‘He’s hot…’ For a second time she looked into the man’s eyes, only this time her mind was on the child. ‘He has a fever…’
‘He’s sick…’ The man nodded, and Ainslie didn’t know if he would have elaborated further because just then the tube pulled into a station, and as commuters piled off and piled on they were separated.
She should have put it out of her mind. Heaven knows she had enough to think about at the moment—like finding somewhere to stay for tonight, finding a job with no reference, clearing her name, telling her mum—only she couldn’t. The little boy’s screams, though muffled, still reached her; the look on his father’s face, the wretched exhaustion, his voice, his eyes, stayed with her. This stranger had whirred her senses. He was wearing a heavy grey coat, but she’d caught a glimpse of a collar and suit. Maybe he’d picked the little boy up from daycare? Perhaps they’d just come from the doctor’s…?
What did it matter? Ainslie told herself as the tube pulled into Earls Court station.
According to her guide it was the descending place for Australians in London—now all she had to do was find a youth hostel. Pushing her way through the slowly moving masses, relieved that her backpack had amazingly still been where she’d left it, Ainslie stood on the platform, taking a deep breath, glad to be out of the stifling crowd.
She could hear her mobile trilling and sat on a little bench, nervous when she saw that it was Angus, her old boss, calling. Wondering what he had to say, she let the call go through to her message bank, grateful she wouldn’t have to come up with an instant answer to any difficult questions he might pose. Clearly Angus
Angus Maitlin might be a famous celebrity doctor—one who appeared regularly in magazines and on television—but he was also a consultant in Accident and Emergency and a wise and shrewd man. Living with him for three months, Ainslie had worked that out quickly, and in the evenings when he had been at home, listening to him as he read a book to one of the kids, half watching the evening news Angus had always made her smile.
‘There’s more to it!’ he’d often say at the end of a report—or, ‘He did it!’ as an emotional plea was read out.
But the memory wasn’t making her smile now, as Ainslie wondered how she could possibly lie and get away with it to this wise, shrewd, and also terribly kind man.
‘Ainslie—it’s Angus. Gemma just told me what happened. I don’t know what to say. Look—I don’t like that you’re out there with no money or references—I hope you’re at a friend’s. If you needed money…we could have sorted something out. I’m working till late, but I’ll ring tomorrow…’
Clearly Angus was finding the situation difficult, because his voice trailed off then, and Ainslie felt tears tumble out of her eyes for the first time since it had happened. Sadly she realised that he believed her to be guilty. She could hear the disappointment in his kind voice.
Well, of course he believed Gemma—she was his wife! A wife who had told her husband that things had been going missing since Ainslie had started. A wife who had told him she had caught the nanny red-handed, having found her ring and necklace in Ainslie’s bedroom drawer. Better that than admitting that it was the nanny who had actually caught her red-handed.
Or rather red-faced, beneath her lover, when Ainslie had brought the children home unexpectedly early.
Slumped against the wall on the busy platform, Ainslie began crying her eyes out—not loud tears, just shivering gulps as she gave in and wept. She’d been counting on her Christmas bonus—had needed the money desperately, thanks to Nick and the mess that was unfolding back home. It was the first time she’d actually cried since she’d picked up her mail two weeks ago and found out that her exboyfriend had, unbeknownst to her, taken out a joint loan while they were together. The deceit had been almost more upsetting than the financial ramifications, and the tears she had held back spilled out now, as she faced the bleakest of Christmases. Not that anyone noticed. Not that anyone even gave her a second glance. Surrounded by people in one of the busiest cities in the world, never had Ainslie felt more alone.
She could hear the baby crying again too, and his loud sobs matched how she felt…
Guido.
The fraught cries snapped Ainslie out of her own introspection, her eyes scanning the platform until she found him.
He wasn’t a baby, more a toddler—eighteen months old, perhaps. He was standing—no, sitting. No, now he was lying on the platform floor and kicking his legs, throwing a spectacular tantrum. His less than impressed father was half kneeling, a laptop and briefcase discarded on the platform beside him, holding his child with one hand as with the other he attempted to open a pushchair with all the skill of someone who’d never opened a pushchair in his life—and certainly not while trying to hold onto a frantic toddler.
And just as the crowd had ignored her tears, so too did they ignore this man’s plight. Heads down, they just hurried past, and either didn’t see or pretended not to notice; everyone was too busy to offer help.
Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, Ainslie walked over. ‘Can I help?’
She watched him stiffen momentarily. His head was almost automatically shaking in refusal, highlighting that this was clearly a man who wasn’t used to accepting help. Then in almost the same instant he let out a reluctant breath and conceded, picking up the little boy and standing to his impressive height.
‘Can you open this pushchair?’
‘Of course.’
‘Please,’ he added as a very late afterthought, as with two easy motions Ainslie did just that.
‘Thank you.’ He dismissed her then, and really she should have turned and gone. But Ainslie knew that an open pushchair was only half the battle. She watched and wondered with vague amusement how he’d manage to get this stiff, angry child into the chair.
With great difficulty he tried to buckle Guido in. Failing on the first effort, he undid his coat, and Ainslie was treated to a glimpse of impressive suit, a shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Even Ainslie could tell that suits and coats as exquisite as the one this man was wearing didn’t often belong to a daddy who spent a lot of time at home.
This daddy, Ainslie guessed as Guido’s shrieks trebled, must have spent so much time in the office that his son hardly recognised him. There were no easy motions, no practised ease, as he tried to get the unwilling, resisting arms of the child into the straps of the pushchair.
‘I can manage!’ he growled as she hovered.
But he couldn’t. The angry little bundle continued kicking and thumping.
Just as Ainslie had decided to let him do just that and deal with her own problems, Guido caught them both by surprise…
Staring at his father, his screams stopped for a second, a second that allowed him to draw breath, and Ainslie stood open mouthed as the little boy, very deliberately, very angrily and very directly, spat in the face of his father.
‘Puh!’
It was no accident—he even added sound—and Ainslie’s eyes widened in horror, staring at the shocked expression of the man, who didn’t look as if he’d take too well to being spat on. Then he did the most unexpected thing and grinned; that crabby, exhausted, haughty face was actually breaking into a laugh, and it caught the little boy by surprise, because he relaxed just long enough for the pushchair strap to be clicked into place.
The man stood up and, still grinning, pulled out a very smart navy silk handkerchief and wiped his face.
‘Little gypsy tramp—just like his father!’
Which wasn’t the best of introductions!
‘Oh…’ Ainslie nodded.
The