FRANCIS St. Thomas Hospital
FRANCIS
St. Thomas Hospital
As I expected that sly little fox has vanished into thin air.
Of course, he never got back to me after that night at the Blackbird…
and if I’d managed to find even the shadow of a babysitter, I wouldn’t be nearly this annoyed at his radio silence.
The real problem is, despite combing through every contact from friends, colleagues, and vague acquaintances, I still haven’t found a single nanny available to help me out.
I’m starting to suspect I chose the wrong profession.
Finding a full-time nanny in London is beginning to feel like a mythical quest: either you end up with someone so utterly unsuitable you wouldn’t trust them with a houseplant, let alone a child, or, if they are even remotely qualified, they charge astronomical rates.
And that’s assuming you could afford to pay them, which, frankly, isn’t even the issue, because they’re all fully booked anyway.
The best nannies’ contact details, of course, are guarded like state secrets, locked away as if they were access codes to Fort Knox, not the names of childcare professionals. And it doesn’t end there: the few who might be available during the day won’t commit to nights, and vice versa.
The ones willing to stay overnight usually want a full-time live-in job, with room and board all week. And while I’m not exactly fussy, the idea of having a complete stranger wandering around my flat 24/7 is a bit too much, even for me.
The bottom line? This afternoon, I’m finally bringing my daughter home, and I still haven’t found a single workable solution for childcare.
Laura, the nanny recommended by Seb and Remi, turned out to be exactly what I expected, available only for the odd evening or day shift, and only if booked well in advance, naturally.
At least there’s one piece of good news: after my friends kindly introduced me to the headmistress of Leo’s nursery, the school has graciously agreed to enrol Adele too, despite the academic year already being well underway.
So, at the very least, I know she’ll be going to a good place, and if need be, the Elliott Arnetts and I can have each other’s backs.
I’ve still got one week of parental leave left to find a proper candidate, but I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that, at least in the beginning, I might have to rely on my mum.
Or, more likely at this point, on Emma Elliott.
In the few days I had to prepare for Adele’s arrival, my friends, thankfully, didn’t let me down.
After giving my place on Kennington Park Road a proper once-over, they all sprang into action, each in their own way, to help me welcome my little girl in the best possible way.
Noah painted and decorated the guest room next to the master bedroom, while Jamie helped me pick out and assemble the furniture and curtains.
Seb and Ollie dragged me through an exhausting shopping spree, devoting themselves, almost touchingly, to finding the most adorable baby outfits imaginable.
Remi, on the other hand, took it upon himself to introduce me to the magical world of new-parent technology, proudly demonstrating every gadget ever invented to rob modern mums and dads blind.
At a certain point, though, I had to put my foot down. After giving in on the UV steriliser, there was no way I was letting a futuristic baby food processor and a full set of Montessori toys, three hundred pounds a piece, mind you, invade my home.
Ian, meanwhile, offered, so to speak, his moral support by dragging me out for a night at Be At One, all while parading an air of such deep pity, you’d think it was the last time I’d ever set foot outside the house for the next fifteen years.
I had to remind him that Remi and Seb have a child too, and I don’t see them burying themselves alive in their flat. He replied, with his usual tact, that the Elliott Arnetts are a couple, they have each other, and Remi’s family too, whereas I’ll be lucky if I can count on his brother for help.
Assuming he says yes.
McAvoy doesn’t seem quite as pessimistic as I am about the odds of his infuriating little brother actually agreeing to work for me, but even he thinks it’s best not to push the matter too hard… which, frankly, is the least of my worries. The last thing I plan to do is chase after Jack.
Kit, who’d joined us for what was meant to be a carefree night out, had the good sense to elbow Ian in the ribs before heading off to get drinks for everyone, an action I appreciated more than I probably should have, but that didn’t solve the issue raised by our dear Mr. McAvoy.
Because the truth remains: I’m a single father, with zero experience and no real support, apart from a group of overly eager and mildly chaotic friends who, despite everything, I already know will be the ones to keep me afloat. Once again.
Over the past few days, I’ve met several times with Sarah Simmons, the social worker handling Adele’s case, and together we’ve gone through every possible legal and logistical detail.
I haven’t heard anything further from Detective Patel…
I’m not sure whether that’s a good sign or a bad one, but I doubt I’ll find out today.
As soon as they gave me the date Adele would be coming home, I took a day off work to take care of the final details. The house is ready, every last detail in place, to welcome the little girl who, as of now, is officially my daughter.
The word itself might seem ordinary, even simple, but every time I think it, or say it aloud, letting it roll off my tongue with a kind of reverence, like it might burn, I feel a wave of vertigo at the raw, staggering weight of the responsibility I’ve taken on.
As I cautiously approach the nursery to finally bring Adele home, I’m suddenly hit by a wave of doubt. What if I’m not up to the task? What if I’ve overestimated my strength, my ability to handle all of this?
Since I was approved as a foster parent, the social worker has made sure I could spend a little time with Adele each day at the nursery, to help her gradually get used to having me around.
But despite all my worries, the moment I step closer to the entrance, her mischievous little eyes find mine, and she sets off crawling at full speed straight towards me.
No matter how hard I try to hold it back, I feel tears sting my eyes, because somehow, this tiny human already trusts me. She’s counting on this slightly chaotic, last-minute father she’s ended up with… and she doesn’t even know it.
Instinctively, I kneel down and open my arms to welcome her.
I pull her gently to my chest and barely have time to press a quick kiss to the top of her head, her hair still smelling faintly of shampoo, before she squirms out of my grasp and scurries back across the rubber play mat covering the floor.
As I straighten up again, I meet the understanding gaze of Caroline and Eddie, neither of whom makes any attempt to hide the emotion on their faces.
“Ready?” my colleague asks softly, before signalling to the volunteer playing with the children to start getting Adele ready to come home with me.
My throat tightens so much I can’t even get a word out, so I just nod in silence, grateful.
Eddie walks over to me, holding a plastic bag filled with all of Adele’s belongings. He rests a hand on my shoulder and says, “Ms. Simmons called us just a moment ago to confirm that all the paperwork has been sorted. You’re free to leave whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you…” I murmur, barely audible. “I really appreciate you both sticking around for this, I know you and Dr Carson were supposed to be off already...”
“Don’t even say that” Caroline cuts in, before exchanging a knowing glance with the young nurse.
“There’s no way we’d have missed this moment. Right, Eddie?”
He nods, visibly moved, and simply adds, “Enjoy your parental leave, Doctor. Take this time to bond with her. You’ll see, everything will be just fine. Adele really is a little gem, and you’re going to do great…”
“Thank you, and… I really hope you’re right, Eddie.
But I suppose now it’s time to take this little lady home,” I say, looking at them both with genuine gratitude, before turning towards the volunteer, who has already dressed Adele in her puffy coat and a little woolly hat. I scoop her up gently into my arms.
Caroline leans in to kiss my cheek and softly strokes Adele’s back before stepping away, clearly too emotional to say anything more.
“Dr Starkey,” Eddie calls after me just as I start heading for the lifts.
“The bag!” Eddie calls out, slightly out of breath, just as I realise I can’t carry it myself, I left the pushchair in the car and I’m already holding Adele in my arms.
Two minutes into fatherhood and I’m already making a mess of things… Great start.
Eddie must catch the look of panic on my face, because he jumps in at once.
“Don’t worry, Doctor. I’ll walk down with you.”
There’s nothing I can do but accept his help with a sigh of relief, silently praying I won’t mess up the car seat next.
But after practising opening and closing that infernal contraption at least a hundred times, my fingers kick in on autopilot and, panic aside, I manage to get Adele strapped in within minutes, tucked in like a Sunday roast and screaming her head off.
Clearly, she’s no fan of the lovely device known as Isofix either, but since her safety’s non-negotiable and there’s no alternative, all I can do is hope she gets used to it before my eardrums give out.
I give Eddie a sheepish wave, fully aware of how useless I look, failing to soothe the little one. But he just smiles, unfazed, and after wishing me good luck, he heads off, visibly relieved that he’s not the one who has to brave London traffic with a howling baby in the back seat.
By the time we finally turn into our street, Adele has more or less resigned herself to her fate, defeated more by the endless weaving through city traffic than by my desperate attempts to soothe her. Oh well.
Car safety’s not up for debate, and one way or another, she’s going to have to get used to it.
This time, though, there’s no helpful Eddie at my side, so I have to plan my next moves with military precision.
I pop the boot and pull out that other infernal contraption, the pushchair.
Yes, the same one the shop assistants somehow managed to describe as having a “simple umbrella fold”, which, frankly, is a gross exaggeration. It has nothing in common with an umbrella, least of all with simplicity.
Sadly, my many practice sessions don’t help much here. After several failed attempts to open the thing, I find myself very close to launching it down the street, when, miraculously, it clicks into place.
I decide, just to play it safe, that I am never closing this bloody thing again.
How I’ll ever manage to wedge it back into the boot is a mystery for another day. Now’s not the time for that sort of philosophical musing.
At last, I unclip Adele from the car seat, she’s resumed crying, of course, and wrestle her into the buggy while she screams and thrashes like an eel.
Once I’ve retrieved the plastic bag with her things, I finally make my way up the drive, out of breath and already wondering how I’m supposed to survive until bedtime.
But I barely have time to cross the threshold, with Adele still wailing in the pushchair, when the lights snap on and a small crowd, filled with familiar faces, bursts out shouting: “Surprise!”