Trust Me - T.M. Logan Page 0,1

from those lads. They’re passing around the Jack Daniels.’

She moves carefully so as not to jostle the baby in her arm, a tiny thing dressed in a pale pink cardigan and pink shoes with little rainbows on them. Tufts of blonde hair peek out from beneath a pink bow over the top of her head. Her eyes are ocean-blue against perfect white, with long lashes and just the tiniest hint of blonde eyebrows. They lock onto me and a smile spreads instantly across her chubby face, her pink dummy almost falling out, a big gummy grin that dimples her cheeks and lights up her face. Despite myself, despite everything, I feel my own lips curving into a smile in return – but it’s been so long that it feels strange, almost unnatural.

‘She’s absolutely beautiful,’ I say. And it isn’t just one of those things you say to a new mother, the polite response when their baby is presented to you. It’s true enough that all babies are beautiful in their own way, to their own parents especially. But this one is unbearably, impossibly cute.

‘She likes you,’ the young mother says with a shy grin.

‘She’s very smiley, isn’t she?’ I say, unable to take my eyes off the baby. ‘So sweet.’

The woman’s phone rings on the seat beside her. She checks the screen and silences it.

‘How old are yours?’ she says.

My smile falters. No matter how many times I’m asked about my own family, I never quite get the answer right. It always sounds like an apology or a defence.

‘Me and my husband, I mean ex-husband, we couldn’t . . .’ I tear my eyes away from the baby in her arms. ‘We wanted kids, but it never quite worked out for us.’

‘Oh.’ The young woman colours slightly. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Really. I’m godmother to my friend Tara’s children. She has three boys.’

‘This little one doesn’t have a godmother yet.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Mia. She’s three months and one week old, today. And I’m Kathryn,’ she adds, with an embarrassed smile. ‘Hi.’

Her phone rings again and she silences it without answering. Looking closer, she’s young to have a baby, not much older than twenty, nearly half my own age. I’m old enough to be her mother, I realise with a familiar pinch of sadness. She wears no wedding ring, and her ears are pierced twice – low and high – with unfussy studs in each. She looks like she might be more at home out clubbing than looking after a baby.

But there is something else too, a pulse of unease that she’s keeping just beneath the surface.

Her phone beeps with a message, and as she reaches for it the sleeve of her jacket rides up, revealing purple-black skin above her wrist, a line of ugly bruises spreading up towards her elbow.

She sees me looking and hurriedly pushes the sleeve back down again. I give her a sympathetic smile.

‘I’m Ellen,’ I say. Lowering my voice, I add, ‘Is everything . . . OK?’

‘Yeah.’ She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. ‘Actually, I don’t suppose you’d be able to hold her for a minute while I get myself sorted out, would you?’

Yes. No. I would love to hold her. More than anything. Please don’t ask me to.

‘Of course,’ I say, sitting forward in my seat.

Kathryn half stands, leaning over the grey plastic table between us, handing the baby to me. It feels awkward at first and for a moment I think I might drop the baby or she might wriggle free, but she seems quite content to lie back, nestled into the crook of my elbow. She’s not heavy, just a warm, solid presence, wonderfully and joyfully alive in my arms, her big blue eyes gazing up, her lips curling into a smile. Babies love faces, that was what all the books said. They were hardwired to respond to eye contact and smiles, their own eyes focusing to that first distance between mother and child. The distance between us now. How is it possible to feel a loss for something I’ve never had and probably never will have?

‘You’re a natural,’ Kathryn says, then immediately puts a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . That was a stupid thing to say.’

I shake my head, unable to take my eyes off the baby.

‘No need to apologise.’

Mia reaches out, the tips of her little fingers brushing my cheek with the lightest of touches, tiny