Now, the feeling of being restricted with a newborn and being stuck inside the house, or only able to venture within walking distance unless she wanted to chance public transport with her screaming baby, made her think she should’ve been braver. Too late now.
The house was quiet and Louisa hoped she wasn’t jinxing it when she thought to herself that Noah had become more settled in the last few days. He definitely wasn’t crying as much. The break from her had done him good, clearly. She’d heard once that babies pick up on their mother’s moods, so it was likely he’d been distressed because Louisa was, and not the other way around. It was an interesting thought.
Louisa downed her third coffee and stared out into the street from the lounge window. The caffeine content was the only reason she drank it; she didn’t care for its bitter taste. She had to stay alert today. No more memory lapses, no more panic about whether she’d fed Noah. She had an idea. Placing her coffee on the table, she got a pen and pad of paper from the table drawer and put the day and date, then listed times from 7 a.m. to 6 p.m. in columns. Those were the times she’d be on her own today. Emily was going to her friend Evie’s straight from school to work on her science project, and Evie’s dad would drop her home after they’d eaten tea. Brian was due home between half five and six.
Louisa put a tick next to 7 a.m. Noah hadn’t fed for very long – literally two minutes, which wasn’t usual – but he’d seemed satisfied after. She recorded that too. Doing this meant she’d keep on top of things and if her memory blurred, she had this written proof she’d fed him.
All had gone well up until 2 p.m. Louisa cast her eyes down the paper at the ticks. Noah had fed three times. Each time for ten minutes from each breast. The length of time was definitely shortening; he either wasn’t taking as much, or she didn’t have as much to give and that’s why he was feeding more quickly. It had been such a long time since she’d fed Emily, she could no longer recall what her feeding patterns were like – maybe it was normal and she shouldn’t worry. Just in case, Louisa made a note on the paper to call the health visitor to discuss it. Although Noah seemed more content, that might be a bad thing coupled with not feeding enough. He could have something wrong with him.
The ringing of the doorbell jolted her from her catastrophising. She stared down at her sleeping baby and considered ignoring the bell. Moving might disturb Noah, and as all good advice informed parents: never wake a sleeping baby. It rang again. She decided she’d answer in case it was a parcel, and shuffled to the edge of the sofa, slowly making her way to the door. If it was important, they’d wait.
Through the textured glass, Louisa could only make out a large dark figure standing on her doorstep. Not someone holding a parcel, she noted. With Noah cradled in one arm, she opened the door tentatively with the other.
A split second after seeing the person in front of her, Louisa’s brain caught up with itself and she recoiled. Instinct told her to close the door and lock it. Her heart couldn’t be so blunt.
‘What are you doing here?’ She shook her head slightly in disbelief that Oliver would be so bold. ‘Who told you where I live?’ If bloody Tiff had something to do with this, their friendship was going to come under some serious scrutiny. Regaining some composure, Louisa tilted her chin up as she waited for him to explain himself.
‘You didn’t reply to my message,’ he said, clearly disregarding her second question.
‘I don’t reply to lots of messages, but the sender rarely shows up at my door because of it.’ A surge of annoyance permeated her tone.
Her curiosity at what his message had meant outweighed the warning signals. When it became clear he wasn’t going to respond to her comment, she continued.
‘I really shouldn’t invite you in.’ Louisa stuck her head outside, checking up and down the road. Oliver’s eyes followed hers.
‘I don’t think anyone is watching. You’re safe.’ He smiled.
‘Fine. Not for long though, you hear?’ She turned, placing Noah in the pram in the hallway before facing Oliver again.
‘Okay, Lou-Lou, anything you say.’
She was transported back – seventeen again – staring into those hypnotic deep-brown eyes, her whole body filled with admiration and love; naive and completely trusting the gorgeous boy who made her stomach shake, her hands tremble, her heart flutter furiously each time he said her name.
She must be careful now.
Louisa stood aside, letting Oliver slide past her into her house.
Into her life once more.
Louisa didn’t go back into the lounge; she didn’t want Oliver making himself too comfortable. Instead she showed him into the kitchen, indicating he could sit at the table. On a hard, wooden chair. So much had been left unsaid since she’d last known him. Despite their proximity now, twenty-two years of nothing but absence separated them, and Louisa didn’t have a clue where to begin. She didn’t know what to say, how to behave. Did he expect her to be angry with him? Or pretend she didn’t remember the fact he’d left her?
‘I know it must be weird, me turning up out of the blue at your fortieth birthday party after all this time. Sorry for springing myself on you like that. I had tried to contact you before, you know.’
‘Oh, the Facebook group invites? Hmmm … No, Oliver, that really isn’t trying, is it? You only invited me recently, so what about the other twenty-odd years? Where were your efforts during that time?’
‘You’re angry with me. I can see that. But you know why I had to leave, Lou. I did it for you.’ He reached across the table, laying his hands on hers. She snatched them away, hot rods shooting through her. The man was deluded if he thought that leaving the girl who he told he would love forever was for her own benefit. Louisa balled her fists.
‘No, Oliver. I don’t think so.’
Oliver’s eyebrows raised, then knitted together, his brow creasing. ‘Is that what you tell yourself?’ He shrugged. ‘If that’s how you made it through, then I guess that’s up to you.’
Louisa was enraged at his attempt to wriggle out of being to blame for leaving her, but she wanted to move this on and, specifically, uncover precisely what had happened the night of her party.
‘Whatever. So anyway, what exactly is it that you want?’
She didn’t expect his answer.
‘Melissa is missing.’ His eyes glistened with tears.
For a second, Louisa struggled to make sense of his statement. Then, perhaps sensing her confusion, he added, ‘My wife, Melissa. I haven’t seen her since the party.’
‘Oh, my God, Oliver. Missing, like, need to call the police missing?’
‘I’ve held off calling them – didn’t want to create a fuss, not yet. We’d had, well … a bit of an argument. Melissa often gets emotional; angry too. She goes off on her own sometimes to sort her head out – doesn’t contact me for days, then comes waltzing back as though nothing ever happened. I assumed this was one of those times. It might still be, I guess. It’s only been just over forty-eight