It isn’t as if I’m not trying. The day before yesterday Ryan instructed me to ‘Just throw my washing in with the kids’, wouldya?’ Even though the agency I’m with specifies that the only laundry nannies should do is the children’s, I don’t want to win myself a reputation for pedantry, so I ended up doing two and a half loads for him. I don’t think that man has washed a pair of his own underpants since Christmas.
And what did I get in return? I’m not saying I expected chocolates, but a plain old ‘Thank you’ might have been nice. Instead, Ryan picked up his freshly laundered clothes without a word and took them to his bedroom.
Then there was last night’s phone call. The children were playing up again before they went to bed – I’ve got them down to nine o’clock now, after a good two-hour wind-down period. And Ruby refused to go near her bedroom unless I let her phone Daddy to say goodnight.
I duly made the call, let her ‘kiss’ him goodnight and was about to hang up when he asked to speak to me.
‘Kids aren’t meant to be awake at this time of night,’ he informed me. ‘I was speaking to one of the guys at work and his kids are in bed by seven thirty.’
‘I know!’ I was overwhelmed with relief that, finally, he might be prepared to recognize what I’ve been battling with for weeks. ‘It’s been so difficult to handle. If there’s anything you can do to help I’d—’
‘Well, can you deal with it?’ he said.
‘Deal with it?’
‘Yeah. It can’t be good for them.’
‘If only you’d said that before!’ I almost cried, but restrained myself. ‘Of course,’ I told him flatly. ‘No problem.’
I put the phone down, heart pounding with frustration. Ryan Miller might have been through the mill emotionally but that didn’t mean I’d let him walk all over me.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ruby. ‘You’re not sick, are you?’
‘No, sweetheart,’ I smiled, squeezing her hand. Not unless a severe pain in the backside counts.
Chapter 21
Ryan’s BlackBerry has a ring tone so irritatingly high-pitched that it’s a wonder the entire canine population of the neighbourhood doesn’t turn up on our doorstep each time it goes off. As its manic beeping grows ever more frantic, I pick it up from the kitchen table and scurry to the study. It stops as I reach the door. Ryan’s thunderous brow is buried in his laptop and he’s typing so hard and fast he seems liable to break a couple of fingers at any moment.
I hand him the BlackBerry. ‘You just missed a call.’
He takes it from me. ‘Uh-huh,’ he grunts, which, for my own sanity, I choose to interpret as thanks. I’m about to leave when he says, ‘About the laundry.’
I’m stunned. I couldn’t have misjudged him, could I? Could it really be that even Ryan Miller isn’t so bad that he’ll let someone do nearly three loads of washing for him without saying, ‘Thank you’? ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say, feeling strangely elated. ‘There was quite a lot, but I don’t mind doing—’
‘You turned one of my shirts pink.’
‘What?’
‘One of my shirts,’ he continues flatly, ‘is now pink.’
Take a deep breath. Ryan is half right. He does now have a pink shirt. The fact of the matter, however – the crucial fact of the matter – is that it was pink when it went into the machine. How am I so certain? Because so pink was that shirt that I remember thinking it looked like something you’d choose for a Barbara Cartland tribute evening.
‘I’m pretty sure it was already pink,’ I tell him. ‘I do remember the one you’re talking about and—’
‘Are you trying to tell me I don’t know my own shirts?’ he says.
That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you.
‘Well, I’m just pointing out—’
‘Look, I’m not going to sack you for it, I’m just telling you,’ he continues, ‘so it doesn’t happen next time.’
There wasn’t supposed to be a sodding first time, never mind a next!
‘But – but – but—’ I’m doing a very good impression of a backfiring lawnmower.
‘Let’s just leave it,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to make this into a big deal. I was just mentioning it.’
‘For next time?’ My voice drips with irony.
‘Yeah,’ he replies, apparently not noticing.
He buries his head in his laptop again.
I’m about to leave quietly when I catch sight of one of the antiques on a side table. The house is full of antiques, some conventional, others less so. This falls into the latter category: a toy bow and arrow. The bow is only two or three feet long and the end of the arrow is bound with faded red rope so there are no sharp bits.
I don’t know what possesses me to pick it up now, given that I’ve passed it on countless occasions before and never given it a second thought. But, with Ryan’s back to me, I pull the arrow against the bow, aiming it at his head as I suppress a giggle. Obviously I’m not going to let go. In any case, the last time I did archery in the Girl Guides the only thing I hit was my own toe because I kept dropping the arrow.
But the perfection of the moment – with the bow taut against my face and Ryan oblivious to my little joke – is nothing less than delicious.
‘Zo-eee! What are you doing?’
I gasp and turn to see Ruby’s horrified face. In the split second that I search for an excuse, my attention is diverted again.
‘Arrgh!’
‘What is it?’ I revolve back to Ryan, heart pounding in my throat.
He is leaning forwards in his chair, groaning and holding both hands over his right eye.
‘Oh dear – has something flown into your eye?’ I ask optimistically.
‘Yes – a three-foot fucking arrow!’
‘Oh, God! It can’t have! I’m a terrible shot!’
‘Well, the fact that you’re on form today isn’t making me feel a whole lot better.’
‘Are you sure it was me?’ Okay, so I might be in a state of denial.
‘I’m sure. Look!’
‘Arrrrrrggh!’ scream Ruby and Samuel, who has now joined us to see what the commotion is about.
Ryan’s eye has swelled into something the shape of an ostrich egg and the colour of full-bodied beetroot soup.
Right. Don’t panic, Zoe. Whatever you do, don’t panic. This is a perfect opportunity to impress them with your swift and dynamic response to this emergency situation.
‘I don’t suppose you fancy another cup of coffee?’
Chapter 22
The bow-and-arrow incident didn’t exactly do wonders for my working relationship with Ryan. In fact, the only positive thing I can say about it is that he didn’t fire me. I was surprised, I must say, but more relieved than anything else. Being sacked for shooting the boss in the head doesn’t sit well on anyone’s CV.
However, the three-rounds-with-Mike-Tyson look meant Ryan had to cancel a week’s worth of meetings, which gave him even more reason to stomp about like a bad-tempered bear with a hangover.
And since I’m on the subject, I’ve started recently to notice how much Ryan drinks. Admittedly, this might just be in comparison with Jason, who never drank at home. Like me, he preferred to save his recommended alcohol units and use them all up on a Saturday night before hitting a late-night curry house.
With Ryan, it isn’t that he gets rolling drunk, just that when he comes home from work, at whatever time that might be, the first thing he does is to throw his laptop case into the corner of the hallway, loosen his tie, then dive into his whiskey with a glint of desperation in his eye. Our recycling bin permanently looks as if it belongs outside Yates’s Wine Lodge after a brisk weekend’s trading.
This, of course, is on the evenings Ryan spends at home. Often he is out with some mysterious woman. All I know about her is that she wears one hell of a lot of perfume. The fact that he comes home reeking of it may mean he’s spending his nights at Macy’s cardholder evenings trying out the new f
ragrances from Nina Ricci, but I doubt it.
‘Zoe, can you make Scouse for dinner?’ asks Ruby, as we arrive home from a day in the park with Trudie, Amber and the other children. Her accent makes the plain old meat and potato stew sound positively exotic.
‘I will one day,’ I tell her, hoping I can put off this request till next Easter at the earliest.
As the children follow me into the kitchen I notice that the answer-machine is flashing up a message. I press the button and go to get some pasta from the cupboard.
‘Hey, Ryan . . . how’s it going?’
The woman’s voice is so husky it makes Mariella Frostrup’s sound like Tweety Pie.
‘It’s Christina. From the other night . . .’
I drop the pasta packet and glare at the children.
‘I just wanted to say, I think you and I had something real special going on . . .’
Oh, my God. They can’t be exposed to someone whispering suggestive sweet nothings to their father.
‘I’d really love to get together again because that thing you did to me . . . you know what I’m talking about . . .’
I dive across the kitchen and attempt to switch it off. Unfortunately I’m not very strong on technology and, faced with an array of flashing buttons, I panic.
‘That was ecstasy, Ryan . . .’
As I press the buttons frantically – and they refuse to obey me – I grapple with the phone.
‘And it was definitely an experience I’d like to repeat . . .’
Oh, God, oh, God! Another tactic, Zoe.
‘Is this the way to Amar-i-llo!’ I shriek at the top of my voice. ‘Fa la la la la la la pillow!’
Both kids stare at me as if I’m deranged.
‘La la la la Amar-i-llooh!’
I continue bashing random buttons.
‘Fa la la la la la la la!’
Finally, miraculously, it pays off and, mid-seductive murmur, the message stops.
‘Ahem.’ I cough, straightening my top. ‘That was a friend of mine.’
Ruby frowns. ‘I thought she said the message was for Daddy?’
‘Er, yes. Well spotted,’ I concede. ‘She, um, is going to be doing some work for your dad. I recommended her.’
‘What kind of work?’ asks Ruby, suspiciously.
I scan the kitchen and spot Ryan’s suit hanging in the corner. ‘Some dry-cleaning. That’s right. Yes. Dry-cleaning. She’s the best in the business is my mate, um, Karen.’
‘She said she was called Christina,’ Ruby informs me.
‘Oh, did she? Well, that’s her professional name.’
‘Dry-cleaners have professional names?’ Ruby screws up her nose.
I usher her back to the table. ‘Look, young lady, you ask too many questions. Now, what happened to that collage you were making for me earlier?’
‘I couldn’t find anything to do your hair with. We’ve run out of Brillo pads.’
Because I’ve already listened to at least some of the message from Christina there’s no flashing light to alert Ryan later to its existence. Which, sadly, means I’ve got to do the job myself. I wait until both kids are in bed – at a miraculous eight forty-five, with less than one and a half hours’ worth of pre-sleep tantrums – before I bring the subject up.
‘Ahem,’ I begin, as Ryan is downing his fourth bottle of beer. ‘There was a message for you on the answer-machine.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he replies, as he surveys the contents of the fridge. ‘Who from?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I mutter. Conversations between Ryan and me haven’t been exactly world-beating and the thought of leaping straight to his bedroom antics doesn’t seem a particularly good way to improve matters. ‘You’d probably better listen to it yourself.’
He frowns as he pushes up the sleeves of his dark blue shirt – which I’m sure was once gorgeous but now looks as if it was last ironed at the turn of the century. ‘Fine,’ he says, approaching the machine. As he stands next to me, he gives his shoulder-blade a short, hard massage.
My eyes are glued to his fingers as they manipulate his golden flesh, which I can just see beyond the tired edges of his collar.
‘Right!’ I croak. ‘I think I’ll get an early night. Cheerio!’
Cheerio? Where did that come from?
‘Zoe?’ he says, as I reach the door.
‘Er, yes?’
‘There are no messages.’
‘Oh,’ I say, wondering whether I wiped it during my gymnastics with the machine earlier. ‘Right. Er, maybe I imagined it.’
I head for the door.
‘Wait . . . What did it say?’
I scrunch up my face, as comfortable with this as a bronze turkey feels three days before Christmas.
‘Um . . . It was from a lady,’ I tell him, hoping optimistically that that will be enough.
He opens the third button on his shirt. I find my eyes drawn to it – is his chest hairy or smooth? This is another issue I’ve thought about more than once recently. All bets so far are on hairy.
‘And?’
‘She was called Christina,’ I offer.
He peers up at one of the lights above the oven. You can almost hear the cogs in his brain turning as he roots in the depths of his mind for information on exactly who Christina might be. As he leans on the work surface in contemplation, his collar moves and I can make out a shadow of chest hair. Ha! Knew it!
‘O-kay,’ he says. ‘Thanks.’
I tear my eyes away from him and am about to walk through the door when he coughs. ‘Zoe . . .’
I wince. ‘Hmm?’
‘If she phones again, and it goes onto voicemail, don’t pick up, okay?’
‘Don’t?’
‘I’d kind of like to avoid her,’ he clarifies.
I’m sure he’s embarrassed. ‘Of course. No problem.’
He smiles at me. It’s a strange, almost humble smile. A smile that seems to indicate appreciation of my understanding and discretion.
I find myself mesmerized by it, unable to move or say anything. I’m transfixed by his eyes as they gaze at me, for the first time, without a combative edge. Without the frown, he’s so much more alluring, so much more captivating . . .
‘Night then!’ I say cheerfully.
‘Sure,’ he replies. ‘G’night.’
When I get to my room, I snuggle into bed and contemplate the whole Ryan business. My theory is this: the low-key attraction I have developed towards him is a defence mechanism. Having suffered the worst rejection possible – abandonment on my wedding day by a man I am truly, madly in love with – I’m latching on to the first good-looking bloke I come across, although he is arrogant, emotionally detached and permanently angry.
I suspect I go weak at the knees when Ryan looks at me because I’m trying subconsciously to prove to myself that I am capable of fancying a man other than Jason. That’s it. It’s got to be.
I’m now as convinced by this explanation as I am that my infatuation with Ryan’s upper arms will pass as quickly as it developed. I pick up my Jackie Collins book, reassured that this is part of an emotional healing process. It might have been nice if my subconscious had picked on someone rather more appropriate than my boss.
I’m just about to get stuck into Chapter sixty-four, when my phone rings. It might be Trudie. She said she’d call this evening to talk about potential outings with the kids tomorrow. As I go to pick up, however, I catch a glimpse of the number flashing on the screen and gasp.
Because it isn’t Trudie. It’s a UK number – and one I know very well.
I haven’t heard a peep out of Jason for months, despite my best efforts to contact him in the early days. Yet here he is, apparently phoning me now.
With my hand over my mouth and my heart racing so fast I’m surprised my bloodstream can keep up, I stare at the phone.
Christ – do I pick up?
No, no, I can’t.
But I want to . . .
No, you bloody well don’t, Zo
e Moore. This is a man who not only jilted you but didn’t have the decency to explain why. So don’t be ridiculous. Really.
But I love him . . .
My finger hovers over the little green button, but before I can press it, the ringing stops. My mind is a whirl and I’m gripping the phone so hard my knuckles are white.
Okay, Zoe. Stay calm. Stay cool.
The best tactic here is to check if he’s left a message. If he hasn’t, it’s essential I don’t give the incident a second thought.
I dial my voicemail fourteen times.
And each time it responds with the same five, unforgiving words: ‘You have no new messages.’
I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, trying to work out what to do. Every cell in my body is urging me to pick up the phone and ring him back. But something stops me. Is it pride? I don’t think so. I lost all that after our wedding day, when I continued to phone him, refusing to listen to what everyone else was telling me: Zoe, he doesn’t want you any more, so you’ve got to forget him and move on.
It wasn’t easy. It took every bit of will I had to book that airline ticket to New York and tell myself I had to accept that I’d never see him again. That I had to build a new life without him.
That’s the reason I mustn’t phone him back: I’ve come this far without him and I’ve got to keep going. It’s a question of self-preservation. I have no idea what he wants to say to me, but one thing I am certain of is that it will take me back to square one, back to the days of emotional turmoil when crying was the first thing I did in the morning and the last thing I did at night.
I switch off the phone decisively and, wrapping my sheet round my shoulders, shuffle to my open window. A warm breeze dances across my skin as I look up at the moon, so bright tonight that the trees are almost floodlit.
I try my absolute best to stop thinking about what happened. But my thoughts are dragged, kicking and screaming, back to Liverpool, back to everything it represents.
I glance down at the windowsill as a tear splashes on to it, followed quickly by another. With hot eyes and a lump in my throat, I know I’ll never sleep.
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