Peggy Reilly eased her back into the mound of pillows she’d propped against the headboard of the big double bed, and sleepily held her baby to her breast. It was barely three in the morning and Daisy was not yet twelve hours old. She gave a wry smile as she thought of her husband, Jim, who would no doubt tell her tomorrow that he hadn’t slept a wink on that bunk bed – that his father’s snoring had kept him awake, and the smell of damp dog and abandoned ferret cages was irritating his sinuses – but by the sound of things, he was doing all right down there and a couple of nights of discomfort wouldn’t kill him. She settled more comfortably into the pillows, enjoying the unaccustomed space of the entire double bed and the peace of not having a restless Jim muttering in her ear or prodding her in the back with his elbows. She smiled down at the tiny baby in her arms and softly touched her cheek. ‘It’s nice to be just you and me for a bit, isn’t it, Daisy?’ she whispered.
