The Alibi Girl. C.J. Skuse

it could be. Maybe it’s a relative of the people in the middle flat. Or Kaden, the guy who’s just moved into the top floor flat. Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe they have the wrong number altogether.

      Maybe they don’t.

      I scramble out of the bath and yank out the plug, grabbing my towel from under The Duchess and she protest-reeeaaaawrs, but moves out the way. I wrap myself up and wait – it’s a mistake. Or the postman? No, he’s been. It can’t be for me. My rhythms are all to cock. What if it’s them? What if they hear the bath gurgling? What if Emily starts crying?

      Buzzzzzzzz, buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz it goes again.

      She’ll cry and then they’ll know for sure where I am, where I live.

       Buzzzzzzzz buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

      I fumble for my robe on the back of the door and slide it over my now-freezing wet body. Panic has taken over and I can’t think in a straight line. I stumble into the bedroom, pull on my boots and lace them up as best I can though my brain has temporarily forgotten how to do laces.

      ‘Bunny ear, Bunny ear, Bottom Bunny ear over Top Bunny ear, tie and pull.’

       Buzzzzz buzzzzzzzzzz buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

      ‘Oh no, oh shitake mushrooms.’ I want to cry. How do I run with a baby? And what about the cats? If I go through the patio doors and up the front steps they’ll catch me. I’m soaking wet, in my dressing gown, wearing no knickers and badly tied DMs. They’ll be shooting slow, fat fish in a tiny barrel.

      I need to be brave, be rational, and take a look before doing anything stupid. Before I can change my mind, I run to the kitchen and grab the Flash bleach spray and a bread knife. I go to my door and scramble the chain off, opening it slowly onto the hallway. I’m at such a high pitch, I’ve broken out into a sweat and my mouth is so dry my lips stick to my teeth. My tongue feels like an invader.

      I see the shadow behind the glass. One shadow. It’s only one of them.

      ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT?’ I force myself to wobble-shout.

      ‘Hi, it’s Kaden from upstairs. I think the bolt’s on? I can’t get in.’

      Relief floods through me. I deflate and the tears start pouring as I pull back the bolt and release the Chubb to find the guy from the top floor flat standing there in his leather gear with his motorbike helmet under one arm, a bag of shopping in his hand. I can’t stop shaking.

      ‘Oh god, are you alright?’ he says. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been away for a couple of days, and came back and my key wouldn’t work… I didn’t mean to get you out of the bath. I definitely didn’t mean to scare you. It’s Joanne, isn’t it?’

      NO, I’m NOT Joanne, I want to say. I have an alarming urge to tell him my real name. I want him to help me. Tell me he’ll fight the Pigs away with his strong arms. Not very Frida the Feminist Icon, but then I’m not Frida – I’m me. And not a very convincing me either. I sit on the stair, dropping the knife and spray gun to the carpet.

      The front door closes. He puts the bike helmet on the shelf and there’s a creak of leather as he kneels down. ‘Hey. It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.’

      And I pull him into me and he wraps his arms around my back and we’re hugging like two lovers. Lovers who’ve only previously shared Hellos and door openings for the past two weeks since he moved in. I blush every time. Because in one of my newest lies he is of course My Husband. The Father of My Five Children. The screensaver on my phone, from when I followed him to the gym at the other end of the seafront where he works, and took a photo of the picture of him behind reception – Kaden Cotterill, Certified Personal Trainer. How sad is that? Now that he’s here, holding me, I can see how sad it is. Here he is real and perfect and my tears chase down his leather jacket. The back of his neck is sweaty and he smells of the sea breeze.

      ‘I’m sorry, I really am,’ he says. We pull apart, his face packed full of concern. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I shake my head. ‘Did you think it was someone else?’ I nod. ‘Do you wanna talk about it?’ I shake. ‘Do you wanna be on your own?’ I shake again. ‘Okay, well I need to go and shove some of this in the fridge,’ he says, indicating the carrier bag. ‘Why don’t you go and put some clothes on and when I come back down we’ll go for a coffee and unwind a bit, yeah? There’s a nice café I’ve found on the seafront. They do my favourite roast.’

      I sniff. ‘I don’t like coffee.’

      ‘What do you like?’

      ‘Strawberry milkshakes.’

      He touches my head and his hand comes away with a chunk of white foam from the bath. He smiles and it lights up the dark, damp hallway. It’s a glowing lamp in the fog. A flame in a cave. A lifeline. All I can do is smile back.

      I sit in the coffee shop – Full of Beans – stroking Emily’s head in the papoose, watching Kaden’s grey T-shirted back as he orders our drinks – a Columbian Granja La Esperanza roast with hot milk for him, and a milkshake with cream and paper straw for me. I can’t believe I’m here with him. I imagine we’re Man and Wife. He’s on paternity leave and we’re out showing off our new baby. An older couple look across at us in sweet recognition. A woman in a peach overcoat stops by the table and bends down to peek at her. I instinctively pull away, covering the top of Emily’s head with her blanket. I hear her grizzling.

      ‘Sorry, she’s a bit under the weather today.’

      ‘Aww, how old?’

      ‘Five weeks.’

      ‘Ahhh, she’s gorgeous.’

      She can’t even see her properly but the woman is right, Emily is gorgeous. All babies are. The woman thinks me and Kaden really are a couple with a baby and that’s a lovely feeling. A warm, huggy feeling. Perhaps it really is Our Anniversary, like it was Mary Brokenshire’s. Perhaps we Met Here.

      When he returns with our drinks, I snap out of it – he’s here because he’s a nice man and he’s concerned that he scared me. And something is clearly wrong in my life if I’m terrified of my own door buzzer. That’s the truth. And the truth always stings.

      He sets my milkshake down before me with a ‘There you go.’

      It’s only when he sits down with his cup and saucer and biscotti that it occurs to me how childish my drink choice is. He’s changed his motorbike gear for a T-shirt and jeans and white trainers, and the back of his neck is still slightly sheeny with sweat but he doesn’t smell badly at all. I’m close enough to smell his aftershave properly now – not Paco Rabanne as I’d initially thought. It’s that one in the blue man-shaped bottle. Le Male by Jean Paul Gaultier. Oh it’s lovely. My cheeks heat up. Foy and I used to go mad in the fragrance department in Boots, spraying them all up our sleeves.

      ‘Think it’s going to be a nice day today,’ he says, staring through the window. ‘You can see the Lake District from here.’

      I look out in the direction of where he points. Blurry mountains. ‘Cool.’

      ‘Have you ever visited the Lakes?’

      ‘No. I’ve been to Scotland.’ I can’t tell him about that, so I hurry on. ‘Have you?’

      ‘Yeah, I used to go hiking in the Lakes all the time with a couple of mates from Uni. It’s really stunning. It’s good to inflate your lungs with a long walk every once in a while. You could take the little one to the Beatrix Potter house.’

      ‘Emily’s only five weeks old. I don’t think she’d be that impressed.’

      ‘No, maybe not,’ he laughs.

      ‘I like Beatrix Potter though.’

      ‘Oh