The Good Part(13)

‘What am I doing here? Why do I look so old?’

He laughs, as though I’ve made a joke. ‘You don’t look old, darling, you look gorgeous.’

Darling? ‘Did someone put drugs in me?’ I ask him, holding my stomach across the small white scar.

‘I doubt it, Luce. You were at a Thursday night work party. Why? Did it all get a bit messy?’

Messy? Work party? ‘I don’t know who you are.’ My voice is serious, but my lip trembles.

‘I know, I know, I don’t recognise myself either,’ he says, turning back to the mirror. ‘Too old to imagine getting drunk midweek.’ He frowns at me in the mirror as he takes in my expression. Then he turns and puts a hand on each of my shoulders, his toothbrush resting between his teeth. ‘Don’t worry, there’s always coffee.’

‘But how did I get here?’ I ask. He really doesn’t seem to understand the seriousness of the situation.

‘Taxi. I heard you get in around one. I was surprised you stayed out so late when you’re pitching to the channel this morning.’

Pitching to the channel? Why would I be pitching to the channel? I’m not getting any answers here, just more questions. This man is not acting like someone who’s abducted me, he’s acting like someone who knows me. As I open my mouth to quiz him further, he takes off his boxers, right in front of me, and I lose all power of speech.

‘I’m going to jump in the shower,’ he says, walking into the rustic blue, gloss-tiled wet room and turning on the water. Somewhere close by, a baby starts to cry. ‘Can you grab Amy?’

Amy? Who the hell is Amy? This flat might have nice furnishings and the most stunning shower I’ve ever seen, but it does not have good sound insulation. It sounds like the neighbour’s baby is literally in the flat with us. Backing out of the bathroom, away from the alarmingly naked man, I look around for my phone. My phone will have the answers – phones always have the answers. It’s my best hope of piecing together this brain-melting trip of a hangover.

Stumbling around the bedroom, I search for my battered grey handbag, but I can’t see it anywhere. I can’t even see my clothes from last night. Venturing out into the hall, I’m faced with another bedroom. Through the open doorway I can see a cot and standing up looking at me – a baby. Jesus! This guy has a baby?

‘Mama!’ says the baby, holding out its arms.

My head darts around, checking to see if some other woman has miraculously appeared behind me, but no, the baby is holding out its arms to me. Cautiously, I take a step towards the child’s room.

‘Not your mum, I’m afraid,’ I tell the baby. ‘I’m sure your dad will be out in a minute. I’m just looking for my handbag.’ Why am I talking to this baby? It probably doesn’t even speak yet. I’ve got no idea how old it is, could be six months or two years for all I know about children.

‘Mama!’ it says again, grinning at me. As far as babies go, I’ll concede it’s a cute one. From the pink bears on its romper suit, I’m guessing it’s a girl. She’s got a wild mop of curly blond hair and piercing blue eyes just like her father.

‘Are you Amy?’ I ask her.

‘Aim-eee,’ she says, holding the bars of her cot and jumping up and down. I’m about to go back to the bathroom to tell the guy what a nerve he’s got, asking me to watch his kid, but then I remember his nakedness and the weird scary mirror. I might be better off just finding my bag and getting the hell out of Dodge. Quietly backing out of the baby’s room, I carry on down the corridor, looking for signs of a living room, a kitchen, anywhere I might have left my phone, my clothes, and my sanity. But as soon as I’m out of the baby’s sight, she starts to howl.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ I mutter to myself.

‘Mummy said a bad word.’

Spinning around, I see a small boy standing behind me in the corridor, appearing like some freaky child apparition.

‘Jesus Christ! You made me jump,’ I say, pressing a hand against my chest to fend off a heart attack.

‘Mummy swore again.’ The boy slaps both hands over his mouth, his eyes bulging like a fish out of water. Baby Amy is still howling, rattling the cot barriers like a prisoner desperate to escape.

‘I’m not your mum, kid,’ I say to the boy. ‘How many children live here?’

‘Two,’ the boy says, narrowing his eyes at me. At least this one can speak; he might be able to help me.

‘Do you know where I can find my handbag? I need my stuff, my phone.’

‘Amy’s crying,’ the boy says, looking at me with such abject disapproval that I feel compelled to walk back towards the baby banshee. The boy follows me.

‘What does she want?’ I ask him.

‘Milk, nappy change, I dunno,’ he says, leaning against the door frame. Amy’s face is streaked with tears and her little cheeks are now red with rage. Whoever invented babies, they did a great job of making their cries completely unignorable. I’m forced to pick her up just to stop myself from clawing out my own eardrums. As soon as she is in my arms, the noise stops, but now it’s my nose that’s being assaulted.

‘She’s done a poo,’ the boy tells me.

‘What’s your name?’ I ask him.

‘Felix,’ says the boy. ‘What have you done with my mummy? Are you an alien? Did you eat her brain?’