I pick up a local newspaper and place it on the counter beside my basket of groceries.
‘Isn’t it awful about this missing baby?’ I say to the shopkeeper.
Her face falls into a slack study of sadness. ‘Oh! It’s a tragedy. I can’t stop thinking about it, it’s so terrible.’ She speaks as she tots up my purchases, bagging them as she goes. ‘Nothing like this ever happens here, on the island. I mean, don’t get me wrong, all kinds of things happen here – just like everywhere else, I suppose – but this? A child missing? No, it’s just dreadful.’
Another customer joins us at the till, a woman about my age, wearing a heavy Barbour jacket and mud-caked boots. ‘Trouble is, it makes you look at everyone with suspicion, doesn’t it? I mean, that’s what the police have told us to do – question everything, look out for anyone with a child, anyone you don’t know.’ She nods towards the pram and smiles. ‘You must’ve had a few double-takes, haven’t you? People checking you haven’t got the snatched baby there!’
She’s joking, I know, and I laugh too, handing over a twenty-pound note and organising my shopping in the basket beneath the pram. ‘I have!’ I say and then I incline my head, inviting her to look inside the pram, where Chloe lies fast asleep, dressed head to toe in navy blue. ‘But they soon forget their suspicions once they see he’s a little boy!’
It’s genius, I know. The idea came to me yesterday as I paused outside the window of Mothercare on the high street, drawn as I was to the sweet little bobble hats and warm winter outfits. A boy! No one will question me with a baby boy!
The two women take a good look at Chloe, smiling generously.
‘So, is he yours?’ the Barbour woman asks. She’s obviously trying to assess my age.
‘Yes. Late baby – usual story – too busy with my career for years, and then it took a while for me to fall pregnant. But he’s here now! Better late than never.’ I can’t believe how normal I sound, how convincing, and I like this new life, this new normality.
They nod approvingly. ‘Well, he’s a poppet,’ the shopkeeper says. ‘Has he got a name?’
I regret it the moment it leaves my lips, but, thank God, they don’t seem to make the connection. ‘James,’ I say, and I turn away because I’m blushing, feeling caught out. ‘But we call him Jimmy. Jimmy.’
‘Lovely!’ they say, together, and it’s the perfect time for me to leave, because they believe me, and we’re all smiling, and outside the winter sun is shining and everything is good in the world.