The Nearly-Weds

by Jane Costello

  Now I’m definitely suspicious. ‘Er, right. What?’

  ‘I need you to come out with me tonight,’ he announces.

  I drop my knife. As it clatters to the floor, I come within an inch of amputating my little toe. Ruby gasps and jumps up, squashing Barbie’s boobs into the table. ‘Daddy, are you and Zoe going on a date?’ she squeals.

  ‘No!’ we reply in unison. My cheeks are suddenly very hot.

  ‘I have a black-tie dinner to go to,’ Ryan explains. ‘An extremely important black-tie dinner. One I can’t afford to miss. And the person who was supposed to be coming with me has let me down.’

  ‘Right,’ I reply half-heartedly. There probably isn’t a woman I know who wouldn’t jump at the opportunity for a date with someone who looks like Ryan. But I’m acutely aware of how inappropriate the semi-lustful feelings he arouses in me are and have started to think that I must do more to keep them in check.

  I know they’re nothing more than the result of my broken heart, but that doesn’t make them acceptable, given that he’s my boss. To go on a date with him, as Ruby says, is asking for trouble.

  ‘Um, couldn’t you try someone else?’ I add.

  ‘I have. It’s too late in the day.’

  ‘So I’m the last resort, am I?’

  He ignores me.

  ‘Who’s going to look after the kids?’ I ask.

  ‘Uh, I’ll phone Barbara King and see if they can stay over,’ he says.

  ‘Barbara King?’ I ask. He must have lost his marbles. I know Trudie wouldn’t mind, but Barbara’s another matter. She’d have more fondness for a serial killer than she has for Ryan.

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ he asks.

  ‘I didn’t think you two got on.’

  ‘We don’t. But I’m not asking her to spend the night with me, I’m asking her to spend it with my kids. She thinks she’s the perfect neighbour. Now she can prove it.’

  ‘But I can’t go!’ I leap in, as he picks up the phone.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I – I have absolutely nothing to wear!’

  The second I say this I kick myself. To a bloke’s ears, this line is like trying to get out of jury duty because you’ve developed a zit. But not only is it crucially important to me, it also happens to be true.

  When I packed for the US, I never imagined I’d go out anywhere particularly swanky, at least nowhere more glamorous than the local bar. And just because I plan to be here for a year, it doesn’t mean there was any more room in my suitcase than there would have been for a two-week trip to Majorca. So, the posh dresses stayed behind, while the jeans came with me.

  ‘You’ll need to do better than that,’ Ryan tells me.

  ‘So what am I supposed to go in?’ I’m exasperated now.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’ll fix it for you.’

  I must look worried.

  ‘Relax,’ he insists. ‘We’ll find something great for you to wear.’

  Suddenly my spirits rise as it dawns on me what he’s suggesting. I’m thinking Richard Gere. I’m thinking Julia Roberts. I’m thinking that seminal moment in Pretty Woman where he takes her to Rodeo Drive and spends a fortune on getting her kitted out. I’m thinking, Yippee!

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘I suppose I’ll do it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You owe me one,’ I add, trying not to sound as cheerful as I now feel.

  As Ryan picks up the phone to negotiate with Barbara King about the children staying the night, I consider whether to go for purple or red. Purple is definitely my colour, but red is so much more versatile – or so Grazia magazine always says. What am I thinking? Red, purple, who cares? As long as it’s new and it’s on Ryan’s credit card, it doesn’t matter.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Ryan is saying to Barbara, through gritted teeth. He’s about to put down the phone when he hesitates. ‘Oh, and one more thing,’ he continues. ‘I’m sending Zoe over right now. I need you to loan her a dress.’

  Chapter 35

  I love coming into the heart of Boston, with its awe-inspiring combination of gorgeous old public buildings, lush parks and huge, glistening skyscrapers. Top of my list of favourite places is Newbury Street, filled with elegant art galleries I keep meaning to visit, smart restaurants I wish someone would take me to, and topnotch boutiques in which I’m forever window-shopping. (I do so hoping that the assistants might have me down for the wealthy daughter of a British diplomat, not just someone who can’t afford one of their carrier-bags.)

  It’s here that I find myself for Ryan’s dinner, which is taking place in the swishest hotel in the city, a magnificent 1920s landmark at the end of the street, overlooking the Chanel boutique on one side and Boston Common on the other. I know I should be revelling in the occasion, its glitz and glamour, and as I step into the lobby I try to emulate the confident, sassy stride of the other women.

  Only it isn’t happening.

  Barbara King’s strappy stilettos don’t help. She’s the equivalent of a British size six. I’m a five. A small difference, I’d thought, but as I discovered – when I stumbled down the porch stairs and almost head first into a shrub – an absolutely crucial one.

  We are greeted at the door by a pouting blonde, with a waist the size of my upper arm, and directed to the grand ballroom.

  ‘This way,’ says Ryan, opening a door for me. ‘Oh, and – you look . . . um . . . nice, by the way.’

  He catches my eye as he says this and my stomach flutters wildly. I almost kick myself: how ridiculously naïve and primeval. Aside from my determination to end my infatuation, Ryan’s words are evidently the manifestation of some management technique he picked up on an expensive course his company sent him on – words designed to keep up my spirits in the face of adversity. Because the fact is I don’t look nice: I look as if I’ve been given a makeover by a lunatic with severe colour blindness.

  As well as the ill-fitting shoes, I have to contend with wearing the skimpiest dress I’ve ever been near in my life, an item that would be too small to cover a bulimic guinea-pig, never mind me and my unshakeable sixteen and a half pounds.

  It became clear while I was getting ready that this dress was too revealing for me to wear in its original state so I customized it with the help of several safety-pins, which are now holding bits of fabric in place so that I can retain at least a degree of modesty.

  It’s just about working. I’ve got a pin under each armpit, two at either side of the waist and one at the back. But if any of them decides to pop open during the evening, I’ll find myself in an impromptu acupuncture session.

  ‘I hate this dress,’ I mutter, through a fixed smile, as I stumble over another step.

  ‘You look great,’ Ryan replies. ‘Hey – I’m serious.’

  I feel an alarmingly pleasurable sensation in my groin. Oh, get a grip, Zoe!

  I wanted to try on at least six other outfits in Barbara King’s wardrobe, but she slapped my wrist as if I was a naughty six-year-old reaching for sweeties. The floor-length black Valentino was out of the question. The purple Roberto Cavalli too. I was flashed a don’t-even-go-there look over the red YSL and the cream D&G. Not that I’d have fitted into any of them. But they would have been better than this hideous yellow number, in which I feel like the star turn at a lap-dance bar.

  Furthermore, you know how all the magazines say that gorgeous underwear does wonders for your confidence? Well, the only knickers I had that weren’t in the wash was a pair of novelty Wonder Woman briefs I got in a Secret Santa at the nursery four Christmases ago.

  Need I say more?

  What makes this immeasurably worse is that Ryan has scrubbed up so well this evening that every woman in the room will be drooling over him, including – and, God, I hate admitting this – me.

  He’s sexier than any 007 in his tux. His shoulders seem even broader, his stomach even tighter. His clear eyes and burnished skin stand out all the more against the crispness of his shi
rt. The slight roughness of his hands is in beautiful contrast with the formality of his attire. He smells sensational and I can’t work out why. It’s the same aftershave he usually wears, but with undercurrents of something else that I spent an insane proportion of our journey here attempting to identify.

  In short, he has never been more desirable, more dripping with sex appeal. He is the embodiment of masculine perfection.

  For which I feel like kicking him in the shin.

  As we walk into the grand ballroom, I grab a glass of champagne from the first passing tray and take a deliberate sip.

  ‘Come on,’ instructs Ryan. ‘Let’s go and talk to some people. Don’t worry – I’ll introduce you.’

  I throw back the rest of my champagne and, heart pounding like a demon percussion instrument, scuttle behind Ryan, telling myself not to panic. To stay calm. To remember that I can be as refined, elegant and cosmopolitan as anyone else in this place. Even if my dress does resemble a duster.

  ‘Ryan, how are you?’ booms a voice. We turn round, and a tall, handsome bloke with silver hair and a Paul Newman smile shakes Ryan’s hand.

  ‘Michael, good to see you,’ Ryan responds. ‘Zoe, this is Michael Ronson.’

  I’m aware that we’ve somehow ended up among a group of people the size of a wedding reception – and that I’m blushing for no fathomable reason.

  ‘And these are Catherine Manford, Jack Bishop, Victor Hislop, James Sorbie, John Kaplovski and Terri Costa,’ Ryan continues.

  As they nod and smile politely, I’m hit by a powerful, rogue thought, which convinces me immediately that I can read every one of their minds – and there’s only one thing going through them: what the hell is that girl wearing?

  Stop it, Zoe! Just remember, you can be as sophisticated as the next person.

  ‘Hiya!’ I shrill, as I grin inanely and – to top off the effect – begin waving. ‘Lovely to meet you all! It really, really is! What a great place! Ha . . . wow!’

  ‘Um, Zoe’s from England,’ offers Ryan.

  They nod and say, ‘Oh,’ and ‘How nice,’ and ‘Great.’ There is an awkward pause.

  As a waiter offers me another glass of champagne, I take it and attempt to break the silence. ‘We’ll all be pissed at this rate!’ I hoot. Everyone stares at me silently. I get the impression they’re not bowled over by my outstanding social grace.

  ‘Um, so, how’re things, Ryan?’ asks Michael Ronson, as the others go back to their own conversations.

  ‘Hey, not bad, under the circumstances. Like everyone else, we’ve had some difficult announcements to make recently, the economy being as it is. It’s a tough old world out there right now.’

  ‘You got it,’ agrees Michael. ‘The market sure is up and down.’

  ‘The Boston Herald seems to be permanently on our case too, but that’s a different story,’ Ryan continues. ‘How ’bout you guys?’

  ‘Much the same.’ Michael nods. ‘Hey, did you hear about Jerry Caplin over at Everright’s?’

  ‘Did I ever.’ Ryan rolls his eyes. ‘That guy’s crazy.’

  I stand in silence, grinning, my eyes following one and then the other. Occasionally, I nod knowingly, as if I’m best buddies with Geoff over in the New York office and, like them, am up to my eyes in the challenges involved in the world of corporate communications.

  ‘Tsk, tell me about it,’ I find myself muttering at one point. But, you see, I’ve got to try. I’m feeling about as useful to this conversation as a suckling pig at a vegetarian dinner party.

  ‘Zoe, this must be so dull for you,’ says Michael finally.

  ‘Oh, no!’ I gush, as if I’d happily have his babies because he’s bothered to talk to me. ‘I don’t mind at all!’

  ‘What do you do for a living?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m Ryan’s nanny. Or rather, Ryan’s kids’ nanny.’

  Michael nods.

  ‘This is the first time he’s let me out in public,’ I add.

  Michael’s eyes glaze over so rapidly that he looks as if he’s being cryogenically frozen. ‘Sure,’ he mutters. ‘Good. Well, Ryan, great talking to you. Catch up soon, buddy.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ Ryan replies.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he tells me, when Michael has gone – I wonder whether he’s reassuring me or himself. ‘This part of the evening is all about business. People will loosen up soon.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure.’ I smile unconvincingly. ‘Really, it’s not a problem.’

  But after three-quarters of an hour of networking all I can think of is networking my way out of the door and back to the house.

  Chapter 36

  The organizers have put us right at the front of the room on an elaborately decorated table boasting a massive centrepiece of black feathers, purple roses and crystals. It’s all so dazzling and I know I should be enjoying myself, but the whole experience is proving as pleasant as colonic irrigation during an A-level maths exam.

  As we arrive at our table, Ryan introduces me to the woman on his left. ‘Zoe, this is Matilda Levin, our vice-president of marketing,’ he says. ‘Matilda, meet Zoe.’

  Matilda is a willowy brunette, so immaculately turned-out she must class moisturizing as one of her hobbies. ‘Zoe,’ she smiles, holding out a hand, ‘very pleased to meet you. You must be the lawyer Ryan’s been dating.’

  ‘Ooh, er, no,’ I mumble.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, raising an eyebrow. ‘The accountant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The interior designer?’

  ‘No. No – no!’ I splutter. ‘Sorry. I’m the nanny.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know you were dating a nanny.’ She smiles at Ryan.

  ‘I’m not,’ he replies.

  ‘I’m just the nanny,’ I clarify. ‘I mean, Ryan’s kids’ nanny.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, still smiling. ‘Fascinating. Where are you from?’

  ‘England, for my sins.’ I smile back.

  ‘I love England! We’ve just got to have a chat!’

  I feel overwhelmed with relief that I’ve found someone to talk to, until Matilda grabs Ryan’s arm. ‘But first, Ryan, I need to bounce something off you about the media packs we’ve put together. I’ve been trying to catch you all week . . .’

  The pair are quickly engrossed in another bewildering conversation as I stand there, twiddling my bag. My fingernails now resemble the ends of a doggie chew.

  ‘Hello, how are you?’ says a voice behind me. ‘I’m Gerald Raven.’

  I turn and find a big, gentle-looking man behind me, with short white hair and a Santa Claus belly. ‘I’m Zoe Moore,’ I reply. ‘I’m Ryan’s children’s nanny.’ I’ve decided that this will be my new tactic: to announce who I am immediately and give them the opportunity to bugger off to someone more important.

  Gerald Raven doesn’t move. ‘Really?’ he says. ‘They’re two beautiful kids.’

  ‘Oh, you know them?’

  ‘Sure. It feels like only yesterday that Ruby was born. Such a great kid – especially after what she’s been through.’

  ‘She is,’ I agree, amazed – and relieved – to have found someone prepared to talk about a subject I actually know something about.

  ‘Now, young lady,’ he says, raising an eyebrow, ‘you don’t sound like you come from these parts.’

  ‘No,’ I smile, ‘you’re right. You can tell I’m from California, can you?’

  He laughs. ‘Let me guess. England? The north?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘No, wait,’ he continues. ‘I can do better than that. Is it Manchester? No, no, it’s Liverpool, isn’t it?’

  My eyes widen. ‘That’s impressive. You’re the first American I’ve met who could even tell my accent was northern. At least three people tonight thought I was Irish and one Australian. But to get the city as well, wow! Ten out of ten.’

  ‘Well, I should probably let you into a secret – I’d feel like a cheat otherwise.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My m
om was a Scouser.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  Within five minutes, I’ve discovered that Gerald Raven’s mum was a seamstress from Speke (three miles from where I grew up) and met his dad – a GI – during the Second World War at nearby Burtonwood. They moved to America after 1945. And the rest, as they say, is history. Within minutes I feel overwhelmingly close to this man. I’ve never met him before, but the fact that his mother was born in my city makes me feel as if I’ve found a soul-mate.

  ‘Hey, big guy,’ says Ryan, appearing out of nowhere and hugging Gerald. ‘I obviously don’t have to do any introductions.’

  ‘Oh, you needn’t worry about us,’ I tell him. ‘So, you two work together, then?’

  ‘Yes, Zoe,’ Ryan says. ‘Gerald is the president of BVH Systems. Which means he’s probably the most important guy in this room.’

  Chapter 37

  Well, sitting next to Gerald was probably the best bit of luck I’ve had all week. If I’d hired my own personal PR man for the evening, he couldn’t have bigged me up more than Gerald has. He’s spent the evening regaling everyone with such affectionate stories of Ye Olde Liverpool – ‘Zoe’s hometown and that of my dear old mom, too’ – that everyone is now looking at me as if I’m some sort of fascinating artefact. Which beats being a freak in a canary yellow dress.

  I have to admit that a couple of glasses of wine have helped me relax a little too. But I’m taking it steady – the last thing I want tonight is to get so drunk I risk making a show of myself.

  ‘So, how do you find working for Ryan?’ whispers Gerald, as we get to dessert and Ryan is engaged in conversation with Matilda to his left.

  ‘Oh, well, that’s an interesting question.’ I try to think of an appropriate response. He’s a nightmare but I can’t keep my eyes off his bum doesn’t seem quite right. ‘Well, the kids are great. I love looking after them. And, as you said earlier, they’ve been through so much and it’s nice to be able to give them a bit of normality.’

  ‘I bet you’re great with them,’ he says. ‘But that wasn’t what I asked.’