by C. J. Duggan
‘I don’t know where you get your energy from, Miss Gracie.’ I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
‘Youth.’ Ben scoffed. ‘What’s this?’ He folded his paper and looked at the BabyBjorn with interest.
‘This right here is going to be your best friend,’ I said, tapping it.
He looked confused.
‘It’s my secret weapon, I pretty much wouldn’t get anything done without it. She might have a bit of a cry but at least she’ll be in sight and you can talk to her. But if you set the day up with everything you need down here, then you shouldn’t have to do too much lugging. I learnt that pretty early on,’ I said, thinking back to the first day and how ducking upstairs with a screaming baby for a nappy change was not smart time management.
Ben nodded as if impressed. ‘Well, thanks for the tip.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I said, thinking my good deed was done for the day. As much as I was trying to be Miss Independent off the clock, I couldn’t help myself. ‘Well, I’ll have my cell on me if you have any burning questions,’ I said, backing away. I waved to Grace.
‘Sarah, wait,’ Ben called and I froze, my heart dropping at the sound of my name. I felt awful knowing that I would either have to be rude and say no – tough love – or buckle and help out, resenting him all the more for it.
I turned around. Ben came to stand beside me, awkwardly juggling Grace in his arms and accentuating all the ripped muscles in his tall, toned frame. I had to get a grip, this was a kind of cabin fever I didn’t want to experience.
‘Since you showed me your secret weapon, I guess I better reveal mine,’ he said.
It was hard enough to concentrate with him half naked next to me, so the idea of him showing me his ‘secret weapon’ had me blinking in confusion. ‘S-sorry?’
Manoeuvring Grace into a firmer hold, he grinned. ‘Follow me.’
Standing on the stoop of a colonial townhouse in New York City with a baby and a half-naked man, I didn’t think my life could get any more bizarre. But when I saw driver Dave parked out front in his shiny black Rolls Royce, I turned to Ben. I hadn’t thought this was how my weekend would begin.
‘Dave will take you anywhere you want to go in the city.’
Was he for real? I had planned to stroll through the streets, jump on the subway, get lost, ask for directions, stumble across some eateries en route to Fifth Avenue, do what any tourist might in the Big Apple. This was not the most typical way to immerse yourself in New York – not that I was in any way complaining.
‘This hardly seems like a fair trade for a baby carrier,’ I said.
Grace squirmed in Ben’s arms, whacking him in the face with her little fist as he pulled his head away and squinted. ‘Don’t be so sure about that.’
Chapter Sixteen
Carrying my little Tiffany-blue bag of heaven, I bid Dave goodbye and bounded up the townhouse steps, skipping every other one, elated by the pleasure I had immersed myself in. It felt wrong, to have a chauffeur-driven car pull up in front of Tiffany & Co., only for me to emerge in jeans, sandals and a simple white tee. I was more California gal than New York chic. I’d never felt more like an imposter in my life, but as soon as I laid eyes on the iconic landmark of Tiffany’s – the Tiffany’s – starry-eyed wonder and giddy excitement settled over me. I crossed the pavement to stand in front of the window just as Holly Golightly had done all those decades before. I had vowed that I would not be leaving New York without a little Tiffany-blue box tied with a white bow, even if all I could afford was a paper clip. I’d approached the entrance and been greeted by a smiling doorman, who opened the door for me and said, ‘Welcome to Tiffany.’ I was in heaven. The first day of the first weekend of my new life couldn’t get much better.
Now, at the top of the townhouse stairs, my spirits were high enough to withstand the idea of spending the evening with Ben Worthington; I was excited to talk about my day with someone who could do more than gurgle and drool. As I unlocked the door, the last thing I expected was a mouth-watering scent drifting from the kitchen. Was Ben cooking dinner?
If he had managed to do a night shift, look after Grace and cook dinner on his first dad duty day, and still manage to look as good as he usually did, I was going to be annoyed. And I wouldn’t be wholly convinced that he wasn’t Superman. Maybe my first week of fatigue and settling into Grace’s routine was something I was being overly sensitive about. I straightened my spine, feeling a new determination about my role; if Ben Worthington could pull it off then I would be just fine.
As I rounded the corner into the kitchen I went from newfound optimism to a record-scratching halt.
I wasn’t one to forget a face. Especially a scowly, weathered, wrinkled one. Ruth from the Lafayette apartment turned from the simmering pot on the stove, regarding me with an unenthusiastic up-and-down glance. I felt like I was a teenager sprung sneaking in past curfew.
I tried not to feel alarmed as my insides churned. I put my things on the bench and lifted my handbag strap over my head. ‘Where’s Ben?’ Maybe he had gone to the park with Grace? Or was giving her a bath or just generally being Father of the Year with her somewhere?
‘Mr Worthington —’ Ruth looked at me pointedly ‘— had to go to work to attend to a business matter.’
‘And Grace?’ I asked, looking around the childless room.
‘I have put her down for a sleep.’
Was she mad? If Grace slept now she’d be awake all night – was this woman trying to kill us? And then I remembered tonight was not my problem, and if Ben couldn’t manage to last one day with his daughter without calling in reinforcements, then it would serve him right. I could feel something brewing inside me – frustration, disappointment, disbelief that he could so easily tap out of his responsibilities. I had gone from giddily excited at the prospect of talking to him about my day, to not wanting to see him at all.
Would Grace ever get to know her father? Was this the way her life would be, destined to be brought up by the help? My family was so different. No drivers or nannies, but plenty of time spent together. The Liebenbergs had been a huge professional and cultural shock too, but at least they filled their house with love. There was no mistaking their affection for their children or one another. But not here: this house was modern and cold. All the glittering beauty of this world where money was never an issue, and none of it mattered. My New York experience was lacking something: substance.
I had to get away from these people. Which meant retiring to my room for the rest of the evening. It wouldn’t be entirely terrible, sliding the door across to listen to the strangely calming sounds of the city, and at this point I needed to be calm. I grabbed my things from the bench with a sigh. I didn’t know exactly what I’d expected to come home to. Ben with messy bed hair, the kitchen a bit trashed with the remnants of bottle preparations, a small smile on his lips as he juggled his whining daughter? And he would half-laugh and say, ‘I don’t know how you do it.’ I would have taken comfort from that. Finding an immaculate, unlived-in house with the militant Ruth preparing dinner was not what I expected. I didn’t even know if what bubbled on the stove for dinner included a ration for me.
‘Okay, well, I’m just going to my room,’ I announced as I left Ruth in the kitchen tasting her sauce. Like she even cared where I was or where I was heading.
The small peacekeeping smile I had offered her slipped away as I went up the stairs with heavy steps. I continued past the forbidden third floor of Ben Worthington’s lair, which, regardless of my curiosity, I always made sure to stay clear of. On Grace’s floor, I found myself slowing down, not just because I was out of breath but because I had automatically entered stealth mode, ready to tiptoe across the floor and hover near the doorway.
Not for you, Sarah, not today.
And the reminder pushed me to the next set of stairs, my heart almost thundering with the fear of hearing something from Grace’s room, anything, because I knew that my instinct would be to go to her, t
o comfort her, and saving her from having to spend any more time in cranky Ruth’s arms. With that thought carrying my weary self to my room, I realised that my feet were not the only things weighing me down, my heart was heavy too.
How could he just leave his daughter? How could holding her, loving her, be such a difficult thing to do? Would he ever know how lucky he was? Ben wasn’t enjoying his child, he was simply surviving her. And as I sat on the edge of my bed in my terribly plush New York City room with my Tiffany bag by my side and an evening all to myself, I still couldn’t shake that incredibly sad feeling. More than anything, though, I was disappointed. I almost felt like an annoyed wife waiting for her husband to come home from the pub.
It was then I realised how ridiculous I was being; maybe he did have a work emergency, and it had been thoughtful of him to call Ruth so he wouldn’t disrupt my weekend off. I tried to convince myself but the situation felt a little off. Or maybe it was the hunger pains twisting my stomach, the ones I was trying to ignore as I lounged on the roof terrace, sketching out the exterior of the Tiffany building in black and white, which I was copying from the picture on my phone. I would add a woman out front, not one in jeans and a tee but someone elegant, weighed down with shopping bags from Fifth Avenue and about to enter for the final purchase of the day. I hadn’t worked on character sketches since high school, when I was asked by the art teachers to make individual caricatures of all the Year Twelve students for the yearbook. I hated being pressured into it – I’m not interested in that kind of art. I’m all about abstract, and I’d wanted to be a tortured artist talking about art as a visual language of shape, form, colour. The yearbook was a smash hit, more so than anything I had ever done before. The buzz of recognition lasted longer than any good grade I’d received for the work I’d done in art class, but I denied the feeling, because I felt like I was a traitor to my true artist self. Tucked away on the terrace, taking joy from doing something that came easily to me, my art almost felt like a dirty little secret once more.
By the time the sun was dimming in the sky I had reached the colouring-in stage, the picture coming to life in a way that excited me. I stopped when I found myself getting annoyed at not having the right shade of Tiffany blue for the woman’s bag. Then I remembered I had my own Tiffany-blue bag and felt decidedly smug. I dragged it over, reaching in for the blue box tied with a white ribbon. It seemed such a shame to untie the original bow, but I did. Taking out the drawstring bag, I gently tipped the contents into my palm. The little heart-shaped silver earrings fell into my hands. New, shiny, and engraved with the classic ‘Please return to Tiffany & Co. New York’. I stood, skipping into my room to the mirror, pulling my hair back from my ears and pushing the studs through. I gathered my hair and turned my head from side to side, admiring the way the light made the earrings glint. This was the answer to happiness. In the future, I’d just prescribe myself a dose of Tiffany for any sleep-deprived state of hopelessness. Sure, my allowance was going to be blown and the purchases would have to be minuscule, but there was something therapeutic about the place.
There was a creaking on the stairs outside my room, so fleeting I thought I might have misheard, but when a shadow lingered underneath the door there was no mistaking someone was there. It made me unexpectedly nervous: was Ben home? Coming to check how my day had been, maybe? To explain why he had been called out to work? But that was a ridiculous thought. Ben Worthington didn’t explain himself and especially not to me.
I hated the way I had to collect myself to face whoever was on the other side of the door. I hated that weaker part of me. Putting on my best casual ‘Oh, hey there’ expression, I whipped open the door.
‘Oh, hi, Ruth,’ I said.
The cranky woman held a tray of food. I was surprised that she’d served me but also amazed that she hadn’t so much as spilled a drop on the tray after navigating those stairs. She didn’t even seem out of breath. Was she for real?
‘Dinner is ready,’ Ruth said curtly, shoving the tray into my hands.
‘Th-thanks,’ I managed, juggling the tray and, much to my annoyance, spilling some of the delicious sauce over the edge of the plate onto the tray.
Ruth pursed her lips together, looking at me like I was the most incompetent human being on the planet. ‘Don’t thank me, thank Mr Worthington.’
‘Oh, is he home?’ I asked, hating the way my voice sounded so eager.
‘He is downstairs with Grace,’ she said, turning to leave.
‘Ah, Ruth?’
She paused at the top of the staircase.
‘Do you think it would be all right if I ate my dinner downstairs?’ Instead of up here like a leper, I wanted to add. If I was going to fit in, be an integral part of this household, then I would have to make an effort to get rid of this ridiculous intimidation I felt when I was around Ben Worthington. This was his house after all, and I would be the one who would have to adjust if I was going to stay.
Ruth looked seriously pissed off. More so than usual, like she had wanted me to be locked away out of sight, or maybe she was just annoyed that she had gone to the trouble of carrying the tray all this way. She doubled back to me in a huff, grabbing the edge of my tray.
‘Fine,’ she bit out, trying to take the tray from me.
‘No, look, it’s okay, I can carry it,’ I insisted.
Ruth scoffed. ‘You can’t even stand still and not make a mess, give it to me.’
‘No, Ruth, I’ve got this.’ I pulled back, making the cutlery tinkle.
Ruth’s eyes were ablaze as she held onto the tray. ‘Give it to me,’ she barked, drawing it to her chest.
‘No!’ I yelled, hauling it closer to me. Back and forth we heaved until the inevitable happened. The tray went flying, and the shit hit the fan, or rather, the ragout hit the cream Westminster carpet.
It looked like a crime scene. A reddish, orangey-tinged crime scene that trailed down the staircase in a splattered effect that any abstract artist might have appreciated. But it just made me feel terrible, even more so when my eyes landed on a particular gooey chunk that had landed on an Italian leather shoe on the landing below.
Ben stood there holding Grace, his narrowed eyes following the sprawling mess to where Ruth and I stood frozen, mouths agape like two naughty teenagers.
Chapter Seventeen
It didn’t take long for the panicked blame game to start.
‘You stupid girl,’ Ruth cried. ‘I told you to let go, how many times did I tell you? Now look what you’ve done.’
‘What I’ve done?’ I said incredulously. ‘I told you I had it, but you wouldn’t listen. I was going to bring it down myself, I was trying to do you a favour.’
Ruth scoffed. ‘I wouldn’t trust you with organising a lucky dip let alone carrying a tray down the stairs. Why do you think I was the one called in today to look after Grace?’
‘Ruth!’ Ben’s voice held a warning. His gaze burned hot – it was enough to make me want to recoil. ‘That’s enough,’ he said. ‘Take Grace downstairs.’
He had directed Ruth in a way that didn’t invite negotiation. It was also a clear means to dismiss her and leave him alone to deal with me. Never had I thought that I would want Ruth to stay but I did now, desperately, as I watched her pick her way down the stairs past the mess. She took Grace from Ben, giving me a parting glare. I read victory in that look. Should I just resign now? Or hand over my weekly allowance for the next six years in order to pay for the damage?
Ben’s expression was stony as he folded his arms and casually leant against the wall. I braced myself for the lecture, so when he said, ‘Nice earrings,’ I nearly swallowed my tongue. Was he serious?
The lighthearted observation didn’t make me feel any more at ease. Maybe he was being smart, giving me a none-too-subtle hint that my Tiffany expeditions were over now? There was a gleam in his eyes, but I couldn’t tell if it was an indication that he wasn’t mad, or if it was the calm before the storm.
‘How was you
r day?’ he asked. Why was he making small talk while standing on a staircase deeply soaked with tomato ragout? Shouldn’t he be yelling at me to get some paper towels or something?
‘It was a good day,’ I admitted, and it had been. Damn near perfect until now.
Ben sighed, pushing off the wall. ‘Well, there’s no need to cry over spilt … whatever the hell this is.’
‘Ragout,’ I said. I didn’t want to admit that I had been looking forward to this. Ruth mightn’t have a soul, but she sure could cook.
‘Right, okay,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m sure there’s more where that came from, come on.’ He tilted his head down the stairs, and I followed, stepping as delicately as I could manage around the slush. Without thinking, I grabbed Ben’s hand, which he held out for me to take as I skipped and jumped down the last couple of steps to relative safety. Except now I was in the rather dangerous position of holding Ben’s hand, so warm and large. I bet if we placed our hands palm to palm he would be able to bend the tops of his fingers easily over mine. I wanted to test the theory, but that would be inappropriate, as was me holding his hand. I pulled away and could feel my cheeks burning as red as the stained carpet.
‘I think I should probably clean this up first,’ I said, thinking how much worse it looked from this angle.
‘Ruth can clean it before she goes.’ He seemed unfazed. His home was a pristine showcase and I was taken aback that he didn’t want heads to roll.
‘Ah, that’s probably a bad idea,’ I said, following him to the next set of stairs. Didn’t Ruth hate me enough as it was?
Ben stopped on the edge of the top step, almost causing me to slam into him. He turned to look at me, a glimmer of something in his eyes. ‘Well, like she said, Ruth doesn’t trust you to run a lucky dip – how can she trust you to clean that mess?’
Was this his way of punishing Ruth? My shoulders slumped. ‘She is going to hate me.’