Until You're Mine (9 page)

I pull the door closed and grab my coat, purse and keys. On the top step, I scan the street left and right. There’s no one about, no one paying me any attention. I can almost see it from here and, with a big breath, I launch myself down the steps and through the front gate. Without stopping, I dash to the corner shop, buy what I need – silently cursing the old woman in front of me counting out her change penny by hard-saved penny – and, before I know it, I am back in the hallway slipping out of my coat. Trying not to pant, I peek into the sitting room again. The boys are still safely in the same place, but then my vision goes blurry as adrenalin rushes through me. A hand on the doorframe steadies me.

‘James,’ I say automatically. I force the smile that’s buried beneath the shock.

‘Zoe,’ he says, and I have less than a second to decide if he’s angry, if he knows I left his sons alone. ‘How was your day?’

‘Fine,’ I say, still unsure and cursing myself for having no idea how to make soup.

‘You look chilly,’ he says, standing up and stretching.

‘I’ve just taken the recycling out to the bins,’ I say with a silent prayer of thanks that I actually did this chore earlier in the afternoon and had the presence of mind to remember. Full bins in the kitchen would have given me away. I slide the plastic shopping bag across the floor with my foot, although I needn’t have bothered because James flops back down into the sofa and shrugs an arm round each son.

‘Great,’ he says awkwardly, and now Oscar is awake and James is more interested in talking to his sleepy son than bothering with me.

‘I’ll get their supper started then,’ I say, and leave for the kitchen.

*

‘Something smells divine,’ Claudia says. She looks tired and stressed but with the veneer of a brave face pasted over the top. I don’t think she’s entirely comfortable with me being here yet. What she needs to understand is that it’s a necessity for both of us.

‘It’s the soup,’ I say proudly. A great pot of it is simmering on the Aga’s hotplate. A quick search on the internet told me how to use the damned thing before I started the job. Apparently my previous employers had one. ‘Homemade, of course.’ Ten empty cans – homemade soup only comes in big batches, I once learnt from my aunt – are now crushed and deposited right at the bottom of the recycling dustbin. Mix in a few fresh herbs and no one’s going to question where it came from, not if they think I’ve been peeling and chopping vegetables all afternoon.

‘Pip came round earlier,’ I tell her to get her off the scent, but she’s straight back on it with her nose hovering over the pan, belly pressing against the Aga rail, sucking in the smells of my faux home cooking.

‘There’s a secret ingredient, I’ll bet,’ she says, briefly closing her eyes.

Our faces are close. She’s only a breath away. All that new life buzzing inside her.

‘If I tell you that,’ I say with a smile, ‘I’ll have to kill you.’

*

Later, when the boys have scraped their bowls and asked for not only seconds but thirds too, once they have sucked on peach quarters and licked their fingers, after a warm bubble bath shared with a dozen plastic dinosaurs and a story from me, and after I’ve said goodnight to James and Claudia (with a few questions to her privately about how she’s feeling; if she thinks her time is close), I slump onto my bed as if my bones have dissolved from exhaustion and grief. When the tears come, I have to bury them in my pillow. When the anger comes, I bite into it, leaving little teeth marks of frustration in the crisp cotton.

Why did this have to happen now?

I pull my holdall from the bottom of the wardrobe. I unzip an inside compartment and pull out the little blue and white box. Clear Blue, it says on the front. Over ninety-nine per cent accurate. Two tests.

All it does is make me want to go home. All it does is make me feel empty and utterly useless inside.

‘SHE’S BEEN SMOKING.’
I’m waddling up and down the drawing room.

‘Nonsense,’ James says wearily. ‘She doesn’t do that. Have you forgotten we asked her at the interview?’

‘I smelt it on her. No doubt.’

I think for a moment. He’s right. She definitely told us that she didn’t smoke. But I don’t want the boys watching her have a sneaky cigarette outside the back door or even smelling it on her. Before you know it, they’ll think it’s OK to do it themselves. It’s not the way I want them brought up.

‘Ask her if you’re that bothered by it,’ James says.

‘How can I?’ I reply. I’m pacing back and forth between him and the fireplace. ‘It’s no good if she thinks we don’t trust her.’

‘You’re being so silly,’ James says. For some reason, he’s pointing at the empty grate. It’s always chilly in this room but James insisted we come in here to talk as it’s furthest away from the boys’ room and Zoe’s staircase. ‘Don’t you remember that she lit the sitting-room stove earlier and was complaining how hard it was to get going? She said the room filled with smoke and she was apologising. That’s all it was, Claudia. Wood smoke on her clothes.’

Surely James knows as well as I do that there’s a difference between the two. I may be pregnant, but I haven’t lost my sense of smell.

‘No, no, you’re wrong. It was cigarette smoke on her breath.’

We are suddenly silent as the door clicks open at the same time as we hear a quiet knock. ‘It’s just me,’ Zoe says. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your evening.’ She looks anxious.

Did she hear us talking about her?

‘Come in,’ James says.

I pray she didn’t hear me.

‘It’s nothing really,’ she says, perhaps sensing our embarrassment. ‘We can talk tomorrow if you’re busy.’

She’s waiting nervously in the doorway looking at each of us in turn. Her face is both pleading and apologetic. There’s something on her mind and she’s not sure how to say it. She looks as if she’s already been in bed, maybe unable to get to sleep. Her hair is slightly mussed on one side and the light eye make-up she was wearing earlier has been removed. The pale skin of her cheeks and forehead has the soft sheen of night-cream still absorbing, while her back-to-front T-shirt and woolly bed socks are another give-away of the intention of an early night.

What led her downstairs again, I wonder?

‘We’re not at all busy,’ I say, feeling slightly sorry for her. I pat the empty space on the sofa, and when she tentatively sits, I glance at James with a slight widening of my eyes that only he would notice.

No smoke without fire
, something my mother always used to say, flashes through my mind.

‘What’s bothering you?’ I’m suddenly struck by the thought that, after only two days, she’s going to hand in her notice. I hadn’t considered that she might leave us.

‘Nothing’s bothering me, exactly. It’s just . . .’

‘Would you like me to leave you two to talk?’ James suggests.

‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you put the kettle on?’

James nods and marches out, grateful for the reprieve.

‘Just what?’ I ask Zoe, picking up her tentative thread again.

‘I’m not sure how to put this. I guess asking you outright is the best way.’

Zoe picks at her clipped nails. Her hair scratches around her neck in thin tufts. If I were her mother right now I’d tuck it behind her ears and gently push a finger under her chin to lift her head. I’d stare into her milky grey eyes and fathom what was wrong before she even knew it herself. I’d pull her close, hug her, make her realise that I’m there for her, whatever she was going to ask.

‘It’s about the weekends.’ Her words are gossamer thin.

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I don’t know how you feel about . . . it’s just that it would be really useful if . . .’ She bows her head further.

‘Zoe, I don’t bite.’

Finally, she lifts her head and stares at me square on. Her jawline is neat and petite, as if sculpted with fine fingers. Her cheekbones echo the precision of her face; they in turn give way to those misty eyes. She looks as if she has permanent tears just waiting to drop.

‘I don’t really have anywhere to go at the weekends.’

I try to figure out what it means, but before I can, I’ve already answered. ‘Then you must stay here.’ It was the gush of relief that she wasn’t handing in her notice, despite my suspicions, that made me say it.

‘Really?’ Her chin lifts higher and her eyes brighten. There’s a glimmer of a smile.

‘Yes,’ I say, more hesitantly now, realising I should probably have asked James first, especially after what I just accused her of. But I’m certain he won’t mind. Besides, he’s away again very soon and it was him who was keen for me to have home help in the first place. ‘Is everything OK, Zoe?’ I feel I have to check. Despite the interview, her CV and references, it strikes me that I actually know very little about her home life.

‘That’s so kind of you.’ She nods gratefully. ‘And everything is fine. It’s just that . . .’ Again, she looks so sad, so pained, so unsure of me.

‘What, Zoe?’

‘I have some issues with the person I’m living with.’ She pauses and thinks. ‘
Was
living with, I should say. We’ve had some problems and it’s not working out. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you.’

‘A break-up?’

Zoe shrugs, and I realise that by hiring domestic staff I also take on their personal lives. ‘Kind of,’ she says. ‘Some things are impossible to work out.’

And for some reason, she stares longingly at my pregnant stomach.

*

I’m lying on our bed, exhausted. I’ll disappear to the spare room soon enough, but for now, I know I’ll never sleep. James is lying beside me, almost asleep, and I need to talk. He’s barely listening.

‘I can’t say it was creepy exactly,’ I tell him. ‘But almost.’ I prod his shoulder a little.

I’m lying on top of the covers in my tent-like flowery nightie and a thick robe that only just reaches round my middle. James often jokes that the last time he saw me naked was when my waist was a neat twenty-seven inches. I hope I’m back to that size again next time he comes home. The women in our antenatal yoga group are always comparing stretch marks and girth measurements. I prefer not to think about my body. Too much thought and I go into a flat spin of terror. I’ve had too many disappointments.

‘James, did you hear me? I said I can’t say it was creepy exactly—’

‘Then don’t,’ he mumbles. His eyes are closed. He’s lying on his side, facing away from me.

‘It was just the way she looked at me. It was . . .’ I don’t want to sound smug. ‘It was almost as if she was jealous of me or something.’

James opens his eyes and rolls onto his back. He stares up at me. I’m propped on one elbow and not very comfortable. ‘It’s late, Claud.’ The eyes close again. ‘Don’t be weird.’

‘And then the cigarette smoke too . . . Did she lie to me?’

James’s eyes are open again now. ‘Your hormones are getting the better of you, Claud. Zoe isn’t creepy or jealous and she doesn’t smoke. End of. She just wanted to stay weekends. It could work out well for you both.’

‘I’m not sure, James,’ I say quietly, but his eyes are shut again.

I flop back onto the pillow and play the scene through my mind again. It was the moment she said ‘Some things are impossible to work out’. How much sadness did those words contain? ‘Sounds complicated,’ I’d replied, but she didn’t divulge anything else.

‘That’s when she reached out and touched my tummy, James,’ I say to my dozing husband. ‘James,’ I say louder. ‘I said she put her hands on the baby.’

James rolls over and groans. ‘So?’ he grumbles. ‘It’s what women do, isn’t it?’ He pulls a pillow over his head.

He’s right, of course. Since I’ve been showing – and that wasn’t for about five months – I’ve attracted way more attention than I’d like. Initially, I chose not to tell many people I was even expecting, excluding family and close friends, although I was wary with them, too. Given my history, disappointing everyone with yet another miscarriage was another burden of grief I could do without. I’d learnt my lesson. Plus, in my line of work, people are all too willing to criticise me about becoming a mother as retaliation to me simply doing my job.

‘It was the
way
she touched me, James. As if . . .’ I pause and shift positions. I’m tired. I’m probably not making sense. ‘Oh, I don’t know. But she put both palms right here,’ and I touch my bump even though he’s not looking. ‘She left them there for way longer than was necessary. She stared right at me, right into my eyes. I didn’t like it.’

‘She was probably waiting for a kick,’ James mumbles.

‘Maybe,’ I agree with a sigh. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to bed.’ I kiss the side of James’s head and leave for the spare room. We’ll both get a better night’s sleep this way.

Once I’ve cleaned my teeth, when I’m lying in the spare bed, hot as anything even with the window open an inch, I mull over the part that I didn’t tell James; the part that, just for a second, made my heart miss a beat.

‘You’re so lucky,’ she’d said with her hands pressed against me. Her eyes were full of tears, brimming with that profound greyness. ‘You’re so lucky to be pregnant.’

I LET OUT
a huge sigh of relief as I go back up to my bedroom. Securing regular weekend accommodation with Claudia wasn’t as hard as I’d thought and it’s saved a whole load of hassle and heartache. I feel as though I can breathe again. Besides, I don’t want anything happening while I’m not here. She decided all by herself, before I could say otherwise, that I must be a mess when it comes to relationships; assumed I was a walking man-disaster zone. In the end, she judged it best not to ask. Very wise of her. I’m pretty certain she won’t probe further. By the look on her face, she thought I was going to quit my job. No chance of that. Not yet, anyway.

I unplug my mobile phone from its charger and stare at the screen. No texts since I last checked. I tap one out but then save it as a draft, thinking I probably shouldn’t send it; that it would be reckless and cause more trouble. I go to the holdall in the bottom of the wardrobe and pull out a half bottle of Scotch. Not the done thing for a nanny but I’m tuckered out and my back hurts from carrying those boys upstairs. They’re good kids, spunky and interested in things, although from my limited experience with children, I’d say girls are easier.