catch-up. It’s been too long and there are things I need to say.’

I close my eyes in resignation. She won’t take no for an answer.

‘Fine. I’ve got a tour right after I drop Violet off, but I can be free after that.’

‘Great. Text me when you’re finished, and I’ll meet you at Costa on George Street,’ Hannah says before hurrying through a goodbye.

I stare at the phone for a few seconds, frowning. As far as I knew, Hannah was having the time of her life travelling. So why is she coming back to the city she was so desperate to get away from?

Chapter Two

The good news is we’re only five minutes late to school in the end.

The bad news is Violet has taken a seat on the low stone wall separating the playground from the pavement and won’t go inside. No amount of begging or pleading from me will change her mind.

I’m sitting here with her now, staring out at the deathly silent playground and wondering what the hell to do next. Short of picking her up and carrying her into the building while she screams blue murder and gets me arrested for child endangerment, I’ve got nothing.

‘Are you ready now?’ I ask.

I look down at her. Her elbows are on her knees, propping up her chin as she stares at the ground. When she finally meets my eyes, her lower lip wobbles and she looks like she might be about to cry.

‘I don’t want to go,’ she mumbles. ‘Want to stay with you.’

I’m tempted to scoop her into my arms, give her a big squishy cuddle and take her back to the car.

‘Baby, I know you’re nervous, and it’s OK to feel like that.’ I stroke her hair and rest my hand on her shoulder. ‘But today’s going to be really exciting. You’ll meet lots of new people and learn cool things you can tell me about when we go home. And it’s just for a little while. I’ll be back to pick you up in a few hours.’

She slides off the wall and for a glorious second, I think I’ve won. Alas, victory is snatched away from me at the last minute as she climbs onto my lap. I hold her close and smooth some hair away from her face. We didn’t have time for a ponytail today, but it doesn’t matter. She looks ridiculously cute anyway.

‘We can’t stay out here all day, kiddo,’ I tell her. ‘You’ve got some learning to do. Everything will be OK – you’ll have lots of fun.’

I’m not sure if I’m saying that for her benefit or mine. I think it’s a little of both; I want to get her excited for the day ahead while also calming my own nerves about leaving her.

It doesn’t work.

Violet bursts into tears and buries her head in my neck. For a moment, I’m frozen, thrown off by how upset she’s become. Is this just first-day nerves or something bigger? My frazzled, sleep-deprived brain has an argument with itself about what I should do next. Should I try to find out what’s wrong, give her a hug, what? I don’t want to do or say anything that makes her feel worse, but sitting here like an idiot isn’t helping.

Get it together, Evan. Your little girl’s crying; you have to do something.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask. ‘Is it because I shouted at you earlier about your shoes? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

She shakes her head and clings tighter to me, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she doesn’t hold on. I gather her shaking body close to mine, shushing her and gently rocking her to try to calm her down.

‘Shh, come on, it’s OK,’ I whisper. ‘Don’t cry, Daddy’s got you.’

And then it comes: three words that have the power to split my soul in two.

‘I want Mummy.’

My heart shatters into a million grief-stricken pieces. I don’t know what to say to make her feel better. No combination of well-placed words will take that particular pain away; I know that from experience. Claire was such a huge part of both our lives; the three of us orbited around each other and the love we shared was fierce and beautiful. Losing her broke something in me; it cast dark shadows over everything and gave all the love, warmth and happiness inside me plenty of places to hide. Having my own pain to bear is bad enough, but seeing Violet suffer makes every fibre of me ache.

I look down and notice she has her jumper on back to front. Bollocks.

‘I miss Mummy,’ Violet sobs. ‘I wish she was here.’

‘So do I,’ my voice trembles as I desperately try to hold myself together. ‘I miss her so much. But she’ll always be with us, in here.’ I point to where her heart is. ‘We’ll never forget her, I promise.’

Gently, I reach up and wipe some tears from her cheeks. This is supposed to be a happy day, full of excitement and possibilities.

‘Were the nice shoes Mummy’s?’ she asks. This is the fifth time she’s brought them up since we left the house and I can’t swerve the subject any more.

‘Yes, they were her favourites. She liked to wear them when she was going out dancing.’

A smile tugs at the corners of Violet’s mouth and she rubs at her eyes.

‘Are you ready to go in?’

There’s a brief pause and she nods. I place her down on the ground, take her hand and walk her into the building. This marks the first step in a new chapter of Violet’s life. She’s off to become the person she’s destined to be.

And it all starts with her first day at school.

Can a place miss a person? Our house misses Claire, I’m sure of it. Her memory is carried in every room and sometimes, I swear I can hear the whole building creak and sigh under the weight of its grief. It’s not hard to see why; she picked it out in an estate agent’s window not long after we got married and fell in love as soon as we walked through the door. It needed a lot of work, but Claire was determined to bring it back to life and she did. She’s everywhere in here, from the cherry-red kitchen units to the sunny yellow sitting room and polished wooden floorboards. There used to be flowers everywhere when she was alive, but not anymore. If she were here now and saw the large jardinière in the hall was empty, she’d go mad. Every time I walk past it, my chest tightens. It’s a swift kick in the guts, reminding me that the love of my life is gone.

The shoes are still in the kitchen, their vibrant red popping against the hardwood floor. For a short, painful second, it’s as though she’s still here.

Her absence sneaks up on me again, pressing down on my already weary shoulders and making my bones ache. The grief books piled up at the side of my bed said this would stop after a while, that I would somehow learn to consign her to a memory. ‘A while’ hasn’t happened yet.

I catch my reflection in the hall mirror as I walk past. I look as exhausted as I feel. There are dark circles under my eyes, my face is pale, drawn and covered in stubble, and my hair is like a haystack. I was too busy rushing around this morning to notice, but now I can see how much of a state I’m in. I’ll have to fix myself before I go to work; I might be in the business of scaring people for a living, but I usually leave that up to my business partner James.

There’s a small avalanche of stuff littering my bedroom floor. Violet’s had a good rummage, by the looks of things. This must’ve been where she found the shoes; half the wardrobe is still packed with Claire’s things. I should probably take them to the charity shop and keep some bits for Violet, but I can’t. How could I banish her from the house she loved so much? Remove all traces of her as if she never existed?

I take a moment to look through some of it. Her favourite summer dress, the delicate cream fabric sprayed with pretty, colourful flowers. The red coat she’d wrap round herself on cold mornings, along with its matching scarf. Her purple wellies, still sprayed with flecks of mud from our final family day out. Crammed on the top shelf near her handbags is her collection of beautiful headscarves that she loved to wear during her treatment. I haven’t dared to touch them since the day she died, as though she might come back and tell me off for moving them.

So many memories packed into a tiny space. Our painfully short story told in a series of bright primary colours and patterns.

Fuck, I miss her.

‘And here, on Victoria Street, we have Thomas Weir’s house, reported to be the most haunted house in Scotland. He was known as the Wizard of the West Bow and was executed for witchcraft in 1670. Legend has it that a phantom coach roams the street late at night, pulled by headless horses and ridden by the devil himself. Some say the devil’s looking for Thomas Weir. They say he wants to take him back to the underworld, where he truly belongs.’

The crowd doesn’t look very interested and to be honest, I don’t blame them. My delivery is a flat, soulless monotone, devoid of any kind of passion for my subject. I’m privileged enough to be able to walk around the most beautiful city in the world, telling ghost stories, yet here I am sounding like I’m talking about the history of the root canal.

This isn’t how I want to do things, and it certainly isn’t how I was when I started my ghost-tour business ten years ago. When Monsters, Murders and Magic Tours burst onto the scene, I came alive when I talked about the city’s murkier history and my presentations zinged with passion and enthusiasm. Now, I run my tours on autopilot and it shows. I’ve become like the tour guide who inspired me to do this, whose disinterest in the subject and dull delivery made me turn to James and say ‘I could do better.’ I give my groups facts and stories, but nothing of myself because I don’t have anything left to give. The shred of the old me that’s still hanging around in the hope I get my shit together screams at me to get my act together.

Today, the added distractions of wondering how Violet’s getting on at school and the reason behind Hannah’s sudden return are taking my mind even further off the task at hand. As much as I try not to let them overrun my thoughts, they do and I can barely concentrate on what I’m saying. Not that it matters, judging by the group’s collective lack of interest.

I soldier on with my story, even though I lost them about three stories ago. I’d give anything for even one murmur of curiosity or a question, but none come. The group is talking amongst themselves and completely ignoring me. Only a few of them arrived together so if nothing else, everyone has made a new friend. They don’t have a clue about Thomas Weir and his phantom coach – which was once my favourite story to tell.

My mind throws up an image of Violet, curled up in the corner of her classroom waiting for me to come and get her. I shake my head as I try to dislodge it.

‘If you’re ready…’ I point in the general direction of where we’re headed next. ‘We’ll continue.’

I suspect the only reason they’re following me is because they don’t know the city very well. If we pass a Five Guys or a cosy-looking pub, I’m fucked.

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