She takes my coat and yells up the stairs for Simon. The house is overheated and smells of curry.
“Do you want a glass of wine?” asks Gina. “The bottle is open. Or a cup of tea?”
“No.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m so sorry about . . . everything. I wanted to call you, but I figured you were probably overwhelmed with calls and messages.”
“I really need to speak to Simon.”
“Oh, right, of course.” She yells for him again.
Simon appears on the stairs, dressed in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt.
“Look who it is,” says Gina.
“I need to talk to him alone,” I say.
Gina’s smile fades. “Of course, I’ll . . . I’ll just pop upstairs.” She and Simon exchange a glance as they pass each other.
Remaining in the hallway, I look up the stairs and make sure she’s gone. Simon follows me into the kitchen.
“What did you say to Jack?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“He knows something happened between us.”
“He knows shit.”
“I told you to leave us alone.”
Simon matches my anger. “Is that why you sent the police around here—asking me questions?”
“What?”
“Two detectives came to see me. They wanted to know where I was when Ben was stolen. They asked me about my relationship with you. The word ‘blackmail’ was mentioned.”
“Did you tell them anything?”
“No. What did you say about me?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit!”
“I was angry. Something slipped out. I told them to forget what I said.”
“Clearly they didn’t get your instructions,” he says sarcastically. “Thanks to you, I’m a suspect. They know about my priors—the drug possession and dealing. Gina has started asking questions. If any of this gets back to the network, I’ll lose my job.”
“It was a mistake. I’m sorry.”
“That makes me feel much better.”
“You promised not to tell Jack.”
“That was before you dumped me in the shit. Now all bets are off.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why not? You don’t care about me. I think Jack deserves to know who he married.”
“No. Please. I’ll do the DNA test as soon as we find Ben.” Even as I utter the words, I want to take them back, but it’s too late.
Simon cocks his head, looking at me dubiously. “What if he’s mine?”
“I’ll tell Jack. But if the test shows that you’re not the father, I want you to leave us alone. This stops once and for all. Is that agreed?”
Simon nods, no longer jacked up and tense. His voice softens. “I’m sorry I accused you of arranging the kidnapping.”
I don’t want to forgive him. I want to be home in bed with Jack.
Simon moves closer. “Is there any news?”
“No.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Nothing.”
My body is shaking. Simon puts his arms around me and for the briefest moment I sink against him, accepting his embrace, enjoying the physical contact. I push him away. Hating myself. Hating him.
“Remember what I said.”
AGATHA
* * *
Rory had a difficult night. He screamed for hours and wouldn’t feed. I tried everything. I rocked, jiggled, soothed, and patted his back. I carried him in a sling, held him against my heart, and walked him up and down stairs. I tried white noise—the dishwasher, washing machine, running water, music videos, and the radio. He finally fell asleep at 3 a.m. curled up on my chest on the sofa.
I weighed him again this morning—stepping on and off the bathroom scale and calculating the difference between my weight when I hold him and when I don’t. As far as I can tell, he’s not growing. “Failure to thrive” is how they describe it on the Internet.
So far I’ve tried three different types of formula but Rory won’t take more than thirty milliliters at a sitting, which he sometimes throws up. He has to start growing soon. He can’t be like the others. My dearest babies have all died young. I tell myself there is a purity in that because only the young are completely innocent. My babies didn’t have time to grow up and become adults; to be disappointed or disappoint others. They will always shine brightly and be forever good.
Emily was the last one. I lost her three years ago. Nicky and I were separated, but not yet divorced. I went to Brighton for a week, hoping to find companionship among the summer crowds, but I found no comfort. I exhaled loneliness. It followed me around like a raincloud or a smell.
On my last night—a Saturday—the pubs were full of drunken revelers listening to doof-doof music and smokers spilling onto the pavements. I bought a can of soft drink and sat on a bench on the pier, watching courting couples snog in the shadows or paddle at the water’s edge. It had been a hot day and everybody seemed to be waiting for the mercury to fall.
I contemplated catching a late train back to London rather than spending another night in my cheap hotel. A young mother passed by pushing a pram. I don’t know what made me follow her home. I didn’t plan to steal her baby. I only wanted to look.
The woman lived in a garden flat on a quiet street with an alleyway at the back and a rear garage with a sign saying PLEASE KEEP ACCESS CLEAR. A small spiral staircase climbed to the back door. I waited and watched until the lights went off.
A net curtain billowed from a window that had been hinged open to catch the breeze. I reached inside, unhooked the latch, and lifted the window high enough to crawl through. The baby girl was sleeping in a Moses basket. She looked to be about three months old. A baby monitor blinked above her head. I turned it off. The red light died.
I picked her up and put her in a pillowcase and carried her out the window like a burglar stealing silverware from a country house. By the time anyone knew Emily was missing I was back in London. Nicky had moved out of the house and we had plans to sell, but in the meantime I had the place to myself.
Emily lived for twelve days. It was my fault. She fell asleep while I was feeding her and I put her straight into her crib, laying her on her back, when I should have kept her upright on my shoulder. If I had burped her properly she wouldn’t have vomited and aspirated milk into her lungs.
I woke at five and found her. She wasn’t breathing. Her skin was blue. The vomit had dried on her cheek and on the back of her head. I washed her little body and wrapped it in a sheet and took it to my special place. I laid her to rest alongside Chloe and Lizzie, the ones who never grew up—forever innocent and untainted. Set free.
*
It’s still early when I put Rory in his pram and push him through the streets, hoping the fresh air might make him hungry. I catch a bus to Hammersmith and another along Kensington High Street as far as the Tube station.
I have to wait until nine thirty before a young librarian opens the doors of Kensington Central Library. By then the queue consists mainly of homeless people who are looking for somewhere warm to spend a few hours.