Gone

70

The baby seat had been another of the storm of presents that had hailed down on them at Charlie’s arrival. From Nigel’s parents this time. It was blue with yellow anchors embossed all over it. At eight fifteen on that cold morning it was sitting on the hallway floor, waiting to be picked up and strapped into the car. Charlie’s bag sat next to it, all ready: nappies and toys and a change of clothes.

Skye was gulping down a third cup of coffee, standing in the kitchen in her huge sweater, looking blankly at the condensation on the windowpanes. There was frost on the trees in the garden and she could feel the freezing air from outside coming through the gaps in the rattly sash windows. She thought about last night. About the opened window. The dustbin lid. She rinsed the cup and put it on the draining-board. Turned the thermostat up a little and checked that the windows were locked. In the hallway her red coat hung on the peg near the door, and next to it her handbag. Going out this morning made sense. A visit to the office. Just to show off Charlie to the partners. Why not?

Yes. It all made perfect sense.