The Nearly-Weds (5 page)

‘Really? You don’t mind?’ I whimper. I couldn’t have been happier if she’d offered to pay off a lifetime of parking tickets, resit my French GCSE and remember to buy Great Auntie Iris some lavender talcum powder for her birthday each year.

‘Go!’ she instructs.

Ruby leaps up and grabs my hand. ‘I’ll show you the way, Zoe.’

We climb the stairs. As we approach the spare bedroom, I can almost picture what I’m about to face: the sort of room about which a Wormwood Scrubs resident would be entitled to send off a stern letter of complaint. But as I open the door I’m well and truly shocked.

It’s small, sunny and astonishingly neat. There’s a white and pastel patchwork throw draped over the bed. The walls are the colour of ripe lemons and the curtains at the window are covered with bright yellow roses and tied back with matching ribbons. I wouldn’t say it’s my style – a bit too Laura Ashley-meets-
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers –
but it’s such an improvement on everywhere else, you’d hardly think it was in the same house.

‘Do you think it’s pretty?’ asks Ruby.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ I reply, squeezing her hand. ‘It really is.’

‘I told Daddy he had to make it nice for you,’ she adds proudly. ‘He didn’t do that for any of our other nannies.’

‘Oh. What makes me so honoured?’

‘I guess he doesn’t want to lose another.’

On the bedside table there’s a little filigree picture frame with a photo of Ruby and Samuel in it.

‘Look!’ exclaims Ruby, pointing at it.

‘Wow!’ I smile. ‘It’s you and Samuel! Thank you so much.’

‘You can put somebody else in it, if you like,’ adds Ruby. ‘We don’t mind.’

‘I’d like to keep your picture in it. I can’t think of anything nicer.’

Which is almost true. Even if the reason I don’t want anyone else’s picture in there is a bit more complicated than that.

That’s all it takes – a comment about a picture frame – and Jason invades my thoughts. This time, for no particular reason, I have a flashback to when we first met, all those years ago.

In films, romances never begin in a scruffy pub with a soundtrack courtesy of a karaoke machine programmed to play nothing but Chesney Hawkes tracks. Yet in real life such mundane settings are often where the seeds of a big relationship are sown – at least, that was the case with Jason and me.

We met during a night out with the girls for me and a night out with the boys for him. Our paths converged at a Mathew Street hot spot in the days before they spruced up the area for the tourists and when hens and stags threw back tequila slammers in heroic quantities.

While I can’t recall the exact path of our conversation, I know that Jason and I hit it off so well that I kept expecting to see a little fellow with wings and a harp hovering in the background.

When I woke up the next morning I remembered he’d asked for my phone number but didn’t think he’d follow it up. But he did. He phoned me that very day – and when my mother heard his accent she went into a veritable tizz. Jason is originally from Cheshire, which, as far as my mum is concerned, makes him practically aristocracy.

That was how it started. Seven years down the line we were still together, still – I assumed – very much in love. But, then, it turned out I’d assumed a lot of things.

I’d assumed we were soul-mates. I’d assumed we’d be together for ever. I’d assumed that on our wedding day, as I arrived at the church where he was supposed to meet me at the altar, he’d turn up too.

Silly me. I’d assumed wrong.

Chapter 10

Given that Boston is going to be my new home town, I’m keen to blend in with the indigenous population as quickly as possible. Or, at least, not to look like a hapless tourist who can’t find their way to the loo without an in-depth destination guide and a pop-up street map.

I saunter into American Jack’s in a bid to appear as at ease with my surroundings as Norm walking into Cheers. Instead I trip over a step, nearly knocking over a waitress. It isn’t a subtle restaurant, with its Stars-and-Stripes banners behind the bar, baseball matches on the TVs in each corner and diners’ plates piled so high they should have been supplied with JCBs instead of cutlery.

We make our way past the oak-panelled bar and up some stairs on to a warm patio drenched in early evening sun. It’s here that we’re pounced on by a hyperactive redhead, so cheery you’d think she’d spent the morning snorting fairy dust. ‘Hey, guys! How are y’all today? I’m Ci-Ci and I’m your waitress! What can I getcha?’

I fumble through the menu, trying to pick something before I’m caught slacking.

‘You can just order drinks right now, if you like,’ Ci-Ci squeaks, ‘then look through the menu at your leisure.’

‘Oh, um, okay,’ I say, sliding my menu down. ‘I’ll have a coffee, please.’

My energy level might have risen slightly in the last couple of hours, but I still haven’t slept for what feels like weeks and know that without a pick-me-up I’ll keel over at any moment.

‘No problem, ma’am,’ chirps Ci-Ci. ‘Would that be a regular filter, cappuccino, latte, espresso, iced . . . ?’

‘Iced,’ I interrupt, quietly impressed that I haven’t just gone for a boring old cappuccino as I would at home.

‘Sure thing. Would that be small, regular, large, extra large or super-sized?’

‘Oh, um, just a kind of . . . medium, please.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘A med— Oh, um, regular.’

‘No problem. De-caff, half-caff or regular strength?’

‘Regular strength.’

‘Gotcha. Full-fat, non-fat or fifty-fifty?’

‘Fifty-fifty,’ I reply, as if I indulge in it twice a day.

‘Sure. Any syrup?’

I smile. ‘Not today.’

‘Great!’

Now she turns to Trudie. ‘How ’bout you, ma’am?’

Every member of our party is treated to the same smiley grilling and I’m slightly miffed with myself when Ruby places her order with significantly more aplomb than I managed.

When it comes to food, I glance down the list, past Chicken, Broccoli and Ziti, Jack’s New England Clam Chowder, and Fresh Boston Schrod. I remind myself that I have recently gained sixteen and a half pounds, which has probably risen to seventeen and a half after all the Pringles I devoured on the flight. I owe it to myself to pick out the lowest-fat dish on the menu, then eat only half of it.

‘Some of the salads sound nice, don’t they?’ I muse, trying to convince myself more than anyone else.

Oh, sod it. I order Jack’s Rack of Slow-roasted Pork Ribs with coleslaw, hand-cut fries and a side order of onion rings. It arrives on a plate the size of Malta.

‘You look starving, love,’ Trudie says, halfway through the meal.

‘I should be on a diet.’ I sigh, chomping a chip.

‘Oh, you’re joking! You don’t need to diet. I’ve got more spare tyres than Kwik Fit and it’s never bothered me.’

That’s all the encouragement I require to demolish the rest of my meal, which should have come with its own cardiac-support unit. Maybe that’s just one of the reasons why I like Trudie.

It turns out she became a nanny two years ago, having given up her less than lucrative job as a barmaid back home in a nightclub called Crazy Brian’s. ‘I loved every minute of it,’ she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘It was a dream job, apart from the pervy boss, obnoxious customers and crap pay.’

‘How did you get into childcare?’ I ask.

‘I’m the eldest of seven, so I was quite well qualified,’ she begins. ‘To be honest, though, I just got to a stage in my life where I wanted to change things. I grew up on a council estate that was as rough as hell. You needed a flak-jacket some nights just to go out of your front door. By the time I’d left school, my prospects weren’t much better. I took a hard look at my life and thought, I want more than this.’

‘So you went back to college?’ I ask.

She nods. ‘I left school with virtually no qualifications. God knows why – I was always being told I was quite bright. Something just went horribly wrong in my schooling. I fell in with a bad crowd, I suppose – I was more interested in trying to cadge my next Benson & Hedges than I was in getting an education. But when I went to college at twenty-three it was different, maybe cos I love kids. Or maybe it was just the idea of telling Brian he’d have to get someone else to order his Big D nuts from then on.’ She giggles. ‘Whatever it was, well . . . I passed.’

She’s trying to keep a straight face when she tells me this, but it’s clear she’s bursting with a sense of accomplishment and pride.

‘I couldn’t believe it,’ she continues, flicking back a wave of blonde hair. ‘I’d never been good at anything before. Except fruit machines. And smoking.’

By the time the children are eating their ice cream, we have moved on to the subject of my new workplace. ‘So, what’s Mrs Miller like?’ I ask, lowering my voice. ‘I mean, I’ve already worked out she isn’t exactly a stickler for standards of household cleanliness. But am I going to get on better with her than I have so far with her other half?’

Trudie nearly chokes. ‘Bloody he— I mean, heck,’ she says, glancing at the children. ‘I thought you knew.’

‘Knew what?’ I frown.

She wipes her mouth. ‘There
is
no Mrs Miller.’

‘You mean they’re divorced?’

‘I
mean,
’ Trudie hisses, ‘she’s dead.’

For a split second I think my heart has stopped beating.

‘I don’t want to sound sexist,’ she continues, and slurps some Diet Coke, ‘but how many women have you met who would let their living room get like that? The place is like the set of a disaster movie.’

I shake my head. ‘I hadn’t realized. I mean, I just assumed . . .’

‘Well, you weren’t to know. Poor little buggers, eh?’

Ruby and Samuel are still tucking into their ice cream. Samuel has so much of his in his hair that he looks as though he’s been shampooing with it.

‘How long ago did it happen?’ I ask.

‘According to Barbara – that’s my boss – it was just after Samuel was born. So, two and a half years, maybe.’

I think about Ruby, then just three, having a parent there one day but not the next – and the unthinkable bewilderment and sadness she must have felt. Two children are growing up without a mum to watch nativity plays, kiss their knees when they fall over, or tuck them up in bed in the way that only mothers can.

I think about my own happy upbringing, with two parents who adored me – and still do – and feel incredibly sad.

I also feel a pang of guilt about Ryan. Okay, so strains of E. Coli have displayed more charm than he’d directed towards me that morning, but this puts him in a new light. Suddenly I’m determined to rise to the challenge of working with the family and proving the strength of my moral fibre.

‘How did she die?’ I ask Trudie.

‘A car crash,’ she says. ‘Although I think Barbara has convinced herself she’s under the patio.’

I must look alarmed.

‘Not really,’ Trudie adds. ‘Barbara’s just like that. She and Ryan aren’t what you’d call best buddies.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because his lawn isn’t mown to her standards, the kids don’t go to church and he hasn’t told her recently how fabulous she’s looking.’

I smile. ‘How well do you get on with her?’

‘Oh, fine,’ she replies. ‘We’re not what you’d call peas in a pod, but Barbara’s fundamentally okay. Apart from anything else, she puts up with me when I’m sure I’m not what she was hoping for when she ordered a British nanny.’

‘What do you think she was hoping for?’

Trudie pulls up the strap on her Wonderbra and tries, but fails, to suppress a burp. ‘Mary Poppins.’

Chapter 11

It’s ten twenty-five. Bedtime – if your approach to childcare is totally demented, completely half-hearted and utterly nuts. Which is exactly what I am starting to suspect Ryan Miller is.

Sorry. I’ll calm down.

And not least because I should have seen this coming. To somebody who has lived and breathed children for the past seven years, the fact that this is too late for them should have been as obvious as the answers on
Family Fortunes.

The trouble is, Ryan is the parent – even though he hasn’t put in an appearance since he dumped me, my bags and his children on the porch this morning.

His status as their dad foolishly made me think he might know some secret I didn’t. That there must be some logic in his advice to keep the children up so late. I honestly thought I’d be playing it safe by allowing them to stick to their usual schedule – no matter how odd it seemed. That both children are still awake – exhausted to the point of tantrums and tears – would tend to indicate that there is not.

I take a deep breath and remind myself not to be fazed. The words of my first boss at Bumblebees are for ever ingrained in my memory: a good child-carer is an
unflappable
child-carer.

What a smartarse she could be.

Here’s what I’m up against: those two polite, almost subdued children – whom I’ve been attempting to cajole into activity all day – now resemble a pair of juvenile delinquents after an overdose of Pro Plus.

‘Nooooooooo!’
Samuel howls, as he flings himself on to the sofa.

All I’d done was suggest it was time we switched off
Curious George
for some wind-down time before we go up to bed, but you’d think I was threatening him with the gallows.

‘It’s too early!’
shrieks Ruby, her cheeks ruddy with tiredness as she throws Strawberry Shortcake at the table.

‘It’s not too early,’ I repeat, for the twelfth time. ‘It’s ten twenty-five. That’s your bedtime.’

I’m using my special nursery-nurse voice, which strikes just the right balance between caring and authoritative. The Sugar Plum Fairy, with overtones of Genghis Khan. It
usually
works.

‘Daddy said it was ten to ten thirty,’ Ruby sobs, screwing up her face.

‘Which is what ten twenty-five is,’ I reason.

‘No, it’s not,’ she wails. ‘That’s
before
ten thirty. I’m not
stupid
, you know!’