The Nearly-Weds (8 page)

‘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.

Barbara King enters the room like a Roman empress surveying her kingdom. She is wearing a designer suit, suede high-heeled shoes, and carrying an expensive handbag. Her dark hair is cut in a short, sleek bob and her makeup is so perfect you’d think she’d been made over by Max Factor himself.

‘Why is there a lemon on that child’s plate?’ she asks.

Damn. My mistake. ‘Um, it’s a traditional British party game,’ I pipe up. ‘It’s called “Pass the Lemon”. We always played it at the nursery where I used to work. Here, Ruby, you next.’

Ruby takes the lemon and regards me as if I’m demented. Then she shrugs and passes it on to Samuel.

‘I’m Zoe,’ I say, holding out my hand.

Barbara shakes it and frowns, still deciding what she thinks of my party game. At least, she almost frowns. Barbara has apparently had enough Botox sessions to paralyse the forehead of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, so it’s more of a twitch.

‘Now, where are my boys?’ she cries. ‘Mommy was on her way to a meeting so she thought she’d stop by to surprise you!’

The twins leap from their seats and hurtle towards her open arms, their hands and faces covered with so much artificial cheese and non-Fair Trade chocolate that they can barely prise their fingers apart.

‘Oooh, er, hang on a min!’ hollers Trudie. ‘Let me wipe that
peach juice
off your hands.’

She grabs a baby wipe and deals with Andrew but Eamonn is too quick for her. As he reaches his mother, she recoils. ‘What in God’s name have you been eating?’ she demands, with such horror you’d think a live mouse was hanging out of his mouth.

‘Oooh, Eamonn, you’re all sticky,’ observes Trudie, innocently, as she jumps in to remove the offending debris from his hands. ‘That juice really is a nightmare, isn’t it?’

‘Tru
die
,’ says Barbara, sternly, as she scans the kitchen table. ‘Have you forgotten my rules about what the children can and cannot eat? About them having lots of fruit and vegetables?’

‘Course I haven’t, Mrs K!’ says Trudie, brandishing a limp piece of lettuce, apparently as evidence. ‘Five a day! I’ve not forgotten!’

‘Seven in this household,’ corrects Barbara, wiping Andrew’s mouth with a pristine handkerchief produced from somewhere in her bag. ‘And I want no trans-fats whatsoever. Okay? And sugar – absolutely no more than ten per cent of their daily calorific intake. Okay?’

‘Don’t you worry,’ says Trudie, strategically placing herself in front of a plate of brownies. ‘I think of nothing
but
the state of their arteries, Mrs K.’

‘Hmm,’ says Barbara, clearly unconvinced, ‘and you’re not giving them any tonic, are you?’ Tonic is what Bostonians call fizzy drinks.

‘Tonic? Ho! As if!’ laughs Trudie.

Barbara straightens up and eyes Trudie suspiciously. ‘Good. Because heart-disease rates being as they are, these days, I firmly believe that failing to feed children a properly balanced diet is tantamount to cruelty. Half the pre-schoolers in this country have chronic constipation.’

Trudie nods obediently.

‘Well,’ continues Barbara, ‘I’ll leave you to it. Now, you two, come and give Mommy a big hug!’ She bends down to the twins, closing her eyes tightly and nuzzling her face in their hair.

‘
I
have a tonic,’ announces Ruby, unhelpfully, as she holds up a can of Coke.

Barbara’s eyes ping open.

‘Oh,’ I say, grabbing the can from her, ‘that’s just for you, sweetheart.’ I turn to Barbara, feeling the need to explain. ‘The other children had something different,’ I tell her. ‘Ruby’s daddy doesn’t mind her having fizzy drinks.’

She purses her lips. ‘So Ryan Miller lets his little girl drink Coke all day. Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

‘Oh, well, I wouldn’t say
all day
,’ I mumble, wondering why I’m trying to defend him. ‘It’s just—’