The Nearly-Weds (17 page)

In short, he has never been more desirable, more dripping with sex appeal. He is the embodiment of masculine perfection.

For which I feel like kicking him in the shin.

As we walk into the grand ballroom, I grab a glass of champagne from the first passing tray and take a deliberate sip.

‘Come on,’ instructs Ryan. ‘Let’s go and talk to some people. Don’t worry – I’ll introduce you.’

I throw back the rest of my champagne and, heart pounding like a demon percussion instrument, scuttle behind Ryan, telling myself not to panic. To stay calm. To remember that I can be as refined, elegant and cosmopolitan as anyone else in this place. Even if my dress does resemble a duster.

‘Ryan, how are you?’ booms a voice. We turn round, and a tall, handsome bloke with silver hair and a Paul Newman smile shakes Ryan’s hand.

‘Michael, good to see you,’ Ryan responds. ‘Zoe, this is Michael Ronson.’

I’m aware that we’ve somehow ended up among a group of people the size of a wedding reception – and that I’m blushing for no fathomable reason.

‘And these are Catherine Manford, Jack Bishop, Victor Hislop, James Sorbie, John Kaplovski and Terri Costa,’ Ryan continues.

As they nod and smile politely, I’m hit by a powerful, rogue thought, which convinces me immediately that I can read every one of their minds – and there’s only one thing going through them: what the
hell
is that girl wearing?

Stop it, Zoe! Just remember, you can be as sophisticated as the next person.

‘Hiya!’ I shrill, as I grin inanely and – to top off the effect – begin waving.
‘Lovely
to meet you all! It really, really is! What a great place! Ha . . . wow!’

‘Um, Zoe’s from England,’ offers Ryan.

They nod and say, ‘Oh,’ and ‘How nice,’ and ‘Great.’ There is an awkward pause.

As a waiter offers me another glass of champagne, I take it and attempt to break the silence. ‘We’ll all be pissed at this rate!’ I hoot. Everyone stares at me silently. I get the impression they’re not bowled over by my outstanding social grace.

‘Um, so, how’re things, Ryan?’ asks Michael Ronson, as the others go back to their own conversations.

‘Hey, not bad, under the circumstances. Like everyone else, we’ve had some difficult announcements to make recently, the economy being as it is. It’s a tough old world out there right now.’

‘You got it,’ agrees Michael. ‘The market sure is up and down.’

‘The
Boston Herald
seems to be permanently on our case too, but that’s a different story,’ Ryan continues. ‘How ’bout you guys?’

‘Much the same.’ Michael nods. ‘Hey, did you hear about Jerry Caplin over at Everright’s?’

‘Did I ever.’ Ryan rolls his eyes. ‘That guy’s crazy.’

I stand in silence, grinning, my eyes following one and then the other. Occasionally, I nod knowingly, as if I’m best buddies with Geoff over in the New York office and, like them, am up to my eyes in the challenges involved in the world of corporate communications.

‘Tsk, tell me about it,’ I find myself muttering at one point. But, you see, I’ve got to try. I’m feeling about as useful to this conversation as a suckling pig at a vegetarian dinner party.

‘Zoe, this must be so dull for you,’ says Michael finally.

‘Oh, no!’ I gush, as if I’d happily have his babies because he’s bothered to talk to me. ‘I don’t mind at all!’

‘What do you do for a living?’ he asks.

‘I’m Ryan’s nanny. Or rather, Ryan’s kids’ nanny.’

Michael nods.

‘This is the first time he’s let me out in public,’ I add.

Michael’s eyes glaze over so rapidly that he looks as if he’s being cryogenically frozen. ‘Sure,’ he mutters. ‘Good. Well, Ryan, great talking to you. Catch up soon, buddy.’

‘Sure thing,’ Ryan replies.

‘Don’t worry,’ he tells me, when Michael has gone – I wonder whether he’s reassuring me or himself. ‘This part of the evening is all about business. People will loosen up soon.’

‘Oh, I’m sure.’ I smile unconvincingly. ‘Really, it’s not a problem.’

But after three-quarters of an hour of networking all I can think of is networking my way out of the door and back to the house.

Chapter 36

The organizers have put us right at the front of the room on an elaborately decorated table boasting a massive centrepiece of black feathers, purple roses and crystals. It’s all so dazzling and I know I should be enjoying myself, but the whole experience is proving as pleasant as colonic irrigation during an A-level maths exam.

As we arrive at our table, Ryan introduces me to the woman on his left. ‘Zoe, this is Matilda Levin, our vice-president of marketing,’ he says. ‘Matilda, meet Zoe.’

Matilda is a willowy brunette, so immaculately turned-out she must class moisturizing as one of her hobbies. ‘Zoe,’ she smiles, holding out a hand, ‘very pleased to meet you. You must be the lawyer Ryan’s been dating.’

‘Ooh, er, no,’ I mumble.

‘Oh,’ she says, raising an eyebrow. ‘The accountant?’

‘No.’

‘The interior designer?’

‘No. No – no!’ I splutter. ‘Sorry. I’m the nanny.’

‘Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know you were dating a nanny.’ She smiles at Ryan.

‘I’m not,’ he replies.

‘I’m just
the
nanny,’ I clarify. ‘I mean, Ryan’s kids’ nanny.’

‘Oh,’ she says, still smiling. ‘Fascinating. Where are you from?’

‘England, for my sins.’ I smile back.

‘I love England! We’ve just got to have a chat!’

I feel overwhelmed with relief that I’ve found someone to talk to, until Matilda grabs Ryan’s arm. ‘But first, Ryan, I need to bounce something off you about the media packs we’ve put together. I’ve been trying to catch you all week . . .’

The pair are quickly engrossed in another bewildering conversation as I stand there, twiddling my bag. My fingernails now resemble the ends of a doggie chew.

‘Hello, how are you?’ says a voice behind me. ‘I’m Gerald Raven.’

I turn and find a big, gentle-looking man behind me, with short white hair and a Santa Claus belly. ‘I’m Zoe Moore,’ I reply. ‘I’m Ryan’s children’s nanny.’ I’ve decided that this will be my new tactic: to announce who I am immediately and give them the opportunity to bugger off to someone more important.

Gerald Raven doesn’t move. ‘Really?’ he says. ‘They’re two beautiful kids.’

‘Oh, you know them?’

‘Sure. It feels like only yesterday that Ruby was born. Such a great kid – especially after what she’s been through.’

‘She is,’ I agree, amazed – and relieved – to have found someone prepared to talk about a subject I actually know something about.

‘Now, young lady,’ he says, raising an eyebrow, ‘you don’t sound like you come from these parts.’

‘No,’ I smile, ‘you’re right. You can tell I’m from California, can you?’

He laughs. ‘Let me guess. England? The north?’

‘Yep.’

‘No, wait,’ he continues. ‘I can do better than that. Is it Manchester? No, no, it’s Liverpool, isn’t it?’

My eyes widen. ‘That’s impressive. You’re the first American I’ve met who could even tell my accent was northern. At least three people tonight thought I was Irish and one Australian. But to get the city as well, wow! Ten out of ten.’

‘Well, I should probably let you into a secret – I’d feel like a cheat otherwise.’

‘Oh?’

‘My mom was a Scouser.’

‘You’re kidding!’

Within five minutes, I’ve discovered that Gerald Raven’s mum was a seamstress from Speke (three miles from where I grew up) and met his dad – a GI – during the Second World War at nearby Burtonwood. They moved to America after 1945. And the rest, as they say, is history. Within minutes I feel overwhelmingly close to this man. I’ve never met him before, but the fact that his mother was born in my city makes me feel as if I’ve found a soul-mate.

‘Hey, big guy,’ says Ryan, appearing out of nowhere and hugging Gerald. ‘I obviously don’t have to do any introductions.’

‘Oh, you needn’t worry about us,’ I tell him. ‘So, you two work together, then?’

‘Yes, Zoe,’ Ryan says. ‘Gerald is the president of BVH Systems. Which means he’s probably the most important guy in this room.’

Chapter 37

Well, sitting next to Gerald was probably the best bit of luck I’ve had all week. If I’d hired my own personal PR man for the evening, he couldn’t have bigged me up more than Gerald has. He’s spent the evening regaling everyone with such affectionate stories of Ye Olde Liverpool – ‘Zoe’s hometown and that of my dear old mom, too’ – that everyone is now looking at me as if I’m some sort of fascinating artefact. Which beats being a freak in a canary yellow dress.

I have to admit that a couple of glasses of wine have helped me relax a little too. But I’m taking it steady – the last thing I want tonight is to get so drunk I risk making a show of myself.

‘So, how do you find working for Ryan?’ whispers Gerald, as we get to dessert and Ryan is engaged in conversation with Matilda to his left.

‘Oh, well, that’s an interesting question.’ I try to think of an appropriate response.
He’s a nightmare but I can’t keep my eyes off his bum
doesn’t seem quite right. ‘Well, the kids are great. I love looking after them. And, as you said earlier, they’ve been through so much and it’s nice to be able to give them a bit of normality.’

‘I bet you’re great with them,’ he says. ‘But that wasn’t what I asked.’

‘Oh?’

‘I asked what it was like working for Ryan.’

‘Ah.’

‘Ah,’ he echoes, with the hint of a smile.

‘Well, he’s fine.’ I smile back. ‘Really.’

‘Good,’ he says. ‘Because some people find him a little difficult.’

‘Um . . .’

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ he continues, ‘but let me tell you this. Ryan is a good guy. The best. Deep down, he’s the most decent, hard-working, loyal person you could ever hope to meet. And he
loves
his kids. But, recently . . . well, since Amy’s death, he hasn’t been himself.’

I feel a stab of guilt. ‘It must have been terrible for him.’

‘They were great together. To be honest with you, I don’t think he’s ever gotten over her death. He’s always been a strong guy, but it seemed to make him go into meltdown. Privately, I mean. Outwardly, he’s become a real tough nut to crack.’

‘Tell me about it,’ I find myself saying.

‘But don’t let his manner fool you,’ Gerald continues. ‘He just needs time. And a little support. That’s why someone like you is so important.’

‘Me?’

‘Sure you,’ he says. ‘How long have you worked for him now?’

‘Oh, only a couple of months.’

‘Well,’ says Gerald, ‘that’s a record. From what I hear, Ryan’s nannies don’t usually last longer than a week. So, ten out of ten to you too.’

I smile, but I can’t help feeling about as comfortable with this as being told I have a key role to play in the negotiation of the next major international treaty on human rights. I’m here for the kids, not for Ryan. And I’m here for myself. If he needs somebody to get him back on track, I’m the last person qualified to do it.

I’m just wondering whether or not to break this to Gerald when the band launches into song, indicating it’s time for people to start letting their hair down.

‘I don’t suppose you’d care to dance, would you?’ he asks.

I break into a sweat. I might be well on the way to being slightly, and happily, pissed, but there’s no way I’m getting on the dance floor looking like this. ‘Er, I’d love to but I’m going to nip to the loo first. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘No problem.’ He pats my hand. ‘I’ll catch you later.’

I’m on my way to the ladies’ when someone leaps out in front of me. ‘Well, hi, little English girl!’

It’s one of the men from the group Ryan introduced me to at the start of the evening, a slightly rotund bloke in his early thirties with dark, unruly curls that remind me of my aunty Carol’s old Westmorland terrier. Now, let me think, was it Jim Bishop or Victor Kaplovski?

‘Er, hi. It’s Jim, isn’t it?’ I say, confident I’ve plumped for the right name.

‘Jack. But I’ll forgive you.’

To my horror, he slides his arm round my waist with such a degree of familiarity you’d think we were on our fifth date. ‘If you’ll come and dance with me, that is,’ he adds.

‘Oh, I don’t dance,’ I tell him, wriggling out of his grip. ‘I’ve got two left feet. There are penguins who can salsa more impressively than I can.’

‘Well, that’s okay,’ says Jack, attempting to put his arm back round my waist. ‘Because I’m quite happy to stay here and get to know you better. So, you single?’

‘Er . . . um . . . ah . . .’ I’m buying time to think of an intelligent way to avoid the question. ‘Are you?’

‘Oh, yeah, baby. I ain’t ready for commitment. My middle name is Fun. I’ll have to assume from your answer that the same goes for you, too?’

‘Well, that’s a
big
assumption.’ I frown.

‘I’m a
big
guy,’ he replies.

‘Hmmm,’ I mumble, crossing my arms but trying to keep smiling while I plot my escape.

‘No matter anyway,’ he continues, ‘because I think you and I are made for each other.’

‘Well, I’m not sure
I
do,’ I splutter.

‘Jeez, you English girls can flirt! The dress is
greeeat
!’ He’s staring down my top with the sort of expression Scooby Doo wears when he’s about to devour a six-foot-high sandwich. I cross my arms tighter. ‘I just love voluptuous girls. There ain’t nothing worse than a girl who don’t like her food.’

‘Thank you. You really know how to sweep someone off their feet,’ I reply, ‘but I must get going now. Sorry. I’m off to the loo.’

‘The
loo?
’ he exclaims, as if I’ve just come out with the funniest line since John Cleese and the Germans. ‘The
loo
! What a blast! I’ll wait right here for you.’

I dart towards the toilet. When I get there I decide to delay returning to the table for as long as possible in case I get groped again
en route
by Jack Whatsisname. I’m touching up my makeup at the mirror when Matilda Levin joins me.