“Not unless you follow sports—he works for one of the satellite channels.”
The manager of the supermarket interrupts us. “Is everything all right?” he asks, brushing down his short mustache with two fingers.
“Perfectly fine,” I say.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“No, I’m being helped already, thank you.”
He hesitates. I match his stare. He looks away and leaves.
“Is that your boss?” I ask.
“Uh-huh. He’s a creep.” Agatha covers her mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Every woman has had a boss like that,” I say, looking for a wedding ring.
She notices and covers her hand. “I’m engaged.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“I know. My fiancé is in the navy. He’s on deployment in the Indian Ocean, but he’s going to buy me a ring when he’s in Cape Town. That’s the best place for diamonds.”
“Will he be home for the birth?”
“Not unless the navy give him the time off.”
I glance behind me, searching for Lachlan. He’s no longer looking at the coloring books. He might be reading the comics near the checkout. Excusing myself, I go in search, calling his name. I call again, louder this time. No answer.
“Don’t you hide from me, Lachlan. It’s not funny.”
I’m moving quickly, running down the aisle, yelling for him, suddenly aware of a sinkhole that has opened in my stomach.
Agatha helps me search. We spy each other at the different ends of the aisles as we cover the width of the supermarket. Lachlan isn’t here. Running back to the main doors, I ask shoppers if they’ve seen a little boy. The manager suggests I calm down because I’m upsetting the customers. The girl at the checkout looks frightened of me.
“Did you see him leave?”
She shakes her head.
“Oh my God. LACHLAN! LACHLAN!”
On the pavement I look in both directions along the road and into the park. I’m trembling. Dizzy. A man walks past.
“Have you seen a little boy? He’s about yea high, with blond hair. He’s wearing a blue parka. His shoes light up.”
The man shakes his head. Unwittingly, I’ve grabbed hold of his arm, squeezing it tightly. He pulls free and hustles away.
A bus has stopped across the road. The doors open. What if Lachlan gets on board? He loves buses. I yell to the driver, waving my arms, crossing the street without looking. A car brakes and the horn sounds. The bus driver opens his side window.
“My little boy, did he get on?”
He shakes his head.
“Are you sure? Can you check?”
The driver walks down through the bus, peering under the seats. Meanwhile I’m scanning the park, fighting against my panic. There are two people with dogs. A frazzled-looking mother sits on a picnic blanket beside a pram. An old man shuffles along the path. The sophisticated parts of my brain are shutting down. I run, calling Lachlan’s name, my heart convinced that someone has taken him. My beautiful boy. Gone. Lachlan Shaughnessy. Aged four. With a floppy fringe of hair and perfect little white teeth and a fierce look of concentration when he plays games or makes believe he’s a knight, or a soldier, or a cowboy.
I glance across the expanse of grass towards the pond. What if Lachlan went to look at the ducks? He might have fallen in. I’m moving again, yelling his name, terrified that I’ll see his little body floating facedown in the water.
Scrabbling through drifts of dead leaves, I reach the edge. Ducks explode into flight, their wings beating at the air. Lachlan isn’t there. The turgid brown water ripples in the breeze. He could have gone back to the preschool or tried to walk home by himself. He asked for a chocolate at the supermarket but I told him to wait. He could be at the café, looking at the cakes in the window. I run back, but Lachlan isn’t at the café. Could he have gone to Lucy’s school? He’s always saying he wants to start school now rather than wait until next year. I start running again, studying every passing car and van and truck, fighting the rising panic. Names pop into my head. Missing children. Murdered children. What am I going to tell Jack? How will I explain it to Lucy? My vision is fragmented and blurred by tears. I can’t find him. I must.
My name is being called.
“Mrs. Shaughnessy!”
I twice turn full-circle before I see Agatha. She’s holding Lachlan’s hand. I run to them, scooping Lachlan into my arms, squeezing him so tightly that he complains.
“You’re hurting me, Mummy.”
Relief is like a valve being opened or a balloon deflating.
“He was in the storeroom,” explains Agatha. “I don’t know how he got in there.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, wanting to hug her as well.
Lachlan wriggles out of my arms. “Why is you crying, Mummy?”
“Never run away like that again,” I tell him.
“I didn’t run away. The door shut.”
“What door?”
“It must have locked behind him,” says Agatha.
“Well, you shouldn’t have wandered off,” I say to Lachlan. “I was frightened. I thought I’d lost you.”
“I’m not lost. I’m here.”
I’ve left my shopping at the supermarket. Lachlan takes hold of Agatha’s hand as well as mine, swinging between us. Now that the fear has gone I feel exhausted and ready to curl up and sleep.
Agatha helps me pack my groceries and we chat about pregnancy and the responsibility of raising children. At first glance I thought she was younger than me, but now I see we’re about the same age. She is a little on the plump side—a size fourteen to my twelve, with gray-blue eyes and a nervous smile. I like her quaint northern accent and that she doesn’t have any airs and graces—not like some women around here, who can be quite cliquey and standoffish. She makes fun of herself. She laughs. She makes me feel better.
I should invite Agatha along to my mothers’ group. She’d be like a breath of fresh air. But in the same heartbeat I consider how snobbish my friends can be. Most of them went to private schools and on to university and speak in identical tones. They are socially confident, attractive, and capable of passing muster at any country house weekend or garden party. Could Agatha do the same? How would I introduce her?
“We should have coffee one day,” I suggest, meaning it.
“Really?”
“What’s your number?” I take out my mobile. “I’m Meghan, by the way. You can call me Meg.”
“And I’m Agatha.”
“I know.” I point to her badge. “We spoke a few weeks ago—you warned me about the wet floor.”
She looks surprised. “You remember?”
“Of course, why?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
AGATHA
* * *
“Tours are usually arranged by a midwife,” says the maternity nurse, who is dressed in dark blue trousers and a navy blouse with white piping around the collar. Barely five feet tall, she looks Italian, with thick eyebrows that almost join above her nose.
“When are you due?” she asks.
“Early December.”
“You’ve left it very late.”