The Nearly-Weds

by Jane Costello

  This morning when he runs back to the house, his little hands are full of letters. Most of it is junkmail, catalogues and leaflets for things no one wants, but there are some bills too. At first sight, none looks as if it’s for me, but I’ve come to expect that. Most of my correspondence is via email, which is far quicker and more practical. The only downside of checking my inbox is that I spend most of each day wondering whether Jason will have emailed me. When I first got here, I couldn’t stop myself logging on at every opportunity with a pounding heart – which subsided the second I realized that, yet again, there was no word from him.

  I was just getting this under control when I had his phone call. Since then, I’ve been logging on with shaking hands and sweat on my brow – pointless, because all I ever get are emails from Mum.

  As I sort through the letters, I find an envelope near the bottom of the pile that is curious for no other reason than that there is neither a name nor an address on the front. It is made of particularly good-quality paper, but apart from that – and the lack of an addressee – it has no distinguishing features whatsoever.

  Assuming it is another piece of junkmail I tear it open and remove its contents. But the second I catch a glimpse of the piece of paper, I realize it isn’t junkmail, and that I’m not the intended recipient.

  ‘What your letter, Zoe?’ asks Samuel.

  ‘Oh, um, it’s from my daddy,’ I lie, blushing pathetically.

  ‘Can I have it?’ he asks, reaching up.

  ‘Oooh, er, no, I don’t think that’d be a good idea.’

  ‘I want a letter.’

  ‘Sorry, Samuel, you can’t have this one, sweetheart. Now, how about we do something else? Come on, what else would you like to do?’

  His eyes light up with the cheeky glint of someone who has spotted an opportunity. ‘Can I watch SpongeBob?’ he asks, with a hopeful grin.

  ‘Why not?’ I reply, ushering him through the door.

  He looks so surprised that I can tell he’s already wondering whether it might be worth asking for a tub of ice cream and a bucket of popcorn too.

  Now I know that the letter isn’t for me, it would be unreasonable to continue reading it. Which is bloody annoying because, from the quick glance I caught, its contents couldn’t have been juicier than if they were canned by Del Monte.

  I head into the hall and really do intend to fold the letter up, return it to its envelope and leave it on the hall table to await its intended recipient.

  Problem is, as I’m attempting to do this, I’m attacked by an insurgent group of rebel brain cells. Brain cells that camp out somewhere in my head and ambush me from time to time.

  It is those brain cells that force me, against my will, to purchase and wolf Crunchie bars when I have vowed only hours earlier to follow a strict macrobiotic diet, as favoured by Gwyneth Paltrow.

  It is the same brain cells that march me to the shops and compel me to use my Visa card on a new pair of strappy shoes, which are certain to bust my overdraft and match not a single item in my wardrobe.

  It is those brain cells that are responsible for all manner of scurrilous decisions on my part. Of which sneaking Ryan’s letter into a corner of the hallway so I can read it is undoubtedly one.

  Darling Ryan,

  It is weeks since I last wrote to you and it has taken all of my willpower not to write again before now. I am assuming there is a good reason why you haven’t responded to my first letter. I don’t know what it could be, but I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt.

  I saw you in the city on Tuesday, you know. You were having a business lunch with someone at that new place in Boylston Street. I was so tempted to come and say hello but I wasn’t alone at the time so I couldn’t.

  You were wearing the black shirt I love you in so much. I couldn’t help but notice. You really suit dark colours, Ryan, I always said so. It brings out the colour in those amazing eyes of yours.

  You’re probably wondering by now what this letter is all about and in some ways so am, I. I suppose I just needed to make contact with you and reiterate what I said last time. To reach out to you and beg you not to ignore me. No, not beg. I don’t beg, do I? It really isn’t my style. But, then, I think you know that.

  What is the case, though, Ryan, is that there is so much more to me that you don’t yet know. What we started was just that – the start. The start of something beautiful, if you’ll let it be. Please, Ryan, listen to your heart – and your head. We’re great together and you know it deep down. Just don’t make the biggest mistake of your life by not recognizing it, my love.

  Yours for ever,

  Juliet

  XXX

  ‘Can I read your letter, Zoe?’ asks Ruby.

  I jump and hide it behind my back, aware that I couldn’t look more suspicious if I was wearing a false beard and glasses. ‘Er, no, it’s just a bill,’ I say.

  ‘You told Samuel it was from your daddy. I heard you.’

  ‘It is.’ I blush. ‘My dad’s called Bill. It’s just that I think you’d find it boring, that’s all.’

  ‘You told me his name was Gordon,’ she tells me.

  ‘It’s like living with Inspector Poirot round here.’ I sigh. ‘Look, it’s a private letter, okay? Simple as that. And I would, just this once, like to keep it to myself. Is that okay with you?’

  ‘Is it a love letter?’ She grins. ‘Come on, Zoe, is it a love letter?’

  ‘No!’ I tell her, shaking my head in mock exasperation. ‘Absolutely not.’ Well, I’m half telling the truth.

  Chapter 26

  My plan is simply to go out and buy some envelopes, put Ryan’s letter into one, slip it in with the rest of the mail and pretend I’ve not seen it. I’m anxious to make sure he doesn’t get the impression that I’m the sort of person who would wilfully disregard his privacy by reading what is obviously a very personal letter. Even if I am that sort of person.

  The rest of the day, however, isn’t just hectic, it’s like a bad day in Bedlam times ten.

  First, there is synchronized-swimming practice for Ruby, which I smugly deliver her to ten minutes early before realizing I’ve left her swimsuit in the hallway. By the time we get home and back, we’re impossibly late and everyone else has miraculously graduated to some elaborate movement called the Oyster, while poor Ruby is still struggling to tread water.

  She accepts this with incredibly good grace, but it doesn’t take a psychology textbook and home tuition with Sigmund Freud to work out that she’s upset. I feel terrible about this – but, sadly, it’s only the start.

  Next, we head for the tip down the road to throw away some boxes of non-recyclable rubbish that have been cluttering up one of the cupboards in the hall since I arrived. Both children want to help and I see no reason not to let them. It’s only when we’re leaving that I marvel at how clean and clutter-free the boot looks – then realize that, actually, it isn’t meant to.

  In her enthusiasm, Ruby has also thrown into one of the skips a bag that contains half of Ryan’s wardrobe, which I’d been supposed to take to the dry-cleaner’s. Panic-stricken, I consider my options, recognize that there aren’t many and settle on the only thing left open to me.

  By the time I have jumped into the skip, located the offending item and am attempting to wade out again, I have a rusty bed-spring tangled in my hair, a generous portion of old pizza poking out of the top of my T-shirt and several burly blokes from the local authority standing at the side and threatening to have me arrested.

  ‘I love having you as a nanny, Zoe!’ Ruby giggles, as I slam my foot on the accelerator to make our getaway. ‘Just wait till I tell Daddy!’

  Shortly after this I come precariously close to reversing the car into a tree, Ruby falls over outside the house and nearly breaks her leg, and Samuel shoplifts a packet of condoms from the supermarket under the misapprehension that they are a new type of M&Ms.

  The tantrums – which haven’t been so bad over the last few days – start
early at seven o’clock. To give Ruby and Samuel some credit, their excuses are becoming almost impressive in their inventiveness. Tonight Ruby announces there is a leak in her bedroom ceiling and she can’t possibly go to bed in case she is dripped on.

  ‘Ruby,’ I say calmly, ‘there is no leak in your bedroom ceiling. It couldn’t be drier if it was in the middle of the Sahara desert.’

  She sticks out her bottom lip.

  ‘Mine drips too,’ says Samuel, in what is either a display of solidarity with his sister or a blatant attempt to pinch her excuse. ‘Drip, drip, drip!’

  ‘No, it doesn’t!’ I shrill, in my merriest, most upbeat tone – although I’m as weary as someone who has trekked cross-country on a donkey for several days before realizing they’ve left the iron on at home. ‘Now, what did you do with your pyjamas?’

  ‘I don’t like pyjamas,’ Samuel informs me.

  ‘Course you do, sweetie!’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘But these are your favourites, Samuel! Look!’

  ‘Nooooooooo!’

  At that point I discover that my strict new rule of drinking alcohol no more than once a week – devised last night when I was ordering my third glass of wine on a girls’ night out – is in serious jeopardy. The prospect of grabbing a bottle of beer and conversing on the phone with Trudie for a minimum of an hour and a half is too tempting.

  At nine twenty-one, the moment finally arrives, when I creep upstairs and put my ear to each child’s door and hear something sublime. Silence.

  My shoulders relax, I take a deep breath and head downstairs, straight for the fridge. I refuse to be disheartened by the fact that, once again, Ryan has left an almost full plate of pasta on the work surface for the house-work fairy (i.e. me) to make disappear.

  I have my hand on a bottle of Coors when I hear him coming into the kitchen. ‘Oh, hi!’ I say. ‘Just trying to find a little snack for supper.’

  But as I turn and glimpse his face, I see he’s about as interested in whether or not I’m snaffling his beer as the weather forecast in the Galapagos Islands. ‘Would you care to tell me what this is about?’ he thunders. He’s clutching the letter I found earlier today.

  ‘What what’s all about?’ I ask angelically.

  ‘You’ve been opening my mail!’

  ‘No!’ I splutter. ‘Well, yes. I mean—’

  ‘Why would anyone do that?’

  The question is delivered with such force I could easily believe he’s about three seconds away from turning into the Incredible Hulk.

  ‘Why would someone come into my home and open my private mail?’

  ‘I – I didn’t mean to open it!’ I know I sound pathetic.

  ‘What? Your hand just slipped? You accidentally opened the envelope, accidentally took out the letter, then accidentally disposed of the envelope?’

  ‘Well . . . yes!’ I reply, hoping I’m maintaining a suitably dignified air, despite my cheeks feeling so hot you could fry an egg on them. ‘The thing is there was no—’

  ‘Oh, man!’ he interrupts. ‘You are a piece of work! You seriously expect me to believe that? I gotta tell you, I’ve seen some crappy behaviour from nannies before now but none as bad as this. I mean, what in God’s name . . .’

  As Ryan continues his tirade, I grow more and more indignant. Okay, I shouldn’t have read the letter, but it really was an accident that I opened it. And, besides, do I really deserve this sort of berating after what I’ve had to put up with so far in this job?

  With my own blood reaching simmering point, I know the only way to deal with this situation is swiftly and with singular aim: to demonstrate that Zoe Moore is not the kind of woman who puts up with such behaviour.

  Empowered by this thought, I lift up my left hand and go to slam it down on the work surface, determined that the force of this – with my steely, authoritative glare – will shut him up immediately, then have him begging for forgiveness.

  Sadly, I fail to factor into the equation Ryan’s uneaten plate of pasta, which is in the way of my fist as I bring it down.

  As my hand lands, the plate and its ribbons of tomato tagliatelle are propelled into the air and across the room in a firework effect, the likes of which I haven’t seen since the opening ceremony of the last Olympics.

  As the plate clatters on to the tiles and smashes into what must be eighty-odd pieces, my heart is thumping crazily and I’m almost panting with panic.

  Right, Zoe, hold yourself together. Think of a sensible strategy with which to respond to this. Beg for forgiveness, maybe? Pretend it was always my intention to redecorate the walls this evening? Run?

  Oh, shit . . .

  Then I notice something. Okay, so it wasn’t quite what I had in mind. But Ryan – sporting a dollop of tomato sauce on his nose – is well and truly stunned into silence.

  I straighten my back and frown at him. He’s had an important meeting today – I can tell because he has shaved and is wearing an expensive white shirt that makes the skin on his neck look gloriously sun-kissed and smooth. My eyes are drawn to the erotic curve of his Adam’s apple and a terrible mental image flashes through my mind – of my lips brushing it. I’m spellbound by the sensual contours of his cheekbones, his determined brow and his indecently full lips.

  He’s breathtaking, he really is. No matter how arrogant, angry or annoying he is, nothing can take that away from him.

  But I can’t let it distract me. ‘I was trying to tell you,’ I say, ‘that your letter came in an envelope which had no name and no address on it. I did not know it was for you. And I certainly did not know the nature of its contents.’

  He straightens his back, clearly reminding himself that he’s supposed to be annoyed with me. ‘But now you do, huh?’

  I shake my head at him silently, with the calculated expression of disappointment you’d see on a dog trainer whose King Charles Spaniel has just pooed on the carpet.

  Before he has a chance to say or do anything other than feel uncomfortable, I turn and – ignoring the mess I’ve made – walk to the fridge. I open it and pointedly pick out not one, not two, but three bottles of beer. Then I slam it and head for the door. ‘I’m going to bed,’ I announce.

  I march upstairs, feeling a surge of elation. I have made Ryan shut up and listen to me. Unbelievable!

  I’m just about to crack open a congratulatory beer, when I realize I’ve forgotten to bring anything to open it with.

  Don’t worry, Zoe. This is not a disaster. I can still get a bottle-opener without ruining the effect of my spectacular exit. The drawer where it’s kept is at the side of the kitchen next to the door. So, even if Ryan is still in there, I can creep downstairs, open the door and scurry quietly back up with it before he notices me.

  I’m in the kitchen with my hand in the drawer when I catch sight of Ryan on the other side of the room doing something that shocks me: he’s wiping tomato sauce off the walls with a cloth and some kitchen spray. It isn’t that he has never seen a bottle of cleaning fluid before: it’s just that, the few times I’ve seen him examine one, it’s with the sort of bewilderment you’d see on the face of a caveman who is attempting to assemble an IKEA flat-pack.

  When he catches me looking at him, he stands up and reaches into his back pocket. ‘Here,’ he says, holding out the bottle-opener. ‘I used it earlier.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say curtly, taking it from him.

  ‘Sure,’ he replies.

  I am about to march out of the room, when he’s looking at me again and I feel a flush of heat at my neck.

  He’s smirking.

  What has he got to smirk about? As I frown back, his mouth twitches and I realize he’s trying to suppress a giggle.

  For some reason, the idea makes me smile – which triggers something in him. Laughter. Uncontrollable, slightly hysterical laughter that, it’s clear, isn’t going to stop, no matter how firmly he holds the back of his hand to his mouth.

  Worse, it’s infectious. I find mys
elf joining in, chuckling at first, then full-on, unstoppable howling.

  It becomes cyclical. Every time I think I’ve got myself under control, I catch sight of his face, which starts me off again. And him.

  Eventually, with tears in his eyes, Ryan directs me to the door. ‘Get outta here,’ he manages, between snorts. ‘Crazy woman.’

  As I run giddily up the stairs, it strikes me that this is possibly the strangest thing that’s happened since I got here. Oh, God, now I really need a beer.

  Chapter 27

  I must confess that it’s been a number of years since I went to church for anything other than weddings, funerals or christenings. About twenty, to be exact. It’s not that I don’t believe in God, I do. I think. It’s just that the level of conviction I had aged nine hasn’t stayed with me. Besides, my grandma Bonnie is no longer around to tell me I’ll go to hell if I don’t turn up each week with freshly washed hair and shoes so shiny they dazzle half the congregation.

  In America, church attendance seems to be at a far healthier level than it is in the UK. As the other nannies and I walk into St Stephen’s, our neighbourhood Episcopalian church, and assemble our rabble of children near the back, the place is so packed you’d think they’d come to watch Frank Sinatra on the first date of a world tour.

  ‘I really thought, when I started exploring the principles of Scientology, that I’d never set foot in a mainstream church again,’ Amber tells me earnestly.

  ‘When did you start exploring the principles of Scientology?’ I ask.

  ‘Last Tuesday.’

  The church is a traditional one, and just being there plunges me into thoughts of my wedding day. Not that I got as far as being inside the church. But I still keep thinking about it all the same.

  I often find myself drifting into a fantasy world, in which our usher Andrew – instead of dragging himself over to Dad and me to tell us that Jason had done a runner – smiles broadly and says, ‘You look amazing, Zoe. Jason’s a lucky man. He won’t know what’s hit him when he sees you walking down that aisle – although I know he’ll be relieved. He’s been here for the last thirty-five minutes.’