The Family Next Door(8)

“But Emily Lynch was taken from Chelsea,” Ange said quickly. “That’s half an hour from here.”

But it was too late; everyone’s eyes had gone far away. Fran held Ava close, rocking her unnecessarily. Essie watched the two little girls playing in the corner of the room.

Ange’s eyes darted back and forth, clearly unhappy with the change of mood. She wouldn’t like people feeling unsafe in Sandringham, and certainly not in Pleasant Court. It would almost feel like a slight on Ange herself. She fidgeted for a moment, then a light came on in her eyes.

“I have an idea!” she cried. “We’ll start a neighborhood watch.”





4


FRAN


Even before she got inside, Fran heard it. The tiny, insistent cry. She’d just been for a quick after-dinner run but she felt a sudden pulse of shame, as if she’d gone to the casino or headed out in search of a quick hit of something when she should have been caring for her baby. She didn’t remember feeling like this when Rosie was a newborn. Perhaps it was just another of those things she’d forgotten—like how small they are, and how complete the exhaustion is.

She threw open the front door. A fan rotated in the corner, blowing hot air back and forth in a way that reminded Fran of a small-town murder film. They had air-conditioning but Nigel didn’t like to use it—terrible for the environment, he said. (Every day, after he went to work, Fran turned it on full blast.)

Nigel was already heaving himself out of his chair. He was still in his work clothes, but his shirtsleeves were rolled up and his cheeks were flushed. He and Rosie sat in front of a thousand-piece puzzle that they’d been working on for a week. Fran had told Nigel it was far too advanced for a three-year-old, but it was hard to argue when Rosie was currently too engrossed in it to even notice Fran was home.

“Sit, sit,” she said. “I’ll deal with Ava.”

“I don’t mind—”

“It’s fine. She’ll want me anyway.”

Nigel leveled his gaze at her. His thick, dark eyelashes curled up under his glasses. (How does a man end up with eyelashes like that? Ange always said when she saw him. It’s not fair and it’s not right!) There was a question in his eyes.

In the past six weeks Fran had barely let him near Ava, which perhaps wasn’t so unusual. Breastfeeding mothers typically stayed close to their babies, and most new dads were grateful for that. But it was more than that and Nigel knew it. He remembered how she’d let him share the load when Rosie was a baby. (She had one clear memory of threatening to withhold sex for a year unless he “picked up that baby and took her out of earshot for at least an hour.”) So it was only a matter of time before he asked her what was going on. She met his gaze and waited. But after giving her a long look, he just shrugged and dropped back into his chair.

It wouldn’t be today.

Fran jogged to Ava’s room.

It was true, Ava would want her. There were, after all, certain things only Fran could do. She knew the exact way to jiggle her to bring up wind. She knew that Ava liked the cradle hold best, with her head tucked into Fran’s chest. That stroking the top part of her nose, the part between the eyebrows, could put her to sleep almost instantaneously. She could have told Nigel how to do these things, but then, of course, he’d do them. And for now it was better if she did things herself.

Ava was wrapped in a thin muslin cloth and Fran unbundled her, sweeping through a checklist in her mind. She shouldn’t be hungry yet. She wasn’t wet. She lifted her bottom to her nose. Not dirty either.

“What is it, little one?’

The answers, of course, were endless. Fran found it perplexing how baffled new mothers became when they couldn’t identify a problem with their babies. She’s not hot or cold, her diaper is clean, she’s been fed! they’d cry. What could it possibly be? For goodness sake, Fran always thought. It could be anything! Maybe she had a headache? She might have had a bad dream or recalled a distressing incident. Maybe she didn’t like the terry-cloth onesie she’d been dressed in. (Fran always found terry cloth irritating.) Perhaps she had a sore toe.

“Do you have a sore toe?” she asked Ava, pressing her fragile little head into the crook of her neck. She let out a few sobs. “Shhh,” Fran said into her ear. “Mummy’s here.”

She was a bad mother, that was the problem. What was she thinking leaving her baby so she could jog the streets like a lunatic? For one thing, her doctor had said she should wait eight weeks before resuming normal exercise, and Ava was only six weeks old. Then again, Fran wasn’t resuming “normal” exercise—there was nothing normal about what she was doing. Every day she ran until her chest burned, until her legs ached, until blisters lined her feet. It hurt, oh God it hurt. And she deserved every bit of it.

“Are you hot?” she asked. It was a stupid question because really, who wasn’t? Ava’s neck was damp and she smelled sweetly of sweat—there was a little spot just behind her ear that was particularly fragrant. She peeled off her onesie and immediately she calmed down.

In the living room Rosie whooped—clearly she’d placed a tricky piece of the puzzle. Fran pictured her pumping her little fists in the air while Nigel gave her a moderated smile or a word of encouragement. Nigel wasn’t the dad who talked in baby voices or pretended to be impressed with something unimpressive. He was logical and literal and matter-of-fact. But he had other qualities. He was endlessly patient, for one thing. He researched preschools and primary schools and read books about parenting. He did thousand-piece puzzles. And Rosie adored him.