indications that Mr. Riley was struggling to cope with his domestic routine. The table bore a number of soiled dishes, plates, and other kitchen utensils. Unwashed laundry was strewn over the furniture, and there were two empty wine bottles on the floor in the kitchen area. When I glanced at Mr. Riley’s computer, I noticed the browser was open at a men-only internet forum on which he appeared to be making an appeal for help with his parenting. (Subsequent investigation confirmed that, under the pseudonym Homedad85, Mr. Riley had made over 1,200 posts of a similar nature.) Another tab was open at a videogame, which was paused. Although Mr. Riley’s LinkedIn profile states that he is a freelance journalist, there was no evidence of this, nor of any journalistic work in progress.
My client reiterated several times to Mr. Riley that he and his wife wished to try to resolve this situation by means of discussion and reasonable compromise. Mr. Riley did not respond to these assurances. When his manner started to turn hostile, we left.
6
MADDIE
I’M IN A MEETING, going through the casting tapes for a Doritos commercial with the clients, when my phone flashes. We’re in the middle of a heated discussion—the director wants edgy, independent, moody teenagers, the client wants wholesome and smiley, a debate I must have chaired at least a hundred times, and we’re just starting to get somewhere by focusing on the director’s third choice who’s also the client’s second when the call comes. I glance at the screen. Pete. Or rather, PETER RILEY. The first time we met, four years ago, I put his name and surname into my contacts at the end of the evening, and somehow I’ve never gotten around to changing it to something less formal.
The phone’s on silent, so it goes to voicemail. But he instantly disconnects and rings again. That’s our signal something’s urgent, so I make an excuse and slip out of the meeting to call him back.
“What’s up?”
“It’s all right, Theo’s fine. He’s at nursery. It’s—” There’s the sound of a couple of deep breaths. “There was a man here just now with a private detective. He claims our babies somehow got mixed up in the NICU. So he thinks the little boy he’s got at home is ours and Theo—Theo—”
It takes a moment for what he’s saying to sink in. “It could be tested,” I say. “A DNA test.”
“They’ve done that. He left us a copy. Mads, this guy looked exactly like Theo.” There’s a pause. “I think he’s telling the truth.”
I don’t reply. Despite what Pete’s just said, I don’t really believe it. That sort of thing simply doesn’t happen. There must be some other explanation. But Pete’s clearly devastated, and he needs me to be there. I make a quick decision. “I’m coming home.”
I look through the glass wall into the meeting room. On the TV monitor, an impossibly rosy-cheeked fourteen-year-old is miming awed excitement at the contents of her packet of corn chips. Professional etiquette demands that I go back in and make my excuses, explain to the clients that there’s a family crisis; no, nothing life threatening, but I’d really better leave. But I don’t. Almost without being aware of it, I prioritize. I send a text to one of my colleagues, asking them to take over, and walk out of the building.
* * *
—
WHEN I WAS PREGNANT, I always assumed it would be me who’d be the primary carer. After all, the fact we were having a baby at all was ultimately down to me—the pregnancy was an accident, the timing bad in all sorts of ways. We even discussed termination, although I could tell Pete was uneasy about the idea, and eventually I admitted I was, too; I’m not always as hard-nosed and practical as my friends like to make out. But the international advertising agency that paid my relocation costs from Sydney to London included a year’s private health insurance in the package, and when I checked, it included maternity. Instead of having a baby on a crowded NHS ward, I could have it in the comparatively luxurious surroundings of a private hospital in Harley Street, complete with dedicated midwife, C-section on request, twenty-four-hour consultant care, and postbirth recovery program. Of course, the possibility of a pampered, luxurious birth would be a pretty terrible reason to have a baby—but as a reason to have a baby that already existed, why not?