Chapter 2
I have no idea how long I stand in the doorway staring at the baby. One minute? Ten? I am fixed to the spot, terror turning my legs to ice and my insides to jelly.
It is only when the baby’s snuffles turn to whimpers that I’m able to force my legs to move.
I crouch over the drawer and tentatively reach out to touch the baby’s cheek.
I am half expecting the whole room to vanish in a puff of smoke, for this all to be a figment of my imagination.
But the baby’s cheek is soft and warm and real.
Whatever this is, it is not a dream.
I jerk back up to my feet and pace the room, my hands laced behind my head.
What happened yesterday, after I left Westgate Gardens? Before I can even start excavating the memories I’ve buried deep in my subconscious, my phone rings from the kitchen. It’ll be Miles, returning my call.
Shit.
I spy a rattle, shaped like a crab, stuffed down the side of the drawer and hold it out to the baby. As tiny fingers curl around the handle I whisper, ‘I’ll be right back. And please, please be quiet.’
My phone is vibrating on the worktop by the kettle. I grab it, take a calming breath and answer with a cheerful, ‘Hey.’
‘Luce, is everything OK?’
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘I called last night. You didn’t answer.’ There’s no anger or reproach in his voice, just concern, and guilt prickles my skin.
‘I thought I was coming down with something, so I switched off my phone and had an early night. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.’
He is quiet for so long I wonder if we’ve been cut off. Finally, he says, ‘Well, I was worried. Is everything OK? Are you OK?’
What am I supposed to tell him? That I have absolutely no memory of the last eighteen hours of my life? That I have woken up to find a baby in our living room?
And what can Miles do, anyway? He works on an oil rig a hundred miles off the coast of Aberdeen. There’s no point worrying him. I’ll tell him once I’ve figured this out because there’s bound to be a rational explanation. Isn’t there?
‘I’m fine. A Lemsip and an early night did the trick. I’m just about to head out into the garden, actually.’
‘Oh, well, if you’re too busy to speak to me—’
Now I’ve upset him. I run a hand through my hair. It feels limp. Greasy.
‘Of course I’m not too busy. I was only going to net the fruit.’ I scratch around for something interesting to say. ‘The fox cubs have been back. I watched them playing on the lawn for almost half an hour last night. The little one seems to be catching his siblings up, thank goodness.’
‘Last night?’
‘That’s what I said.’ It’s only a white lie. The vixen and her litter of four cubs actually came the night before but Miles can hardly call her to check. ‘I left some cat food down for them.’
‘They’re vermin, Lucy. You shouldn’t encourage them.’
‘I know, but they’re so sweet. And they’ll pay me back in spades by keeping the rabbits down.’
I hear a whimper from the living room and I grip the phone tighter. ‘Let’s have a proper chat tonight, shall we?’
‘I can’t tonight. I’ve arranged a card game with the lads.’
‘Tomorrow, then?’
He sighs. ‘It’ll have to be.’
I wish we were having this conversation face to face, so I could read his expression, work out if he’s really mad at me or just knackered.
‘I love you, Miles.’
‘I know.’ His voice softens. ‘I love you too. Listen, I’m about to miss a safety briefing. Talk tomorrow, yeah? I’ll call you,’ he says, and the line goes dead.
I scuttle back to the living room. The baby looks up and its face crumples.
Clearly, I’m not the person it was expecting, or hoping, to see.
The whimpers are gaining momentum, and, as I stand dithering by the sofa, the baby starts crying in earnest. I look around helplessly, as if the answer to this mystery is hiding in plain sight.
I’m not sure what exactly I’m hoping for.
That the baby’s mother lives up the lane and dropped by to say hello?
That she left me in charge while she popped to the loo?
Even as I picture the scenario, I know it’s not true. There are just two of us in the house. Me and the baby.
My gaze falls on a large black bag I don’t recognise, propped up against the bureau.
I drop to my knees and riffle through the contents.
There are half a dozen disposable nappies in the main compartment, along with a bag of wipes, a tub of nappy cream, a spare sleepsuit and three small plastic cartons of formula milk.
In a side pocket, I find three empty feeding bottles.
Of course. The baby must need feeding. I can’t think why this hasn’t already occurred to me. The poor thing must be starving. No wonder it’s crying. I scoop up a carton of formula and one of the bottles and take them into the kitchen.
I have no idea how much a baby needs, so I fill the bottle to the eight-ounce mark, just to be on the safe side. I check the carton.
A complete breast milk substitute… Suitable from birth… Wash hands… Sterilise all utensils according to manufacturers’ instructions… Can be fed at room temperature.
It’s just as well, because the baby’s cries are louder than ever.
Back in the living room, I place the bottle on the arm of the sofa and reach gingerly for the baby. Its little body is squirming and its face is red and puckered.
‘There, there,’ I say self-consciously, even though I know we’re alone. The wailing ramps up another decibel. I perch on the sofa, place the baby in the crook of my left arm and pick up the bottle.
I may not know what I’m doing, but it soon becomes apparent the baby does. The second it clocks the bottle it reaches out and opens its mouth. Seconds later peace has descended. The baby’s eyes lock onto mine and I find myself smiling back.
‘Who are you?’ I whisper. ‘Where did you come from?’ But, of course, the baby doesn’t answer. And the questions spiral endlessly in my head until I feel as though I’ll burst.
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