The Nearly-Weds Page 6

  ‘Daddy!’ hollers Ruby, jumping up and skipping across the kitchen to hug him.

  ‘Daddy, daddy, daddy!’ echoes Samuel, running over to join in.

  ‘Hey, you two, what’s up?’ He gives them a cursory hug, prises them off and picks up the newspaper – the one I nearly tripped over when I opened the front door.

  ‘Um . . . good morning,’ I say brightly, flicking back my hair.

  He looks up briefly, and in the split second that he catches my eye, I’m shocked at the extent to which my pulse quickens.

  ‘Howya doing?’ He sits down and examines the front page. It wasn’t a particularly enthusiastic greeting.

  ‘Can I get you some coffee?’ I ask, picking up the pot I’ve just made and bringing it to the table.

  ‘Hmm, great,’ mutters Ryan, starting to dismantle the paper’s sections.

  ‘Daddy, we had French toast for breakfast,’ Ruby tells him brightly.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Zoe made it for us. She’s a real good cook.’

  I swell with pride – and not just because Ruby apparently hadn’t minded that I’d burned hers twice and broken the piece she ended up with when I slid it on to her plate.

  ‘Good, honey,’ he mumbles, turning a page. I note that his hands don’t look like those of an office worker, although I gleaned from his phone conversations in the car yesterday that that’s exactly what he is. They are big, tanned, hard-working hands. There’s a vein running along one that I want to trace with my fingertips.

  Ryan takes a sip of coffee and pulls the sort of face you see on contestants undertaking a bushtucker trial on I’m A Celebrity . . . Get Me Out Of Here! ‘Think I’ll stick with juice,’ he says, handing the cup back to me.

  As I take it from him, our fingertips touch and an electric current shivers through me. I take a deep breath and tell myself to get a grip. ‘So, you work in the city?’ I ask, hoping to spark something approaching a conversation.

  ‘Yup,’ he replies, turning a page of his newspaper.

  ‘What is it you do?’ I ask.

  It takes him a second to register that I’m still speaking. ‘Oh, I work for a global sportswear company.’

  ‘Ooooh.’ I nod approvingly, wishing I could think of a more intelligent comment. It hardly seems to matter, though, because I don’t think he’s listening. ‘So, are you a salesman or something?’

  ‘Vice-president of communications.’

  ‘That sounds . . . fascinating,’ I add, although I can’t help thinking that communication hasn’t struck me as his forte so far. ‘Did you have any plans for today? Only I need to sit down with you for ten minutes to go over a few matters. About the children’s regime, what activities you’d like me to do with them and, um, my days off.’

  ‘Well, I gotta be somewhere today,’ he replies unapologetically. ‘I’ll be gone for most of the day so it’ll have to keep for now.’

  ‘Right. If you’ve got five minutes now—’

  ‘I haven’t,’ he snaps.

  I feel ridiculously wounded by the sharpness of his response, as well as infuriated. Is asking for a couple of minutes so unreasonable?

  ‘Daddy,’ says Ruby, tentatively, ‘can’t we do something together today?’

  ‘Sorry, honey, not today,’ he replies, at least looking a little sorrier than he had when he addressed me.

  ‘But, Daddy.’

  ‘Come on, no buts,’ he says, putting down the paper as he pulls her on to his knee. As she puts her arm round his neck, she looks tiny compared with him.

  ‘But I made a card for you, Daddy.’ She hands him the collage to which she’s spent the last half-hour gluing bits of dried pasta and rice.

  ‘That’s sweet,’ he tells her, barely glancing at it. Then, as if hit by a flash of guilt, he pulls her to him and kisses her head. His eyes close as he breathes in the scent of her hair. When he opens them, they’re softer than before and his smile intended to be bright and reassuring, is almost melancholy.

  ‘We’ll do something next weekend, I promise,’ he murmurs.

  Now Samuel is at his daddy’s side and clambers on to Ryan’s other leg. Ryan laughs and ruffles his hair. ‘Okay,’ he says finally, disentangling himself from the children and standing up. ‘I really have to go.’

  ‘Awwww,’ says Samuel, but Ruby grabs his hand and squeezes, perhaps to prevent a tantrum. I glimpse her dejection as she puts an arm round him.

  ‘Come on, Samuel,’ she says, with an authoritative air, as she guides him to the TV and turns it on.

  I wonder if I should persuade her to turn it off and do some more drawing, but something compels me to run after Ryan.

  Now, I know that questioning a parent’s decision is not part of my remit. And that Anita – my old boss back at Bumblebees – would have given me such a bollocking if I’d done so that my ears would have been ringing for three weeks.

  But something in Ruby’s face drives me to action. Besides, I can be diplomatic when I want to be. I could give Kofi Annan lessons. All I need to do is think of a subtle but effective way of suggesting that Ryan spends some time today with his kids.

  ‘Er, um!’ I say, as I reach him in the hallway.

  He spins round and my heart somersaults.

  ‘Um, this thing you’ve got to do today,’ I begin.

  ‘Yup?’

  ‘Well, is there anything I could do to help? So that perhaps you could spend some time with Ruby and Samuel.’ My intention is to sound thoughtful and efficient.

  Ryan stares at me as if I’m something unpleasant stuck to the sole of his shoe.

  ‘It’s just that Ruby is obviously dying to spend some time with you this weekend,’ I continue, ‘and if there was anything I could do for you so you could . . . well . . .’

  Okay, it doesn’t sound as persuasive as I’d hoped.

  Ryan is taking a deep breath. The sort of deep breath parole officers take when they’ve learned that one of their charges has broken another bail condition.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘There isn’t.’

  ‘It’s just that—’

  ‘Listen to me,’ he snaps. ‘You and I will get on really well if we understand each other.’

  ‘Okay.’ I’m already wishing someone had taped my mouth shut before I’d got out of bed this morning.

  ‘You may have come to the conclusion that I’m a bad father –’

  ‘Oh, God, no,’ I bluster, feeling heat rising to my face. ‘I didn’t mean to imply—’

  ‘– and maybe I am. Although, I gotta say, it usually takes longer than twenty-four hours for someone to work that out.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘This is the way I do things,’ he continues. ‘And it isn’t going to change. Okay?’

  My neck and chest are blazing like a rampant forest fire. ‘Fine,’ I manage.

  ‘Good. Because I’m not employing you for your opinion. I’m employing you to look after my kids.’

  I cross my arms, suddenly defiant. ‘Fine,’ I repeat, refusing to look away as his eyes bore into mine.

  After a couple of seconds it becomes apparent to both of us that we’re engaged in a playground staring competition. But I’m not to going to wimp out. My pulse is still racing but now it’s for a different reason than how chiselled his features are. Now an overwhelming thought whizzes through my mind: I might have felt sorry for this guy, I might have developed an annoying obsession with his bone structure – but there’s no way I’m going to let myself be pushed around. Not by him or anyone else.

  ‘You can do that, right?’ he continues, still glaring at me. ‘You can look after my kids?’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply frostily, my pupils dilating as I refuse to move.

  ‘Good. Now, I suggest you go back in there, pour yourself a glass of water and sit down.’ He turns his back on me and opens the front door. ‘’Cause you look a little stressed.’

  Chapter 15

  I read somewhere that sleep deprivation can be used as a form of
torture. Well, move over the KGB, because my first weekend in the Miller household is proving so bad on this front that I must look like a chronic narcoleptic.

  My eyes keep closing spontaneously because I still haven’t caught up on my jet-lag, and despite my determination to get the children to bed at a decent hour, it isn’t proving as straightforward as I’d hoped.

  In Samuel’s case, this is because he insisted on having an afternoon nap – something he really shouldn’t be having at his age. Not just that, but he proved as easy to wake as an Egyptian mummy – and what was supposed to be a short sleep stretched for almost three hours.

  Meanwhile Ruby, who definitely shouldn’t be having a day-time nap at her age, sneaked off to the sofa for forty winks while I was making lunch and wouldn’t move until I threatened to eat her Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups.

  All of this means that at eight thirty p.m. (new bedtime), I’m treated again to the Jekyll and Hyde routine.

  But what about Daddy, you must be thinking. Isn’t he around this time?

  Although tonight he has graced us with his presence in the house, he has spent most of the evening holed up in the living room in front of series six of The Sopranos, a mountain of documents and his laptop.

  When I finally get the children to sleep I decide that now is the time to have that conversation with him: the one about a plethora of matters we haven’t yet broached, the rules, Ruby’s reading, Samuel’s toilet skills (which, it has become apparent, are haphazard) and my day off.

  I push open the living-room door. Ryan is still ploughing intently through his paperwork.

  ‘Um, hi,’ I pipe up. He doesn’t turn so I scrutinize his face, trying to work out whether or not he’s heard me. I am hit again by an overwhelming sense of how alluring his features are and blood rushes to my neck.

  ‘I wonder if now is a good time to have a chat about a couple of things,’ I say, slightly louder.

  Ryan looks up momentarily, but only to witness Tony Soprano putting his hands round someone’s throat. ‘Not really,’ he replies.

  My heart sinks. ‘Well,’ I persevere, ‘I know you’ll be at work tomorrow so there won’t be a chance then and I really need to discuss a couple of things with you.’

  ‘Look,’ he sighs, ‘I have a stack of work to get through before tomorrow. Is this really urgent or can we do it tomorrow night?’

  ‘Well . . . “urgent” probably isn’t the word I’d use,’ I’m forced to admit. ‘It’s not life or death but there are some practical things that—’

  ‘Okay, if it’s not life or death then let’s do it tomorrow.’ He picks up a file from the floor and drags it on to the sofa next to him.

  Clearly I don’t have much choice.

  When I don’t move, he flashes a look as if to say: ‘Are you still standing there for a reason?’

  ‘I’ll go, then,’ I say despondently. I’m starting to feel quite depressed about the whole thing.

  When the kids and I wake up the next morning, my first thought is whether I really will get to pin Ryan down – or whether I’ll just have to wing it. My answer comes in the form of a Post-it note on the kitchen table. The handwriting is surprisingly graceful. ‘Late tonight – don’t wait up. R.’

  Winging it, then.

  Later in the morning, the kids and I venture over to Trudie’s place and we are soon ensconced in her employers’ vast kitchen.

  This room, like the rest of the house, is gorgeous: trendily traditional with duck-egg blue Shaker cabinets, an island bursting with sparkling utensils and the odd hand-woven basket as if Little Red Riding Hood had dropped by on the way to Grandma’s.

  The purpose of the visit is a ‘play date’ – an exercise designed to broaden the children’s life experiences by allowing them to interact with other youngsters in a safe environment. And, of course, for their nannies to have a good gossip.

  We have been joined today by Amber, another British nanny who has washed up in Hope Falls and with whom Trudie got together a couple of weeks ago. A pretty blonde with dreadlocks Bob Marley would have coveted, Amber has a cannabis-leaf-shaped stud in her nose, and so many bangles on her arms it’s a wonder she hasn’t the biceps of a Russian shot-putter. The overall look is of someone brought up by a family of tree-hugging political activists on a diet of reggae and space cakes. The accent, however, couldn’t have been more Sloaney if it had come with a certificate from Cheltenham Ladies’ College.

  ‘I’m considering getting another tattoo,’ she tells us excitedly, as Trudie prepares lunch and I oversee a game of Snap. ‘I mean, I like the one I’ve got, but it’s true what they say about them being addictive.’

  ‘What are you thinking of having?’ I ask.

  ‘Well,’ she begins, flicking back her dreadlocks and leaning over the breakfast bar, ‘I’ve been reading a lot lately about the women warriors of Skrang Iban in Borneo.’

  ‘The who?’ asks Trudie.

  ‘Skrang Iban,’ she replies. ‘In between doing warrior-type things and weaving their sacred pua kumbu blankets, they were trailblazers in the art of tattooing. The Iban’s ultimate aim was to provide balance and harmony in the cosmos, which is so where I’m at in my life right now. I thought I’d get a design that emulated one of theirs.’

  ‘Top banana,’ says Trudie. ‘What does the one you’ve already got say?’

  Amber pushes up the sleeve on her baba blouse and examines the symbol at the top of her arm. ‘It’s Tibetan kanji.’

  ‘Right,’ says Trudie. ‘But what’s it say?’

  ‘Well, um, it’s just some words surrounding a philosophy I used to feel strongly about.’

  ‘I know, but what’s the translation?’

  ‘Well, um . . . “Mind, soul and spirit are my strength.”’

  ‘Oh, right,’ says Trudie. ‘Nice.’

  ‘At least,’ Amber coughs, ‘that’s what it’s supposed to say.’

  Trudie frowns questioningly.

  ‘I found out about a year ago that it might not quite say that.’

  ‘Might not?’ repeats Trudie.

  ‘Um . . . doesn’t.’

  ‘So what does it say?’ asks Trudie, scrunching up her nose.

  ‘Well, I had no reason to question the chap who did it when he said he was a Buddhist. I mean, it could have happened to anyone, really, so before I—’

  ‘So what does it say?’ Trudie persists.

  Amber flicks a dreadlock defensively. ‘Batteries not included.’

  Chapter 16

  I’m already learning that Trudie isn’t what you’d call a stickler for the golden nutritional guidelines as laid out by the nanny books. In fact, the spread she’s put on for us today is enough to give Jamie Oliver heart failure.

  The feast began with a mountain of anaemic bread spread haphazardly with an indefinable gunk that Trudie advises is ‘spray cheese’, an ingredient she champions as one of America’s greatest culinary inventions. It’s piled on plates overflowing with crisps, doughnuts, M&Ms and other items so laden with saturated fat that just looking at them would make your cellulite explode.

  Unsurprisingly, none of the children is complaining.

  Trudie’s twins begin excitedly to demolish the sky-scrapers on their plates and while Brett, Amber’s four-year-old charge, is somewhat alarmed at first, one bite of a nacho confirms that he’s more than prepared to forfeit his usual roughage-packed lunch.

  ‘How did you end up here as a nanny?’ I ask Amber.

  ‘Au pair,’ she corrects me. ‘It’s just a stop-gap for the summer. I’d been travelling in India and went back to the UK to apply for a job teaching aromatherapy to reformed drug addicts but I didn’t get it. My sister came out here last year as an au pair and enjoyed it, so I thought I might give it a go.’

  ‘And do you like it?’

  ‘Yeah, I do, actually,’ she replies. ‘I mean, I’m not in it for the long term or anything, and I’m nothing like as qualified as you, but—’

  Andrew burps – so loudly
that you’d never have guessed he was only three foot tall.

  ‘Bless him, I don’t think he’s used to food like this,’ says Trudie, throwing a handful of M&Ms into her mouth. ‘His mum likes me to feed them dead healthily – and I do usually. Despite what it does to the contents of their nappies.’

  ‘So she wouldn’t approve of all this?’ I ask.

  ‘Well,’ shrugs Trudie, dismissively, ‘I thought I’d do a special lunch today since you lot were coming over. Just for a treat. I mean, nobody would mind that, would they?’

  ‘Probably not,’ I agree. ‘But if you were giving them this every day, some parents would wheel you off to social services.’

  A door slams. Trudie’s face registers such alarm you’d think she’d come face to face with King Kong. ‘Bloody hell! It’s Barbara!’ she hisses. ‘Quick! Get rid of some of this food, please! Come on – quick.’

  ‘But I thought you said she’d be okay about it for a treat?’ I say.

  ‘It’s not a theory I want to test, love.’ She sprints to the fridge. ‘Now – help!’

  There’s something about the way she delivers this order that sends me and Amber into a panic.

  I drop my doughnut and bundle food into the nearest bin, to the children’s stunned bewilderment.

  ‘Green stuff on the kids’ plates – pronto!’ Trudie chucks a bag of pre-prepared lettuce at Amber, who fumbles to catch it.

  The three of us have become a crack SAS squad, just parachuted in.

  ‘Zoe – some apples. Quick!’ barks Trudie, convincing as commander-in-chief.

  I grab random items of fruit from the large bowl in the centre of the table and rapidly plonk one of each on the children’s plates. Trudie is in the process of shovelling a handful of crisps from Eamonn’s plate into her own mouth when the kitchen door flies open.

  ‘Mrs K! Hiya! You’re home early!’ splutters Trudie, as hickory BBQ flavour Lays escape from the side of her mouth.