I’m still feeling completely unsettled when I leave Somerset House a couple of hours later. All my excitement about seeing Farouk this evening seems to have evaporated. There’s no room in my head for anything except worry about Lael.

It definitely helps to have a game plan, though. To know that it’s just a matter of time before I can hand this problem over to a pair of responsible adults who will know how to deal with it. And, okay, maybe I haven’t been able to get hold of either Lael’s mom or her dad yet, but surely it’s just a matter of time. By this time tomorrow they’ll be rushing to Cape Town to look after her, and I’ll finally be able to stop worrying.

I cling to this comforting thought and try to focus on the evening ahead.

The closer I get to Farouk’s house, the more the anticipation I was feeling earlier comes trickling back. I’ll be seeing him in just a couple of minutes, I remind myself. And this time he can’t possibly give me the cold shoulder.

I flick open my phone to double-check the address. 212 Ilkley Road. Yup. This is it, all right. This is where Farouk lives. I swallow a couple of times and slow down my pace, telling myself I want to take in the scenery.

This is my favourite part of Grahamstown, after all.

Tucked away behind Bathurst Street is a higgledy-piggledy little village of old settler houses. Practically every door has a National Monument sign on it. Mom told me that when she was at Rhodes, most of these old houses were really run down and decrepit. Then the city council stepped in and restored them to their former glory.

Now they are so adorable, I just want to pop one in my pocket and take it home.

It’s so cool that Farouk lives here instead of in some grotty digs in the studenty part of town. And his house is one of the cutest on the whole street. The walls are freshly painted, the windows sparkling clean, and the little postage-stamp garden immaculate. I try to imagine Farouk sporting gardening gloves and secateurs – snipping away at his roses every weekend, but somehow the picture just won’t come into focus. My mother – yes. Farouk – no.

Okay, enough procrastinating.

I’m going to have to go up and knock on the front door soon. I’ve run out of excuses for loitering out here in the street. The only problem is, my heart seems to be thundering in my chest and my legs have turned to wet spaghetti.

I whip a compact out my bag and give myself a quick top-to-toe scan.

I look all right, I think. In fact, I’m pretty sure I do. I’m wearing the pair of jeans that flatters my butt the most, together with a plain white T-shirt. Tyson once said that there aren’t many girls who can get away with a plain white T-shirt, but that I’m one of the lucky ones. I was tempted to glam it up with a pair of spiky-heeled shoes, but at the last minute went for a pair of ballet flats instead. If I have to spend half the evening walking the baby up and down to get him to sleep, I’ll need to be as comfortable as possible.

Go on, I prod myself. They’re waiting for you. Walk up the path. Ring the bell.

But my feet refuse to move.

Then I hear the baby wailing inside the house and I snap out of it. This evening isn’t about Farouk or me, I remind myself. Or even Farouk and me. It’s about his sister and her baby, and making sure that they both have as good an evening as possible.
As the wailing reaches migraine-inducing levels, I stop hesitating. I march up to the front door and ring the bell. When Farouk answers, I flash a quick smile in his direction before brushing past and heading straight for the source of the noise.

‘Oh, Trinity!’ Gemma wails. ‘Thank God you’re here. I can’t do anything with him. He’s been like this all day. We’re supposed to be at the restaurant in twenty minutes time and I’m not even d-dressed.’ Her voice wobbles treacherously.

The poor girl is on the verge of bursting into tears. She looks like a train wreck in an old dressing gown with milk stains down the front. Her hair is standing up all over the place, and she has smudges of mascara under her eyes.

‘It’s okay, I’m here to help,’ I say, raising my voice above the shattering noise. ‘The first thing we need to do is feed this little guy.’

Now Gemma really does burst into tears. ‘I’ve fed him and fed him!’ she sobs. ‘He can’t possibly be hungry again.’

‘Well, feed him again. He might not be hungry, but nothing calms a baby down faster.’ I push her back gently into an armchair and grab some cushions to make a comfortable nest for the baby. He fights her at first, but eventually she gets him plugged on and the noise stops like magic.

Gemma is sitting in a tensed-up hunch of misery, so I show her how to relax her shoulders and let her head fall back against the armchair.

‘Now I’m going to bring you a glass of wine and you can tell me what clothes to lay out for this evening,’ I say soothingly. ‘Or would you prefer a cup of tea?’

‘Um …’

‘I’ll bring both. You need to keep your fluid levels up.’ I bustle through to the kitchen to get the drinks.

All this while, Farouk has been mooching around awkwardly – getting in my way every time I turn around. He follows me into the tiny kitchen and stands there, looking helpless. I tut at him loudly and he steps smartly out of the way.

‘Thanks,’ Gemma says tiredly when I put the tea and wine within her reach. The poor thing looks as though she hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in months. Which, considering how old her baby is, is probably about right.

‘Now would you like me to lay out an outfit for you, or would you rather choose one yourself?’

‘Oh, won’t you lay something out for me? It’ll save so much time. I didn’t bring all that much – I seemed to fill up most of the suitcase with babygros and stuff for Jack. Just grab any old thing. It doesn’t matter what I wear.’

I try not to wince at this heresy.

‘Trust me,’ I say seriously. ‘It matters.’

I make my way to the small spare bedroom that Gemma is sharing with Jack. The cupboard looks ominously tiny. She definitely wasn’t lying when she said she hadn’t brought many clothes. Still, I should be able to scrape something together. And besides, anything’s got to be better than that gross dressing gown she’s wearing.

Luckily Gemma’s really slim. That makes it a lot easier. Slim people look good in most things.

I pick up a pair of her jeans and hold them up against my waist in front of the mirror. Nope. There’s no way on earth I’d get into them. Then I take a look at the label. Size eight. God, no wonder.

But thinking about dress sizes makes me remember Lael – and that’s something I really don’t want to deal with right now.

There’s nothing I can do about it tonight, I remind myself firmly. When I tried phoning her parents earlier, I drew a blank both times. The number I’ve got for her dad is no longer valid and her mom will only be available to speak to me tomorrow. Logically, there’s nothing I can do before morning. So why can’t I get rid of this nagging sense of dread?

Forcing it out of my mind, I try to focus on choosing an outfit for Gemma.

Okay, these black capri pants will look really smart with this red-and-black striped top. And she can take this beaded wrap along in case it gets cold.

Shoes … shoes…

These black wedges are cute. And not too high. She looks too exhausted to cope with high heels. She’d probably turn her ankle over at the first bit of uneven paving.

I lay everything neatly out on the bed and go through to the sitting room to see how Gemma and baby Jack are getting on. Luckily they’re both looking a lot more relaxed. In fact, they’re asleep.

‘Ag, shame!’ I say to Farouk who has taken refuge behind his computer. ‘Take a look at this.’

He looks up at the comatose pair in the armchair.

‘Oh dear.’ He stands up with a wry smile. ‘Now what?’

‘How badly does she want to go to this dinner tonight? Because if she’s not all that keen, I could stay and look after the baby for her while she catches up on some sleep.’

‘That’s very kind, and normally I think she’d jump at the chance, but I happen to know that she really doesn’t want to miss this dinner. Her ex-boyfriend is going to be there, you see. The one who dumped her when they were both students at Rhodes. I think she’s desperate to show him how happy and settled she is with her husband and new baby.’

I can’t help laughing at this male misapprehension. ‘You mean she’s desperate to show him how hot she still looks despite being happily settled with a husband and new baby.’

‘That’s enough, thanks.’ Farouk says, pretending to block his ears. ‘Too much information. Too much insight into the female mind. This is my sister we’re talking about, you know.’

‘Well, you’d better wake her up. She’s got about five minutes to get dressed.’

‘I already SMSed our friends that we’re going to be late, so she doesn’t have to rush. Let’s see if she’s still keen to go.’

Gemma’s mouth has dropped open slightly and she’s started making cute little snoring noises. I think about taking a quick picture with my camera, but decide that that would be too cruel. Farouk touches her gently on the shoulder. She jerks awake looking all glassy-eyed and panicky. Then she sees her baby lying peacefully on the nest of cushions on her lap and visibly relaxes. She and Farouk have a low-voiced discussion about what she wants to do while I take the teacup and wineglass through to the kitchen to wash.

‘She definitely still wants to go tonight,’ Farouk says, appearing in the doorway just as I’m drying them and putting them away.

‘Okay, great,’ I say. ‘Let me take the baby so she can go and get dressed.

‘I hope he’s not going to be a holy terror with you tonight,’ Gemma says, eyeing her sleeping son dubiously. ‘If you can’t manage, just phone me and I’ll come home straight away. The restaurant is only about five minutes away.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say confidently. ‘Look, I’ve brought my secret weapon.’ I reach into my tote bag and pull out a baby-carrier pouch. I slip my arms into the harness and buckle it into place.

‘Oh, I’ve got one of those,’ says Gemma. ‘I left it at home though. But he loves it – he can stay in it for hours. Or at least until my spine gives out.’

‘I never leave home without mine.’

She scoops up Jack and hands him carefully to me. We manage to make the transfer without disturbing him too much. He moans and squirms a bit once he’s inside the pouch, but I march up and down the room until he goes back to sleep.

‘How do I look?’ Gemma asks, emerging from the spare bedroom a few minutes later.

‘Fantastic!’

It’s true. She looks all slim and glamorous in the outfit I chose for her. And she’s wearing it with a small lapis pendant that pulls the whole outfit together beautifully. She’s going to knock her ex’s eyes out.

‘I can’t do a thing with my hair, though,’ she complains. ‘It’s a total disaster area.’

‘Well, it’s too late for anything drastic now. Just pull it back into a low ponytail.’

‘Oh, right. Good idea.’ She looks around vaguely. ‘I’m sure I’ve got a scrunchy here somewhere.’

‘Not a scrunchy!’ I protest. ‘Haven’t you ever seen Sex and the City? Scrunchies are a big no-no. Here, have one of these.’

I pull a thin black hairband out of the side-pocket of my bag. She takes it and starts scooping her hair up into a ponytail.

‘Do you need any of these?’ I whisper, tilting my bag discreetly so that she can see the box of breast pads inside. I always carry some in case my clients need to borrow a couple.

‘Oops! I forgot about those. I’ve got some in the bathroom. Be right back.’

Ten minutes later, I finally get them out the front door. I reassure Gemma about a thousand times that I have both her and Farouk’s cellphone numbers, as well as the number of the restaurant. I confirm that I know how to warm up the bottles of expressed milk, and that I absolutely will call if anything goes wrong.

I breathe a huge sigh of relief when the door finally closes behind them.

‘Honestly!’ I whisper in baby Jack’s ear. ‘New moms! They’re the absolute worst for fussing.’

Tell us: What do you think is in store for Trinity?