The Baby Swap Miracle. Caroline Anderson

things there, lifting them one at a time to her lips, saying goodbye for the final time.

      His watch. His wedding ring. The fountain pen she’d given him for his birthday so he could write the diary of his last months.

      She stroked her fingers gently over the cover of the diary. She didn’t need to take it, she knew every word by heart. Julia needed it more than she did. She touched it one last time and walked away.

      Leaving the bedroom, she went into the kitchen and turned out the fridge, staring helplessly at half a bottle of milk and an opened bag of salad.

      There was no point in taking it, but it seemed silly to throw it out, so she put it back with the cheese and the tomatoes—and then got them all out again and made herself a sandwich. It was mid-afternoon and she’d eaten nothing since she’d left Sam, but she couldn’t face it now. She drank the milk, because she hadn’t touched her cup of tea, and then put the sandwich in the car with her case for later, had one last visual sweep of the annexe and then she went to say goodbye.

      They were in the kitchen, where she’d left them, as if she’d only been gone five minutes instead of two or three hours. She could hear raised voices as she approached, snatches of distressed conversation that halted her in her tracks.

      Julia said something she didn’t quite catch, then Brian said, quite clearly, ‘If I’d had the slightest idea of all the pain it would cause, I never would have allowed you to talk him into signing that consent.’

      ‘I couldn’t bear to lose him, Brian! You have to understand—’

      ‘But you had lost him, Julia. You’d lost him already. He hardly knew what he was signing—’

      ‘He did!’

      ‘No! He was out of his head with the morphine, and telling him she was desperate to have his child—it was just a lie.’

      ‘But you went along with it! You never said anything—’

      ‘Because I wanted it, too, but it was wrong, Julia—so wrong. And now…’

      Her thoughts in free-fall, Emelia stepped into the room and cleared her throat, and they stopped abruptly, swivel-ling to stare at her as she fought down the sudden surge of anger that would help no one. She wanted to tackle them, to ask them to explain, but she wasn’t sure she could hold it together and she just wanted to get out.

      Now.

      ‘I’m leaving,’ she said without emotion. ‘I’ve put all my things in the end of the wardrobe. I’ll get them collected when I know where I’ll be. I’ve left all James’ things here for you. I know you’ll want them. I haven’t touched the nursery.’

      ‘But—what about all the baby’s things? What will we do with them?’ Julia said, and then started to cry again.

      Brian put his arms round her and gave Emelia a fleeting, slightly awkward smile over the top of Julia’s head. ‘Goodbye, Emelia. And good luck,’ he said.

      So much for ‘think of it as your home’, she thought bitterly as she dropped the keys for it on the table. That hadn’t lasted long once she was no further use to them. She nodded and walked away before she lost it and asked what on earth he’d meant about Julia talking James into signing the consent—for posthumous use of his sperm, presumably, to make the baby they’d told her he’d apparently so desperately wanted her to have.

      Really? So why hadn’t he said anything? Why hadn’t he ever, in all the conversations they’d had about the future, said that he wanted her to have his child after his death? Asked how she felt? Because he would have done. They’d talked about everything, but never that, and it was only now, with it all falling apart around her ears, that she saw the light.

      And they’d told him—had the nerve to tell him!—that she was the one who so desperately wanted a baby? Nothing had been further from her mind at that point, but they’d got her, still reeling with grief on the day after the funeral, and talked her into it.

      And she was furious. Deeply, utterly furious with them for lying to her, but even more so because it seemed they’d bullied James when he was so weak and vulnerable, in the last few days or hours of his life.

      Bullied their own son so they could have his child and keep a little part of him alive.

      She sucked in a sobbing breath. She’d been through hell for this, to have the child he’d apparently wanted so badly, and it had all been a lie. And the hell, for all of them, was still not over. It was just a different kind of hell.

      She scrubbed the bitter, angry tears away and headed out of town, with no clear idea of where she was going and what she was going to do, just knowing she had barely a hundred pounds in her bank account, no job and nowhere to stay, and her prospects of getting some money fast to tide her over were frankly appalling.

      Her only thought was to get away, as far and as fast as she could, but even in the midst of all the turmoil, she realised she couldn’t just drive aimlessly forever.

      ‘Oh, rats,’ she said, her voice breaking, and pulling off the road into a layby, she leant back against the head restraint and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. She really, really wouldn’t cry. Not again. Not any more. She’d cried oceans in the past three years since she’d known James was dying, and it was time to move on.

      But where? It would be dusk soon, the night looming, and she had nowhere to stay. Could she sleep in the car? Hardly. It was only April, and she’d freeze. Her old friends in Bristol and Cheshire were too far away, and she’d lost touch with most of them anyway since James had been ill and they’d moved back to Essex. The only person who would understand was Emily, and she and Andrew were away and in any case the last people in the world she could really turn to. It just wouldn’t be fair.

      But Sam was there.

      Sam, who’d as good as told her to get rid of the baby.

      No. He hadn’t, she thought, trying to be fair. She’d thought he meant that, but he hadn’t, not that way. He’d come after her, offered his unconditional support, whatever her decision. Said he thought she’d made the right one.

       If there’s anything you need, anything I can do, just ask… Promise me you’ll call me… You need a friend—someone who understands.

      And he’d given her his card.

      She looked down and there it was in the middle, a little white rectangle of card lying in the heap of sweet wrappers and loose change just in front of the gear lever where she’d dropped it. She pulled it out, keyed in the number and reluctantly pressed the call button.

      CHAPTER TWO

      ‘HUNTER.’

      He sounded distracted, terse. He was probably busy, and for a moment she almost hung up, her courage failing her. Then he spoke again, and his voice was softer.

      ‘Emelia?’

       How had he known?

      ‘Hi, Sam.’ She fizzled out, not sure what to say, where to start, but he seemed to understand. ‘Problems?’

      ‘Sort of. Look—I’m sorry, I expect you’re busy. It’s just—we need to talk, really, and I’ve gone and got myself into a rather silly situation.’ She took a little breath, then another one, and he interrupted her efforts to get to the point.

      ‘I’m not busy. Where are you?’

      She looked around. She’d seen a sign ages ago that welcomed her to Suffolk—where Sam lived, according to Emily, in a ridiculous house in the middle of nowhere. Had she gone there subconsciously? Probably. She’d been driving in circles, lost in tiny lanes, not caring.

      ‘I’m not sure. Somewhere in Suffolk—close to the A140, I think. Where are you? Give me your postcode, I’ll put it in my satnav. What’s the house called?’

      ‘Flaxfield