Matilda Next Door - Kelly Hunter Page 0,21
the baby in her arms? His baby?
He knew not one damn thing about that.
He’d been single for so long now. Not since his ill-considered one-night stand with a colleague who’d up and left the think tank altogether a short time later.
Last he’d heard she was battling cancer. He’d been meaning to get in touch, if only to see how she was.
Meaning to.
‘Tilly. If you could just—’ What was she doing to that baby to make it cry so much? Nothing that he could see, and he had no advice for her anyway. ‘What’s the mother’s name?’
Instead of speaking, she picked up a sheet of paper and pasted it to the screen, effectively shutting out his view of anything else, but unfortunately doing nothing to mute the sound.
‘Henry, I have to go. Maybe she needs a walk, fresh air, the light of the moon—although heaven knows that’s not likely around here. Maybe I need to go and buy a pram, and I would, Henry, I would if I thought I could (a) find one, and (b) find one with a shop attendant who didn’t think I was kidnapping this screaming, unhappy child and, oh, blast.’
Blast? ‘What kind of blast?’
‘There goes dinner, straight down my shirt, and to be fair it’s not my shirt it’s your shirt, but still. I am standing here holding your windy baby, Henry, and you need to rethink your life choices and turn on your goddamn phone and read the paperwork and figure something out. Because I can get comfortable wearing your crispy business shirts, if I have to. I can admire your sock drawer and make fun of the contents of your fridge. But I will not, repeat, will not be left holding the baby.’
Chapter Six
Tilly was still holding the baby an hour-and-a-half later. The baby was sleeping—that was the good news. The bad news was that Tilly was lying on the sofa, too scared to move in case she woke the angelic cherub and the screaming started again.
Henry’s neighbours had come through for her with a portable bassinet and feeding chair. They’d also left a plastic mat with bolsters either side, which made changing nappies a snack if one discounted the stomach-churning mess of it all.
Tilly liked babies. Honest. She did. Other people’s quiet babies especially. She liked to think she could rise to this particular occasion, give it her best and succeed, but it had taken old Mr Clark’s dab hand to gently pat baby Rowan to sleep while Mrs Clark sorted through the baby things in the carryall and showed Tilly how to use the bottle steriliser, and make formula, and line bottles of baby milk up in the fridge for use throughout the night.
‘Don’t wake her to feed her,’ Mrs Clark had advised on her way out the door, and Tilly was behind that directive one thousand per cent.
Of course, the older woman had also advised Tilly to put the baby in the bassinet and let her fuss a little because ‘the poor wee thing will settle soon enough,’ and Tilly had tried that, she really had.
It hadn’t worked.
So she’d picked the baby up and settled down on the couch and closed her eyes and wondered what Henry would do now he had a fussy baby in his oh-so-organised life. Would he hire a nanny and put the child in boarding school as soon as possible? Out of sight, out of mind?
She tried to imagine him doing that, and couldn’t. He was a strange fish, Henry, but he’d always seemed so grateful to his grandparents for taking him in. He’d worked hard on the farm in his teen years and showed his grandparents the respect they deserved. He hadn’t caused them any trouble.
And then he’d up and left mere weeks after he’d finished high school, and rarely looked back. So maybe baby Rowan would have a boarding school future after all.
It wasn’t her problem. Not in the long term. Tilly was nothing but a guest in Henry’s life. She had no business getting attached to the tiny bundle of misery with the big set of lungs, and to that end she eased into a sit and then a stand, and this time when Rowan fussed, she shushed her and whispered reassurances no baby would understand and then resolutely put her down in the perfectly good baby bed and tucked the blanket in tight and tip-toed from the room.
It was well past midnight and she could either have a cup of tea, which