She frowns and shrugs.
At Victoria Coach Station I catch a District line train to Acton Town and book into a cheap hotel with a VACANCIES sign flashing in the window. The receptionist brushes cigarette ash from her lap and stands on tiptoes to peer over the scarred wooden counter.
“Is there someone in there?” she asks, motioning to the covered baby carrier.
“Yes.” I smile. “Do I pay extra for him?”
“Not unless he needs his own bed.”
“No, he’ll be fine.”
She asks to see my driver’s license. I tell her I don’t have one.
“What about a passport?”
“No.”
“I need proof of identity.”
“I’ll pay cash.”
She hesitates and glances again at the baby seat. “Are you trying to hide from someone?”
“My boyfriend.”
“Did he knock you around?”
“Once too often.”
My room is on the second floor. I pass children’s toys and bicycles in the corridor, as well as a sign reading NO COOKING ALLOWED. I can smell it anyway—cardamom, cinnamon, paprika, and cloves.
Unlocking my door, I check out the window and fire escape. An information sheet says the front desk is unmanned from 7 p.m. until 6 a.m. Guests can use their room key to open the outside door. This means I can come and go without drawing attention to myself.
I have been away from London for two nights, long enough to establish an alibi and set up half my story. Hayden and my friends think I’ve had a baby. They’ve seen the photographs and footage. In the past when I’ve taken a baby it has always been a spur-of-the-moment decision, which is why I failed. This time I’ve faked a pregnancy and a birth. I cannot turn up without a baby. Either I succeed or I die of shame.
*
At seven o’clock I leave the hotel through the main door and head towards Gunnersbury Park, where I catch a minicab on the North Circular. The driver drops me at the Promenade in Chiswick, on the north side of the Thames. Inhaling the icy air, I cross Barnes Bridge on the pedestrian walkway, beneath a half moon that shimmers on the water. Reaching Cleveland Gardens, I keep to the far side of the street until I see Meg’s car parked in front of the house.
I don’t linger. Following a familiar path, I make my way to the railway tracks, scrambling over the collapsed fence and moving gingerly over the crushed granite and quartz, listening for trains. At the back of Meg and Jack’s house, I find my small clearing and fallen tree. Climbing onto the trunk, I pull branches aside and look across the garden.
The house is dark except for a light above the stove and another upstairs in Lucy’s bedroom. Fear balloons in my chest. What if Meg has gone into labor? What if she’s already given birth? A shadow moves behind the curtains. Someone is putting Lucy to bed, reading her a story or fetching a glass of water. It could be Meg or Jack.
I scramble onto the capped brick wall and swing my legs over, lowering myself down the other side. Letting go, I drop into the garden and immediately crouch, trying not to create a silhouette. Looking towards the kitchen, I see a pot simmering on the cooktop. There are dishes in the sink. Finger paintings on the fridge.
Moving in a crablike run, I stay close to the fence until I reach the corner of the house, where I brace my back against the wall. A dog barks. Another answers. I’m exposed here, overlooked by windows from the neighboring house. If somebody were to look outside now they would see me. I promised myself I wouldn’t take risks like this. I would follow the plan and improvise only if something went wrong.
Looking along the side of the house, I can see the sitting room, which is empty. A sleeping laptop blinks on the coffee table. It belongs to Meg. Would she take it to the hospital?
I hear voices behind me, coming from the house next door. Someone turns on a light, throwing my shadow onto the wall. I duck and scramble to the fence, knocking over something heavy that topples in slow motion. I reach out, trying to catch it. Missing. The birdbath shatters against the stone edge of the flowerbed, detonating with a sharp crack that reverberates like a gunshot.
A door slides open. The neighbors have stepped into the garden to investigate.
“It could have been a railway torpedo,” says a man. “They must be working on the line.”
“At this time of night?” a woman replies.
Crouched below the wall, I press my back against the damp bricks, trying to hide in the shadows. A window opens above my head. Meg’s head appears.
“What was it, Bryan?” she calls.
“No idea,” he replies.
Meg leans out farther, looking straight at me. “I see the problem. The birdbath has fallen over.”
Bryan peers over the adjoining wall. His fingers touch my hair. “Must have been a stray cat . . . a big one. Do you need a hand cleaning it up?” He swings his legs over the wall. I duck. His shoes narrowly miss my head.
“Jack will do it tomorrow,” says Meg.
“It’s no bother.”
“Really, Bryan, don’t worry. Thanks anyway.”
Bryan pauses for a moment. His trousered legs are dangling on either side of my head. One heel of his shoe touches my ear.
His weight shifts. His legs swing away. He drops back into his own garden.
“When are you off to the hospital?” the woman asks.
“Early tomorrow,” replies Meg.
“Good luck.”
They go back inside. Meg closes the window and draws the curtains. My heart seems to have stopped. It starts again with a rush of air into my lungs and I retch dryly, cursing my stupidity.
Recovering my breath, I retreat across the garden and squeeze my shoulders through the small door of the playhouse, where I sit on a child-sized stool with my knees against my chest. I take out my mobile and call Meg’s number. She appears in the kitchen, looking for her phone. Answering.
“Hello?”
“You sound puffed?”
“Agatha?”
“Yes.”
“I was upstairs putting the kids to bed.”
“I hope you didn’t run.”
“I’m fine. Where are you? Why are you whispering?”
“The baby is asleep.”
I’m watching Meg through the sliding glass doors. She’s leaning against the island bench, arching her back, feeling the weight of her pregnancy.
“Congratulations,” she says.
“Thank you.”
“How is the new arrival?”
“Beautiful.”
“Is he feeding well?”
“Uh-huh.”
Her back is facing me as she flicks on the kettle and opens a new box of tea bags. Meg wants to know the nitty-gritty details of my labor and the home birth. I tell her what Jules told me about Violet’s arrival and make up the rest.
“I love the name Rory,” she says. “Did Hayden make it back in time?”
“No, he arrived at Heathrow this morning.”
“Shame. Is he coming to Leeds?”
“No. Mum has no room for him here and I’ll be back in London in a day or two.”
Steam curls from the spout of the kettle. She fills a mug with boiling water, jiggles a tea bag, and adds milk. She carries her mug to the glass doors and looks into the garden. For a split second I think she’s seen me, but she’s studying her own reflection.