‘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?’
‘I didn’t eat anyone’s brain and I don’t know where your mum is. Are your mum and dad, um, divorced? Separated?’
‘Divorced?’ he asks.
‘Does your mum usually live with you?’
‘Yes,’ he says slowly.
Great. I’m no child-rearing expert, but I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be the one to break it to this kid that his father is a douchebag.
‘Can you help me with this?’ I ask Felix, pointing at the baby. He screws up his face and shakes his head. ‘How old are you? Eight? Nine?’
‘Seven,’ he says. ‘Where did you put Mummy? Have the aliens taken her back to their planet?’
Have I been abducted by aliens and put back in the wrong body? At this point I’m not discounting any possibilities. As I contemplate the logistics of an extra-terrestrial body swap, the man appears at the door to the baby’s room. I’m relieved to see he’s no longer naked and is now wearing a pair of worn blue jeans and a white linen shirt. He’s so effortlessly attractive, it’s distracting, and I briefly forget to be freaked out that his kids are calling me ‘Mummy’。
‘Morning, buddy,’ the man says. He ruffles Felix’s hair, walks over and kisses baby Amy on the head, then leans in to kiss me, on the lips. The lips! I freeze, too stunned to move, looking up at him with wide, unblinking eyes. The gall of this man. I’m holding his child that smells of literal shit, and he just kissed me like it was the most normal thing in the world.
‘Ben’s sick, so I said I’d take his tai chi class this morning,’ the man says. ‘Maria’s coming early to do the school run, so you should still be fine to get the eight fifteen. Sorry, I’ve got to run. See you tonight. Oh, and good luck with your pitch. They’re going to love it.’ Then he waves and turns to walk away.
‘Wait, what? You’re leaving me here, with your children?’
He stops, turns, then frowns, annoyed with me for some reason. ‘I know, they’re as much my responsibility as they are yours, but it’s not like I do this all the time, Luce.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Ben is always covering for me. Come on, it’s not my fault you went on a midweek bender last night. You really don’t think you can cope for twenty minutes until Maria gets here?’
This line of argument, that I’m being unreasonable not wanting to stay here and babysit, is so preposterous that before I can even fathom how to respond, he’s gone. Putting the baby down on the landing, I stagger after him only to discover we’re not in a flat at all, but an entire house, and it’s all just as tastefully decorated as the bedroom. There’s a vintage wooden sideboard on the landing with two Jo Malone candles, a framed photo of the children and a gloriously verdant yucca plant. Further on, along one side of the landing, there’s a huge built-in bookcase, neatly filled with hundreds of books. I always wanted a bookshelf just like that. A thick, plush pile carpet leads all the way down a wide, curving staircase, framed by polished, mahogany banisters.