The Second Life of Nathan Jones. David Atkinson

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      ‘Shit,’ cried Daisy as she walked over and picked up her doll. She took the doll into her bedroom whispering, ‘Shit,’ into its ear.

      On Monday, Laura dropped Daisy at her day nursery and went to work, leaving him alone at home for the first time since he’d come back from hospital. His wife had been making an effort to be civil to him and he felt guilty about the recent disingenuous thoughts and feelings he’d had when she’d so easily given up on coming to see him in hospital that first day. He hoped it might be a sign that they could begin to patch things up.

      Their marriage had started off amazingly well considering the circumstances under which they’d got together. After Millie had been born they’d remained close; people even referred to them as ‘devoted’ when they saw them together.

      He couldn’t put his finger on when exactly things had begun to turn sour. He supposed it had been a gradual process. Somewhere between falling pregnant with Chloe and the birth of Daisy everything had changed. They’d not had a lot of time together as a couple before Laura fell pregnant with Millie. Perhaps if they’d been given that time socialising, holidaying and doing the normal stuff that young couples did then the relationship might have run its course and ended. Kids complicated everything. They naturally became a priority and somewhere in the mix Nathan and Laura had got lost. Money had only started to become an issue after Chloe came along. At that point Nathan’s work had dried up – companies took more decisions and jobs in-house meaning contractors were used less. The practice had begun to reverse in recent times, but good contracts remained elusive.

      Going back further, Nathan suspected that part of Laura’s initial attraction to him could be put down to the fact she’d thought him posh. True, he’d gone to boarding school, but his private education had come about more from the fact he’d been an inconvenience to his parents rather than any aspirational hopes they’d had for their son. He’d interfered with their lifestyle, so he’d spent most of his pre-school years in assorted day nurseries and most weekends with babysitters or childminders. (He still didn’t understand the distinction between the two.)

      Shortly after Nathan’s birth, an elderly aunt had died, leaving her entire and considerable estate to his mother. He learned later that she had been waiting years for this happy event, and his parents had spent many hours planning exactly what they were going to do with the money – which included a lot of travel, some nice cars and a holiday home in France. The inconvenience of having a brat would be something they’d deal with as long as it didn’t cramp their style.

      ‘Mum, why did you have me?’ he’d asked her once.

      ‘I don’t know, Nathan.’

      ‘What do you mean you don’t know?’

      ‘Well, you weren’t exactly planned, let me put it like that.’

      ‘So, I’m an accident?’

      ‘Kind of. Once I found out, though, I decided to keep you. Auntie Caroline had hung on longer than anyone expected so I thought you might be a welcome diversion, something to help pass the time.’

      The only family trips they ever made were to the house in France. Even then, he only got to go during the summer holidays, which he suspected had more to do with the fact it was cheaper to hire a childminder in Brittany, where they had their cottage, than to pay for one in London. His babysitters in France were more colourful than the middle-class young girls they employed in London.

      One evening, just after his ninth birthday, his parents engaged Monsieur Masson to look after him while they went to a party. As soon as they were gone Monsieur Masson’s mistress arrived and they left Nathan to his own devices while they made full use of his parents’ huge four-poster.

      By the time his parents returned home Nathan had managed to shave his eyebrows off, using his dad’s razor and shaving foam. During the process, he’d nicked the skin above his eyes in numerous places, leaving his face a mask of blood. It made him resemble some demonic child from a cheap horror flick. He then attempted to make a meal by smashing eggs into a large stainless-steel bowl, adding a liberal portion of tomato sauce and grated cheese before putting the whole lot uncovered into the microwave. The resulting multicoloured explosion took weeks to scrub clean. Monsieur Masson didn’t get asked back.

      A few days after his fifteenth birthday his father, aged only fifty-six, died of a heart attack. Perhaps the hedonistic lifestyle he and his mother had undertaken could be blamed, or perhaps it could be put down to faulty genes. In any event, the loss of his father curtailed his mother’s excesses for a while and Nathan started attending the local comprehensive in south London as there was no sense in needlessly wasting money on private education any longer than necessary, according to his mother.

      Despite the disruption he found that he enjoyed the local school much more and, although his mum could never be described as ‘doting’, at least she took an interest in him for a while.

      Laura’s upbringing was in stark contrast to his. She came from a poor background in Fife, growing up in a cramped flat. The glamour of being associated with someone from his background, despite it being completely dysfunctional, might have been intoxicating for her. Nathan admitted it was possible he played the ‘posh’ card a little too much with Laura in the beginning, but as she had been so exceptionally gorgeous he’d felt he needed every advantage he could get.

      His wife now worked for a venture capital firm. She’d started as an administrative assistant but, after taking dozens of exams to ‘better herself and her chances’ (her description), she’d progressed to operations manager – a remarkable achievement given she’d had three children along the way. She still wasn’t satisfied with that, though, and continually moaned about how much more she could earn if she moved back to London. Nathan had grown up in the capital and had no wish to return, yet another thorn in their relationship.

      The postman noisily shoving something through the letterbox pulled him from his thoughts, and he padded down the hall to retrieve the mail.

      There were four items; the first two were a bank statement, which wouldn’t make good reading – he left that to one side – and a small catalogue for children’s books, which had Laura’s name on it. He placed that on top of the bank statement. The last two envelopes intrigued him. They were of the white windowed variety and, although both were addressed to Laura, he could see underneath the window on one of them and noticed his name and a policy number. On the back, the name and address of the sender: The Corporate Mutual Insurance Company.

      Nathan opened it and read the script:

       Dear Mrs Jones

       Mr Nathan Jones – Policy Number CM2345GY98

       We were sorry to hear about the recent death of your husband. As discussed with you in our telephone conversation on 23 November please find enclosed the requested information. We apologise for the delay in forwarding this to you but due to an issue with our systems we had not realised this request had not yet been actioned. We apologise for any distress or inconvenience this may have caused you.

       Enclosed is the relevant claim form for completion to enable us to consider the claim under this policy.

       Please note, in order to be able to pay the proceeds, under policy number CM2345GY98 we will need sight of the original death certificate and for this reason we recommend you return the completed form together with the death certificate by recorded delivery to ensure no delay is caused by lost documentation.

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