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“You okay?” He sounds Australian. That explains the blonde hair and deep tan. “That's all sauce, right? No blood or anything?”
I look down. The sauce is now dripping onto the gravelled path. “I'm fine.” Completely embarrassed, but fine. I try to hold on to the buggy while rooting through my bag for my keys, but that only causes a tin of sweetcorn to fall out, rolling through the gore until surf-boy picks it up.
“Let me help you.” He bounds up the steps and steadies the buggy for me. With my free hand, I grab my key and slide it into the lock. He reaches out and touches Max on the cheek, and I pull back.
“What is he, about six months?”
I look up in surprise. “Yeah, around that,” I answer, suspiciously. “How do you know?”
“I've got a one year old. Doesn't seem a minute ago she was this age.”
When he catches my eye, we smile. It's stupid, because he could be lying through his teeth, but his admission somehow puts me at ease. Enough to let him help me get my stuff into the hallway.
And he seems…nice. Friendly.
“You're the first floor flat, right?” He asks.
Immediately, my hackles rise again. This time when I look at him, it's through narrowed eyes. “What makes you think that?”
He shrugs, nonplussed by my suspicious ways. “I'm on the ground floor, so I guessed you must be upstairs.”
“You live here?”
He starts to laugh. “Yes. Did you think I was some weirdo breaking into your house?”
“Maybe.”
“Then why did you let me in?” He's stopped laughing now. Looks more concerned than anything.
“I was being polite.”
He shakes his head. “Crazy English people. You're so bloody polite you'd probably thank me for chopping your head off.”
“I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to speak if you chopped my head off.”
Smiling, he reaches out a hand. “I'm David.”
I take it with my free hand. “Lara. Pleased to meet you. Thank you for your help. And... ah... not chopping my head off.”
“Any time.” He winks, and lifts the buggy easily, balancing the shopping before heading towards the stairs, making me wonder if I may have finally found a friend around here.
2
I wake up late on Sunday, a shaft of bright light invading the peacefulness of my dreams. That’s when my eyes spring open and I sit right up, panic rising inside me as bubbles in a bottle of soda.
Where’s Max?
I jump out of bed and run to his cot, half afraid to look, scared he may be lying there, lifeless and unmoving. It’s every parent’s worst nightmare, one that keeps me awake at night, long after I can hear him snuffling in his sleep. Even during his daytime naps, I find myself checking up on him, touching his face to make sure it’s warm, and listening at the door so I can hear him breathe.
His cot is empty. The blanket is crumpled at the bottom of the mattress, the sheet askew where he’s been turning in the night. For one crazy moment I actually wonder whether he climbed out himself.
The kid can’t even crawl. How the hell is he going to climb?
When I rush into our living room, rubbing my frantic eyes, I spot him in his bouncy chair, and relief floods though me. He’s there, having fun; his arms and legs kicking as he tries to hit the lurid plastic mobile Alex has placed above him. He spots me and smiles, a contented cooing sound rumbling from deep in his throat, and holds his arms out for me to pick him up.
Smiles in the morning. The best gift of all.
“Hey, what are you doing up?” Alex walks out of our tiny kitchen. “I was trying to give you a lie-in.”
