Page 1 of Clever Little Thing

Now

1.

On a table by the window is a bowl of fruit that confusingly also contains ceramic fruit. Shiny porcelain Bartlett pears are jumbled with dull green ones notched with brown, too imperfect not to be real. I feel a strong urge to sort the fruit, just to take control ofsomething. I’m about to move them when the door springs open. A cheery young woman introduces herself as Kelly, and says, “Just to let you know, we have to take your shoelaces, my love. It’s regulation.”

“Fine.” I take off my shoes and hand her the laces. Lose the battle, win the war. I am going to get out of here.

“We already got your sharps,” she tells me.

“Sharps?”

“Anything sharp, love. Razors, nail files. In your case, it wasn’t much. Just a pencil.”

“I don’t have anything to write with?” Not that I have anything to write, and my right hand is still bandaged, my cuts throbbing. I could barely scrawl the wordhelp.

In any case, I agreed to stay here for two nights. Not that I had much choice.

“You can write in the lounge. It’s lovely and cozy in there, they’ve got the fire on. Peaceful too: they put the moms who came with their babies in the other wing, so you won’t be disturbed.” She gives me a pointed look, as if I’ve forgotten that Luna, three days old and born just before Christmas at thirty weeks, is in the NICU in London. But she’s getting the best possible medical care. Stella is the one who’s in danger.

Kelly surveys the room. Is she checking to see if I’ve examined the fruit? Maybe the fruit bowl is a test: If I don’t sort it, she’ll say I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. But if I do sort it, she might say I’ve got an obsessive need to control my surroundings.

Pete says anxiety is my natural mode, and I look for things to worry about. Maybe I do worry too much about what other people think. I force myself to take a deep breath, blow out slowly. I turn away from the fruit, paint on a bright smile for Kelly. “Now what?”

“Pop on your comfy clothes,” she says. “I’ll wait outside.” She closes the door and leaves me. Laid out on the bed is a long-sleeved white cotton T-shirt and white fleece-lined tracksuit bottoms. They have a uniform here.

This could be an upmarket B & B, with its oak beams, comfortable armchair, and big bed with crisp cotton sheets and decorative mound of pillows. On the wall opposite the window hangs a still life: bleached shapes of bottles and jars on a darker background. Empty vessels. Perhaps this is what we mothers should aspire to be.

Someone has unpacked the bag Pete brought. My toothbrush and contact lens solution are in the bathroom. The breast pump ison the table by the window, plugged in and ready to go. The dresser drawers contain my underwear but no sign of other clothes. Did Pete forget them?

Win the war, I remind myself. And my phone’s still in my pocket, so I’m not helpless. I change into the clothes Kelly laid out. I go into the bathroom, where there’s a basket of soaps individually wrapped in pretty paper, and change my pad too, afraid of bleeding through the pale tracksuit bottoms.

When Kelly returns, she gathers up the clothes I removed. She tells me someone will bring my lunch shortly and to have a nice sit-down while I wait. When she’s gone, I stand by the window, staring at the peaceful view of bare winter trees and hills dotted with sheep. Pete didn’t stint on this place, I’ll give him that. I promised I would relax, but I can’t. I can’t choose an organic lavender-and-geranium soap and run a soothing bath. I wrap my arms around myself and rock back and forth.

Kelly knocks and enters without waiting for me to invite her in. “Almost forgot.” She holds out her hand. I stare at her, wondering if she expects a tip. “Your phone,” she says. “We find it helps guests with their rest and relaxation if they don’t have their phones to worry about.”

“I need my phone.”

“You can still use it whenever you want,” Kelly says, but I shake my head and grip my phone with both hands. She mutters something about having to run this by management, but doesn’t fight me.

When she’s gone, I go back to staring out the window. I’m terrified that Pete doesn’t understand the danger that Stella is in. I promised to stay, but I could break my promise. I’m no more than acouple of hours from London, although I have no coat and no shoelaces. I do have my phone, so I can call a taxi. But they might not let it through the gates. In any case, I’m afraid that if they know I’m leaving, they’ll do something to stop me. But I have to get back to Stella.

After her birth, eight years ago, I was exhausted, but I lay awake in wonder at the glorious smell that emanated from her, like vanilla pudding, like caramelizing sugar, like honeysuckle. This is the smell of something greater than human, I thought, the secret sweetness at the heart of it all.

Stella no longer smells sweet. When I look back on it, I see that by the time I found out what happened to Blanka, Stella had already begun to change.

Then

2.

When Stella and I spotted my friend Emmy, her daughter Lulu was already racing towards the sea. But Stella clapped her hands over her ears. “Too loud,” she moaned.

“What is, sweetie?” I asked as Emmy unfolded a blanket, laying her baby, Madeleine, on top. When she sat down, she took care to spread the skirt of her white Breton striped dress so it wouldn’t get creased. It was a perfect August day, the sky a rare, deep blue. I wanted the girls to run around together. But Stella clutched her head and grimaced as if a military jet screamed overhead, even though the only sound was the surf and the cry of gulls.

Emmy pushed up her oversized sunglasses and studied Stella with concern. “Does she have a headache?”

I shook my head. “I think she doesn’t like the sound of the waves. She’s got very acute hearing.” She also didn’t like the sound when I ran her a bath.

Stella sat down and drew her knees up. The broad brim of hersun hat cast her face into shadow. She seemed subdued. Maybe she was more upset about Blanka leaving than I’d realized. She had resigned abruptly a week ago. After four years of working for us, she’d sent a brief text:I cannot come anymore.When I tried to get a reason out of her, she ghosted me. After all that time she’d spent with Stella, playing with her, bathing her, feeding her, apparently my daughter was still just a job to her, one she cast aside like a used tissue.

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