Chapter 7
Ryan Miller, I decide, is a bit of a puzzle. First, he has produced two of the politest, most adorable children I could ever have wished for. Samuel talks non-stop throughout the car journey, pointing out in the uniquely random way of three-year-olds every branch of McDonald’s (which he refers to as ‘Old McDonald’s’), and declaring five minutes into our relationship that I am his ‘bess friend’. I am gratified by the apparently instantaneous bonding I’ve achieved with one of my new charges, until he adds, ‘And Daddy is my bess friend and Ruby is my bess friend and Benjamin is my bess friend and Big Bear is my bess friend’, and so on, until he has named everyone from their neighbour to the dentist he visited last week.
As well as entertaining Samuel – whom she clearly adores and constantly fusses over – Ruby spends much of the journey telling me, in her soft American lilt, how wonderful her father is (‘Our daddy works in a big office’; ‘He used to play baseball for his school’; ‘Did I tell you our daddy once went to New Zealand? And he’s been to New Jersey’). In Ruby’s eyes, Ryan Miller is Superman, God and the Tooth Fairy rolled into one.
While the kids and I make friends easily, however, the same cannot be said for their dad and me.
Aside from Ryan’s undeniably impressive six-pack (which is so defined you could play ‘Chopsticks’ on it) I can’t say he’s charm personified. Throughout the journey, he has been barking orders through his earpiece to various unfortunate individuals who apparently work for him. Only now does he pause to make conversation with me, but he’s not in the mood for small-talk.
‘Occasionally I leave the car at the office so I’ll need you to drive me to catch the T,’ he tells me. Despite his brusqueness, the accent is deep and unbelievably exotic.
‘Right, no problem,’ I reply, hoping to appear familiar with ‘the T’ until I can get hold of a guidebook to translate.
‘The subway,’ he says, sensing my bewilderment.
‘Hmm?’
‘The T. That’s what we call it here.’
‘Oh, um, right. Of course.’
We’re thundering along a dual carriageway full of unfamiliar road signs and huge cars. The colour and sound of my surroundings are totally foreign, completely new. And yet for some reason I find my mind drifting as I breathe in Ryan’s smell and try to work out which aftershave he’s wearing, which is nothing I recognize from the counter at Boots. Intense, musky, masculine. And disturbingly sexy.
‘So you’ll need to get the kids dressed and ready to go out at seven fifteen a.m. and no later,’ he continues, interrupting my thoughts. ‘The train’s at seven twenty-eight, and if I miss it I’m screwed. Okay?’
‘You betcha,’ I reply, but regret it. It was a pathetic attempt to demonstrate how I’m getting into the spirit of my new surroundings, but his expression says he thinks I’m being sarcastic.
‘Give them dinner whenever you want, and don’t wait for me to get home before you put them to bed. I work late a lot so I can’t guarantee I’ll be back in time.’
I frown. The contract I signed with the agency said I was supposed to finish at five thirty, apart from on pre-agreed occasions.
‘You’re flexible on hours, right?’ he says, as if sensing my thoughts.
‘Um, of course.’ I assume he’s referring to the odd evening and I don’t want to make a fuss at this stage. ‘And bedtime is when?’
He pauses for so long I get the impression it’s not an issue he’s considered before. ‘Ten. Ten thirty?’ he says finally.
‘Really?’ I blurt.
‘Look, whenever you want,’ he shoots back.
‘Right, right.’
Okay, I’ll admit it. Alarm bells are already going off about the complete lack of warmth emanating from my new boss. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, I find myself trying even harder to come up with ways to impress him, to make him see how brilliant I’m going to be at the job.
‘Sooo . . . the agency passed you my CV, did they?’ I bring this up so that I can slip into the conversation that I was second in command in my last job, have recently passed my umpteenth early-years qualification at night school and have a reputation for potty-training children faster than you can say ‘magnetic sticker chart’.
‘Yeah.’ He glances over and makes eye contact with me for the first time. It’s only for a split second but it makes my heart jump.
‘You okay with house cleaning?’ he asks, his eyes returning to the road.
‘House cleaning?’
‘Yeah. Vacuuming, the kitchen, you know the kind of thing.’
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘And the kids’ laundry?’
‘Um, yes, I can, although—’
‘Good,’ he replies.
I deflate and have to force myself not to think about Karen and Josh Ockenbloom’s army of domestic staff.
‘The odd chore isn’t a problem,’ I continue, feeling that some clarification of my professional boundaries is essential at this point. ‘I mean, the main focus needs to be the children – a key plank of early-years teaching is—’
‘Sure,’ he interrupts. ‘Well, you might need to go out and buy some Clorox and stuff. I’ve left a coupla bucks on the table for you.’
‘Okay. Great.’
‘It’s cleaning fluid,’ he says.
‘What is?’
‘Clorox.’
‘Oh.’
There is a long pause. Awkward silences with Ryan Miller are more awkward than most awkward silences. So I decide to take a different tack. Perhaps if I ask some intelligent, searching questions about the place that will be my new home for the foreseeable future I might be able to engage him in a more meaningful conversation. I mean, now I’m an experienced traveller, I ought to try to get a feel for Hope Falls. I think about Michael Palin interviewing the indigenous people of far-flung places for his travelogues and clear my throat. ‘So, Hope Falls . . . um, what’s it like?’
Okay, so maybe I’d struggle to get a job on Newsround with that one.
He flicks on his indicator, slows down and turns on to a wide driveway. ‘Your average American suburb,’ he replies.
‘Right.’ I try to look as if this fascinating insight has surpassed all my expectations. ‘Good.’
‘You’ll see for yourself,’ he adds.
‘I hope you never apply for a job as a tour guide.’ I chuckle, hoping that just the right amount of cheek might endear me to him.
He ignores me. ‘We’re here.’
As Ryan opens his door, I follow his lead and take in my surroundings as I step out of the car.
We are in a large, crescent-shaped road that would be immediately identifiable as American to even the most culturally naïve ten-year-old. Maybe it’s the fact that the houses all have slatted wooden exteriors and front porches on stilts – the kind designed for sitting on, in a rocking-chair, to ponder the meaning of life. Maybe it’s the mailboxes at the end of every driveway or the fire hydrants that play a bit-part in every cop show in the history of television.
Whatever it is, it isn’t Woolton, Liverpool.
There is one crucial difference, though, between the house we’re outside and all the others. The front of this one is so overgrown it must be hosting species of flora and fauna that usually thrive in far-off corners of Brazilian rainforests.
I follow the children up the steps, battling exhaustion. But as I reach the door I notice something: my bags have been abandoned on the porch. And so, apparently, have I. Because my new employer is heading in the opposite direction. ‘Gotta go,’ he throws over his shoulder.
‘What?’
‘Ruby’ll show you your room. The spare car’s in the garage, keys are on the table in the hall and – uh, you’ll find your way around.’
I’m panicking. ‘Where are you going?’ I try to ask casually, but sound as though I’ve just discovered my trousers are on fire.
‘The office,’ he replies, pulling his mobile out of his pocket again. ‘I gotta
catch up with some work.’
‘But it’s Saturday,’ I point out.
‘Yeah,’ he says, as if I’ve just told him my favourite brand of exfoliator. ‘Like I said, I gotta catch up. Now, come on, you guys—’
He leans through the rails on the steps to kiss the children, then dives into his car and speeds away. I’m left standing there with my mouth open like a stunned turbot’s.
Not for the first time since I left the UK less than twenty-four hours ago, I feel way out of my comfort zone. The effect this has on me is the exact opposite of what I’m trying to achieve by leaving home: it makes me long for Jason. I want him to put his familiar arms round me and tell me everything will be all right. I want him to kiss my forehead tenderly in the way he always did when I was nervous. I yearn for the reassuring stability I was convinced our relationship represented, ironic as that now seems.
Ruby appears at my side. ‘Do you like my daddy?’ she asks anxiously.
How to answer this? I can hardly tell her that, while I think he’s heart-stoppingly sexy, my first impression of Ryan is that he’s also arrogant, evasive and downright rude. I take her hand, squeeze it and smile. ‘Your daddy’s great,’ I tell her.
Her little face beams, leaving me in no doubt that that’s not something she hears very often. ‘You really think so?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I say.
She looks overwhelmed with happiness. ‘I just knew you’d be different from all those other nannies we had.’
Chapter 8
My mother has a beautifully euphemistic phrase she uses to describe other people’s houses when she thinks they could do with a bloody good clean: ‘lived in’ – as in, ‘Well, yes . . . it could be a nice house if it wasn’t quite so lived in.’
It’s a phrase that springs to mind as I walk into the Miller residence, except it may not be strong enough. This house is so lived in that squatters might have taken it over.
You can tell that the large hallway has been decorated – at some point in the distant past – by someone with taste. But the cream walls are now camouflaged with grubby handprints, the stylish antique tables so battered they’re ready for the dump, and the once bold abstract paintings now hang on the walls so haphazardly they might have been put there by a hyperactive chimpanzee.
I cast my eyes down. It’s difficult to identify the floor between the toys, books, shoes, old fast-food cartons and random stacks of office paper.
There’s something about the state of the hallway that makes me hold my breath before I walk into the living room. But I still let out a tiny gasp on entering it.
Yes, at some time in its history, someone has made the most of its high-beamed ceiling and imposing stone fireplace by adorning it with what were once three stylish sofas and various tasteful antiques. The problem is, the sofas are now smothered with kiddy-food debris, including what I suspect are chocolate ice cream, peanut butter and a hideous, sticky pink concoction. Several empty coffee cups are lying around, along with black-soled children’s socks, trodden-on crisps and beakers of fermented juice. In short, the room looks as if it has just suffered a heavy night of bombing.
Samuel marches past me, switches on the TV and, with his nose about a foot and a half from the screen, is immediately in a semi-hypnotic daze.
‘Samuel, wouldn’t you prefer to do a puzzle or something?’ I ask, sitting down on a sofa.
‘Huh?’
‘A puzzle, Samuel,’ I suggest, ‘or . . . we could do some drawing?’
‘Noooooo!’ He shakes his head.
‘Ruby,’ I say decisively, ‘what are your dad’s rules on watching TV? I presume you’re not allowed to in the daytime?’
She looks at me as if she fears for my mental health. ‘Sure,’ she replies, plonking herself next to her brother.
I am a dedicated early-years professional, so it is obviously out of the question for me to allow the children to watch television on my first day. I mean, I’m trained to conjure up all manner of stimulating exercises aimed at broadening young minds and rewarding their progress. I can sing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ in Urdu and construct a detailed model of a farmyard from old egg cartons. I suspect I know the words from Aliens Love Underpants, The Gruffalo and Harry and His Bucketful of Dinosaurs better than their authors do. So letting Ruby and Samuel sit in front of the goggle-box all afternoon just isn’t on. Not on my watch.
‘Well, I think we should play something,’ I persevere. ‘Or maybe go outside. It’s a gorgeous day.’
As I attempt to usher them outside, I realize I can’t. Such is my exhaustion that trying to lift myself off the sofa feels like hoisting a six-ton rag-doll. Overwhelmed by fatigue, I slump back – just for a second, you understand – as my eyes plead to close.
‘We usually watch TV,’ Ruby tells me, flicking to Dora the Explorer, then wiping Samuel’s nose with a piece of tissue she keeps tucked in her sleeve.
‘Really?’ I whimper, trying to summon up the collective power of my principles, training and energy.
‘Uh-huh,’ she confirms.
‘Oh. Well, why not, then?’
I feel myself drift into semi-slumber as I fight to keep awake and alert to what the children are up to. I have no idea how long my eyes are closed. It might have been seconds. I suspect it’s at least minutes. It’s certainly long enough for the voice that ultimately wakes me to startle me so much I almost leap out of my chair.
‘Hiiiyyaaaa!’
It’s coming from the porch and has the pitch of a tribal warrior announcing that battle is about to commence. I glance at the children, but they look as bemused as I suspect I do.
Chapter 9
It’s fair to say that Trudie Woodcock is not your archetypal British nanny. I don’t know why exactly, but it may have something to do with the generous cleavage, Charlie’s Angels hair and vertiginous wedge heels.
Within half an hour of meeting her, however, it’s clear that Trudie’s Wagtastic sense of glamour is of little interest to Andrew and Eamonn, the two-year-old twins she looks after on the other side of the crescent. To them, Trudie is the most entertaining individual they’ve ever come across. She has boundless energy, with a discernible naughty streak, and they seem to see her as the human equivalent of a Labrador puppy – permanently in the mood for fun.
This quality is illustrated to spectacular effect each time she breaks off from a grown-up conversation – without warning – to dive towards her charges and tickle them so vigorously that they look likely to end up in Casualty from laughing so much.
‘Now, come on, you two, calm down,’ Trudie gasps, attempting to catch her breath between guffaws. ‘God, I gave up smoking just before I came out here and thought I’d be super-fit by now. I don’t know what’s gone wrong.’
‘Not ready to run your first triathlon yet, then?’
‘I’d be better prepared to run for president,’ she puffs.
I giggle. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘A month and a half. And I hope you haven’t come here to meet a fella because, let me warn you, the talent here isn’t exactly world class. In Hope Falls, at least.’
I don’t bother telling her that that’s the last thing on my mind. I’ve already found the man of my dreams – even though the end of our relationship was the stuff of nightmares.
‘I’d make an exception, though,’ continues Trudie, lowering her voice.
‘Oh?’
‘Your man.’
‘What man?’
‘Your man here! Ryan!’
‘Ssssh!’ I check the children didn’t hear. ‘Do you really think so?’ I ask casually. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Bloody right I think so!’
‘Well,’ I whisper, ‘he couldn’t be grumpier if he’d had private tuition from Ebenezer Scrooge.’
‘Grumpy? Brooding, you mean,’ she murmurs. ‘Like Mr Darcy. Or the one that was on The X Factor last year.’
‘Whatever you say.’ I grin.
‘And he
’s a bit of a heartbreaker, apparently.’
‘Oh? Well, I can’t see it.’
‘Then there must be something wrong with your eyesight.’
Mercifully, the conversation is cut short when Samuel ventures on to the sofa next to us. ‘Are you from England, Zoe?’ he asks.
‘I am, sweetheart,’ I tell him, straightening his T-shirt.
‘I am from Hope Falls,’ he declares.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘And I’m going to stay with you here, aren’t I?’
‘Can I come to England?’ he asks.
‘Well, one day I’m sure you’ll be able to,’ I say, thinking that perhaps in fifteen years’ time he might join the throngs of US students backpacking round Europe.
‘Today?’ he says hopefully.
Ruby bursts into fits of giggles and leans over to hug him. This starts Samuel giggling. ‘You silly thing,’ she says, kissing his head. ‘England’s too far away to go to today. It’s even further than Maine.’
Trudie and I are quizzed on everything from what language is spoken in England to whether we have ever eaten a Gummi Bear. When, eventually, they go back to the TV I turn to Trudie again. ‘I take it your earlier comment – about the men here – means you’re not attached?’
‘Au contraire,’ she replies, raising her eyebrows. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard someone utter a French phrase in quite such a thick Yorkshire accent. ‘I’ve met my ideal man while I’ve been over here. I said the talent isn’t world class in Hope Falls. My bloke lives on the other side of town.’
‘Ah,’ I say.
‘He’s absolutely bloody spectacular,’ she continues dreamily. ‘I love him to bits.’
‘How did you meet?’ I ask.
‘Ritchie’s a tree surgeon and was doing a job at our place in the first week I was here. He was sorting out one of the sugar maples at the bottom of the garden. I first saw him when he was halfway up it with a chainsaw. Took one look at those biceps and, let me tell you, I was his!’
‘Can’t resist a bloke with a power tool, hey?’
The Nearly-Weds Page 3