Calm. Be calm. I can’t turn round for a proper look, because I don’t want the man to see me through the glass door. If he sees me he might take off and I’ll never catch him, not with Iona in tow. My heart is far from calm, so I take a few deep breaths as I watch my fingers take the bottle from Iona’s lips and dab at her mouth with a muslin square. I’ll have to wait until he’s moved past, further along the corridor, then I’ll casually walk past and take a good look at him. I was here for three days after the C-section, so I must have seen him fairly often… it makes sense.
In the sling again, Iona rests her cheek on my chest and closes her eyes. Good. A crying baby will cause the man to look up and notice me before I have time to see his face. I sidle out into the corridor and am dismayed by how far away he is. Damn it. I have a long way to walk looking casual and his attention might be drawn to my movement. At the moment his head is down and he’s swishing the mop back and forth, side to side – always the same rhythm and speed, as if he’s an automaton.
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