I place a hand on my abdomen. What are you up to in there? I ask my tiny raspberry-sized passenger. Whatever it is, I need you to stop, just for the next few hours, just till we’re in the car home.
A knock on the door sends my pack of mint gum flying out of my hand and skittering across the immaculate bathroom floor.
‘Shit,’ I sigh, hunkering down to fish it out from behind an oversized potted fig tree. ‘Just one second.’
After dusting myself down, I crack the door but there’s no one there. Until I look down. Little Billy stares up at me, his expression blank but for two tellingly tear-stained eyes.
‘Oh, hey, Billy,’ I say, and hearing the uncertainty in my own voice, I suddenly remember for the first time in a long time how terrible I am with kids. I never had the benefit of siblings, or babysitting jobs, or friends with kids – absolutely no day-to-day experience to draw from. Which obviously doesn’t bode well at all for the future.
Billy must have been looking for his mum and found me instead, but decides I’ll do in lieu of his mother for now and grasps both my legs in a surprisingly robust hug.
‘Oh, okay,’ I say, a hand patting him gently on the head as I check the corridor for literally anyone else. Not a soul in sight. I guess this is up to me. I bend to meet him on his level, his grasp loosening to let me. ‘Hey, honey. Billy? Look at me, sweetheart.’
He looks up, his little angel face tear-blotched and puckered, his tawny hair so like Edward’s. God, what a beautiful family. Billy stares at me, his eyes expectant.
‘What is it, honey?’ I ask him. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’
Billy shakes his head, suddenly shy, suddenly doubting whether he should have come to me with this. He turns to look back down the hall.
‘Did one of the boys do something? Did they upset you?’
Billy pauses and then nods firmly.
‘I see,’ I say, and some unknown reflex makes me gently push the hair from his eyes. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’
He looks back down the hallway again, the sound of adult laughter reaching us from the dining room. Then, after a moment, satisfied no one else is coming to help, he nods.
‘Uh-huh,’ he mumbles, feet shuffling.
‘What is it, sweetie?’
‘The boys. They said I had to sleep in Bobby’s room on my own tonight, or I can’t play w’them,’ he manages before the tears slowly return and he buries his face from me once more.
Bobby’s room. Again with Bobby.
Billy continues, muffled now into the dampened cotton of his jumper, ‘I don’t like it. I don’t want Bobby’s room.’
This is my chance to find out who Bobby is, I suppose. Decisively, I take his tiny hand in mine and squat down beside him. Then, face to face, I calmly say, ‘Okay. Why don’t you show me Bobby’s room?’
* * *
I flick on the lights and the room bounces into view: an anonymous-looking guest room. The same well-appointed furnishings as the rest of the apartment, nothing that would look out of place in an interior magazine’s spread, but there is nothing personal here. Whoever’s room this is, or was, it certainly isn’t occupied anymore.
So, the question is: why does this seemingly innocuous room scare Billy?
‘It looks nice, don’t you think?’ I ask the little man in my arms.
Billy surveys the empty room discerningly then turns to me with mild concern. ‘Yeah, nice. But closet?’
‘Oh, right, yeah.’ I forgot kids get scared of wardrobes. ‘Okay. Let’s see,’ I say and head over to the cupboard to crack the door open. The internal lights click on. It’s empty except for six cedar-wood hangers, a stack of freshly laundered towels and a bathrobe.