Page 4 of The Baby Plan

Sophie let out a deep breath and stared down at the child in her arms. So, Alana was her name. She seemed wide awake, though silent now. She had blonde hair and piercing bright blue eyes. She stared seriously at her aunt as if taking her in as much as the other way around.

Sophie automatically began to walk back to her car, and it was only when she’d opened its doors that she realised she didn’t have a car seat for Alana or any idea where she was planning to drive to. She couldn’t go back to her flat in London without being able to take her niece in the car, and even if she could get there, what would she do with a baby in her flat? She wouldn’t have anywhere for Alana to sleep even.

Despite the early hour, it was warm even for July and a definite blush of orange was beginning to lighten the horizon. Needing some time to think, Sophie took the bag of Natasha’s possessions off the passenger seat and headed downhill towards the sea, hoping the sound of the waves would soothe her and the baby, who’d begun to grizzle and wriggle in her arms. It wasn’t far.

She found her way to the coastal wall, then made it onto the beach very gingerly, terrified of dropping Alana as she navigated the uneven stones. Managing to sit down fairly comfortably, Sophie held Alana close to her and wrapped her in a little blanket that had been in the bag of Natasha’s things, maybe it would smell of her mother and be a comfort to her, as well as keeping her warm. Natasha, a mother. She stared down at her niece, amazed at how familiar her bright, intense gaze seemed, even though they’d only just met. Alana closed her eyes and fell asleep. Sophie didn’t dare move in case she disturbed her.

She already felt very protective over the tiny person in her arms, the only part of her sister she had left, the only part of her family, and she instinctively needed Alana to be with her. It didn’t seem the little girl had anyone else either.

She looked out over the water. It was timeless. Fresh, clean, beautiful. The foam crests of the waves formed and broke, endlessly trapped in a cycle of death and rebirth — symbolic perhaps, Sophie thought. Natasha was gone, too late now to heal their rift. How sad, now, in the face of the ultimate truth of things. But here in her arms was a form of second chance, solace perhaps for them both. An end, too, of her well-ordered life and an abrupt induction into chaos she suspected, but that couldn’t be helped.

Gulls cried and circled, raucous over the soporific chant of the sea.

She needed an immediate plan and some sleep. Everything else would be dealt with as she needed to. Her organised, meticulous inner-self — the consummate planner/strategist — rebelled at this disorderly cop-out, this was not how Sophie Perring functioned, but she overruled it. Taken as a whole, she’d be overwhelmed by what faced her. It was... too much. Too alien, too many unknowns. Sleep and small steps — that was the only way forward.

She carefully extracted one of her hands from under Alana and looked through what she’d been given by the disgruntled babysitter. There were a few baby things: a cuddly grey rabbit, a bottle with a tiny bit of milk in the bottom, some wet wipes and a nappy.

Next was the carrier bag of Natasha’s belongings. Knowing that putting this off wouldn’t help, Sophie let out a sigh before opening it. Inside was a striped canvas tote with a long shoulder strap: Natasha’s handbag. Her purse was in there, house keys, some make-up, and a couple of Final Demand notices. As the first letter was only dated a few days ago, she presumed the address on it was Natasha’s current home address. She gently teased her mobile out of her pocket, never taking her eyes off her niece in case she was about to wake and start crying. She again googled the address and, to her huge relief, it was a few minutes’ walk away, two roads down in fact from Rodney Street where she’d been so recently. Wondering whether Natasha had a flatmate or, unlikely as it now seemed, a boyfriend living with her — though if she did, especially if the boyfriend were Alana’s father, surely the hospital would have called him instead of her? — Sophie decided to head to the address. If they did exist, they’d have to be woken up.

She was putting the letters back in the bag when another unopened envelope caught her eye. She pulled it out and saw her name written on the front. Cack-handedly tearing it open, she drew out a single sheet of paper covered with her sister’s unmistakable scrawl.

Dear Sophie,

Thank you for taking the time to read this. I thought it better to write because I know I won’t be able to find the words in person, and I wasn’t certain how you’d react to seeing me. It’s been a long time, and I’m sure you’re still angry with me for the way I’ve acted in the past. I treated you and Mum and Dad very badly, and for that, I’m very sorry. I was selfish, and I know I hurt you all, but I have changed, and I want to try to make amends if you’ll let me. We’re the only family either of us has, except for someone I’m dying to introduce you to. I have a daughter, Alana. She’s seven months old. I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me, but there’s nothing more important than family and I so want you to be a part of my and Alana’s life. Please get in touch.

Love, Natasha.

A mobile number was written on the bottom of the page.

Natasha must have been travelling to deliver the letter; the hospital had said she was driving out of Brighton, Sophie realised. She’d been on her way to Sophie’s flat to try to make amends. If only she’d completed her journey, if only they’d had the chance to reconcile, put the past behind them, and become proper sisters again.

Sophie somehow got up while still holding the sleeping baby and packed up the bits she’d pulled out from the bags. She stood up straight, trying to instil within herself the self-assurance she wasn’t feeling at that moment and allowed herself one long, final survey of the sea.

“I’ll always look after her, Natasha. I promise,” she said out loud, “I’ll take care of your daughter.”

Chapter 2

Sophie was woken a few hours later by the sound of Alana crying in her cot at the end of the bed. She struggled up, exhaustion coursing through her, as she checked the time on her phone. It was just gone nine o’clock, which in regular circumstances she’d consider a very decadent lie-in, but she hadn’t climbed into Natasha’s bed until almost six and had lain awake for at least another hour listening to Alana sleeping, going over and over what had happened until her nervous energy ran out and fatigue overcame her.

Natasha’s home had been empty when she’d reached it. The flat had its own front door onto the street and was on the ground floor of a large, blockish, modern building. Sophie noticed the space was small and messy, but she hadn’t bothered to examine it properly. She’d been shattered and had put the baby straight into her cot before changing into a pair of pyjamas she’d found in Natasha’s chest of drawers and going to bed herself after emailing the accountancy firm she worked for to let them know there had been an emergency and she would need to take some time off.

Sophie picked up her niece and it was immediately obvious, even to someone who knew practically nothing about babies like Sophie, that Alana needed her nappy changed. There was a changing mat on top of the battered-looking chest of drawers in the corner of the room and a few minutes later, Sophie was proud of the job she’d done, even if she’d had to hold her breath the entire time. The baby certainly smelt an awful lot better but was, unfortunately, still crying.

“I guess you’re hungry as well,” said Sophie, trying to stay calm and think through the steps of what could be making Alana unhappy. She grabbed her indispensable phone from the bed and carried Alana through to the little galley kitchen, googling on the way what she should feed her. It seemed it depended on how much a seven-month-old had been ‘weaned’ as to what they ate, which didn’t really help matters. Formula seemed a safe bet, and she found a box of it on the counter, along with a steriliser. She peeked inside the machine and found there were clean bottles. She read the side of the formula packet. The instructions seemed clear enough, but it would take a while before the milk was ready for Alana, and she didn’t sound willing to wait.

Sophie really needed her morning coffee. She took a deep inhalation; it was hard to concentrate with a baby screaming in her ear. She spotted a highchair in the corner of the kitchen and managed to strap an extremely indisposed Alana into it so she could at least use both hands and not worry about spilling hot water on her niece.

She almost had the bottle prepared, when Sophie heard the doorbell ring over the sound of the crying. She went to answer it, only remembering as she reached the kitchen door that she couldn’t simply leave the baby alone — goodness knows what could happen! Getting frazzled, she lifted her niece out of the highchair, which seemed to make Alana crosser than she’d been when she was originally put in it.

The doorbell continued ringing, becoming more insistent, forcing Sophie’s blood pressure to soar even higher. The sheer number of locks and chains on the front door reminded Sophie her sister’s neighbourhood was perhaps not as salubrious as her own. There was no peephole, so she opened the door gingerly, ready to slam it shut quickly if necessary.

What faced her could have been the god Thor, or perhaps someone from the cast of an Australian soap opera. One who worked out. A lot. At least 6'2", lean, very tanned and muscular, with shoulder-length, wavy blond hair. He wore a faded T-shirt and board shorts despite the fact the day hadn’t heated up yet. He, rather incongruously, held a pink teddy bear in his hands. Sophie met his eyes, which were the intense blue of the sea on a cloudless summer’s day. She felt herself feeling hot all of a sudden. Her examination was brought to an abrupt halt by his wince as the full force of the baby’s crying hit him.

“Is that Alana?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the baby, which Sophie was quite glad about as she was sure she looked an absolute state.

“Who are you?” she asked, politely, forcing herself back to the reality of a stranger standing on the doorstep enquiring after her niece, but, bizarrely, not recognising the baby.

“Is Natasha in?” he responded.

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