besides, despite what the experts said, Amaia wasn’t convinced about the merits of her baby having a separate room; for the first few months, while she was breastfeeding, having the baby nearby would make it easier to feed her during the night, and knowing that she could hear her if she cried or had a problem would reassure her …
Clarice had raised the roof. ‘The baby must have her own room, with all her things around her. Believe you me, both mother and baby will sleep better. If you have her next to you, you’ll be listening for her every breath and movement; she needs her space and you need yours. Anyway, it’s not healthy for a baby to share its parents’ bedroom, children become used to it and won’t be taken to their own room.’
Amaia had also read the advice of a host of celebrated paediatricians determined to indoctrinate an entire new generation of children into the ways of suffering: don’t pick them up too often, let them sleep alone from birth, don’t comfort them when they have a tantrum because they need to learn to be independent, to cope with their fears and failures. Such stupidity made Amaia’s stomach churn. It occurred to her that if any of these distinguished doctors had been obliged since birth to ‘cope’ with fear the way she had, they would have an entirely different view of the world. If her daughter wanted to sleep in their bedroom until she was three years old, that was fine by her: she would comfort her, listen to her, take seriously and allay her childish fears, because as she herself knew only too well, they could loom large in a child’s mind. But evidently Clarice had her own ideas about how things should be done, which she didn’t hesitate to share with everybody else.
Three days earlier, Amaia had arrived home to discover that her mother-in-law had given them a surprise gift: a magnificent nursery complete with wardrobes, a changer, chest of drawers, rugs, and lamps. A superabundance of pink fleecy clouds and little lambs, all wreathed in ribbons and lace. Amaia had been alarmed enough when James had opened the door, given her a kiss and whispered apologetically: ‘She means well.’ But when she was confronted by this profusion of pinkness, her smile froze as she realised she was being made to feel like a stranger in her own home. Clarice, on the other hand, was thrilled, gliding amidst the furniture like a TV presenter, while Amaia’s father-in-law, impassive as always when faced with his wife’s enthusiasm, carried on calmly reading the newspaper in the sitting room. Amaia found it difficult to reconcile the image of Thomas at the helm of a financial empire with the way he behaved towards his wife, with a mixture of submissiveness and apathy that never ceased to amaze her. If only because she knew how uncomfortable James felt, Amaia did her best to keep her composure while his mother extolled the marvels of the nursery she had bought for them.
‘Look at this lovely wardrobe, all her clothes will fit in there, and there is room in the changer for nappies as well as everything else. Aren’t the rugs cute? And over here,’ she said, grinning smugly, ‘the pièce de résistance: a cot fit for a princess.’
Amaia had to admit that the huge pink cot was indeed majestic, and big enough for her daughter to sleep in until she was at least four years old.
‘Very pretty,’ she forced herself to say.
‘It’s beautiful, so now you can give your aunt back her log basket.’
Amaia left the nursery without a word and went into her bedroom to wait for James.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart, she doesn’t mean to interfere, it’s just how she is. They’ll only be here a few more days. I know you’re being incredibly patient, and I promise you that after they’ve gone we’ll get rid of everything you don’t like.’
She had agreed for James’s sake and because she didn’t have the strength to argue with Clarice. James was right: she was being incredibly patient, even though it went against her nature. This was possibly the first time she had ever let anyone control her, but in this final stage of pregnancy, she had noticed a change come over her. For days now she had been feeling unwell; all the energy she had enjoyed during the first months had given way to an apathy that was unusual in her. Clarice’s domineering presence only brought that fragility to the fore. Amaia glanced again at the baby clothes in the shop window and decided they had quite enough with everything her mother-in-law had bought. Clarice’s extravagances as a first-time grandmother made Amaia feel queasy, but there was something else: secretly she would have given anything to have the same intoxicating love affair with pink that afflicted her mother-in-law.
Since she had become pregnant, all she had bought for her daughter was a pair of bootees, a few T-shirts, some leggings, and a set of Babygros in neutral colours. She told herself that pink wasn’t her favourite colour. When she browsed the shop windows and saw frocks, cardigans and skirts bedecked with ribbons and embroidered flowers, she thought they looked lovely, perfect for a little princess, but no sooner did she have them in her hand than she felt an intense aversion towards all those tasteless frills and ended up walking out, confused and irritated, without buying anything. She could have done with some of the enthusiasm shown by Clarice, who would dissolve into raptures at the sight of a frock and matching shoes. Amaia knew that she couldn’t have been happier, that she had always loved this baby, from the time when she herself had been a brooding, unhappy child dreaming of being a mother one day, a real mother, a desire that had crystallised when she met James. And when motherhood threatened to elude her, assailed with fears and doubts, she had considered undergoing IVF treatment. But then, nine months ago, while investigating the most important case of her career, she had become pregnant.
Amaia was happy, or at least thought she was, and that puzzled her even more. Until recently she had felt fulfilled, contented, self-assured in a way that she hadn’t for years; yet over the past few weeks, fresh fears, which were actually as old as time, had started creeping back, infiltrating her dreams, whispering familiar words she wished she didn’t recognise.
Another contraction, less painful but more drawn-out, gripped her. She checked her watch. Twenty minutes since the last one in the park.
She headed towards the restaurant where they had arranged to meet. Clarice didn’t approve of James cooking all the time, and kept hinting that they needed staff. Half-expecting to arrive home one day to find they had an English butler, she and James had decided they should lunch and dine out every day.
James had chosen a modern restaurant in the street next to Calle Mercaderes, where they lived. When she arrived, Clarice and the taciturn Thomas were both sipping martinis. James stood up as soon as he saw her.
‘Hi, Amaia, how are you, my love?’ he said, planting a kiss on her lips and pulling out a chair for her.
‘Fine,’ she said, wondering whether to mention the contractions. She glanced at Clarice and decided to keep quiet.
‘And the little one?’ James smiled, resting his hand on her belly.
‘The little one,’ repeated Clarice derisively. ‘Do you think it’s normal that a week before your daughter’s birth you still haven’t chosen a name for her?’
Amaia pretended to browse the menu while looking askance at James.
‘Oh, Mom, not that again. We like several, but we can’t decide, so we’re waiting until the baby arrives. The moment we see her little face we’ll know what to call her.’
‘Oh!’ Clarice perked up. ‘So, you have thought of some names. Is one of them Clarice, maybe?’ Amaia heaved a sigh. ‘Seriously, though what names are you thinking of?’ Clarice persisted.
Amaia glanced up from the menu as a fresh contraction gripped her belly for a few seconds. She looked at her watch again and smiled.
‘Actually, I’ve already chosen one,’ she lied, ‘only
