her kicking her legs against the mattress and cooing to herself. Time for her afternoon feed. I put a pan of water on the hob to heat her bottle, then go into her room.
‘Hello, my lovely,’ I say, picking her up. She throws her head back and gives me a strange look. She doesn’t recognise me yet, but she will.
‘Did you have a nice sleep in your new travel cot? I’ll buy you a proper one eventually, don’t worry. Now, let’s go into the kitchen and get your bottle, eh? And if you’re a good girl, you can have something yummy to eat.’
I put her in the high chair, propping her up with one of Great-Aunt Dolly’s smaller tapestry cushions. She drinks her milk enthusiastically. Then I open a jar of organic apple puree and spoon it into her mouth. She grimaces and pokes out her tongue to expel it. I try an oatcake next, which she eats with relish. So hard to know her likes and dislikes, but I’ll learn.
After she’s eaten, I clean her up and take her into the sitting room. The throw I used for our romantic picnic is still here, draped over the end of the sofa. I shake it out and lay it on the carpet, just like before, then sit cross-legged with Mabel tucked into the well of my lap.
‘Your pretty face is probably all over the internet by now,’ I say to her. ‘You’re going to be famous.’ She makes a few jawing noises, as if she’s trying to reply. ‘You might even be on the news. Shall we see?’ I switch on Great-Aunt Dolly’s television. It’s about a quarter of the size of the one I used to have and by the look of it doesn’t even have Freeview. It’s too early for the news, so I turn it straight off again.
Mabel does some sitting-up practice – I’m surprised she’s not completely supporting herself by now – and then I roll her onto her tummy. She doesn’t like it one bit and arches her back defiantly.
‘I’m sorry, sweetie, but if you won’t lie on your front, you’ll never learn to crawl.’ She gives me a very straight look, as if to say, What do you know? Laughing, I pick her up and give her a cuddle, tickling her until she breaks out in giggles. Her fat cheeks turn rosy pink and she dribbles spittle down her chin.
Outside, the skies are darkening. I draw the brocade curtains and turn the ancient boiler up, praying that Great-Aunt Dolly had it regularly serviced. If it conks out on us, we’ll be lost.
Eager to know what’s happening, I turn the television back on. Mabel and I watch a dreary game show for a while, then the six o’clock news begins. Annoyingly, the lead story is about the Queen, but we’re next up. I wonder whether they will show Amber and George, whether Mabel will recognise them on screen.
A reporter is standing by the park gates. Behind him, I can just about make out number 74, taped off and guarded by police. He tells us that, in the early hours of Sunday morning, a little girl called Mabel was taken from her cot in the Lilac Park area of Waltham Green. Her parents had gone away for the weekend, leaving their seven-month-old baby in the care of a babysitter. Hmm, I detect a strong whiff of disapproval here. I’d love to know how Twitter is reacting.
The camera pans across the line of trees that face William Morris Terrace. Lilac ribbons are tied around the trunks and a small group of mothers are standing there with home-made posters featuring a fuzzy photo and the words Mabel is Missing. There’s already a campaign with its own colour branding and a catchphrase. God, it makes me sick.
Now we’re at the press conference, which apparently happened earlier today. Amber and George are shown into a room crowded with flashing cameras and hungry journalists. They sit behind a long, low table, flanked by a rather good-looking male detective and a plump middle-aged woman. Amber is pale and tearful; George is grim-faced, trying not to show his emotions. They look suitably distraught and bereft. The detective reads out a short statement, giving the bare facts, then adding the usual plea.
‘If you were in the vicinity during that time and noticed anything unusual or saw anyone acting suspiciously, please contact us immediately on the number at the bottom of your screens now. Or