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They walked back to the bungalow. Nobody discussed it. Carly’s flat was across town and Berkeley’s blanket was at Lauren’s, and that was apparently that. At the corner by the bank, Berkeley didn’t try to turn left.
Berkeley found his blanket before Lauren had her coat off. He turned twice and dropped onto it with a groan.
No sooner had Lauren filled the kettle than there were three frantic taps on the front door. She set it down and waited. Maybe she’d misheard. No one ever visited. And those who did never knocked. But then she heard it again.
“Who the hell can that be?” she asked.
“Hard to know without answering,” Carly replied, lifting two mugs from the draining board.
Lauren jogged along the hall and peered through the little window next to the front door.
“It’s Paige!” she called back. “Paige is knocking.”
“Don’t tell me. Let her in!”
Lauren fumbled with the latch and pulled open the door. Paige had the pram half up the step and couldn’t get it the rest of the way, one hand under Sam and the other hauling at the frame, her hair stuck to her forehead despite the cold.
“Finally.” She barged Lauren out of the way and manoeuvred the pram over the threshold. “Are you going to stand there gawping or are you going to help? Poonami incident ongoing. And I’ve got nothing. No nappy bags, no spare clothes, and I’ve used every wipe I own.”
“Of course.” Lauren caught the changing bag as it slid off Paige’s shoulder. She squeezed around the pram while Paige fished out the baby, then strode back along the hall. By the time Paige followed her in, she’d cleared the table, laid out the changing mat, and was pulling a fresh pack of wipes from the cupboard under the sink.
“Why do you have those?”
“Because you leave things here.” Lauren tore the pack open and set it down. “Constantly.”
“I thought it would be a good idea to take him out on my own,” Paige explained, laying Sam on the mat. She unzipped the fleece onesie with the little ears. “Get some fresh air and a bit of exercise while Becky worked. You know, the post-Christmas inbox catch-up.”
She whipped off Sam’s nappy and Lauren recoiled at the smell while Carly only laughed and added a third mug to the line on the counter.
Lauren held her breath and offered the pack for Paige to take a fistful, then fetched the bin from under the sink and held it out, nose pinched.
“Since when do you knock?” Lauren asked.
Paige glanced over at the counter, where Carly was lining up mugs, and raised an eyebrow. “Since you’ve had someone here worth knocking for.”
Lauren’s ears went hot.
Paige, unbothered, got the fresh nappy on one-handed, then held up the fleece onesie between two fingers. “I can’t put him back in this.”
Lauren was already out of the room.
She came back with a paper bag from her bedroom drawer, and inside it, folded and untouched, a sky-blue babygrow with the Manchester City badge on the chest. She’d bought it before Christmas and had been sitting on it ever since, waiting for the moment it would hurt Becky the most.
“Is Becky picking you up?”
“When she’s finished work. Why?” Paige took the bag, looked inside, then turned the babygrow over and read the back. “You’ve had his name put on it.”
“They do it while you wait.”
“Sam Haaland.”
“It’s a strong look.”
“He’s not even two months old. And you know full well Becky got him a Chelsea outfit for Christmas.” Paige narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been saving this.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Paige looked from the babygrow to the ruined onesie to her son, and gave in. “Right. Arms up, then,” she said, to a baby who could not put his arms up.
