The Nearly-Weds (2 page)

No matter how many nights I spend weeping bitter tears into my pillow. No matter how many hours I spend with Leona Lewis crooning out of my iPod. No matter how many times I’ve accompanied well-meaning friends to karaoke bars and tried my best to look convincing while belting out ‘I Will Survive’. (Okay, so, ‘I Will Plummet Into The Depths Of Despair Until He Phones Me Again’ hasn’t quite got the same ring.)

I snap my compact closed and throw it back into my rucksack.

‘Do you need an I-94W form, madam?’ asks the stewardess, appearing at my shoulder.

‘Um, why not?’ I reply, taking it from her as casually as someone who fills in one of these every other weekend when they pop over to Buenos Aires for a spot of polo.

When she’s gone, I peer at the lines on the form, wondering whether I’m meant to have one.

‘You got a UK passport?’ asks my American neighbour, repositioning his U-shaped cushion, an item I’ve been coveting for the last six hours.

‘Um . . . yes,’ I reply, suspiciously.

‘Then if you’re just going to the States on holiday you need to fill it in.’ He smiles.

‘Oh, um . . . yes, I know,’ I lie. ‘I mean, it’s a bit more than a holiday I’m going for but . . .’

‘You emigrating?’

‘I’ve got a yearlong working visa,’ I explain, stuffing the form into the pocket of the chair in front, next to the butter knife and two plastic cups with Diet Pepsi dregs in the bottom. ‘So, I’ll be there for at least twelve months. Assuming they don’t throw me out first, that is!’

He smiles again, but this time it isn’t even the sympathetic one. It’s the sort of smile you’d give a shoe bomber to instil an air of calm while trying to work out where the emergency exits are.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking,’ announces a reassuringly plummy voice over a crackly speaker. ‘We will shortly be making our descent into JFK . . .’

I sit up in my seat and take a deep breath.

New life, here I come.

Chapter 3

We are so bombarded by American culture in the UK that it’s sometimes impossible to think of the United States as a foreign country. Yet the second I step off the plane, JFK couldn’t feel more foreign if it were situated on the far side of Jupiter. I wander round the airport lounge, trying not to spend too long scrutinizing the flight information boards with a hopeless look on my face in case I give anybody the impression I don’t know what I’m doing, and am enveloped in unfamiliar sights and sounds: accents that make my own vowels sound so British I feel like someone auditioning to read the BBC news in 1953; language I recognize –
diapers, cell phones, mommies, zip codes –
but have never used. And there’s a bustling, gaudy, fast-food whirlwind of an atmosphere that makes half of me giddy with excitement and the other half long for somewhere that sells a nice sausage roll, and tea that’s been brewed to the correct strength for several days.

I had an inkling of this sensation when I spoke to my new employers on the phone last week. I’m on my way to be a nanny for Summer (three and a half) and Katie (two), daughters of Josh and Karen Ockerbloom. The Ockerblooms run their own real-estate company just outside Kalamazoo, Michigan – my ultimate destination – and they sound lovely. Really lovely. And unbelievably, well,
American.

Karen was at pains to stress how excited she and Josh were about welcoming me – ‘a bona-fide British nanny’ – into their home.

On top of that, I get my own car (an SUV – which, thanks to Google, I now know does not refer to the filters in a sun-tan lotion), I won’t be expected to do any chores (they have staff) and they’d like me to go on holiday with them to Bermuda next month,
all expenses paid.

I feel my mobile vibrate. There’s a new message from the agency I’ve registered with, British Supernannies. They’re apparently very good – the fastest-growing UK agency in America – although, judging by their choice of name, understatement isn’t a speciality.

‘This is a message for Zoe Moore,’ begins the voice of Margaret, the slightly doddery secretary I’ve been dealing with for the past few weeks. ‘I’m terribly sorry about this, Zoe, but there’s been a change of plan. Please do give me a ring when you have a chance – and, most importantly, before you get on your connecting flight.’

A long conversation ensues, during which it emerges – as I try not to get too exasperated – that I’m no longer going to Kalamazoo. I’m now going to Hope Falls, which is near Boston. Which means I’m no longer going to live with Karen and Josh. Or to drive their SUV. Or to go to Bermuda. Hope Falls? You can say that again.

I’m now going to Mrs R. Miller, a single mother, to look after her two children, Ruby, who is nearly six, and Samuel, who’s just turned three. There was a last-minute change of plan, apparently. Karen and Josh have a nanny, a girl from Surrey who was with them last year and suddenly became available again after they came to an agreement about a pay rise.

I grip my rucksack and force myself to come over all Thelma and Louise-like. To remind myself that I’m a strong, confident, independent woman who is more than happy to live life on the edge and change her plans when required – even when it means Bermuda’s out.

I head towards a shop to buy a bottle of water, and when I get to the till to pay for it, the generously proportioned African-American assistant flashes me a smile.

No, no. That’s not right. To call it a smile doesn’t cover it. This is the sort of grin you’d expect from a woman who’d just lost a stone in weight, won the lottery and found the most glorious pair of shoes she’s ever set eyes on . . . in a sale.

‘Going anywhere nice, ma’am?’ She beams.

‘Oh, Boston. For work,’ I reply, keeping it vague enough for the others in the queue to imagine me an off-duty human-rights lawyer on her way to reverse a miscarriage of justice or two.

‘Boston, huh? Well, you be sure to have a good time.’

‘I will. Thank you.’

I take the bottle from her and attempt to put it into my rucksack before I move away. But the cord at the top isn’t budging. I free my hands by shoving my purse into my mouth, then try stuffing the bottle into the front pocket. But it just isn’t happening. Not easily, anyway.

Pushing, pulling and scrambling, I’m no nearer to getting the bottle into my bag, and painfully conscious now of the growing queue.

With the woman behind me tutting and rolling her eyes, I rip open the back pocket, stuff in the bottle and straighten my back indignantly.

It is at this point that the clasp on my purse, still squashed between my teeth, takes on a life of its own. It bursts open, coins projecting out as if I’m vomiting two-pence pieces. The woman behind looks as if she has lost the will to live. Others rush forward offering help as I scrabble around, clumsily trying to pick up my money. My cheeks redden violently.

‘Um, thanks, ooh, sorry, I, em, thanks a lot, sorry, um . . .’ I babble. Wanting to escape, I shove my empty purse between my knees and hobble out, my arms full of coins, plastic bank cards and my rucksack, forcing myself to ignore the suppressed giggles.

‘Have a nice day, ma’am!’ the assistant calls after me, as I disappear round a corner, hoping she’ll understand why I don’t reply.

Chapter 4

Having taken the monorail to Grand Central Station I settle down to wait for my train to Boston and dig out my magazine. As I flick through it, I sense somebody sitting next to me and catch a waft of aftershave that immediately pricks my senses.

Calvin Klein Truth. I’d know it anywhere. It’s the aftershave Jason would splash on religiously every morning, just after he’d checked his hair and straightened his tie in the uniquely meticulous way I came to know so well. Forgetting where I am, I glance upwards, pulse racing.

But it’s not Jason. Of course it isn’t. I haven’t seen him for nearly two months, so why would I think he’d be here in the States?

My neighbour – a heavy-set guy in his late thirties with a wonky fringe – flashes me a shy smile. I smile back and return to my magazine, even though I’ve been through all its pages at least three times now.

Jason and I met when I was twenty and he was twenty-three – a small age difference, really, but at the time it felt like one of Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones proportions.

By then, I’d dropped the law degree I hated and was a trainee at Bumblebees; he’d already left college, had spent a gap year bumming around Europe and had just been accepted on to a graduate-trainee scheme for one of the UK’s biggest firms of accountants.

The first thing I should point out about Jason is that he’s the least likely accountant you could ever meet. Not that I’ve got anything against accountants, but public perception of the profession doesn’t put them up there in the excitement stakes with your average NASA scientist.

Jason dispels that myth comprehensively. The life and soul of any party, he’s one of those people who gels so instantly with everyone he meets he’s like a human tube of Vidal Sassoon Shockwaves. I found him charming, engaging and utterly gorgeous. He turned heads everywhere we went. Admittedly, that had something to do with the fact that, in the year we met, Gareth Gates had recently been named runner-up in
Pop Idol
and it’s fair to say that there’s more than a passing resemblance between him and my ex.

Jason had classic boy-band good looks and, at thirty now, he retains them. He’s slightly skinny and only a few inches taller than me, but his face and smile are to die for. He was my own personal heart-throb and I was smitten.

My feelings blossomed into what I became sure – no, I
knew –
was deep, everlasting love. By that I don’t mean that, seven years on, we were still gazing into each other’s eyes like lovelorn puppies. But we knew each other’s flaws and continued to love each other despite them. After that length of time together, our love wasn’t as all-consuming as it had been in the early days. But it was solid. A real love. The basis for a lifetime together. At least, that was what I’d thought.

How wrong could I have been?

Chapter 5

I have been on the train for more than three hours and have spent approximately 95 per cent of that time talking. This, like anything that stops me thinking about Jason (albeit temporarily), can only be a positive thing. Even if my jaw feels as if it might seize up.

The first person to sit next to me was George Garfield II, a big old bear of a man who retired eighteen years ago after a career as a fire-fighter. He’d been in the Big Apple to see his grandchildren and was so impressed that I was from Liverpool (because that was where the Beatles were from) you’d think I’d just won an Olympic medal.

Then there was Janice Weisberger, a former model in her fifties with a chignon so perfect I’m convinced it must have been sprayed with Superglue. She was on her way back from a two-day beauty convention and was kind enough to present me with a facial wash for problem skin. She lived next door but one to someone who had a cousin who’d been to Liverpool in the mid-eighties. As she put it, she and I had so much in common.

Next came Earl, the struggling artist, who talked so fast I only managed to catch every fifth word, and Kate, the library assistant, who’d just dumped her boyfriend after walking in on him trying on her mom’s flannel nightgown.

When Kate has gone, it strikes me how much I’m getting into the spirit of this lone-traveller lark. In fact, what on earth was I worried about?

At the next stop, an elderly lady with candyfloss hair, a smart buttoned-up coat and a gingham shopping trolley scuttles over and sits next to me.

‘Hello!’ I offer, smiling in the warm, American manner to which I am now becoming accustomed.

She doesn’t respond.

Not too concerned – and ready for a break from talking – I dig out the copy of
OK!
I bought at Manchester airport, enticed by the prospect of studying such matters as the type of wallpaper Jordan and Peter André have on their loo walls. I’m engrossed for about five minutes when I can’t help noticing what my neighbour is up to.

With my head fixed forward – so that to anyone else it would appear that I’m focusing intently on Jordan’s nose – my eyes swivel sideways.

The little old lady is reaching into her shopping trolley and producing a bottle, covered with a paper bag. Which would be fine except that I suspect it does
not
contain a litre of Appletize. It smells like a 70 per cent proof home-brew that has been fermenting in someone’s basement for the last two millennia.

As she proceeds to down mouthfuls of this noxious substance, I wonder whether I should sneak away to another seat or simply continue to watch in fascination. But the train is packed and I’m stuck.

I spend the next twenty minutes of the journey studying my magazine and pretending to be enthralled. Eventually I stuff it back into my bag, only then noticing an envelope that has been hidden at the bottom. I pick it up and examine the front, where ‘Zoe’ is written in my mum’s handwriting.

At forty-four, my mum is relatively young – at least, compared with the parents of most of my peer group. And despite the wild-child tag she must have acquired after falling pregnant with me at just sixteen, the reality – as far as I’ve ever seen – is that she’s anything but.

She and Dad dashed up the aisle before they were old enough to buy shandy legally, and have spent the last twenty-eight years in domestic circumstances that are happy, unremarkable and as traditional as they come.

And Mum, although she’s young enough to shop at River Island still and attend a step class four times a week with Desy (her gay best friend), is in lots of ways no different from anyone else’s mother. She’s certainly no less over-protective, as I discovered when I announced I was going on this trip. She made it no secret that she’d prefer me not to go. And when my mother has an opinion about something, she doesn’t hesitate to let it be known . . .

15th June

Dear Zoe
,