Babyville Page 0,107

judging these people, for assuming there was no more to them than their children, and for finding fault with that. “You can definitely say that again.”

23

Chris comes home at ten to seven, twenty minutes after Sam has put George to bed. He's late, having stopped to get more ice-cube trays for Sam. She's in the middle of a cooking frenzy, whipping up great batches of organic food for George, freezing it in ice-cube trays as soon as it's cooked.

It's a Friday night, and it's been a tough week. Before George, or BG as he has come to think of it, he would long for the weekends.

BG, Friday nights meant hitting the pub with the men who shared his workshop, fellow craftsmen and artists. He'd stay for a couple of drinks, then meet Sam for dinner. In their younger days they'd hit the West End, try out different busy, buzzy restaurants each week, occasionally following that with a club, but the last couple of years they'd tended to stick with local restaurants.

Friday nights meant a pizza, or a curry, or Chinese takeout. They'd have a long meal, unwind over a bottle of wine, flirt suggestively in the knowledge that Friday night was a sure thing, and that however late a night they had, however much energy they exerted, the best part of Saturday morning would be spent fast asleep.

BG, they'd go out for dinner a lot. Nowhere expensive, but good, local restaurants. They'd go to cafés in Highgate, or local Italian restaurants in Hampstead. Or Sam would cook. Chris would come home and the delicious smells of Sam's experimenting would hit him as he opened the front door.

There was nothing better than finding Sam in the kitchen. It made him feel loved, cherished, and truly that he'd come home, for his mother was also a cook, and her currency of love had always been food.

And he loved the fact that he considered them to be one of the happiest couples of anyone they knew. Not perfect, never perfect, but he still looked at Sam and saw the girl who'd bounded up to him at the party six years ago; the girl with the sparkling eyes and confident smile; the girl he knew, within one week, he was going to marry.

Sam was his best friend, and, even better than that, she was the best lay he'd ever had. And he was married to her! Christ. Surely life couldn't get better than that.

But that, he thinks ruefully as he puts the key in the door, was BG. Now he finds he's married to a shouting, tearful, angry witch. All his time at home is spent treading on eggshells; he's careful not to put a foot wrong, to send her off on a screaming fit, and he's more and more relieved to get out of the house for work.

The only bright spot in his home life is George. Georgenius, he thinks with a smile. That gorgeous chubby smiling bundle. Flesh of his flesh. The most perfect creation he's ever laid eyes on. Chris walks into the room and George's eyes light up.

There is no greater feeling in the world than when Chris sits on the sofa on a Sunday afternoon, George asleep on his chest, a warm soft bundle of pure love.

In their rare moments of intimacy, Chris and Sam sit in bed together and grin at one another. “Can you believe how gorgeous he is?” Sam squeals, clasping her hands together in a bid to contain the emotion. “I know. He's just amazing.” Chris shakes his head, unable to believe they created such a perfect child. “Amazing,” she echoes, and they look at one another, their eyes brimming over with love for George.

Sometimes they look at one another across the cot, standing on either side, gazing down at George, arms and legs sprawled to all four corners, fast asleep. “Do you think other people love their children as much as we love George?” Sam will whisper, sure that no one in the whole world could love their son as much as she loves hers. “I'm not sure,” Chris will whisper back. “But I doubt it.”

George is perfect. But his relationship with Sam has become anything but. Chris isn't sure what's going wrong, but he knows that something definitely is. He feels neglected. Abandoned. Unwanted. He knows he shouldn't be feeling these things, that George, after all, is a priority, but nevertheless he cannot stop them. There are occasions when all it will take