Bound By Their Babies. Caroline Anderson

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      ‘Great minds,’ she said with a tired chuckle. ‘I thought maybe a walk? Feed the ducks, if there are any ducks to feed?’

      ‘There are—there’s a little park not far away. If you turn right onto the street and walk along to the end and cross over, there’s an entrance to your left. It’s got a lovely little playground, too, as well as the duck pond, and she likes it there.’

      ‘OK. I’ll give it a whirl and see how I get on. I can take the double buggy since you’ve got it. At least that’s neutral territory.’

      ‘Ah, rats! I meant to show you how it folds and unfolds, but to be honest I’m damned if I can remember. I’ll text you Daisy’s number so you can ring her if you can’t work it out. She’ll tell you.’

      He heard her laugh, but it sounded a little off kilter and he guessed her day was turning out tougher than she’d expected.

      ‘It’s a buggy, Jake,’ she said with exaggerated patience. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine. How’s work going?’

      ‘Busy. They’re very glad to have me back. Ben said to thank you for stepping in to help.’

      She laughed. ‘Tell Ben I’m not doing it for him, but happy to oblige. Oops, gotta go, Zach’s in the fireplace.’

      He heard a clatter and a howl before the phone cut off, and he squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to imagine what might have happened. The fire tongs and poker were his most likely guess. Oh, well. Hopefully he’d just had a fright. And as for Tilly—

      ‘Mr Stratton, have you got a moment?’

      Tilly would be fine. He slid his phone back into his pocket and went back to work, putting Emily and the children firmly out of his mind.

      * * *

      Three days and a thousand small obstacles later, it was obvious to both of them that Matilda needed much more of her father than she was getting. And probably less of her, Emily thought despairingly.

      It all came to a head late on Friday evening, when he’d been caught up in Theatre with a tricky post-partum haemorrhage and Matilda refused to go to bed until he got home, despite all Emily’s best efforts. She wouldn’t even let her change her nappy and put her in pyjamas. She just sat on the landing and cried.

      ‘Want Daddy,’ she sobbed, so Emily took her downstairs to the sitting room so they could wait for him, but she was inconsolable. She didn’t want a story, she shied away from cuddles, and by the time he came home at nine Emily was on the point of phoning him.

      They were in the hall by now, Matilda prostrate on the floor and still sobbing, and the moment he was through the door she scrambled up and clung to his legs, and the anguish in his eyes was awful to see.

      He scooped her up, hugging her close and rocking her, and Emily went into the kitchen and left them to it, because she was sure her presence wasn’t helping. She’d been at her wit’s end all day, and seeing the little girl so distraught had been horrible, but he was home now and maybe he could calm her down.

      Was it her fault? Maybe. She’d done her best to handle an impossibly difficult situation, but Matilda was only two, her mother had deserted her—how was the poor little mite supposed to react? She was just upset, but it was so hard to deal with and it was upsetting Zach, too.

      It wasn’t doing a lot for her, either. She sniffed hard, swiped away the tears she hadn’t realised she’d shed and yanked open the fridge door. She’d been trying all day to find time to cook, but every time she did anything there was another incident with Tilly.

      She’d bitten Zach, she’d pushed him over, she’d gone into the study and pulled all the books off the shelf—

      The crying had stopped—finally—and she heard Jake’s quiet tread on the stairs as he carried her up to bed. Not that she expected it to work.

      Why on earth had she volunteered to do this? It wasn’t helping anyone, especially not Matilda. Was it her fault? She didn’t know enough about Tilly—had she inadvertently upset her by doing something wrong, something Jake would never have done? How was she supposed to know?

      And then there was Jake himself, her friend, the person she was helping out—or trying to, but this close proximity was stirring up feelings that had been dormant for years. She was suddenly so aware of him, of his physical presence and blindingly obvious sex appeal, but this was Jake, for goodness’ sake! She’d known him for years, he hadn’t changed, so why now? Was it just her sexuality reawakening after all this time, and if so, why pick on Jake, of all people?

      She slashed at an onion, and then dropped the knife with a yelp and squeezed her finger hard. Blood leaked out and ran down her hand, and she went over to the sink, turned on the tap, stuck her finger under it and gave in to the tears that had been threatening all day.

      * * *

      ‘Em?’

      She was standing at the sink with her back to him, holding something under the running tap, and he went up behind her and squeezed her shoulders gently.

      ‘I’m sorry, Em. This is all my fault. I should never have agreed to you doing this—’

      ‘Rubbish. It’s not your fault, it’s mine.’

      ‘No, it isn’t. It’s her mother’s fault. She’s a little girl—how could she just leave her? Of course she’s upset. Don’t blame yourself.’

      ‘That’s easy to say, but I do. Everything I do upsets her. I should be able to comfort her, but she doesn’t want me, she wants you, or her mother. And she just won’t let me comfort her. She hates me, and she hates Zach, and it’s just not working—’

      He leant in closer, and then saw blood all over the sink and reached past her and turned off the tap. ‘Em, what’ve you done?’

      ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she said, and he let out a sigh, put his hands on her shoulders and turned her round.

      ‘Let me see,’ he said gently, taking a handful of kitchen roll and resting her hand in it. ‘Let go?’

      She released the pressure, and blood welled rapidly in the wound before she pressed it again with her thumb.

      ‘OK. Well, at least it’s a nice clean cut, not too deep, and it won’t need stitches. Just a firm dressing and it should be fine.’

      She nodded, and something wet dripped on his hand. He tilted her face up and shook his head. Tears?

      ‘Oh, Em, don’t cry,’ he pleaded softly. ‘I don’t need two of you doing it, and Matilda’s fine now, she was just exhausted. She’s gone out like a light.’

      ‘She’s been crying for ages. She wouldn’t go to bed without you, I couldn’t even change her, I couldn’t do anything—’

      ‘Oh, Emily. Come here.’ He pulled her in against him with one arm, the other hand cradling her wounded hand in its nest of bloodied kitchen towel. He could deal with that later, he’d had far worse to worry about today, and so had she. For now, all she needed was a hug, and she turned her head into his shoulder, gave a ragged little sob and slumped against him.

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