The Nearly-Weds

by Jane Costello

  He is right in front of me now. ‘No, I mean, I agree with what you said about Ruby and Samuel,’ he whispers, gazing into my eyes as he strokes a strand of hair off my face. ‘I don’t mean I regret it. I don’t regret it.’

  I return his gaze and my legs go weak. ‘D-don’t you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he says.

  Then he bends down and kisses me. It takes my breath away and I panic about the effect that will have on my technique. But as his fingers glide through my hair and, with the other hand, he pulls me into his hard body I soon stop worrying about that.

  Chapter 59

  Three weeks and two days after our weekend in New Hampshire, I have sex with Ryan. That’s three weeks and two days after I promised myself I wouldn’t. And . . . Oh, God! It’s the most sensual experience I’ve had in my life. More tender than I thought it could be. More electrifying than should be possible. It’s gorgeous. Mind-blowing. Loving. Amazing.

  I’m torn between feeling as guilty as hell and having a lottery-win-level spring in my step.

  The one thing we are both agreed on is that this thing – this affair (argh! Is it an affair?) – has to be kept secret from Ruby and Samuel. The reason they can’t know about it is obvious and doesn’t need to be spelled out by either of us: this is one of Ryan’s flings, which, logic tells us, can only end in the same way as the others. And that’s fine when it only involves two grown-ups. But the prospect of Ruby and Samuel finding out makes the stakes far too high.

  Both Ryan and I know I could never be just another girlfriend, particularly where Ruby’s concerned. So when it ends – because it will end – Ruby knowing about it would not help matters.

  Anyway, that’s the theory. The practice of keeping it secret from them isn’t always easy.

  Especially when Ryan pulls me towards him behind a door and sneaks a languorous kiss when no one is looking. Or pushes my hair to one side and brushes his lips across my ear as I’m attempting to peel the spuds over the kitchen sink. Or grabs my hand the second the kids are in bed and wraps his arms round me with such tenderness that I feel bereft when eventually he moves.

  All that said, I still don’t feel confident I’m doing the right thing by engaging in this liaison.

  I worry constantly about having such a meaningless dalliance solely to get over the love of my life. I worry about how one-dimensional such behaviour is. How lacking in anything like the depth and breadth of my seven years with Jason. And, as old-fashioned as this may sound, I worry about the sort of girl it makes me.

  On the other hand, I cannot deny that fooling around with Ryan is making me feel utterly fantastic. I walk about in a permanent state of semi-elation, my heart beating in anticipation of the snatched moments I have with him.

  In many ways, this is understandable, given my recent history. It’s as though I’ve spent months detoxing on alfalfa seeds and melon before being presented with a giant Galaxy Easter egg. I know it isn’t good for me but, God, it’s delicious.

  Ironically, one of the side effects of all this is that I’m really losing weight. The extra pounds I was shedding gradually are now falling off at such an accelerated pace I’m almost back to my original size.

  ‘You’re in love,’ Trudie declares, as we drink iced coffee in Barbara King’s conservatory. ‘The only other way you could lose four pounds in a week would be a bout of dysentery.’

  The children are playing happily in Andrew and Eamonn’s enormous sandpit. So far they’ve created a ‘castle’ that looks like a semi-detached in Wigan and some soldiers that appear so severely dehydrated they’re having trouble staying upright.

  ‘I’m not in love, Trudie,’ I tell her. ‘Really. I’d tell you if I was, but I’m not.’

  ‘Well, Christ, you’re doing a good job of looking like it.’

  I sigh and gulp some coffee. The fact is, I cannot be in love with Ryan Miller. I fancy him. I’m having plenty of fun with him. But, much as it pains me to say this, I’m still in love with Jason. No matter how hard I’m trying not to be, I am.

  Chapter 60

  To: Zoemmoore@hotnet.co.uk

  From: Helen@Hmoore.mailserve.co.uk

  Dear Zoe,

  The new bathroom is a disaster. Your dad insisted on going with a local firm and look where that’s left us: with a whirlpool bath that doesn’t whirl and a power-shower with about as much oomph as a leaky hosepipe. Still, the tiles are nice. I got them to copy the ones in the Center Parcs brochure and they’ve very nearly done it. Apart from the dolphins, that is – there’s one corner of the shower in which several of them have been decapitated. But they were half price.

  I’ve got an appointment at the doctor’s next week – this feeling faint and tired business isn’t letting up at all. I went on some website yesterday and I’ve narrowed it down to one of two things: wheat intolerance or pancreatic cancer. So we’ll wait and see.

  I only hope it gets sorted out soon because it’s driving me mad. Linda, the woman who sits opposite me at work, was in the middle of telling me about going to see Dancing on Ice at the arena and I nearly dropped off. Still, she’s bloody boring when she wants to be. How many times can you listen to an anecdote about a triple pike, even if it does involve a pair of split trousers?

  We haven’t really talked about this until now, but have you decided when you’re coming home for Christmas yet? There’s only seven weeks to go, you know! I could do with you being at home at least a few days beforehand – not least to keep your father’s decorating in check! You know he never listens to me about how to do a tree tastefully. Last time he was let loose on one he used so much spray snow the fumes set Desy’s asthma off and he nearly ended up in A and E.

  I assume you’ll come at least a week before but, whatever, can you remember to pick up a new bottle of Tia Maria from Duty Free? Great Aunt Iris cleaned us out last year.

  Love,

  Mum

  XXXX

  Chapter 61

  Ryan is in the kitchen preparing dinner, and the world has come to a temporary standstill.

  ‘What is it with men and cooking?’ I shake my head in amusement. ‘I’m sure this pot roast will be fantastic, but it does feel like we’re in the presence of Marco Pierre White when the Michelin judges are about.’

  Ryan has given us a running commentary on every ingredient he’s put into the dish – all five of them – and is playing up to his audience of me, Ruby and Samuel so much that he’s clearly expecting a round of applause.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ He smirks. ‘I’m doing pretty well. In fact, I should do this more often – I’m obviously a culinary genius.’

  At least he’s being tongue-in-cheek – I think.

  I pick up Samuel and let him peep into the pot.

  ‘I want pizza,’ he says. From his expression you’d think he was confronting the rotting carcass of a recently deceased rodent.

  A chuckle escapes me.

  ‘This is a nutritious, home-cooked meal!’ says Ryan, pretending to be offended. ‘It will be nothing less than delicious – isn’t that right, Zoe?’

  ‘It’ll be gorgeous, kids,’ I tell them. ‘And, if not, we can sneak out to McDonald’s afterwards.’

  Ruby giggles.

  ‘Traitor,’ Ryan mutters.

  Suddenly we hear a voice at the front of the house.

  ‘Hello? Er, um . . . hiya?’

  It sounds like Trudie, but quieter. She usually announces her presence at a volume only matched by the horn of a four-hundred-ton freight container. ‘Have I got five minutes before dinner?’ I ask Ryan.

  ‘Sure.’

  Trudie’s in the hall, wearing a short flowery dress, the sort of thing that, on a different person and in a different size, would look like one of those stylishly mumsy Boden numbers. Trudie manages to look like an off-duty Playboy centrefold.

  ‘How are you doing?’ I ask. ‘I’ve been meaning to give you a shout about whether you fancy coming to the cinema with the kids this week but—
Hey, what’s up?’

  Trudie is never pale. That’s partly because she’s such a fan of Fake Bake tanning products she makes the average Wag’s complexion seem positively Elizabethan. But tonight pale is exactly what she is. Pale and worried. ‘You got a minute?’ she asks, her lip trembling.

  ‘Of course.’ I lead her into the living room. ‘Can I get you some juice or something?’

  As soon as I say it I realize she needs something significantly stronger than that. Like a beta-blocker or five.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘What is it?’

  She lets out a shaky breath. ‘Where do I start?’

  ‘The beginning?’ I offer.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘The beginning . . . Well, let me begin with Ritchie.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He came over today,’ she tells me, ‘and said he wants to spend the rest of his life with me – but if I don’t want the same there’s no point in wasting any more time together.’

  I fold my arms. ‘So, what did you say to him?’

  ‘I tried to explain – well, sort of explain – why I didn’t leap at the chance of marrying him.’

  ‘So you told him about not being able to have kids? That that’s all you’re worried about?’

  ‘That’s all?’ she cries incredulously. ‘Zoe, this is a massive thing for anyone, not least someone who talks constantly about how he can’t wait to start a family.’

  ‘I know, I know. I didn’t mean that,’ I tell her, regretting my lack of tact. ‘Sorry, I . . . You did tell him, didn’t you?’

  She bites her lip and looks out of the window. ‘I told him I love him – really love him – and that that hasn’t got anything to do with why I won’t say yes to his proposal right this second and that . . . I just needed to think a couple of things through and . . . well . . .’

  ‘But you did tell him?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Trudie?’

  ‘Not exactly. No.’

  ‘Oh, Trudie.’

  ‘Zoe, think about it. If I start telling him about my problems – that I can’t have kids – there’s only two ways it can go. One, he leaves me. Two, he stays with me, and I ruin his life by not giving him the one thing he really wants.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t go there,’ she interrupts. ‘That’s not even the half of my trouble at the moment.’ Her face crumples and tears flood down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, God. What else?’ I ask, putting my arm round her.

  ‘It’s Barbara.’

  ‘What about her? What’s she done? There can’t be a problem with your work. You’re brilliant with Andrew and Eamonn. And they love you. And—’

  I stop. Her lips are still quivering.

  ‘It’s my own fault,’ she sobs. ‘All my own fault.’

  ‘What is, Trudie? What’s your own fault?’

  ‘After Ritchie left,’ she says, between sniffs, ‘I was so upset I put the twins in their play-pen in front of Jo-Jo’s Circus and went upstairs to my room.’

  She pauses.

  ‘Go on.’

  She looks down at her hands. ‘I’d given up smoking before I came out here – honest, Zoe, I really had. Or, I thought I had.’

  Oh, God.

  ‘I thought I’d kicked the habit. Honestly I did.’

  Oh, God.

  ‘But I remembered I had one fag left in a pack of Marlboro Lights buried in the bottom of my suitcase.’

  Oh, God.

  ‘I was so stressed out about Ritchie I just found myself rooting around for it. I was like a woman possessed. I swear I was so desperate that if that fag had been the last one in a machine I’d have paid a hundred and forty quid for it.’

  Oh, God.

  ‘So I’m leaning out of my bedroom window, smoking,’ she continues, ‘and it was great. It was really bloody great. The ciggie was as stale as hell, tasted like a camel’s armpit . . . but great.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘And I’m taking my last drag and just about to put it out . . .’

  ‘When Barbara caught you,’ I finish for her.

  She nods.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I say.

  Smoking is absolutely against the rules for any nanny, these days, in virtually every country in the world. However, that goes doubly in the US. And it goes triply for Barbara King, a woman so obsessed with protecting her children from toxins of any sort it’s a wonder she hasn’t issued them with purification masks.

  ‘I’m guessing she didn’t take it very well.’ I know that just the thought of one stray molecule from that cigarette smoke making its way into one of her children’s lungs will have been enough to make her apoplectic.

  ‘No, she didn’t,’ Trudie continues, wiping even more tears from her cheeks. ‘Zoe, she sacked me. Which means I’m not only being booted out of my job, I’m being booted out of the country.’

  Chapter 62

  I don’t think Ryan’s pacing is doing much to help Trudie’s nerves, not given the state she’s been in for the last two hours.

  He used to do a lot of pacing when I first arrived. He hasn’t done it for a while – not for ages, in fact. But he’s doing it now. Not as manically as he used to, I’ll admit: this is more of a pensive stroll across the living room while he thinks up a plan. All he’d need is a cigar and he’d be a dead ringer for Hannibal from The A Team.

  ‘I’m going to see Barbara,’ he announces, pausing mid-stride.

  Trudie sniffs and takes such a large gulp of the beer I’ve just handed her that I’m surprised there’s anything left in the bottle afterwards. ‘It won’t do any good.’ She sighs. ‘Honest to God it won’t. You don’t know Barbara and smoking. She might as well have caught me injecting crack cocaine.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ says Ryan.

  ‘No, it’s not. I think she’s right.’ Trudie starts to peel the label off her beer bottle. ‘I told her I was a non-smoker and I betrayed her trust.’

  ‘But you were a non-smoker when you applied for the job,’ I persist. ‘You’d given up by then, hadn’t you?’

  ‘Well, yeah. But only twenty minutes earlier,’ confesses Trudie.

  ‘But you haven’t had one since you got here, have you?’ asks Ryan. ‘Before now, I mean.’

  ‘No.’ Trudie shakes her head decisively. ‘In fact, I was doing bloody well till my patches ran out and I forgot to get some new ones. That’s PMT for you. I’d forget my own name at certain times of the month.’

  Ryan pulls on a sweater. ‘Well, I meant what I said. This is ridiculous. And somebody needs to do something about it.’

  Trudie and I flash each other a look as Ryan heads for the front door, then slams it behind him so hard they must have felt it in Kentucky. The children rush to the window to watch. I’m about to instruct them not to be nosy, but decide against it and huddle up beside them with Trudie.

  Ryan is crossing the road towards the Kings’ house with utter determination. I can’t help feeling impressed. Then he stops, turns, heads back towards us and in through the front door.

  ‘You changed your mind?’ I ask, trying to hide my disappointment.

  ‘Course not,’ he replies, striding to the coffee-table and picking up the bunch of lilies I’d put there earlier today. The stems dripping, he goes into the kitchen, opens the fridge, picks out a swanky bottle of Californian white and departs.

  This time, he makes it to Barbara King’s front door. When she opens it and sees him, she couldn’t have looked less enthusiastic if he had been the neighbourhood’s new rag-and-bone man trying to flog her some second-hand pan-scourers. Ryan responds by producing the flowers from behind his back. She seems entirely unmoved.

  ‘This is never going to work.’ Trudie sighs.

  ‘My daddy will save you, Trudie,’ Ruby assures her.

  Trudie tries to smile, but is about as convincing as a fifteen-year-old mongrel at Crufts.

  But she’s about to be surprised.

  Within fiv
e minutes, Barbara King’s expression has softened to such an extent I’m convinced her last Botox session has only just decided to kick in. She invites Ryan in.

  ‘Well I never . . .’ I grin.

  ‘Go, Daddy!’ says Ruby, triumphantly.

  ‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’ squeals Samuel.

  Excitedly, we settle down to wait for him. And we wait. And wait. In fact, we do so much waiting that this whole thing becomes less of a drama and more like watching a two-hour Open University programme about advanced vacuum-cleaner mechanics. Things become so dull that the children end up plodding to bed virtually by themselves.

  ‘He’s been in there a bloody long time,’ I tell Trudie, once they’re safely tucked up.

  Then a thought flashes into my mind. ‘You don’t think he’s . . .’

  ‘What?’ asks Trudie.

  ‘You don’t think he’s . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Seducing her.’

  Trudie’s eyes widen. ‘God, I know he wanted to do me a favour but I didn’t mean him to prostitute himself.’

  Just then a car pulls up, and I recognize it instantly as Mr King’s. I start to panic on Ryan’s behalf – perverse, to say the least.

  ‘Shit!’ Trudie exclaims. ‘I hope he doesn’t catch him with his pants down in the living room!’

  I frown at her.

  ‘What I mean is, I hope he hasn’t got his pants down in the living room. If he has, it would make things so much worse than—’

  ‘Trudie,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Yep. Don’t worry. I’ll shut up.’

  We turn back to the window. Except now there’s nothing to see. In fact, there’s nothing to see for ages. And ages. And ages.

  The next thing I know, I’m waking with a start as our front door opens. Trudie and I have fallen asleep on the sofa and I’m dribbling like a hungry St Bernard. The clock says it’s ten to midnight.