The Au Pair

by Janey Fraser

  He was grasping her hands with his own cold, bony, veined ones as though he knew her. ‘Sorry about the delay. Had to go to the lavatory, you know!’ He gave her a conspiratorial wink. ‘At my age, you need to go more often.’

  Marie-France understood enough to be shocked. How rude! How coarse!

  ‘This way, my dear.’ His hand grazed her bottom as he steered her along a narrow corridor and into a room on the right. ‘Now take a seat and make yourself at home. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  She gazed with undisguised horror at the maroon-patterned carpet with yellow swirls. In front of her was a brick fireplace with a gas heater inside, instead of a real fire like those you saw in picture books about England. There was a shiny gold-coloured trolley with tea cups already laid out and a cake still in its plastic supermarket wrapping. But what really caught her eye were the rows of dolls, sitting on the mantelpiece and in the display cupboards lining the room.

  ‘Ah, I see you’re admiring Lillian’s collection,’ said her host, coming back into the room with a large brown teapot. ‘Very keen on her dolls, she was.’

  ‘Lillian?’ asked Marie-France faintly.

  He crossed himself. ‘My wife. Died twelve years ago tomorrow, she did.’

  Bon! So there wasn’t a wife around to ask awkward questions.

  ‘And do you own children?’

  ‘Just the one. Darren, who’s twenty-four now.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d have liked more but Lillian wasn’t keen on that side of marriage if you know what I mean. Sugar, ducks?’

  ‘No thanks.’ She took the tea and forced herself to drink it, trying to work out the maths in her head. If Darren was twenty-four, that meant he’d have been six when her mother had been an au pair. The age fitted but Maman had said that her family had had two boys.

  The disappointment made her feel slightly sick but then again that might have been the tea. How she would love a decent bowl of coffee! ‘I expect,’ she said, taking another reluctant swallow, ‘that you are wondering why I am arriving.’

  He nodded, still grinning. ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t care. It’s just nice to have such charming company.’

  ‘My mother was an au pair here nineteen years ago,’ she began.

  ‘Was she now, love? What was her name?’

  ‘Collette.’ She forced herself to take another sip. ‘You are hearing of her?’

  He shook his head regretfully. ‘Sadly not. Mind you, we weren’t the kind of family to have au pairs. My wife did everything, she did.’

  Marie-France felt a mixture of disappointment and also relief. If this old man was her father, she didn’t want any of his genes, thank you very much. ‘He is called John Smith like you. Are you acquainted with anyone of that name?’

  He made an unpleasant sucking sound as though he’d lost his teeth at the back of his throat and was trying to vacuum them up again. ‘Not that I know of, ducks. Mind you, now you come to mention it, the postman was always muddling us up with a Jonathan Smith who lived round the corner.’

  Jonathan Smith? No. Her mother had definitely said John Smith.

  ‘Then I am regretful to bother you.’ Putting her cup down, she wished she’d sorted out these facts on the phone, instead of thinking that a face-to-face conversation would be easier. Now she just wanted to get out of here fast.

  ‘Don’t go.’ He leaped up. ‘You haven’t even finished your tea yet.’

  ‘I am just thinking of something I need to get back for.’

  ‘Well I’ve got your number so if I suddenly think of something, I’ll give you a bell. It would be nice to see you again! Old men like me get very lonely!’

  Gulping with relief at her near-escape, Marie-France cycled as fast as she could back ‘home’. Dawn was at the door when she went in as though she’d been lying in wait. ‘There you are! You’re late!’

  ‘I do not think so.’ Marie-France showed her watch and smiled sweetly. ‘I am not obliged to commence work for five more minutes.’

  Dawn’s eyes narrowed. She was wearing a floaty pair of white trousers with a slightly transparent top which made her look as though she was going to some kind of Far Eastern ceremony. ‘How dare you question me. Look at that if you don’t believe me.’

  She pointed to an ornate gold-leafed clock on the hall table. There was so much gold and ostentation in the house that it wasn’t surprising Marie-France hadn’t noticed it before. The hands showed that it was five minutes ahead.

  ‘It is fast.’

  Dawn’s eyes narrowed even more. ‘It is not. Do you know how much that clock is worth? Thousands! Phillip has just bought it from a dealer as an investment.’

  If she’d been back in France, Marie-France would have made a stand. If there was one thing Maman had taught her, it was to stand up for herself. But the last thing she wanted was for Dawn to dismiss her from Corrywood. It would only delay her search.

  ‘I am sorry, madame,’ she replied softly. ‘I will start work immediately. What would you like me to do? The cooking? The washing? The children? The garden?’ Or your husband?

  She added the last one silently in her head although judging from Dawn’s narrowing eyes – rather like those little slits in the Norman tower back home from where the French had fired arrows at the English – she might as well have said it out loud.

  ‘Are you being sarcastic?’

  Marie-France made her eyes widen the way she used to at school. ‘Non, madame. I am happy to make French cuisine for you. And I am happy to help with the washing now your housekeeper has departed. You want me to help in the garden too, now the gardener is despatched?’

  Dawn looked unsettled. ‘How did you know that?’

  Because, Marie-France wanted to say, the cook had told her. She’d also informed her that both the housekeeper and the gardener had left because they could not cope with Dawn’s erratic behaviour and her habit of paying their wages long after they were due.

  Marie-France shrugged knowingly. ‘I am part of your family now, madame. It is not easy to hide these things.’

  Dawn’s unsettled face showed that she had got her ‘mistress’ exactly where she wanted her. She’d said enough to show that she understood certain things. But she’d done so in a way that suggested she was ready to ‘toe the line’ as the English said. It was one of the phrases they’d learned in class that week.

  ‘Well, perhaps you could mow the lawn tomorrow.’ Dawn hesitated. ‘Thank you. But first I need you to look after the kids. I’ve got a guest coming and I don’t want to be disturbed. We will be in the conservatory. Got it? Oh, and don’t forget we need two sweets for dinner tonight.’

  Sweets? Instead of a proper pudding? That would be easy.

  ‘Certainly. And please, it is possible for you to pay me last week’s money now?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Dawn was batting her away as though she was an annoying fly. ‘But not now. I’m busy.’

  Marie-France was about to point out that this contradicted the agency guidelines when there was the sound of shouting. ‘Mary-Frunch! Mary-Frunch!’

  Tatty Arna – who simply couldn’t pronounce her name properly – was running down the stairs now just as her mother disappeared out of sight. ‘Quickly. Come upstairs. Tom is in your room!’

  That could not be so! Racing up the stairs and along the corridor, she felt her breath catch in her throat. Gasping with horror, she saw that the entire contents of her drawers and wardrobe were all over the floor! Her clothes. Her school work. Her precious photographs.

  NO! Tom had a pair of scissors in his hand and was about to slice through the picture she had of herself and Thierry which she kept by the side of her bed.

  She rushed towards him but it was too late. Thierry’s head and shoulders fluttered down on to the ground and smiled up at her helplessly.

  ‘Méchant! Tu es méchant! You bad, bad boy!’ How she would like to fly at him and smack him across the face. That would teach him. These kids were allowed to get away with murder.

&nbs
p; ‘Go on. Hit me!’ he taunted. ‘Then Mum will have to send you away like she did the others before you.’

  Marie-France stopped. He was right. If she gave him the punishment he deserved, he would win. ‘Get downstairs,’ she thundered. ‘Now. Just wait until I tell your mother!’

  But Dawn was nowhere to be seen. Carefully slipping the torn photograph halves into her pocket to show her boss later, she marched Tom into their playroom.

  ‘No. You are not going to watch television. You are going to do your French verbs.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No but’s.’ It was all she could do not to shake the boy. ‘Do as I command you or there will be enormous trouble.’

  ‘Je swizz…’

  ‘Non. Je suis!’

  ‘Je swizz. Tu swizz…’

  It was nearly two hours later and Marie-France’s nerves were on edge as she and the children sat in the playroom, known as the ‘den’, where the kids were allowed to make as much mess as they liked.

  She’d calmed down a bit after the photograph incident – perhaps it could be taped back together or copied so the two halves looked like one again. But she still needed to think of other ways to track down her father.

  Facebook was the obvious one but it would attract too much attention from her friends and she had promised Maman that she would conduct her investigation quietly. But maybe she could put a message in the local paper. She’d see.

  French girl seeks information about family friend called John Smith. Last heard of nineteen years ago.

  That might do. But how would one go about placing such an ad? Maybe she could ask Phillip. There was a noise of a door opening outside. Was that him coming back from work?

  ‘I want you to finish that exercise,’ she instructed Tom. He scowled. Tatty Arna, meanwhile, was neatly colouring in a picture of the Eiffel Tower.

  Slipping out of the room, she stopped. The noise had not come from the front door but from the door leading to the conservatory. Dawn was standing with her back to her in the arms of a tall, very good-looking Indian man who was rocking her back and forwards, making a crooning sound.

  ‘Love,’ he was murmuring almost as though he was chanting, ‘love conquers all. Remember that, my beautiful Dawn, and you will not go wrong.’

  Mon Dieu! Madame was having an affair in her own house! Scuttling back to the den before she was seen, Marie-France found Tom glued to his computer, his French exercises on the floor. What was the point! Suddenly, Marie-France felt a huge wave of pity for these poor kids whose mother had the morals of an alley cat and yet bit their heads off if they dared to do something wrong. Was it any wonder that Tom was such a handful?

  ‘OK,’ she said softly. ‘I think we’ve had enough for now.’

  ‘Really?’

  A deep voice sounded from the French windows on the other side of the den. It was Phillip! She felt herself flush.

  ‘Looks as though someone’s been working hard!’ He strode across the room towards the neglected exercise books, giving her a conspiratorial wink.

  ‘Tom’s been learning the “swizz” verb,’ piped up Tatty Arna.

  He gave her a questioning look.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ groaned Marie-France.

  ‘You look as though you’ve had a bit of a rough day.’

  She nodded. The unexpected kindness made her eyes prick with tears. ‘Want to tell me about it?’ he whispered, indicating that they should go out to the patio for some privacy. She glanced back at the children. Tom was still glued to Facebook and Tatty Arna to her picture. They should be all right for a bit on their own.

  ‘Tom went into my room and cut up a picture of my boyfriend. Look.’ She pulled out the two halves ruefully.

  ‘That’s just not on.’ He made as though to go back to the house. ‘I’ll have a word with him!’

  ‘No.’ Without thinking, she pulled at his sleeve and he paused at the intimacy, as though amused. ‘Please don’t say anything. It will make it worse.’

  ‘We will put a lock on the outside of your door to make sure they cannot get in.’

  ‘Thank you. And …’ she stopped.

  ‘And what?’ he asked gently. He moved towards her, pushing aside one of the extremely expensive Swedish patio chairs Dawn had just had imported. His proximity made her feel both nervous and excited.

  ‘Your wife is having an affair,’ she whispered urgently. There. She had said it!

  ‘Really?’ He didn’t seem ruffled although maybe that was the shock.

  ‘I saw her kissing a tall, dark man. I think he was Indian.’

  ‘And they were definitely kissing?’

  ‘Well …’ she tried to recall exactly what she had seen. ‘They were in an embrace. Right outside the conservatory a few minutes ago. In fact, I’m not sure we ought to be talking here.’ She looked nervously round the corner. ‘They might still be around.’

  He made a strange noise which almost sounded like a laugh except that it couldn’t possibly be. It had to be a cry of anguish. Poor Phillip! Unable to help herself, she reached out her hand and gave his a little comfort squeeze. Immediately, he bent down towards her and took her in his arms in the most wonderful warm hug. Then he looked at her straight in the eyes. He was going to kiss her! Yes! No! This was a married man!

  Marie-France stepped back just in time but as she did so, there was a roar. Not just the roar in her ears which surely came from the thudding of the blood round her body at the opportunity she had just turned down, but the roar of a motorbike!

  ‘Thierry?’ She stared, unable to believe her eyes.

  ‘Who on earth is that?’ Phillip pulled back as the tall, dark youth with the silver and maroon helmet strode towards them across the lawn, scattering bits of turf with his biker boots.

  Had he seen them? Marie-France’s chest was pounding with apprehension. Then again, she told herself, trying to stay calm, what had there been to see? Just a hug. Just a kiss that hadn’t even happened. He might not even have noticed!

  ‘Thierry!’ She flew towards him. ‘What are you doing here?’ Then she had a terrible thought. ‘Is something wrong with Maman?’

  He pulled off his helmet, revealing his long unruly black hair and gave her a strange look. ‘No. I came because I wanted to surprise you. Instead, it is you who have surprised me.’

  Marie-France felt a flutter of uncertainty. ‘What do you mean?’

  Thierry jerked his head in Phillip’s direction. His eyes were blazing. ‘It did not take you long to find someone else.’

  ‘No! You’ve got it wrong. Phillip, tell him! Please! Explain you are my boss.’

  Dawn’s husband cleared his throat. ‘I think I had better give you two some time together.’ He placed a protective hand on her shoulders, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by their unexpected visitor. ‘Call if you need me.’

  Thierry’s eyebrows drew together in fury. Then his eyes fell on the two halves of the photograph that Marie-France still held in her hand. The photograph of the two of them, taken in happier times before her father and Phillip had muddled her mind. ‘Now,’ he said slowly, ‘now I understand why you really wanted to come to Angleterre. To break up with me.’

  ‘No!’

  Suddenly desperate, Marie-France tried to grab the sleeve of his leather jacket. ‘Please don’t. I can explain.’

  ‘I see for myself,’ said Thierry, looking from the photograph to the handsome Englishman who was striding back to the house. ‘This is why you do not return my texts!’

  ‘But I haven’t had any from you. Not for ages, anyway!’

  ‘You lie! And when we speak on the phone, you just talk about your life here!’

  ‘That’s not true …’

  ‘Yes!’ He pointed to his eyes. ‘These do not lie. I see you and that boss of yours kissing when I arrive…’

  ‘We weren’t kissing! He was just giving me a hug.’

  ‘Assez d’hypocrisie! I do not want to know any more!’ Thierry made a pah’ sound, wa
ving her away as though she disgusted him. ‘You are more like your mother than either of you realise. Goodbye, Marie-France. ’

  And then he was gone, leaving a plume of grey motorbike smoke behind him. Marie-France stared after him. Part of her was furious. What an idiot for getting it all wrong about her and Phillip – and for saying she was like her mother. But the other half of her felt as though she had just missed out on something. Something that she couldn’t now retrieve.

  Before she could gather her thoughts properly, there was the sound of a door slamming and urgent, furious stiletto footsteps across the patio.

  ‘MARY-FRANCE!’ Dawn was virtually wagging a finger in front of her as though she was a two-year-old. Then she realised her employer was waving a packet of truffles. ‘What kind of joke is this? I asked you to make two sweets for our dinner party tonight. So what do you mean by putting two chocolate buttons on each dessert plate? You’d better come up with something else. And fast!’

  JILLY’S AU PAIR AGENCY: GUIDELINES FOR AU PAIRS

  Please remember that you are staying in a private home. It is not a hotel!

  Chapter 15

  ‘SO WHAT HAPPENED next?’ asked Karen, wide-eyed. She was wearing a navy-blue dress that he hadn’t seen before – one of those wrap-around flimsy affairs which revealed rather too many curves – and was sitting on the chair next to his desk, still holding the coffee she’d brought in for him.

  Somehow, because he needed to talk to someone about what had happened, Matthew found himself telling her all about the au pair and the boyfriend coming out of his bathroom with one of Sally’s towels, can you believe it, draped around his waist and Lottie apparently in the park with Antoinette’s friends.

  ‘Well, I raced down the road towards the rec to find her and there she was, happy as Larry, sitting in a circle on the grass with about four au pairs and being made a great fuss of!’

  ‘Ah!’ Karen’s slightly podgy soft-looking face with too much blue eyeshadow looked as though it might melt.