by Janey Fraser
‘Do you have a list of your jobs?’
The girl pushed across her iPad. On it was a spreadsheet outlining the chores which she was expected to do. This really did seem rather a lot! She’d need to talk to Joanna about that, head of the PTA or not.
‘Margit has problem too,’ thundered Antoinette with another bang on the table. ‘Her family say she has to work on bank holiday!’
‘Thank you but let’s allow her to speak for herself, shall we? I have already spoken to your family and explained that you are entitled to have the day off.’
‘Entitled?’ Margit frowned. ‘What is this?’
‘It means “allowed”.’
Her face brightened. ‘Good. Thank you.’
‘However, I hear that you need time to go to two church services every day and an extra hour for meditation.’
The girl flushed and looked across to Antoinette as though seeking confirmation. The other girl gave a Gallic shrug. ‘She is Catholic and Buddhist – like me.’
‘Nothing to do with getting extra time off then, for worship?’
‘No.’ Antoinette’s dark eyes were boring into her. The girl was scary! She wouldn’t be in Paula’s shoes for anything.
‘Perhaps,’ suggested Jilly, eyeballing her back, ‘it might be reasonable to go to church during your time off.’
Silence. She tried again. ‘Are you enjoying yourself here, Margit?’
‘It is OK.’ She glanced across at Antoinette again. Clearly this girl was the ringleader.
‘Right.’ She stood up, noticing to her relief that Marie-France was back and Bruno was pawing at the door. ‘I’d better be going but if there’s anything else that upsets you, don’t hesitate to get in touch.’
‘Is that it?’ Antoinette glared at her. ‘Are you not going to tell off her family for arguing?’
What a cheek! ‘I will talk to Mrs Miller and Mrs Thomas but I think it is best, Antoinette, if you leave this to me. You are not one of my girls, after all.’
‘If I am not one of your girls, why do you tell tales of me to my family?’
Jilly felt a sickening thud. ‘Paula is my friend. I heard something that I felt she ought to know. Goodbye, Antoinette.’
With that, she turned on her heel and walked towards the door. Honestly, these girls! They were so rude! Was it their nationality or their age? Either way, she was so relieved she didn’t have one of those at home to go back to! Fat Eema, even with her fridge habit, was easier to deal with than all of that lot rolled together.
‘Thank you, Marie-France.’
She took Bruno’s lead from her and looked in her purse for some small change.
‘No.’ The girl waved her hand dismissively. ‘I do not want paying. I am glad to help.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Tell me. Is Antoinette still leaving Immy alone in the house?’
Marie-France’s face tightened. ‘I do not know. That girl is not good news. But unfortunately she is part of our group.’
‘I see. Well, thank you anyway. See you around town, perhaps, and don’t forget to ring me if you have any problems.’
If she was to get an au pair one day, thought Jilly, walking briskly back up the hill towards the house, that was exactly the kind she would like! Turning into her road, she heard music. It was coming from the other end of the street … from her end. No. Please no. Yes, it was from her house. Or to be more exact, from Nick’s bedroom.
Rushing down the drive, she opened the front door. ‘TURN THAT DOWN!’ she yelled.
There was no response. Bruno raced up to Nick’s room, while she followed. What? She stared, unable to believe her eyes. Two boys whom she’d never seen before were lying on the carpet, with their muddy shoes on, next to Nick. But what was worse – far worse – was that they were poring over her file marked AU PAIR PLACEMENTS. Nick must have taken it!
‘Look at that one,’ leered the taller boy with orange roots. ‘Wouldn’t mind banging her.’
‘Do you mind?’ Jilly snatched the folder away from them. ‘You had no right to go through my paperwork like that, Nick. What do you think you’re doing? And who are you?’
Nick flushed beetroot. ‘They’re my mates, Mum. Don’t be so rude.’
‘Well, I’d like you to leave. Now.’
The taller one actually pushed past her without one word of an apology, the other following him downstairs, both kicking the sides of the wall as they went. She marched behind them, slamming the front door after them before returning to her son’s room where he was lying on the bed, just as he used to as a child when something was wrong.
‘Nick! How could you! Especially after last time!’
Her son eyed her sullenly instead of apologising as she’d expected. What was going on? Nick had been fine until a few months ago. Was it just because he was finally becoming a teenager or was it because she hadn’t spent enough time with him?
Whatever reason, she simply wasn’t having it. ‘Your behaviour was unforgivable,’ she thundered. ‘Where did you meet those boys anyway?’
He shrugged. ‘They do a paper round with me.’
‘Well, I don’t want you hanging around with them and I certainly don’t want you getting your hormonal kicks from my clients. It’s confidential information. I could get into a lot of trouble for that. Do you hear? Now where are the twins?’
Nick shot her another sullen glance that reminded her of the au pairs in the coffee shop. ‘Out in the garden, playing French cricket.’
‘I asked you to look after them!’
‘I didn’t need to.’
‘Is Fatima with them, then?’
Nick got up and lay on the bed with his headphones on. He shouted something out but Jilly couldn’t hear with the music.
Wrenching off his headphones, she yelled, ‘What did you say?’
‘I said there was no need cos Granny is downstairs with them. And stop shouting, Mum. It’s giving me a headache.’
Her mother was downstairs with the twins? But she was meant to be safely tucked away on a Mediterranean cruise. Racing back down the stairs and into the kitchen, she stopped short. There, sitting at the table with its usual mix of files and cereal packets and the peanut butter jar with its lid off, was a tall, elegant woman – sometimes mistaken for Angela Rippon – smelling of Chanel and reading The Economist.
‘Ah, there you are, dear,’ said her mother smoothly, as though they’d only seen each other that morning instead of five months ago. She was looking, as usual, as though she had just stepped out of Woman & Home, with her impeccably swept-back white-blond hair and tailored beige trousers.
‘How lovely to see you.’ Jilly went to give her a hug. ‘I thought you were away.’
‘Just got back. Not too close, dear. I’ve just had my hair done.’ Her mother offered her cheek, which had a healthy suntanned glow. ‘I needed a break from your father. I can’t seem to lose him at home as I could do on the boat.’
Oh dear! Sounded as if they were going through one of their rough patches again. For as long as Jilly could remember, her parents had either been at each other’s throats or over-affectionate in public. It was exhausting – for both the participants and onlookers. Especially as it now meant rejigging bedrooms to make room for Mum. ‘Why didn’t you say you were coming?’
‘Down, Bruno, down. You’ll spoil my tights. Didn’t you get my email?’
‘I haven’t managed to get through my inbox this week,’ Jilly began to stutter. Her over-efficient, opinionated mother always made her feel inadequate, however much she loved her.
‘I can see that there are several things you haven’t got round to doing.’ Her mother put down The Economist and surveyed the table in disdain.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well it’s clear, dear, that David was right to ring me. Sheila, he said to me, we need your help. Well, the one thing I can do is to organise a business. Now why don’t I start with your accounts and you can get on with doing wh
at you do best.’ She flashed her a cold smile. ‘Looking after your children. And by the way, you really need to keep tabs on your new cleaner.’
‘New cleaner?’
‘I found her – can you believe this? – sound asleep upstairs. Don’t worry. I soon sorted her out. She’s scouring the bath. A bit of exercise might help her shift some of that weight she’s carrying. Right then. Let’s get going, shall we?’
JILLY’S AU PAIR AGENCY: GUIDELINES FOR FAMILIES
An au pair should be treated as a member of the family. However, it is not always wise to let her get too close.
Chapter 17
AT FIRST, AFTER Thierry had rushed off on his bike, Marie-France had been furious. Typical! He was so hot-headed and quick to draw the wrong conclusion.
Remember, she told herself, that time when his employer had accused him of fitting the wrong engine on to a bike? Thierry had insisted that he’d been following instructions but then had to backtrack when it became clear he was wrong. It had been the talk of the village – with its dependence on small bits of gossip for entertainment – for months.
Marie-France could not help smiling wistfully at the memory. She could see her little town so clearly. Thierry would be home by now, probably sitting in his usual spot in the café, nursing his cold beer. He’d be telling Monsieur Lèvre from the bakery that the English did not know how to make a decent croissant. He would throw in the reference to his visit to Angleterre in an offhand way with a shrug of his shoulder and a toss of his long hair that needed a trim.
Would he tell Monsieur Lèvre and maybe Pierre from the post office that he and Marie-France had had a blazing row? Maybe, she thought with a bit of a flutter in her chest, he would sink another cold beer and announce that he had decided to have a break because he did not want to be tied down at his age. Then he might give the barmaid a sultry wink – Thierry was very good at sultry winks – and offer to buy her a drink …
Meanwhile, Maman would be, right at this minute perhaps, coming back from work on the bus, looking more like an elegant customer than a shop assistant. She would be wearing a pair of high heels – maybe the blue pair with the little ribbon on the toes – and a trim skirt that flirted at her knees, showing off her silhouette to perfection. Then she’d go home and fry a steak from the butcher which tasted like real food instead of those awful chops Dawn bought in plastic boxes from the supermarket.
The image made Marie-France feel violently homesick as well as angry and hurt.
Plse rng so we can discuss this, she had said in her text to Thierry after his departure, but he hadn’t bothered to reply. That wasn’t really surprising. When they had fallen out last year over some triviality, he had ignored her for a week. Then he had turned up with an enormous bouquet of flowers and a sexy pair of red knickers, still with the market price on them, and they had made up in the woods on the outskirts of town.
‘Is everything all right with your boyfriend now?’ asked Phillip about a week after Thierry’s dramatic exit. Her boss’s husband had come into the kitchen so quietly that she hadn’t heard him and she had jumped slightly. It was early – only just after 6 a.m. – but Dawn had asked her to make some chocolate mousses for a dinner party that night.
‘Not really.’ She gave a shrug while she melted the butter. ‘He is a bit of a sulk, sometimes.’
Phillip made a too-bad face. ‘I feel partly responsible.’
‘Why?’
He scratched his chin, which bore a hint of a dark shadow in a very sexy cosmopolitan way. ‘If I’d installed a lock on your door a bit earlier, Tom wouldn’t have been able to get into your room.’
‘He gets away with too much.’ Marie-France stirred the egg yolks into the butter, aware that Phillip’s eyes were on her.
‘Yes. He does. But as I’ve said before, it is difficult for me to interfere.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Dawn doesn’t find it easy to take criticism, although, as you have experienced yourself, she doesn’t mind dishing it out.’
Marie-France shot him a grateful look. ‘That is true.’
He patted her on the shoulder lightly and his touch sent a little tingle down her back. ‘Did you …’ She hesitated, suddenly feeling that the question she had been about to ask was too familiar.
‘Did I what?’ he repeated.
‘No.’ She turned her attention to the chocolate, which was almost over-done, and poured it into the yolk mixture. ‘It does not matter.’
‘If you are wondering whether I spoke to Dawn about her “friend”, as I shall call him, then the answer is no.’ His eyes stopped twinkling and instead looked slightly wistful, which made her want to reach out and comfort him. ‘Call me a coward if you like, but I can’t rock the boat. Not yet.’
‘Rock the boat?’ she repeated questioningly. Her already-good English had improved vastly in just a few weeks – it was amazing how much you picked up when you had to speak a strange language every day – but there was still so much she couldn’t understand.
Those handsome eyes fixed on hers as though she’d said something amusing. ‘Rock the boat is a phrase we use to say that we can’t disturb the situation. I would rather wait for … let’s say certain developments to take place.’
‘But how can you live with a woman who is so rude to you and takes lovers under your nose!’
She couldn’t help the outburst. Phillip was too nice for his own good!
‘It is sweet of you to worry about me.’ He gave her hand a quick squeeze, almost making her drop the spoon. ‘But I know what I am doing. Trust me. Au revoir. I will see you tonight along with your delicious chocolate mousses.’
‘I don’t think so!’ Marie-France laughed. ‘I don’t get invited to your dinner parties.’
He frowned. ‘Is that so? Dawn has always told me that you’ve turned down her invitations.’
What a liar! ‘Au pairs are meant to eat with the family,’ declared Marie-France, ‘but I have to eat my meals with the children.’
Phillip’s face hardened. ‘We’ll see about that.’
He’d only just closed the door behind him when Tom shot in, closely followed by Tatty Arna. ‘You’ve got a letter, you’ve got a letter,’ he chanted. ‘But you can’t have it!’
‘The postman? She has arrived so early?’
‘Mum gave it to me yesterday to give you. But I kept it!’
Marie-France dropped her chocolate spoon and lunged at the boy, who was indeed waving a postcard with a French stamp on it. She could recognise her mother’s handwriting from here. ‘Donne-la-moi.’
Tom sniggered. ‘Stupid Marie-France can’t even speak English.’
‘Don’t you dare be so rude to me.’ Grabbing the boy with one hand, she held the now-cool bowl of chocolate mousse over his head. ‘If you don’t give that to me, I will tip this all over you.’
The boy smirked. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Yes I would. It’s about time someone taught you a lesson.’
He made as though he was going to tear up the card. Right. She was careful to only dribble a bit on to his head but it was enough.
‘There you are.’ He flung the postcard on to the floor and shot her a look full of pure loathing. ‘I’m going to tell Mum.’
‘Then I inform her that you steal money from her bag yesterday. Yes. I see you! Now go back to your stupid PlayStation. When you are in a nice mood, we will enjoy breakfast together.’
Marie-France spent that morning making little cakes with Tatty Arna while Tom stayed sulking in his room. Dawn finally appeared at midday with puffy bags under her eyes and wearing a pink tracksuit.
‘There was no need to make the mousses,’ she said, waving dismissively at the row of perfect little pots on the side. ‘Dinner’s off. Phillip’s just called. We’re going out with his clients instead.’
‘But I rise early to make them!’
Dawn shrugged. ‘Then chuck them or give them to Tom. Not Tatiana. Girls can’t afford to put on weight in this life. By the way, I nee
d you to babysit tonight, OK?’
No it wasn’t! She’d planned to go out with some of the girls from her language class. Too late. Dawn had already stomped off.
It was half an hour or so later, when she was helping Tatty Arna to lick out the bowl (poor kid deserved some fun!), that she heard the noise through the open window, coming from the direction of the pool. It sounded as though someone was crying. Leaving the little girl to carry on licking, she went out to investigate.
‘Bonjour? Ça va?’
Dawn was sitting by the poolside, her head in her hands. ‘What are you on about?’ she whimpered. ‘Go away.’
Marie-France shrugged. ‘Very well.’
‘No. Wait.’ Dawn looked up. Her face was red and blotchy. Some people – like Heidi – looked attractively vulnerable when they cried. But not this one. ‘I’ve got myself into a bit of a … Forget it. What am I doing, telling you anyway?’
‘Suit yourself.’ Marie-France had picked up this phrase from her English class. It felt rather nice, clipping off her tongue like that! But Dawn didn’t seem very pleased by it.
‘How dare you talk to me like that!’
‘I am sorry.’ Too late, Marie-France realised her mistake. She was still no closer to finding her father, despite having put an ad in the local paper with the help of one of the other French girls. The last thing she needed was to be sacked. She had to stay in the area. ‘There is something I can do for you, to help?’
Dawn’s eyes hardened. ‘Yes. Stay out of other people’s problems. Got it?’
What a difficult woman! Marie-France returned to her room, grateful to have a few hours to herself. It would give her a chance to read and reread Maman’s postcard.
Chérie,
We have had some new stock in this week which is très chic. I borrowed a beautiful skirt to wear to the dinner with Maurice and managed to return it without anyone finding out! Thierry has quit his job in the garage and gone travelling. Did you know? How are you getting on with your search? Please take care. Englishmen and French garage mechanics are not to be trusted.
Love, Maman
Marie-France’s finger traced the outline of her mother’s loopy handwriting and her eyes pricked with tears. How she wanted to see her! How she yearned to breathe French air again. But if she didn’t seize the opportunity to find the missing link in her family, she would regret it for ever.