*By the time the next morning rolled around and her luggage still hadn’t arrived, most of Matilda’s bravado had fled. She needed another set of day clothes, at the very least, not to mention underwear. And she needed to stop relying on Henry’s calls to start her day on a positive note.
Because Henry had kept his call short this morning, and it had left her feeling downright forlorn. So much for the freewheeling confidence and enthusiasm she’d been working towards. So much for holding the interest of one brilliantly oblivious Henry Church.
There was no sunshine to be found outside and the air was not fresh, but the bakery two blocks over had flaky, hot croissants that lifted her spirits. Marks and Spencer, once she found it, was a lot like any other department store, and she stocked up on underwear and cheap T-shirt tops, and a pair of jeans from the sale bin, and then some toiletries, and by the time she walked back into Henry’s building she felt a million times better than she had this morning.
‘Your grocery delivery is here as well,’ said Len the doorman and pointed to several boxes stacked against the nearby wall. ‘I can give you a trolley to help get them up to your apartment, but you need to bring it back down as soon as you’re finished with it.’
‘It’s a deal.’
Len swiftly loaded her acquisitions into the waiting lift and pushed her floor button. ‘You settling in okay?’
‘Better than I was.’
‘You remember the code to disarm Henry’s security system?’
‘Of course.’ Wirralong postcode. ‘Remembering the security system is there at all is the challenge, but I’m getting there.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Good for everyone else in the building too.’ She dug in her handbag for a fiver and handed it to him. ‘I’ll bring the trolley right back.’ But Len had already turned away to let someone in the door. Someone wearing a courier’s uniform and wheeling a very familiar suitcase, and hold the lift and hallelujah, because her suitcase had finally arrived.
Getting everything into the apartment dimmed Tilly’s enthusiasm not one little bit. Her luggage had been opened at some point, but nothing was missing, not even the beautiful scarf, and maybe it was dreary outside, the sky heavy with cloud, but this called for a celebration. Lamps on, music playing, and one of those grocery boxes had contained a mixed six-pack of wine, and why not indulge? It had to be wine o’clock somewhere in the world.
Henry’s streaming playlist wasn’t half bad, and his sound system was superb. Tilly set about pulling fresh fruit and crackers and chocolate from one box, and refrigerator food from another. Bacon, eggs, baked beans, sausages—all the fixings for a full English breakfast, alongside other goodies that were downright luxurious. Salted cashews. Ginger shortbread. Crusty sourdough and English cheeses. All sorts of luxury nibbles guaranteed to cheer her up. From Henry, the note said. Bless his heart.
A little saying she’d picked up.
Rain set in mid-afternoon, just as Tilly contemplated ducking across to the National Gallery to check out the Rembrandts. It was right there, just across the square, open until six, and entry was free. Why not brave the drizzle for the opportunity to ogle priceless artwork?
Tilly the cultured, scarf-carrying, intrepid tourist.
*
Three hours later, on the dot of six pm, Tilly returned and Len greeted her in the foyer like a long-lost love. ‘Matilda, thank God you’re back.’
Tilly blinked and summoned an awkward smile, well aware that she and Len weren’t the only ones in the foyer. A young woman sat in a waiting chair, a baby car carrier at her feet and a huge carryall stacked on the spare chair beside her. ’Er … yes. Hadn’t actually gone far.’ Still overwhelmed at times, she told herself. Cowardly was another word.
But the doorman had turned towards the other woman. ‘This is Matilda, Henry’s friend I was telling you about. Matilda, meet Suzannah King and baby Rowan.’
‘Er …’ This time she managed to keep her sub-par conversational skills to herself. Why was Len introducing her to this woman? She smiled. ‘Hi.’
‘Suzannah’s here to see Henry.’
‘Ah.’ Tilly felt her eyebrows rise. ‘Henry’s in Australia.’
The woman frowned and glanced at Len. ‘That’s what he said.’
Suzannah had brown eyes, black hair and a pinched face that in happier times might have been called elfin. ‘Look, can I just come up for a bit? I’ll drop off the paperwork he’s going to need and then I’ll be on my way.’
Tilly hesitated. It was one thing to be living in Henry’s apartment, it was another to admit a complete stranger. And what were the papers she was talking about? Couldn’t they be posted?
‘And I would love to use your bathroom. Please. I’ve been sitting here waiting for you for the last two hours, and at least one-and-a-half of those hours was spent trying to console a screaming baby.’
‘Truth,’ muttered Len. ‘Kid’s got some pipes. You should have heard her earlier.’
Probably protesting his name. Her name? ‘Yeah, um, sure. Come on up.’ What was she going to do? Toss a woman and baby out in the rain? She tried for some friendly conversation. ‘How old is baby Rowan?’
‘Six months this Saturday, but she was born a month early, so does that count as time in lieu?’ Suzannah hefted the carryall over her shoulder—it looked hellishly heavy—and made to pick up the baby carrier.
‘May I help you carry something?’ Tilly offered quickly. ‘Perhaps your … oh … right,’ she said as the carrier was shoved into her arms. ‘I’m carrying the baby.’ It wasn’t as if she’d never encountered a baby before. ‘Ah, we should go to the lift.’
Suzannah wasn’t one for small talk in the lift, or in the apartment. All she did was dump the carryall by the door and nod when Tilly pointed her in the direction of the bathroom.
Tilly headed for the living room, turning on lights as she went, so as to make the place more welcoming, or maybe turning them on simply to give her the illusion of being in control of her surroundings.
Was the baby all right? She set the carrier on the sofa and cautiously lifted the fluffy pink satin-edged blanket covering the baby’s face. Sweet little sleeping baby, with a thatch of bright red hair and pale skin to go with it. The baby sighed, but didn’t otherwise stir. Thank goodness.
Tilly couldn’t resist tucking the edge of the blanket in around the poppet a little more securely. Babies liked being swaddled, didn’t they? Especially babies that had a tendency to scream for hours on end. She turned and straightened as the other woman entered. ‘She’s fast asleep.’
Suzannah looked relieved. Possibly because she was no longer battling a full bladder, possibly because she didn’t have to contend with a screaming baby.
‘Cup of tea?’ Tilly offered. Because well, the woman had an empty bladder now, and what else did you do when unexpected strangers bearing babies visited? ‘I think baby Rowan will be fine where she is, don’t you? We’ll hear her from the kitchen if she wakes.’
‘Thank you.’ The other woman followed where Tilly led, and brought her oversized carryall with her, heaving it onto the countertop with a grunt. ‘White, one sugar.’
By the time Tilly had the kettle on and cups set out, there was a bulging folder on the counter, alongside two empty baby bottles, a tin of milk formula, half a dozen tins of apple puree and a stack of baby bibs. Tilly knew babies needed a lot of stuff—she’d seen new mothers lugging a huge bag just to take the baby out for the day—but surely you didn’t need all that food for one day.
Suzannah plonked herself on the elegant bar stools with a sigh. ‘I’m never having children. Not after this.’
As Tilly poured the tea, a little whimper from the lounge room made them both freeze, but when there was no further sound, they relaxed again. ‘She’s not normally so fussy. She misses her mother,’ Suzannah said.
‘Oh, so she’s not yours?’ Tilly passed her the milk.
‘No. Her mother died two days ago after a frankly horrendous battle with pancreatic cancer. I’ve been looking after Rowan on and off for weeks, and full time these past two days, and I really have to get back to work, and half my neighbours want to report me for disturbing the peace, and don’t tell me young babies can’t grieve, because I know better.’ Suzannah’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Oh.’ Tilly had a bad, bad feeling about all of this. ‘So,’ she said, trying for a casual change of subject, ‘how do you know Henry?’ It was a reasonable enough question, considering.
‘I don’t.’ Suzannah scowled. ‘But Manda did. She worked for him, or with him, in some think tank group—I never could get a straight answer on what it was they actually did. But she fell for him hard and they had a night or two together and then he decided that was a mistake and so she left her job, got sick, had a baby and died.’
There was a short period of silence while Suzannah drank her tea. Tilly had no idea what to say. It was a shocking story.
‘So here I am. Doing what Manda asked me to do at the end, and that was make sure Rowan got to her father and the authorities didn’t get involved.’
Tilly blinked. ‘Her father? Wait. What? You’re saying that’s Henry’s baby in there?’
Suzannah’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you need something stronger than tea? Because if you and Henry are more than friends, you’re probably going to need it.’
‘I’m not—we’re not—I grew up next door to Henry on a neighbouring farm. I’m flat-sitting while he’s back in Australia.’
‘I mean, I think it’s good you know Henry and his family so well,’ Suzannah continued. ‘And you’re not otherwise invested. What a relief.’ She patted the folder. ‘Everything you need by way of paperwork is in here. Rowan Aurelia Church. Birth certificates, passports and medical records for Amanda and Rowan both. A copy of Manda’s will, a letter from her solicitor, and a letter from Manda to Henry. Manda vowed she had it all legally sorted and all I would have to do when she died was deliver Rowan to her father. And here I am, and please, please don’t look at me like that, because even if the father isn’t here right this minute, you’ll get him here, right? He’ll come.’
The baby stirred in the other room, letting out a thin wail, and Suzannah rose, looking hunted. ‘I have to go. I brought as much baby stuff over as I could. The rest of it’s at Manda’s.’
‘Wait.’
But the other woman was almost to the door.
‘Suzannah, wait. You can’t just leave.’ But she clearly could, and was. ‘I don’t—what do I even feed her?’
‘A bottle when she wakes in the morning, and Amanda was trying her on a bit of baby gruel too, there’s some in the bag but good luck with that. More milk for lunch, same for dinner, and whatever it takes to get her to sleep at night.’
‘But, quantities. What kind of quantities are we talking about?’ Tilly could follow recipes to the letter, improve on them even. She could feed poddy lambs and calves and knew, in principle, that the younger the animals the smaller the feed and the more times a day—and night—it had to be done. ‘How old is she?’
‘Six months. I already told you. Five months if you’re counting since conception. It’s all in the folder.’ Suzannah was already at the door.
‘Stay. Please. I can’t—’
‘That’s the problem. Neither can I.’
The door shut behind the other woman with a thud, which properly woke the baby. At first there was a whimper, but it didn’t stay a whimper for long. This baby went from nought to screaming, red-faced rage in thirty seconds, and Tilly had no notion of what to do about that other than peer into the capsule at the flailing arms and the scrunched-up red face and make shushing noises, and when that didn’t work, quiet ‘hey’s.’ ‘Hey, baby. Shh.’
Rock the cradle with one hand and fumble with Henry’s remote for his television, through which she could connect to her playlist, not that she had any sleepy-time music ready, but she could find some. A lullaby or woodland gongs or shushing sea music, the sound of rain, oh, hey, Pink Floyd.
One hand rocking the cradle still while the other rested gently on the baby’s chest, no weight at all, just warmth and hopefully security while children chanted about being bricks in a wall and the wails slowed, ending on jagged gasps and an occasional hiccup. And slowly, blessedly, Henry’s daughter grew quiet and her face lost that brickish hue and the crinkles smoothed out and her little body relaxed back into sleep again.
And Tilly breathed again.
Five minutes after that, Tilly tucked the blanket around the baby’s shoulders again and slumped back on the sofa next to her, eyes closed and mind working furiously.
Paperwork. There was a folder full of it on the kitchen counter.
Tilly fetched it and began to read.
Ten minutes later the baby was still asleep, and now Tilly was the one who wanted to scream.
Henry had a daughter.
Did he even know he had a daughter? Granted, his brain could be found in the clouds much of the time, but he had to have known of Rowan’s existence, surely? Before he left for Australia? The baby was six months old. Surely he’d known of the mother’s pregnancy. The baby’s birth.
Becoming a father was big news. Huge. Why hadn’t he said anything?
It was after midnight in Australia, but if anyone deserved to be woken from peaceful slumber it was Henry.
She rang his mobile first, and left a message to call her straight back. She thought about ringing his grandparents’ landline, but they were old, and the thought of the dread that came with an early hours phone call stayed her hand.
She’d call the mobile again in another hour or so and meanwhile she could unpack the carryall sitting on the kitchen bench and find out what she needed to get when it came to baby care, because no matter what, this baby was going to need to be fed. Soon. And … ugh, changed.
One thing was absolutely certain—Henry was really going to owe her over this.
She picked up the house phone and called down to the front desk, utterly relieved when Len picked up. ‘Len, I’m in a pickle.’
‘Does it have anything to do with the baby that didn’t leave the building with young Suzannah?’
‘You read my mind. Is there anyone in the building who has small children? Or grandchildren? Because I’m willing to throw myself and Henry’s money on their mercy and beg for a bassinet and a changing mat and whatever else I might need.’
There was a brief silence, then Len said cautiously, ‘You’re keeping the baby?’
‘No! Well, only until I speak to Henry and find out what’s going on. But in the meantime this baby needs feeding and changing and whatever else that babies need.’
‘The Clarks might be able to help. Their daughter not long ago had their first grandbaby.’
‘Whatever they could spare, but especially a bassinet. It’d only be for one night.’ Because come morning she’d have a plan. Hopefully. No, definitely.
‘I’ll call them now and send them up. Henry’s baby, you said?’
‘That’s what it says on the birth certificate.’
‘And the mother just left her with you?’
‘The mother’s dead. Suzannah was the delivery girl, talked into doing a favour for her dying friend, or so she says. Does that sound off to you?’
‘Like three-day-old fish.’
‘And I can’t raise Henry’s phone and my babysitting skills are non-existent. The Clarks can have their pick of Henry’s fancy wine collection and so can you, if you can help. Or I’ll bake for you tomorrow. What desserts do you like?’ Did she sound desperate? Yes she did, because she was.
And oh God, was that the baby beginning to stir in the background?
Yes, yes it was. ‘Tell the Clarks I can cater dinner parties for dozens of people at the drop of a hat, just say the word. In exchange for the lend of a bassinet and whatever other baby stuff they think I might need in order to get through the night.’
‘Got it,’ said Len. ‘Henry’s sitter in number 3A is willing to sell her soul for diapers, baby wipes and a bassinet.’
*
Henry woke to the sound of kookaburras laughing at him from a stand of nearby gums. It was a far cry from the sound of early morning garbage trucks and Trafalgar Square waking up to another day of tourists and trade. It had taken him forever to get used to the city sounds, just as it had taken him forever to get used to the sound of farm life all those years ago.
He’d been eight years old when he first arrived at his grandparents’ sprawling sheep property on the outskirts of Wirralong. Dropped off by a social worker, his mother dead, killed in a hit-and-run accident that he hadn’t witnessed—there was such a thing as small mercies—and no father to speak of, just a blank spot on his birth certificate where a father’s name should go.
But Henry’s life had changed for the better the moment he’d stepped onto Red Hill Station, there was no denying that. He’d come to adore his grandfather, and as for his grandmother, well … he’d figured out pretty early on why his mother had left home when she did. Self-preservation, most likely, because Bethany Church was a brittle, brutal woman who considered breaking people a personal challenge. No self-worth to speak of for his mother, Ruth Church. Whatever initial rebellion she had in her had all been used up in the act of leaving home at fifteen and making her way to the city.
Poverty and her lack of education had done the rest. Too timid, too greedy for kindness, she’d been an easy target for a particular type of predatory male. The ones who liked to keep her beat down and fearful, dependent on them and oh-so-eager to please. Ruth Church Mouse, and when she wasn’t being criticised, she could often be found trying to make herself invisible.
She’d done her best to show him how to be invisible too.
Lesson learned—for what it was worth.
It helped that he was good at packing away feelings into tidy little compartments inside his head. Mother issues box? As in love her and despair of her in equal measure? Do not open. Father figure? See box labelled ‘Grandfather Joe’ and be grateful. Women he trusted? That box was empty.
A knock on the door had him reaching for the pyjama trousers he’d shed in the middle of the night. It was scorching hot in summer and his grandparents still didn’t have aircon for the bedrooms. ‘I’m up,’ he murmured, feeling all of eight years old again. He reached for his phone in an attempt to find out what time it was, but it was dead. Why was it dead? ‘Come in.’
The door cracked open and his grandfather’s head appeared. ‘Matilda’s on the phone and asking for you.’
Tilly? ‘What time is it?’
‘Six.’
Meaning early evening in London. ‘Thanks.’ He shoved his sheet back, headed for the bedroom door and claimed the handset. He wasn’t dressed for company, but Tilly would never know. He’d not only been using his old bedroom for this visit, he’d started wearing some of his old clothes around the place as well. His London clothes looked so out of place here. Too crisp. Too posh. All wrong.
‘Hot coffee in the kitchen when you’re ready,’ his grandfather offered. His grandfather was always up first, with the sun, putting wood on the fire and breakfast on. Such a startling concept when he’d arrived here all those years ago to find breakfast cooking and a mug of milky tea waiting for him at the kitchen table. His mother hadn’t believed in breakfast. She hadn’t put much emphasis on lunch and dinner either.
God, why was the thought of his mother so strong in his head this morning?
‘Thank you,’ he murmured to his grandfather, thinking of all those times he’d sat in stunned silence as the older man had filled his plate with perfectly poached eggs on toast, and bacon. Tomatoes and onion on the side. Sometimes even mushrooms.
He put the phone to his ear and attempted to stop wallowing around in memories.
‘Evening, Matilda.’ It sounded like Tilly was out and about, given the screaming baby in the background. ‘What’s up?’
‘Your daughter for one. Not that she sleeps, because she doesn’t.’
‘Sorry, I can’t hear you properly.’ He changed ears, thinking that might help. What was she saying about Len not getting enough sleep? ‘My doorman what?’
‘Sorry, what?’ Now it seemed like her turn to be confused. ‘Let me just—can I hang up, and you video call me back?’
‘Course.’ He grabbed his computer, which was charged, and headed out onto the verandah. ‘Fair warning, I’m just out of bed. No shirt, but I do have pyjama bottoms on.’
‘If only you’d kept them on,’ she muttered, and suddenly there she was on his screen, looking far from serene. She wasn’t alone. She had a little bundle tucked in the crook of one arm. A noisy screaming baby bundle. ‘Let me just—can you see her?’
‘Why are you babysitting?’
‘Exactly.’ Frustration roared along the airwaves, cloaked in Tilly’s voice. ‘Exactly my question! Did you know about this?’
‘Your babysitting gig?’ No.
‘Your daughter.’
His what?
But Tilly had barely drawn breath. ‘Because apparently you have one, and now she’s motherless, and if you could be genius enough to charge your phone, you might take the time to look at all the paperwork that came with her. And after that, I would very much appreciate your help when it comes to trying to care for her. Because I am doing a very bad job of that, Henry. A very bad job.’
Her dire words were accompanied by a wail from the baby that seemed to prove her point. ‘Hey,’ he murmured. ‘Shhh. Easy, there.’ Hard to say who exactly he was trying to soothe. Tilly most likely.
Because the baby in her arms? His baby?
He knew not one damn thing about that.
He’d been single for so long now. Not since his ill-considered one-night stand with a colleague who’d up and left the think tank altogether a short time later.
Last he’d heard she was battling cancer. He’d been meaning to get in touch, if only to see how she was.
Meaning to.
‘Tilly. If you could just—’ What was she doing to that baby to make it cry so much? Nothing that he could see, and he had no advice for her anyway. ‘What’s the mother’s name?’
Instead of speaking, she picked up a sheet of paper and pasted it to the screen, effectively shutting out his view of anything else, but unfortunately doing nothing to mute the sound.
‘Henry, I have to go. Maybe she needs a walk, fresh air, the light of the moon—although heaven knows that’s not likely around here. Maybe I need to go and buy a pram, and I would, Henry, I would if I thought I could (a) find one, and (b) find one with a shop attendant who didn’t think I was kidnapping this screaming, unhappy child and, oh, blast.’
Blast? ‘What kind of blast?’
‘There goes dinner, straight down my shirt, and to be fair it’s not my shirt it’s your shirt, but still. I am standing here holding your windy baby, Henry, and you need to rethink your life choices and turn on your goddamn phone and read the paperwork and figure something out. Because I can get comfortable wearing your crispy business shirts, if I have to. I can admire your sock drawer and make fun of the contents of your fridge. But I will not, repeat, will not be left holding the baby.’