Baby on Loan. Liz Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ she changed tack. ‘You could call the house-sitters now and ask if they could find someone. Couldn’t you?’ Even the hollow echo from the communication satellite couldn’t disguise the wheedling tone that was supposed to have him twisted around her little finger.

      ‘Now? Correct me if I’m wrong but, whilst it’s the middle of the day here, I’m pretty sure that it’s the middle of the night in London. I don’t think the agency—’

      ‘Later, then,’ she pushed, her keenness apparently undiminished by his obvious lack of enthusiasm. ‘You could call the agency later.’

      ‘I could,’ he agreed tersely, ‘but what would be the point?’ A fraud case that he’d put weeks of work into and was scheduled to be in court for a minimum of three months was collapsing about his ears, which left him disinclined to submit to the wheedling of his eighteen-year-old niece. ‘You haven’t got the money to go gallivanting around Europe or you wouldn’t be spending your summer in London house-sitting for me and, by the way, using my phone to call me long-distance.’

      ‘It’s the middle of night,’ she reminded him. ‘Cheap rate. And actually that was the other thing.’

      ‘What was?’

      ‘Money. I thought maybe you could lend me some until Mummy comes to her senses.’

      ‘To go backpacking around Europe for the summer? Are you crazy? Your mother would have a fit.’

      ‘I wouldn’t tell her if you didn’t.’ She gave a little-girl laugh that didn’t fool him for one minute.

      ‘Nice try, sweetheart, but forget it.’ Europe was going to have to remain a dream for her this year. ‘Get better grades when you do your resits in November and I’ll give you a nice fat cheque so that you can go skiing at Christmas. Meantime, I suggest you use the long, friendless weeks ahead of you to revise, revise, revise.’

      Carrie said something very rude about revision. ‘How can you be so mean?’

      ‘It takes practice, angel.’ And he’d had a lot of practice. Some women refused to take a gentle hint. ‘Tell me, how are my precious, er, ficus? You’re not forgetting to spray them, I hope?’ Her response, as he had anticipated, was brief and alliterative. ‘Luke-warm water, don’t forget,’ he responded, mildly.

      ‘Okay,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘I’ll do it now. I’ll spray them with luke-warm water and then I’ll take them out of their pots and cut off all their roots.’ And then she hung up.

      Patrick laughed, feeling a great deal better for the exchange. He certainly wasn’t worried about the wretched house plants; they had been her mother’s idea, as was the complicated care routine that she’d invented for them. His sister had prevailed upon him to ask the child to house-sit for him while he was in the Far East. What Carenza needed, Leonora had asserted firmly, was some responsibility, something to make her feel trusted, something to keep her in London and her mind on her resits. Against his better judgement, he’d agreed.

      And he’d had to have someone. He couldn’t leave the house empty for the length of time he’d anticipated this case would take. But two weeks of spraying house plants had clearly taxed Carrie’s capacity for responsibility to the limit, especially now her friends were deserting her for the pleasures of Europe.

      Tough.

      Jessie turned off the shower. Someone was ringing her front-door bell and it appeared to be stuck. If it wasn’t stuck, someone was going to need a very good reason for making such a racket.

      ‘All right! I’m coming!’ she called as she reached for her bathrobe, wound a towel around her dripping hair and headed for the door. As she drew back the bolt the clangour abruptly stopped, although by now it had probably woken up half the residents of Taplow Towers which would not make her Miss Popular at six-thirty in the morning.

      She slipped on the chain, turned the dead-lock and opened the door a few inches. There was no one there. Then she looked down. Looking back up at her, with eyes that could melt ice, was Bertie.

      She melted momentarily, then because Bertie, clever though her adorable nephew undoubtedly was, couldn’t have rung the bell himself, she undid the chain. ‘Faye? Kevin? What’s wrong?’ she asked, flinging back the door.

      Her brother and sister-in-law were noticeable only by their absence. There was just a little yellow note in Kevin’s handwriting, stuck to the gleaming woodwork. She peeled it off, held it up to her face and squinted at the words. Certain that she must have misread them, she fumbled for the spectacles in the pocket of her robe. The words leapt into bright focus. ‘Please take care of Bertie for a few days,’ she read. ‘We’ll explain when we get back. Love, Kevin and Faye.’

      Get back? Get back from where? Something had to be wrong! Very wrong!

      Three floors below she heard the lift door opening. ‘Kevin!’ She edged round Bertie’s buggy and headed for the stairs. ‘Wait!’ She was halfway down the first flight of stairs when she was stopped by the disapproving voice of her neighbour from the floor below.

      ‘Is something wrong, Miss Hayes?’

      In Jessie’s ordered world nothing was ever wrong. She anticipated practical problems and dealt with them before they could develop. And these days she was careful to avoid emotional ones.

      A few feet above her Bertie snuffled in his buggy, gave a little whimper and, with a horrible sinking feeling, she acknowledged that she might have been getting complacent. Far below her, the front door banged shut. This was practical and emotional and she was in deep trouble.

      Taplow Towers was a haven of peace and tranquillity. No loud music, no pets and definitely no children, apart from brief visits confined to the hours of daylight.

      Dorothy Ashton, chairperson of the Residents’ Association, with ears as finely tuned as those of a bat, glanced up as Bertie whimpered again, in what Jessie feared was a prelude to something much louder. ‘What was that?’ she demanded, suspiciously.

      ‘Nothing.’ Jessie cleared her throat, loudly. ‘I’m just a bit wheezy, that’s all.’ She gave a little cough to demonstrate. ‘I’m sorry about the noise. I was in the shower and I couldn’t get to the door in time.’ But not by chance she was certain. The reason for the early-morning visit was to ensure that she’d being wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a frown and wouldn’t be able to pursue her brother to demand an explanation.

      And it had worked. Better than he could have hoped, because pursuit was now further hampered by the necessity of getting Bertie into her apartment without Dorothy Ashton seeing him.

      She waved the note as evidence of her probity as she backed up the stairs. ‘It was Kevin. My brother. He left a note.’ Then, coughing again and clutching at her robe to discourage any inclination the woman might have to follow and press home her complaint, she said, ‘Please excuse me, I think I left the shower running.’ She smiled, apologetically.

      Lady Ashton was not to be moved by a smile. ‘You know we will not tolerate noise nuisance, Miss Hayes. You’re still on a probationary tenancy. Your visitors on Sunday were very loud—’

      ‘I know and I’m sorry, but Bertie’s teething. I did take him out for a while.’ She’d offered to take him for a walk to give her neighbours a break, holding his warm body close as she’d walked the path around the little park in the centre СКАЧАТЬ