Baby on Board

1

It was a rare day that I could leave La Petite before the stroke of seven pm but when I managed to get all the paperwork completed at six fifty-three, I was quick to get out of the office. Grabbing some menus to take home for me to scan through, I shove the binder into my works bag, turn off the lamp and set all the alarms before locking the doors and shutters for the night. 

Home wasn't far from La Petite and I could usually make it there in fifteen minutes but after the manic day I've had, I think the Tube would be a better option. Having missed rush hour, I scan my Oyster card and make my way down the steps to the platform. There were a few people around but not too many so any jostling to get on the underground before the doors closed could be avoided. 

Knowing that I wouldn't be on the Tube for long, I chose to stand and do some people watching. The woman with the crying baby caught my attention and I couldn't stop the frown that appeared on my face as I watched how the mother tried to calm the screaming infant. I had to question why anyone would bring a baby onto the tube in the first place; not only is it the worst place to pick up unwanted, disgusting germs, but the amount of judgemental glares you would receive is enough to put anyone off. 

Thankfully, we approached my stop and minutes later I was bounding up the steps back onto the noisy London streets. I felt the chill in my bones and pulled my burgundy coat tighter around me, ducking my head as I weaved through the busier parts of Mayfair and turned onto my quiet little street. 

My flat wasn't massive; a two bedroom abode on the first floor with a terrace that looked out over the communal garden, it was a decent enough set up for a singleton living in the city, although for the past eight weeks or so, I've had a houseguest outstay their welcome. 

"Charlotte, is that you?" My squatter shouts from deep inside the house. 

Shaking my head at the stupid question, I take my coat off and hang it in the closet near the door. "No, it's Cleopatra," I sarcastically answer. Kicking my boots off, I push them to hide under the sideboard before I walk barefooted through the house. Bypassing the kitchen, I head to the corner of the drawing room that I use as a home office and place my bag on one of the seats. "Where are you?"

"Kitchen!"

"I hope you're not cooking," I grumbled, making my way to the gallery kitchen that was hardly ever in use. Or it wasn't until recently. Walking in, I spot Sam Whitaker expertly moving around the space, opening cupboards to find ingredients for whatever concoction he was creating tonight. "Sam, is there something burning?"

The air turned blue with expletives as Sam rushed to the oven, pulling the door open and allowing the smoke to fill the room. Knowing what was undoubtedly going to happen, I walk to the middle of the kitchen, jump up onto the counter by the sink and reach for the fire detector on the ceiling, pulling it open and disconnecting the battery temporarily. In the building, we all had a direct link to the nearest fire services wherein, if any of the alarms in the three apartments went off, a fire engine would be dispatched immediately. Having had the embarrassment of them turning up to sort out Sam's cooking twice within weeks of Sam coming to stay, I did everything possible to stop me from being involved in another awkward conversation with the fire chief.