needs milk, but she doesn’t like the milk from the shops, and she hasn’t got a mummy.’
‘So are you giving her your milk?’
‘Yes. Like I did when Freddie was small, and I went to the hospital and gave them milk for the tiny babies so they could have it in their bottles.’
‘Because Kizzy’s tiny, isn’t she?’
Emily nodded.
‘So why don’t you just feed her like Freddie?’ she asked, looking puzzled.
Why not, indeed? Except that she wasn’t her child, and cradling her that close, suckling her, was going to make it all the harder when Harry took her away.
‘Because I can’t. Harry needs to move back to his house when it’s decorated, and I’ve got to work. And I don’t want to be up all night, I’m tired.’
‘Oh. Won’t she mind?’
Probably, but it was tough. ‘She’ll be fine,’ she said firmly, hoping it was true. ‘Did you come upstairs for anything in particular?’
‘Picnic blanket. Harry and me made biscuits and bananas and tea and juice—oh, and strawberries. We’re having a picnic in the garden. Are you coming, Mummy?’
Made biscuits? She would have smelt it. Probably just poetic licence. ‘In a minute,’ she said, eyeing the reservoir and wondering if it would be enough. ‘Take the blanket down and I’ll be down soon.’
Although not that soon. She filled a bottle, then washed out the machine, put the parts into fresh sterilising solution and right on cue, Kizzy started to cry.
The acid test, she thought, and, scooping the baby up, she offered her the teat, squeezing a little milk out so she knew it wasn’t formula, but Kizzy wasn’t fooled and she spat the teat out.
Great.
Emily didn’t know what she was doing. If only she hadn’t started this. Well, it was time it stopped. Harry could feed her. Maybe that would work better.
She took Kizzy down, handed her and the bottle over and gave him a crooked smile. ‘Yours, I think,’ she said, and, scooping Freddie up, she hugged him and kissed his sticky, chocolaty little face. ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ she said, and he snuggled into her and wiped chocolate all over her front.
She didn’t care. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Harry and Kizzy would manage to get the milk down her neck and she could take a back seat.
‘Is that my tea?’ she asked, and Beth nodded.
‘It’s not very hot.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ she said firmly, and, turning her back on Harry and the baby, she sipped her tea, nibbled a biscuit—not home made, she noticed—and tuned out the sound of Kizzy fussing.
And then, miraculously, there was peace.
The screaming stopped, there was a suckling noise from behind her, and she felt her shoulders drop about a foot.
Finally.
‘Thank you.’
She looked up and smiled at Harry. He was hesitating in the doorway, his eyes studying the gadget, and he shifted awkwardly, jerking his head towards the pump.
‘So how does it work?’
Strangely shy suddenly, she showed him the instructions, showed him the bra which held the breast shields in place while the pump was working, and how the milk was collected, and his brows clumped together in a frown.
‘I had no idea it was so complicated,’ he said. ‘Hell, Em, I’m sorry. It’s a real drag having to do all that.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, all too conscious of the fact that he’d never asked her to start this.
‘But it’s going to take so much time—all the sterilising and stuff, never mind the time linked up to the pump.’
‘Well, that’s OK. You’ll have plenty of opportunity in between milking times to hose down the parlour,’ she said with a grin, and his face dropped.
‘Me? You want me to wash it out and sterilise it and stuff?’
‘Well, why not? She’s your baby. I’m just the dairy cow—and, no, you can’t call me Daisy,’ she added, and his mouth quirked in a smile.
‘Sorry. I didn’t think. Of course I’ll do it. Just one thing?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Can I call you Buttercup?’
He ducked out of reach, laughing, and she stood up and grabbed a cushion and lobbed it at him just as he turned the corner into the hall.
It bounced off the wall, and she heard the sound of his retreating chuckle, then the noise of the kettle boiling. Two minutes later he was back with a cup of tea for her.
‘Kids are all settled. Anything I can do for you?’
A massage, to take the kinks out of her neck from falling asleep in the chair this morning after she’d fed Kizzy?
She shook her head. ‘No. I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look fine, you look tense,’ he said, and, turning her round in her swivel chair, he put his big, gentle hands on her shoulders and squeezed. ‘Tight as a bowstring,’ he said, tutting, and worked the muscles carefully.
Bliss. It was absolute bliss. The only thing that could be better would be if they were lying down, and then when he’d massaged her shoulders, he’d run his hands down her back, over her bottom, her legs, then back up, really slowly, teasing, slipping his finger under the elastic of her knickers and running it round, just enough to torment her. Then he’d roll her on her back and start again, kneading—
‘Are you OK?’
Oh, lord, had she really groaned aloud?
‘I’m fine. Sorry, bit tight there,’ she flannelled, wondering if she’d get away with it. He paused a moment longer, then his fingers started working again and she let her breath go in a long, silent sigh.
‘Better?’
Was she imagining it, or was his voice a little husky? No. Don’t be silly, she told herself. You’re imagining it.
‘Yes, thanks,’ she said, and wondered if her voice was a little off kilter or if she was just imagining that, too. But then she turned to smile her thanks, and met his unguarded eyes.
Need.
That was what she saw. Need, and hunger, and reluctance. Well, she knew all about that. All of them, in fact. Just at the moment reluctance was way down her list, but it was still there, smothered by the need and hunger and the unrequited ache that had been there for what seemed like half her lifetime.
Was
