Read Online Crying Out Loud by Cath Staincliffe - Free Book Online Page B

Would I get a lecture?
    â€˜Hi,’ I greeted him. ‘I got some clothes. Has she been OK?’
    â€˜Not bad. Just gone off.’
    â€˜You going into work?’
    He paused. I looked at him. Was there something wrong? My stomach constricted. He shifted the chair, got to his feet. Then I saw it: the invitation stark in his eyes, the way his lips parted slightly, the rise of his chest.
    I walked to meet him. Felt his hands in my hair, the brush of his moustache, then his lips on mine and his tongue, firm and smooth and warm. There was a sizzling sensation in my breasts and belly, the flush of heat between my thighs. I pulled away, hungry, breathless, savouring the intensity of his gaze. Those rich, brown eyes.
    â€˜Your bed or mine,’ I whispered.
    He grabbed my waist, pulled me close, then raised his hand to the top button on my shirt. ‘Who said anything about bed?’
    With huge consideration Jamie slept for two and a half hours and was still asleep when it was time to fetch Maddie and Tom. So was Ray. We’d decamped to my room for a post-coital rest and now he was lying on his back, snoring lightly, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, the curls at the edge of his temples damp with perspiration.
    I showered quickly and dressed, scooped up the baby and put her in the buggy, lowered the rain hood and set off.
    The rain battered down, drumming on the plastic cover of the buggy, bouncing off the flagstones. The air was fresh, strong with the dark, watery smell of wet stone. I barrelled along, almost enjoying the weather. Still high from love-making, still smitten by the man who I had never imagined I’d fall in love with. And relieved that I had been able to forget, for a couple of delicious hours, that I was no closer to solving the mystery of who had left a foundling on my doorstep.

SEVEN
    J amie shared my bath that evening. I could have washed her in the sink or top and tailed her; after all I’d already showered so I didn’t need a soak, but there’s nothing quite so pleasant and calming as bathing with a baby.
    It had been my escape route when I had Maddie. As a single parent, there was no one close by to help me look after her. We had some hard times: days when she’d run me ragged and I’d be in tears at the sheer scale of it all. The lack of sleep, the fact that it took so long to change her, to feed her, that there was never any respite.
    When I reached fever pitch, or she did, there was the fail-safe option of the bath. My gas bills soared but it was worth every penny. Afternoons would often find us submerged together. When she was particularly fractious we might end up having two baths in one day. I’d run the water, walking to and fro with her as she cried. Her protests accelerated when I undressed her: her face contorted, red with fury, limbs rigid, her cries so sharp they made my breasts leak milk. Then I would pull off my own clothes, lift her up, climb into the water and lower her in, brace her on my knees so she could see me. As the water lapped at her feet, then her bottom and up to her chest, her cries would falter, shrivel to gusty breaths then fade. The magic of water: a return to the womb.
    I was ready for bed by nine thirty and didn’t resist. Jamie had me up at midnight, three a.m. and five thirty. Consequently by the time Libby Hill arrived for our meeting the next morning I felt like death warmed up.
    I’d rung Abi Dobson the previous evening and lined her up to look after Jamie while I saw my client. I spun her the same story about Jamie being a friend’s child I was looking after while she had an operation. Abi was delighted. ‘More practise,’ she said. ‘I’m doing loads of childcare at the moment.’
    â€˜You ought to make the most of the time you’ve got left,’ I warned her.
    â€˜Everyone says that.’
    â€˜Yeah, because we all wish we had. You won’t have time to wipe your nose