The bistro sat on a quiet Kensington street, its windows fogged softly against the cold, light spilling out in a way that felt inviting rather than exposed. Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of roasted garlic and wine. Candles flickered on small wooden tables, and the hum of conversation stayed low, companionable. It was the kind of place that encouraged people to linger.
Richard had chosen it specifically for the atmosphere.
They were already seated when he checked his watch for the third time. Chloe sat opposite him, glancing around with open curiosity, taking in the chalkboard menu and the shelves of mismatched glasses. Drew sat beside his father, shoulders slightly hunched, hands folded in his lap. He hadn't said much since they'd arrived.
"You look like you're about to sit an exam," Chloe murmured, nudging her father with her foot beneath the table.
Richard huffed out a quiet breath. "Do I?"
"Yes," she said cheerfully. "Relax. She's probably just as nervous as you are."
Drew said nothing, but his eyes flicked toward the door again.
So did Richard's.
When Helene finally appeared in the doorway, coat buttoned up, the scarf from Richard around her neck, her hair tucked carefully behind her ears, his chest tightened with something close to relief. She paused just inside, scanning the room, and when she saw them her face softened, then flushed.
She looked beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with effort. Nervous, slightly flustered, holding her bag as if it anchored her.
Richard stood immediately.
"Helene," he said, smiling despite himself.
She crossed the room, each step deliberate, her composure returning inch by inch. When she reached them, she smiled at Chloe first.
"You must be Chloe," she said gently.
Chloe beamed. "I am. It's really nice to meet you."
"And Drew," Helene added, turning to him, her voice warm but careful. "Hello."
Drew nodded. "Hi."
No hesitation. No warmth either. Just acknowledgement.
Helene didn't push. She sensed he needed time.
They sat, menus opened, then promptly forgotten as Chloe launched into conversation — about Bruges, about waffles, about how her dad had nearly fallen on the ice rink but would absolutely deny it.
"I did not nearly fall," Richard protested mildly, but with a smile.
"You did," Chloe said. "You windmilled."
Helene laughed, a soft, surprised sound, and Richard felt Drew glance at him — not at her, but at him. Watching him.
Dinner unfolded at an unhurried pace. Chloe carried the conversation with easy warmth, asking Helene about France, about teaching, about whether she preferred the countryside or the city. Helene answered without pretence, thoughtful and engaged, never making more of herself than necessary. She turned the questions back gently, asking Chloe about her A-Levels, about her internship, about the books she liked to read, listening as if the answers mattered.
Drew said very little as he ate. He listened. He watched.
He noticed the way Helene looked at Richard when he spoke — not with admiration put on for effect, but with quiet attention, as though his words held weight simply because they were his. She never interrupted. She held herself with an easy elegance that didn't ask to be noticed. When she spoke, her gaze moved naturally between Chloe and Drew, never past them, never away. And she smiled often, but not in a way that felt rehearsed or forced.
It was the smile of someone who genuinely wanted to be there.
By the time dessert arrived, Helene turned to Drew again.
"Richard tells me you like cooking," she said, lightly, as if it were simply a fact she'd been given, not an attempt to pry.
Drew stiffened almost imperceptibly. "Yeah."
"What's your favourite thing to cook?" she asked.
Drew didn't smile, but something in his shoulders loosened.
"Pasta dishes are easiest," he found himself answering thoughtfully, "but chicken is the most versatile."
"I agree. You can do so much with chicken."
His eyes flicked up, surprised.
She didn't seize on it. Just nodded, content to let the moment be what it was.
When the plates were cleared and the waiter wished them a happy new year, Helene glanced at the time and made a decision.
"I should go," she said gently. "Before it gets too late."
Richard frowned. "I'll have the driver take you home."
She hesitated. "You don't need to—"
"It's New Year's Eve, Helene, the tube will be a nightmare." he said quietly, firm. "Please, I'll feel better if you let him take you home."
She nodded then, accepting it without fuss.
Outside, they said their goodbyes. Chloe hugged her without hesitation. Helene returned it carefully, warmly. Drew offered a polite nod. Helene met his eyes and smiled again.
"It was very nice to meet you," she said. "I hope we can talk again sometime, maybe cook together."
"Okay," he replied.
Not rejection. Not acceptance either. But honest.
Richard watched the car pull away before hailing a cab for himself and his children.
At home, Drew went straight upstairs without a word. Chloe lingered in the kitchen, chattering about dessert and how Helene had "really good energy," before heading up herself.
Left alone, Richard sat in the living room, the lights low, the quiet settling around him. He replayed the evening — the nerves, the watching, the care Helene had shown without demanding anything in return.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Eleanor, of all people.
I'm in Dubai. Met some people at a Christmas gala. Not sure when I'll be back in London. I'll be in touch.
Richard closed his eyes and exhaled, the sound tired rather than angry. He set the phone down and let the thought of her drift away.
Then he picked it back up and called Helene.
She answered on the first ring.
"Everything alright?" she asked immediately, her voice threaded with concern.
"Yes," he said. "I don't want to go to sleep yet. I wanted to talk to you. How are you?"
"I'm good. They are lovely." A small pause, then, "How were they after I left?"
"Chloe seems fine, Drew takes his time getting to know people."
"I noticed he was quieter than his sister. I didn't want to push him," she said. "He's thoughtful. He watches before he decides."
"That's exactly him," Richard said, something easing in his chest.
"Drew's such a gentle soul. I just worry about him."
"You don't need to explain, I completely understand. There you go again making me like you even more. You're not making fun of him or forcing him to be what you want. It's very admirable. He's very lucky to have you as his father."
"Just like?" He teased her.
"No, not like. Love. But you seemed very nervous. I've never seen you like that."
"This is important to me, I want my children to like you, so they'll accept you into our life."
"I want that too."
They spoke on, voices low, the conversation drifting easily between past and present, between what had been and what might be. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Time thinned around them until it was nearly gone.
"I think it's nearly midnight," Helene said softly.
"Happy New Year, Helene, the calm to my storm." he said, as the clock turned.
"And you've reminded me I'm still very much alive. Happy New Year, Richard."
They stayed on the line a moment longer, neither rushing to hang up.
When Richard finally went to sleep, the year ahead didn't feel intimidating or heavy.
It felt light.
Not promised.
Not perfect.
Just quietly possible.