I’m lying on my back in a dark place. I reach out to feel the space around me, and my fingertips come into contact with warm metal, rough and ridged like corrugated iron. Where the hell am I? Wherever it is, it’s so hot I can barely breathe. My body is slippery with sweat. I try to sit up but my head bashes into the metal casing above me. I’m trapped inside some kind of container. Terror bubbles up inside me, but I don’t have enough air in my lungs to scream. How did I get here? How will I get out? Am I going to die? Beyond my confines I hear a thin sound in the distance. The sound of crying. Screaming. It’s Daisy!

My eyes fly open and I instantly close them again against the brightness flooding into my bedroom. I was dreaming. A nightmare. It was dark and hot in my dream. I’m still hot now, the bedsheets sticking to my body. Air. I need air. I slide out of bed and stagger over to the window but it’s closed. Locked. I can’t remember where I put the key.

In my dream, Daisy was crying, but she’s not crying now. She’s silent. I rush back to her basket in a panic, convinced she will be gone. But my baby is there. Sleeping peacefully, her cheeks a little flushed, but her forehead cool to the touch. I stretch out my fingers to stop them shaking.

The clock by my bed says 11.35 a.m. and the events of this morning rush back to me as my dream fades. I was at Martin’s place, then I came back home. I soothed Daisy, checked the windows and doors, and had a nap. My head is throbbing. That bloody jackhammer is still going strong out there. Even with the windows closed I can hear it. Just when I think it’s stopped, it starts up again, an instrument of torture.

I sit heavily on the side of the bed and retrieve my phone from the nightstand, trying to slow my racing brain, my speeding pulse. Trying to get a sense of where I am. That dream has thrown me off kilter. I have to keep telling myself that I’m safe. I’m home. I’m with my baby. Nothing has changed. So why do I feel like I’m in some sinister alternate universe?

I’m really not in any state to go out tonight so I tap in a quick text to my best friend, Melinda Clark, to tell her I’m not up to it. She lives over the way at number one with her two young children, James who’s almost four, and Katie who’s two.

My phone pings instantaneously with a reply:

Despite my grinding headache, I can’t help smiling at her bulldozer attitude. I text back:

‘The perfect ones’ is the name we gave to our school friends who all seem to live these untouchable, wonderful lives in sprawling houses with super-rich husbands. Saying that, they’re all down-to-earth women who we still have a laugh with. Mel used to be one of the ‘perfect ones’ herself, until her rich and perfect husband, Chris, left her two years ago for a twenty-year-old dance student. Now she’s bringing up their children on her own. Chris bought her the house and gives her a generous monthly allowance, but he rarely visits her or the children, which is sad for all of them. She could have had a much swankier house if she’d wanted it, but she said she would rather live near me than on her own in a palace.

Sometimes, in my more uncharitable moments, I’m convinced the only reason Mel moved here was so that I’d be on hand to babysit. I love her to pieces, but our relationship has always been a bit of a one-way street, with me rushing to bail her out or look after her children when disaster strikes. It’s difficult to say no to her, though. Her parents died in a car crash when she was a teenager and Dominic and I are the closest thing she has to family.

I feel bad for bailing on her tonight, but not bad enough to go.

Shit. I quickly text her back

I rush to the bathroom and splash my face with cold water. By the time I get downstairs and open the door, Mel is already striding up the drive. She’s gorgeous, with green eyes, glossy hair that falls in tawny waves and an hour-glass figure that most women wouldn’t know what to do with. Not Mel. She celebrates her curves in style, with a wardrobe that includes figure-hugging pencil skirts, belted fifties-style dresses and Capri pants. And we’ve nicknamed her boobs the eighth wonder of the world.

‘You look like crap, Kirstie,’ she says without preamble.

‘I feel it.’

We head into the kitchen.

‘Fuck, it’s hot in here,’ she says, screwing up her face and fanning herself with her hand, blood-red fingernails waving back and forth in a crimson blur. ‘Open the doors for Christ’s sake. No wonder you feel rough. I’m already convinced I’ve got the flu and I’ve only been inside your house for thirty seconds.’ She strides over to the bifold doors, turns the key and yanks them all the way back. ‘God, that’s better.’ Mel takes in a deep breath of fresh air, and I can’t help doing the same.

‘Hi, Mel,’ I say. ‘Nice to see you, as always.’

She gives my shoulder a push. ‘Sarky cow. Why does it smell like an old tart’s knickers in here?’

‘Didn’t you hear what happened yesterday?’ I ask.

She shakes her head and sits at the kitchen table.

‘Hang on a minute.’ I nip into the lounge and retrieve the baby monitor, before returning to the kitchen where I sit opposite Mel and explain what I heard the night before.

‘Weird,’ she says. ‘So that’s why the police came round asking me about babies? They never mentioned you, or what you’d heard. Just asked if I had any babies staying with me, or if I’d seen anyone suspicious hanging around. I wondered what had happened.’

‘It’s scary, right?’

She waggles her head. ‘Hmm, I dunno. I wouldn’t worry about it. Daisy’s okay, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, but only because I’m keeping an eye on her. I’m keeping all the doors and windows locked.’

‘Ah, that explains why this place has turned into a sauna. It’s thirty degrees out. You can’t keep yourself sealed in. Let me open some more windows.’ She moves over to the kitchen window but it’s locked. ‘Where’s the key?’

‘I think it’s upstairs.’

‘Go and get it. You need air in here.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s fine.’ The thought of Mel opening all the windows makes my head swim.

‘Go and get it, Kirstie.’

I sigh and do as she asks, tiptoeing up the stairs so as not to wake Daisy. I think I remember stashing the key in the pocket of my dress.

Minutes later, I’m following Mel from room to room as she unlocks all the downstairs windows. I feel myself wince each time she throws another one wide open.

‘Is this why you don’t want to come out tonight?’ she asks. ‘Because of what happened last night?’

‘I suppose. Partly.’

‘Oh, Kirstie.’ She stops what she’s doing for a moment to look at me.

Annoyingly, I feel tears begin to prick at my eyes. What is wrong with me?

‘Daisy will be fine.’ Mel says. ‘Dom will be with her, right?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘No buts. No excuses. Dom is her father and he’s perfectly capable of looking after his daughter for a few hours without you. Unlike my pathetic excuse for a husband, who wouldn’t know a nappy from a pillowcase.’

I manage a small smile at this. She’s right – Chris is a self-centred idiot who’s more concerned with the cut of his suit than the wellbeing of his family. I’m lucky to have Dominic.

‘I’m actually not taking no for an answer,’ she continues. ‘You haven’t been out for months. We planned this ages ago, Kirst. The taxi will be at my house at seven and you will be there… Look, I’ve got to pick James and Katie up from nursery now, but I’ll see you later, yes?’ She arches an eyebrow.

I don’t reply. Don’t catch her eye.

‘Yes?’ she repeats.

I don’t know what to say. She’ll only carry on giving me a hard time if I refuse. ‘Okay,’ I reply, wondering if I can get away with cancelling later, at the last minute.

‘Good girl. Wear something saucy. It’ll make you feel better.’

‘How long have you known me, Mel? I don’t do “saucy”.’

‘Well, you should.’ She glares at me, laughs and heads back out into the hall. ‘And open some of the upstairs windows too!’ she calls out before leaving, pulling the front door behind her with a bang that reverberates throughout the house.

I cringe and hold my breath, listening. Sure enough, a couple of seconds later, a short cry comes through the baby monitor followed by a sustained wail that I can’t ignore.

‘Thanks, Mel,’ I mutter before heading back upstairs.

Halfway up, I pause. I can’t go up there with all these windows and doors still open downstairs. I turn back and make my way into the kitchen. Daisy’s cries are tugging at my heart, but the need to secure my house is stronger. There are child abductors out there. They could come back at any time. I begin with the back doors – pulling them closed with a satisfying thunk. Next I close and lock all the downstairs windows, hoping Mel doesn’t glance over from her house and see what I’ve done.

Once I’m satisfied the rooms are all secure, I realise that my hands are shaking, my breathing erratic, ragged and shallow. Daisy’s cries have gone from demanding come-and-get-me-mummy cries to piercing, furious screams. How could I have left her to cry for so long? I think there might be something wrong with me. Or maybe I’m just tired. Whatever it is, I don’t feel like myself. Not at all.

---

At 5.30 p.m. I’m crouched on the kitchen floor loading dirty washing into the machine when my phone pings. I close the machine door, straighten up and snatch my phone off the kitchen table. It’s a text from Mel:

I sigh. How did she know? I should just tell her straight that I’m not going. But I can’t bring myself to face her judgement. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it will do me good to get out of the house. To shake away the unease that has gripped my body all day. Before having Daisy, I loved to go out with my friends, I was almost as outgoing as Mel. But after my second miscarriage, I became less sociable, more subdued. I couldn’t bear the thought of people asking me about my pregnancies, or if I was okay, or when Dom and I were going to start trying for a family. All the questions and sympathetic looks were exhausting. So I found it easier to retreat into my cocoon. And somehow, despite my joy at having Daisy, those feelings of insecurity have remained.

Mel’s text message pulses accusingly on my phone screen. I chew my bottom lip. If I stay home tonight, I’ll only sit here worrying. Maybe a night out will take my mind off things. Taking a breath, I text her three emojis: a smiley face, a wine glass and a girl dancing.

I spend the next forty-five minutes bathing and feeding Daisy so she’ll be ready for bed when Dominic gets home from work. As I hold her, staring out the bedroom window, I realise Dominic is late. With a rush of hope, I wonder if he might have had to stay on at the office. That would solve my problems. I could then apologise to Mel and say it was out of my control. She wouldn’t be able to argue with that.

Almost as soon as I have that thought, my heart drops as I see Dom’s Audi turn into the cul-de-sac. I watch him park in the driveway and walk up the path. Hear the click of his key in the door. Usually I’m excited to see him. Now, I feel the dark swell of anxiety in my chest.

‘Hey, Kirst, it’s me!’

‘Hi!’ I call from upstairs, injecting fake happiness into my voice.

I hear his footfalls on the stairs, and then he comes into the bedroom, loosening his tie as he walks towards us. ‘Hey, I missed you both today.’

‘Missed you too.’ We kiss and he takes Daisy from my arms.

‘It’s boiling in here. Don’t tell me you’ve had the windows closed all day.’

‘Course not.’ I stiffen as he sets about opening the windows with his free hand. ‘You’ll lock them all up again before going to bed, won’t you?’ I ask. ‘Those people could come back at any time. They could try to break in. And you’ll keep Daisy with you all—’

‘Relax. I will guard her with my life. She’s my daughter too, Kirst.’

‘Sorry, I know. It’s just… I worry.’

‘Noooo. Really?’

I give him a light shove.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late tonight. Roads were stupidly busy for some reason.’ Dominic lifts Daisy up into the air, then swoops her back down before blowing raspberries onto her stomach. She shrieks with laughter.

‘You might not want to swing her up and down like that,’ I warn. ‘I’ve just fed her. She’ll throw up all over you if you’re not careful.’

‘We don’t mind,’ Dom says in a daft voice. ‘We just want Mummy to ignore us and get ready for her big night out, don’t we, Daisy? Yes we do.’ He blows another raspberry on her tummy and I can’t help laughing this time.

Things already seem better now Dominic’s home. That hollow, jittery feeling is receding. Maybe I’ll even enjoy tonight.