Dane needed a shower.

It wasn't just that he had mud in nearly every orifice – which he did – he was cold and tense and tired. Three weeks of filming war scenes in the mud and icy conditions in Europe and Dane really really wanted to go home.

He didn't miss the UK much these days – not as often as he did when he first started traveling the world but for some reason, he was really feeling it this trip. It felt like he was being cloistered away, his life on-hold while the real world went on around him and without him.

The real world, where preparations for the awards season were being made; Christmas parties were in full swing and his family was making all sorts of plans for the season which was now under a week away.

Of course, he had nothing for his nearest and dearest, the family had an "only for the kids rule" but there were a lot of them now. He'd have to hit the ground running and brave the Christmas rush as soon as he landed or brave the net and do it all on-line – like he did last year. Last year, though, he started earlier, last year's shoots weren't as long and as rushed, he had plenty of time for things to be delivered but now all he seemed to do was work and flop exhaustedly into bed and time was flying, slipping past him at a rate of knots.

It felt weird now - he was on the other side of the world last year in Australia, filming the movie that was now getting him nominated for anything and everything. Even given the tyranny of distance, he hadn't really felt that far away, it was the other side of the world then and he was closer this time, still in Europe, but at this very moment, chilled to the bone sitting in a small guesthouse in the Czech Republic, he had never felt further away or lonelier.

It wasn't that he didn't have friends here. It was a good cast and crew – plenty of interesting people to talk to, plenty of interesting things to talk about. This would be a lavish BBC production when it was finished, gorgeous, elaborate and well-crafted. He was proud of the work he was doing, knew it was something special and well worth the 14 hour plus days, the cold, the mud. But he felt like he'd left a part of himself back in the UK, in London and he had – if he thought about it – which he tried not to do.

He tried not to do that a lot at the moment.

It was easy at first; he was too excited about the award nomination and too caught up in the drama and frenzy of a new project to have time for thoughts of anything else. But as it drew on, in those rare late night moments when he was all alone in his bed and not sleeping despite being dog-tired, unwanted thoughts would enter his head.

Unwanted thoughts of her and the little life stirring inside her.

He'd wonder where Fox was, what she was doing if she was looking after herself and their.........and Bean. The baby wasn't his anything. They'd made that decision for the good of his career. For the good of all of them. He couldn't be a father now, he was almost there – up on the summit of the career mountain he'd been climbing, a distraction would see him slip, slide, lose footing, lose ground.

He could ill afford that, not now, not when he was so close to planting his flag on the peak – well hopefully not the peak but certainly the top of the heap.

But, here as he shed his clothes for the shower and let the water stream and cascade down over his body, let himself become human again, let the warmth seep into his bones, into his heart, here and now it was hard not to wonder, just a little. To think about her, to wish, to hope, to care, care more than a friend. More than he should.

It was pretty much a month since he'd seen her, them or even talked to Fox, it was best like that.

She'd said they needed time to adjust – time for them both to get used to the new situation; Time not to say anything silly that would hurt their friendship, a friendship that was more important than ever now and yet more in danger than it had ever been.

But as he stood under the shower and watched the mud swirl at his feet, he took a moment to think – not about the hype around him or careers but about real life, what was really important to him.

He felt a little guilty – it had been five weeks since he'd seen Sabine and yet he'd hardly given her a thought. They'd talked when they were nominated but it had been radio silence since then, both busy on sets – him here – her in the US. Not ideal for what was still very much a fledgling relationship. Absence was supposed to make the heart grow fonder – but what if it was lust, not love?

He thought about that from time to time – but only here in this room – here as he washed the grime from his body and hair. Here he sought absolution, cleanliness, clarity.

Clarity was rare in his busy world.

Busy now and only getting busier.

His schedule over the next two months was break-neck. He would fly in two days before Christmas and be back on location – this time in Spain early in the New Year, then off to the US for the Globes, meetings, the SAGS, back home for BAFTA and then hopefully the Academy awards. He had another movie through the end of February and into March/April, a commitment with the RSC (at Fox's behest) and then finally a break, a chance to catch his breath.

Bean was due April – Fox dramatically believed that it would be born on Shakespeare's birthday – but only if she was overdue.

He'd be around. It was unintentional but he'd be in the country if she needed him. But would self-sufficient Fox need him?

No – she'd said it often enough - no.

And that was the bottom line wasn't it? The truth he didn't want to tell himself.

He was obsolete in this whole child thing now.

His part was done.

The water turned cold now at that point in his thought process– the irony wasn't lost - there wasn't a lot of hot at the best of times but it was worse on cold days like this when the whole cast was hitting the showers at the same time.

Dane dragged himself out and toweled off suddenly feeling bone-tired again despite the life-giving shower.

He should go downstairs and meet up with everyone else. They always tried to do that, particularly after a long day filming even if it was just for an hour. But he wasn't feeling particularly social tonight and he had Christmas shopping to start and questions to ponder.

Did you buy unborn babies Christmas presents? There were three in his circle this year – Lizzie and Neville's, Petra and George's and Fox and.......and Bean. Did you buy them something? Was that breaking an unspoken rule? Particularly in Petra and George's case?

He sighed – he'd ask his mother, maybe, or Jayne, yeah Jayne was less likely to question him about Sarah, about Bean.

Pouring himself into his (in the words of Fox) "movie star – sex god" blue flannelette pyjamas (or Dad PJs as Thena liked to call them – ironically) – one size too big (unlike the entire rest of his wardrobe, old and threadbare but comfortable as all get-out and a tiny piece of home), he flopped on the bed, grabbed the phone on the side table and called down for food. Yeah, bonding was a bridge too far. Warm food, scotch and a quick troll of the internet and he'd turn in – another early morning was in the offing tomorrow and if he didn't sleep, he'd develop something nasty – just in time for Christmas – or the awards.

He was going somewhere warm as soon as he got the chance, warm and lazy.

Food on its way, languidly he reached over and grabbed his laptop backpack, dragging the device out for the first time in days and plugging into the Wi-Fi. That was the weird thing here – the hot water ran out but the Wi-Fi never did. Not that he used it much, there'd been no time. You could tell how much he'd been near the net by the number of emails pouring into the inbox of his email.

It felt like the unstoppable tide, cascading and cascading – okay there were only about 40, he'd briefly managed to get on-line yesterday and there were still unread messages from then which he should, would, could get to. Instead, he perused the new ones. Suit choices for the awards – well confirmation that he'd wear what the stylist had proposed; meeting reminders; a catalogue from that geeky t-shirt website that Athena and Fox loved so much, a couple of notes from friends and an email from Thena. Nothing from Fox but they'd said there would be no communication this time as they adjusted. Well, she said.

But he still had Thena's.

A message from home.

Did he open it?

He'd be there in three-four days.

It would just make him more homesick, wouldn't it?

To open it?

He pulled the laptop off his lap, putting it carefully on the bed and dragged his long legs down, put his feet on the floor and headed for the little cupboard for a scotch. Yeah, this was a decision only to be made over a scotch.

He kept it neat, no ice tonight, he'd had enough ice and cold to last him a lifetime today and in the past three weeks. The liquid gold warmed and burned as he sipped and swallowed the earth peaty blend.

He sighed.

Muscles relaxed.

He grabbed the laptop again and sat on the edge of the bed.

The email was opened in a flash and there it was – a nice rambly letter from Thena and two attachments. The letter was that of a typical 15-year-old full of exams and friends and boys – yes he'd have to ask Sarah about this new guy when he got home, surely she'd checked him out, vetted him. Boys - hell that was a new problem in their lives. There was a request for a picture and the autograph of one of his co-stars, a boy-band member turned actor that Thena thought was cute or whatever teen-aged girls said about boys (sigh in this case men of 24) that they fancied.

She was growing up fast; too damned fast.

Part of the letter was in Latin and a few passages in French – to show she was practicing, and mastering her languages, and then...........

Then she got to her day, the crux of the matter, the real reason for the email.

Sarah and his mother had let her have the day off school and she gushed about being able to be there to see Bean on the big screen, how amazing Sarah had been. How she'd said, "hello I'm your Mummy" when she saw the image, touched the screen. Tough independent Sarah had cried (though don't tell her I told you! – their teen-aged sister had warned). But it was all okay and Bean was healthy and growing well – a bit longer than average according to Helene (she was the sonographer the lady taking the pictures). Sarah had decided not to find out what Bean was (fancy that – Sarah who read the end of books and hated surprises said no to finding out). However, she'd been allowed –sworn to secrecy though (I can tell you though – you know as the – what do I call you? Can I call you the dad when it's just family? Just you and I? Sarah says, Uncle Dane. But that doesn't seem, right? Unless you really want to be Uncle Dane? Then that will have to do – but I think you'll be a great dad – sometimes I think you feel more like my dad than my brother – in a good way).

She signed off then with a "Thought you'd like these – shhh mum and Sarah don't know I swiped copies – see you at Christmas, love Bean and Athena Huntington-Hilditch).

He took another sip of scotch to break the ice forming in his stomach and opened the first attachment.

It was one of those pictures you got when you had your baby scanned; the ones that look like aliens had invaded and were set to burst out before you could say the words "here we go again Ripley". He'd seen enough of these over the years, friends, colleagues, family.

But this one was different – was it different? Did it look like just another scan? Could he see himself staring back? Was that his nose? His chin? Was Bean more like Sarah?

Oh, my god – it hit him. This wasn't another scan, another baby – this was Bean.

A tear formed in his eye.

Damn it all to hell he was an emotional fool.

Well if the automaton that was Sarah Charlotte Huntington was reduced to tears by this then over emotional Dane Thomas Hilditch had no hope.

But the tear steadfastly sat in the corner of his eye and refused to fall.

Until the second attachment was open after another drink of his whiskey, a gulp this time.

This time he was face to face with a moving image – baby's first screen-test, he supposed. He touched it, touched the fat little hand on the screen, watched it move, a tiny miracle. A little part of himself, growing and moving inside his lover, his best friend – the tear loosened and others followed it.

And he wondered, not for the first time, why he was sitting on his own in a room in Eastern Europe when this was happening and he was missing out.

Anger coursed through his veins, anger at himself, at his situation even at Fox for putting through this. Then he looked back at the screen at the blurry image of a baby, his baby, trying to stuff its fingers - all of its fingers Bean was nothing if not ambitious - up its nose and he made a decision. A decision and a phone call.

Picture: Charlie Grey.