Ill Conceived Plans

Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful

SOMEONE was going to die – at this point Sarah didn't care if it was her Sabine or any of the medical staff.

She was five or six centimetres dilated, sucking in gas like a champion, growling at everyone and wishing she'd gone to more of the birthing classes. She had no idea what she was doing but the midwife kept telling her she was "a champion". Mmm enthusiasm wasn't exactly what she needed at the moment – an epidural or the Star Trek transporter to beam little Huntington out as quickly as possible might be better.

Bean had been checked, a quick scan and lots of monitoring, it's heart beat was strong and everything –cords, placentas and the other baby essentials were in the right places. Apparently babies often go a little quiet just before birth (just to scare the crap out of their mothers). So it was all go for the delivery.

Almost.

There was one thing missing – the late Mr Hilditch – very late. She'd been here for an hour and a half and if he didn't get here soon – even if he was dead on the side of the road – she was going to kill him – particularly if he was dead on the side of the road.

It's not as if he hadn't been rung – several times. Sabine had rung him, Sarah had rung him on the way to the hospital and Dave the Director (who was still out in the waiting room) was still ringing. Dave was busy ringing everyone now, gathering Boyd and Dmitri and all her other friends and family – the whole Hilditch-Huntington crowd would either be there soon or at the very least were on baby watch.

Everyone but Dane.

Had she finally pushed him too far?

She was tired and angry and scared, terrified. In the back of her head, she'd suspected that she may be in labour or maybe something horrible had happened to Bean and she'd taken it out on him. And he'd run away – literally in his case. He was probably running all the way to Heathrow and was minutes from boarding a plane to get as far away from her as possible. Did they fly to Antarctica from London?

She wouldn't blame him.

She was a bitch sometimes.

Mind you he knew that.

And he was a fucking drama queen – centre-of-attention much Hilditch? Go missing just when you're needed. Get half of bloody London looking for him just when it was supposed to be all about her.

She sighed and swayed to the beat of the music the nurse had put on for her – music from a movie he'd been in – which followed on from a CD of his favourite band earlier. The fucker was all around her but not here. Instead, she had Sabine as her reluctant but steadfast birthing partner (Sabine who was praying to any deity that would listen that one of the Huntington's or Hilditch's would get there before things got messy)! She was sure fake girlfriend didn't extend to delivering his real child.

Two miles away an oblivious Dane had run his local park three times – with his phone turned off – trying to calm his nerves, trying to formulate a plan. She hadn't even been wearing his ring. He thought they were on good terms but she was off, he wondered if anyone had said anything, had his dad rung? Had Athena said anything? They'd both promised not to.

Grotty and sweaty he'd finally run home turning on his phone on the front steps before he opened the door.

He didn't make it inside.

The phone avalanched with missed calls and messages a lot from Sarah's phone but not from her –not all of them - Sabine, Dave, Sarah and now messages from Neville, his mother, his father.

Shit.

He could get a taxi, or drive or the tube but it was coming up to peak soon – it was a couple of miles and he was doing it before he even thought – one foot in front of the other he ran through the streets of London as fast as tired legs would carry him. One of Britain's best-known actors streaking through the streets of his suburb of inner city London.