The Nearly-Weds (10 page)

As Ryan marches into the study like an imperial storm trooper heading for the Millennium Falcon, I say to Ruby, ‘Can I look at your picture?’

Shyly, she holds it out.

‘Oh, wow! It’s lovely! I like the dress you’ve put me in. It’s much more stylish than my jeans, hey?’

Ruby giggles. ‘Do you think it looks like you and Daddy?’

In the picture, my hair is so curly I’m like a cross between Little Miss Muffet and a poodle. ‘You’ve got us to a T,’ I tell her.

There’s something odd about the picture, though. Ruby has drawn Ryan and me holding hands. Which is unlikely, given that he and I seem unable to be in the same room together without the conversation disintegrating into a heated exchange.

It isn’t as if I’m not trying. The day before yesterday Ryan instructed me to ‘Just throw my washing in with the kids’, wouldya?’ Even though the agency I’m with specifies that the only laundry nannies should do is the children’s, I don’t want to win myself a reputation for pedantry, so I ended up doing two and a half loads for him. I don’t think that man has washed a pair of his own underpants since Christmas.

And what did I get in return? I’m not saying I expected chocolates, but a plain old ‘Thank you’ might have been nice. Instead, Ryan picked up his freshly laundered clothes without a word and took them to his bedroom.

Then there was last night’s phone call. The children were playing up again before they went to bed – I’ve got them down to nine o’clock now, after a good two-hour wind-down period. And Ruby refused to go near her bedroom unless I let her phone Daddy to say goodnight.

I duly made the call, let her ‘kiss’ him goodnight and was about to hang up when he asked to speak to me.

‘Kids aren’t meant to be awake at this time of night,’ he informed me. ‘I was speaking to one of the guys at work and his kids are in bed by seven thirty.’

‘I know!’ I was overwhelmed with relief that, finally, he might be prepared to recognize what I’ve been battling with for weeks. ‘It’s been so difficult to handle. If there’s anything you can do to help I’d—’

‘Well, can you deal with it?’ he said.

‘Deal with it?’

‘Yeah. It can’t be good for them.’

‘If
only
you’d said that before!’ I almost cried, but restrained myself. ‘Of course,’ I told him flatly. ‘No problem.’

I put the phone down, heart pounding with frustration. Ryan Miller might have been through the mill emotionally but that didn’t mean I’d let him walk all over me.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ruby. ‘You’re not sick, are you?’

‘No, sweetheart,’ I smiled, squeezing her hand. Not unless a severe pain in the backside counts.

Chapter 21

Ryan’s BlackBerry has a ring tone so irritatingly high-pitched that it’s a wonder the entire canine population of the neighbourhood doesn’t turn up on our doorstep each time it goes off. As its manic beeping grows ever more frantic, I pick it up from the kitchen table and scurry to the study. It stops as I reach the door. Ryan’s thunderous brow is buried in his laptop and he’s typing so hard and fast he seems liable to break a couple of fingers at any moment.

I hand him the BlackBerry. ‘You just missed a call.’

He takes it from me. ‘Uh-huh,’ he grunts, which, for my own sanity, I choose to interpret as thanks. I’m about to leave when he says, ‘About the laundry.’

I’m stunned. I couldn’t have misjudged him, could I? Could it really be that even Ryan Miller isn’t so bad that he’ll let someone do nearly three loads of washing for him without saying, ‘Thank you’? ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say, feeling strangely elated. ‘There was quite a lot, but I don’t mind doing—’

‘You turned one of my shirts pink.’

‘What?’

‘One of my shirts,’ he continues flatly, ‘is now pink.’

Take a deep breath. Ryan is half right. He does now have a pink shirt. The fact of the matter, however – the
crucial
fact of the matter – is that it was pink when it went into the machine. How am I so certain? Because so pink was that shirt that I remember thinking it looked like something you’d choose for a Barbara Cartland tribute evening.

‘I’m pretty sure it was already pink,’ I tell him. ‘I do remember the one you’re talking about and—’

‘Are you trying to tell me I don’t know my own shirts?’ he says.

That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you.

‘Well, I’m just pointing out—’

‘Look, I’m not going to sack you for it, I’m just telling you,’ he continues, ‘so it doesn’t happen next time.’

There wasn’t supposed to be a sodding first time, never mind a next!

‘But – but – but—’ I’m doing a very good impression of a backfiring lawnmower.

‘Let’s just leave it,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to make this into a big deal. I was just mentioning it.’

‘For next time?’ My voice drips with irony.

‘Yeah,’ he replies, apparently not noticing.

He buries his head in his laptop again.

I’m about to leave quietly when I catch sight of one of the antiques on a side table. The house is full of antiques, some conventional, others less so. This falls into the latter category: a toy bow and arrow. The bow is only two or three feet long and the end of the arrow is bound with faded red rope so there are no sharp bits.

I don’t know what possesses me to pick it up now, given that I’ve passed it on countless occasions before and never given it a second thought. But, with Ryan’s back to me, I pull the arrow against the bow, aiming it at his head as I suppress a giggle. Obviously I’m not going to let go. In any case, the last time I did archery in the Girl Guides the only thing I hit was my own toe because I kept dropping the arrow.

But the perfection of the moment – with the bow taut against my face and Ryan oblivious to my little joke – is nothing less than
delicious.

‘Zo-eee! What are you doing?’

I gasp and turn to see Ruby’s horrified face. In the split second that I search for an excuse, my attention is diverted again.

‘Arrgh!’

‘What is it?’ I revolve back to Ryan, heart pounding in my throat.

He is leaning forwards in his chair, groaning and holding both hands over his right eye.

‘Oh dear – has something flown into your eye?’ I ask optimistically.

‘Yes – a three-foot fucking arrow!’

‘Oh, God! It can’t have! I’m a terrible shot!’

‘Well, the fact that you’re on form today isn’t making me feel a whole lot better.’

‘Are you sure it was me?’ Okay, so I might be in a state of denial.

‘I’m sure. Look!’

‘Arrrrrrggh!’
scream Ruby
and
Samuel, who has now joined us to see what the commotion is about.

Ryan’s eye has swelled into something the shape of an ostrich egg and the colour of full-bodied beetroot soup.

Right. Don’t panic, Zoe. Whatever you do, don’t panic. This is a perfect opportunity to impress them with your swift and dynamic response to this emergency situation.

‘I don’t suppose you fancy another cup of coffee?’

Chapter 22

The bow-and-arrow incident didn’t exactly do wonders for my working relationship with Ryan. In fact, the only positive thing I can say about it is that he didn’t fire me. I was surprised, I must say, but more relieved than anything else. Being sacked for shooting the boss in the head doesn’t sit well on anyone’s CV.

However, the three-rounds-with-Mike-Tyson look meant Ryan had to cancel a week’s worth of meetings, which gave him even more reason to stomp about like a bad-tempered bear with a hangover.

And since I’m on the subject, I’ve started recently to notice how much Ryan drinks. Admittedly, this might just be in comparison with Jason, who never drank at home. Like me, he preferred to save his recommended alcohol units and use them all up on a Saturday night before hitting a late-night curry house.

With Ryan, it isn’t that he gets rolling drunk, just that when he comes home from work, at whatever time that might be, the first thing he does is to throw his laptop case into the corner of the hallway, loosen his tie, then dive into his whiskey with a glint of desperation in his eye. Our recycling bin permanently looks as if it belongs outside Yates’s Wine Lodge after a brisk weekend’s trading.

This, of course, is on the evenings Ryan spends at home. Often he is out with some mysterious woman. All I know about her is that she wears one hell of a lot of perfume. The fact that he comes home reeking of it may mean he’s spending his nights at Macy’s cardholder evenings trying out the new fragrances from Nina Ricci, but I doubt it.

‘Zoe, can you make Scouse for dinner?’ asks Ruby, as we arrive home from a day in the park with Trudie, Amber and the other children. Her accent makes the plain old meat and potato stew sound positively exotic.

‘I will one day,’ I tell her, hoping I can put off this request till next Easter at the earliest.

As the children follow me into the kitchen I notice that the answer-machine is flashing up a message. I press the button and go to get some pasta from the cupboard.

‘Hey, Ryan . . . how’s it going?’

The woman’s voice is so husky it makes Mariella Frostrup’s sound like Tweety Pie.

‘It’s Christina. From the other night . . .’

I drop the pasta packet and glare at the children.

‘I just wanted to say, I think you and I had something real special going on . . .’

Oh, my God. They can’t be exposed to someone whispering suggestive sweet nothings to their father.

‘I’d really love to get together again because that thing you did to me . . . you know what I’m talking about . . .’

I dive across the kitchen and attempt to switch it off. Unfortunately I’m not very strong on technology and, faced with an array of flashing buttons, I panic.

‘That was ecstasy, Ryan . . .’

As I press the buttons frantically – and they refuse to obey me – I grapple with the phone.

‘And it was definitely an experience I’d like to repeat . . .’

Oh, God, oh, God! Another tactic, Zoe.

‘Is this the way to Amar-i-llo!’ I shriek at the top of my voice. ‘Fa la la la la la la pillow!’

Both kids stare at me as if I’m deranged.

‘La la la la Amar-i-llooh!’

I continue bashing random buttons.

‘Fa la la la la la la la!’

Finally, miraculously, it pays off and, mid-seductive murmur, the message stops.

‘Ahem.’ I cough, straightening my top. ‘That was a friend of mine.’

Ruby frowns. ‘I thought she said the message was for Daddy?’

‘Er, yes. Well spotted,’ I concede. ‘She, um, is going to be doing some work for your dad. I recommended her.’

‘What kind of work?’ asks Ruby, suspiciously.

I scan the kitchen and spot Ryan’s suit hanging in the corner. ‘Some dry-cleaning. That’s right. Yes. Dry-cleaning. She’s the best in the business is my mate, um, Karen.’

‘She said she was called Christina,’ Ruby informs me.

‘Oh, did she? Well, that’s her professional name.’

‘Dry-cleaners have professional names?’ Ruby screws up her nose.

I usher her back to the table. ‘Look, young lady, you ask too many questions. Now, what happened to that collage you were making for me earlier?’

‘I couldn’t find anything to do your hair with. We’ve run out of Brillo pads.’

Because I’ve already listened to at least some of the message from Christina there’s no flashing light to alert Ryan later to its existence. Which, sadly, means I’ve got to do the job myself. I wait until both kids are in bed – at a miraculous eight forty-five, with less than one and a half hours’ worth of pre-sleep tantrums – before I bring the subject up.

‘Ahem,’ I begin, as Ryan is downing his fourth bottle of beer. ‘There was a message for you on the answer-machine.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he replies, as he surveys the contents of the fridge. ‘Who from?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I mutter. Conversations between Ryan and me haven’t been exactly world-beating and the thought of leaping straight to his bedroom antics doesn’t seem a particularly good way to improve matters. ‘You’d probably better listen to it yourself.’

He frowns as he pushes up the sleeves of his dark blue shirt – which I’m sure was once gorgeous but now looks as if it was last ironed at the turn of the century. ‘Fine,’ he says, approaching the machine. As he stands next to me, he gives his shoulder-blade a short, hard massage.

My eyes are glued to his fingers as they manipulate his golden flesh, which I can just see beyond the tired edges of his collar.

‘Right!’ I croak. ‘I think I’ll get an early night. Cheerio!’

Cheerio? Where did that come from?

‘Zoe?’ he says, as I reach the door.

‘Er, yes?’

‘There are no messages.’

‘Oh,’ I say, wondering whether I wiped it during my gymnastics with the machine earlier. ‘Right. Er, maybe I imagined it.’

I head for the door.

‘Wait . . . What did it say?’

I scrunch up my face, as comfortable with this as a bronze turkey feels three days before Christmas.

‘Um . . . It was from a lady,’ I tell him, hoping optimistically that that will be enough.

He opens the third button on his shirt. I find my eyes drawn to it – is his chest hairy or smooth? This is another issue I’ve thought about more than once recently. All bets so far are on hairy.

‘And?’

‘She was called Christina,’ I offer.

He peers up at one of the lights above the oven. You can almost hear the cogs in his brain turning as he roots in the depths of his mind for information on exactly who Christina might be. As he leans on the work surface in contemplation, his collar moves and I can make out a shadow of chest hair. Ha! Knew it!

‘O-kay,’ he says. ‘Thanks.’

I tear my eyes away from him and am about to walk through the door when he coughs. ‘Zoe . . .’

I wince. ‘Hmm?’

‘If she phones again, and it goes onto voicemail, don’t pick up, okay?’

‘Don’t?’

‘I’d kind of like to avoid her,’ he clarifies.

I’m sure he’s embarrassed. ‘Of course. No problem.’