Mr. Anything

by Emily Bishop

  “Yes.” She shakes my hand. “From Stargazers Child Services. Here’s my card.”

  I look at the dark blue piece of paper in my hand which has Carol’s name, the company name, her phone number and email address written in silver right next to the picture of a lone stargazer flower.

  “I came up with the name myself,” she tells me. “The stargazers are not just for the flower, which I love, but for the children entrusted to us. I believe that each child must be given time to enjoy looking at the stars and also encouraged to reach for them.”

  “Admirable. It seems like you really care for the children.” I put the card in my pocket.

  “Of course we do,” Mrs. Fisher says proudly.

  I gesture to a chair. “Please sit.”

  She returns the book that’s still in her hand and sits down.

  “Would you like some coffee?” I ask.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Tea?”

  Mrs. Fisher grins but shakes her head. “No, thank you. Shall we get right down to business? I’ve been told you’re a busy man.”

  “Yes,” I admit, taking a seat as well. “I’d appreciate that.”

  “First, let me begin by telling you more about our agency.” She pushes the bridge of her glasses up her nose. “At Stargazers, we cater to privileged families, families who insist on two things – impeccable service and the highest level of discretion. We pride ourselves on providing both. Our full-time nannies are not just expertly trained but also extremely professional. This means that you can be assured that the nanny you hire will not tell anyone she is working for you or share information about where you live or any other personal details, not even with family members or friends.”

  I look at her in surprise. “Really?”

  “Yes. That is one of our three golden rules. The other two are that a nanny must always behave like a proper lady – no flirting with the client and definitely no sleeping with the client…”

  I raise an eyebrow. Well, that’s a relief.

  “And that she must never steal anything, not even a coaster. Any violation of these three rules will result in immediate termination not just of the current contract but from the company.”

  “I see. You seem very strict.”

  Truth be told, she reminds me of a piano tutor I once had, swift to punish at the slightest mistake. She and Tess should get along well.

  “Should there be any complaints,” Mrs. Fisher continues, “anything at all, we will withdraw the nanny immediately and replace her with a more satisfactory one. We guarantee complete satisfaction. Otherwise, we would not be worthy of the trust of our privileged clients.”

  I sit back and touch my chin. “And what if the nanny is the one who wants to leave?”

  “The contract lasts for six months. Should the client wish, the client may begin a new contract with the nanny, which can last for a longer period of time, even an indefinite period of time. This is especially recommended when the nanny has formed a bond with the child.”

  “That’s clever.” I tap my fingers on my knee. “And what if I wish for the nanny to stay but she doesn’t wish to?”

  “Then we shall send another at the end of six months,” Mrs. Fisher answers with a shrug and raised hands before putting them back neatly on her lap.

  I nod. The agency does seem very professional and efficient. Promising.

  “Do you have any other questions about the agency?”

  I pause to think but come up with nothing. “Not at the moment.”

  “Should anything come up, you may contact me anytime using the number on the card I gave you.”

  “I understand.”

  “If I may ask, how did you hear of us?”

  “My secretary arranged it.”

  “Right. Now for the important part.” Mrs. Fisher takes out her tablet from her purse. “I’m here to see which of our nannies is the best match for your child. So I believe you would like to hire a full-time nanny for your eight-year-old son?”

  “Yes.”

  “How would you describe him in one word?”

  Mischievous is the first word that comes to mind, but I don’t say that. I think of a better word as I scratch my knee. “Adventurous, both physically and mentally.”

  Mrs. Fisher nods. “What would you say he likes doing best?”

  “Hmm.” I place my hands behind me and look at my shoes. “I guess…”

  Just then, I hear a scream coming from outside the room.

  Fuck. Not again. Not now.

  I rush outside just in time to see David running down the stairs with a wicked grin, his black Labrador retriever right beside him and two maids chasing after him.

  “David!” one of them, Lucy, screams. “Stop!”

  He doesn’t, though, going full speed, so it’s up to me to stop him.

  As he reaches the bottom of the stairs, I stop him with one hand, lifting him over my shoulder, and grab the collar of his dog with the other.

  “What have you done this time?” I ask, sighing.

  “Nothing.”

  I look at the maids.

  “He put one of those plastic centipedes under my shirt, sir,” Amy explains.

  David stifles a laugh.

  I give him a stern look. “David, I’ve told you a thousand times not to do that. It isn’t funny.”

  As usual, however, David doesn’t seem to be listening.

  How is it that I can run a company, yet I can’t get my own son to listen to me?

  “David.” I speak a bit louder. “Apologize this instant.”

  “Sorry,” he mumbles but I hear no sincerity in it.

  “Is this the boy?” Mrs. Fisher asks from behind me.

  I turn around, putting David down. “Mrs. Fisher, this is David, my son and his dog, Zombie.”

  She smiles. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  The dog doesn’t seem to feel the same way, starting to bark.

  “Take Zombie and go back to your room,” I tell David. “We’ll talk later.”

  David sighs then grabs the dog. “Come on, Zombie.”

  Thankfully, Zombie obeys. Seriously, he only listens to David. Well, at least, he listens to someone, unlike his owner.

  “I must apologize for the commotion,” I tell Mrs. Fisher. “Like I said, my son is adventurous.”

  She nods. “Well, boys will be boys.”

  “That means he gets into trouble sometimes. No, not sometimes. Often. He’s hard to control. In fact, I can’t remember how many nannies have left because they can’t handle him. I imagine never having had a mother has something to do with it.”

  “If I may ask, what happened to his mother?”

  It’s the question that never fails to be brought up and yet I haven’t gotten used to answering. Maybe I never will.

  I swallow the lump in my throat as I put my hands in my pockets. “She died… shortly after giving birth to David.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  I hear the sympathy in her voice – something else I’m not used to and definitely don’t deserve.

  “I try my best to make up for it. I try to spend as much time with David as I can. I’ve even moved my office here at home just so I can be around him more.”

  “Very noble,” Mrs. Fisher praises. “Not every father would make that sacrifice for their child.”

  “But it hasn’t made any difference.” I lean on the pillar at the end of the stair railing. “I guess now you’re going to tell me you don’t have anyone who can handle my son?”

  Mrs. Fisher smiles. “On the contrary, I think I have just the perfect nanny.”

  Chapter 3

  Strangers

  Sabrina

  Present for the child? Check.

  Toothbrush? Check.

  Vitamins? Check.

  I put my list back in my pocket and my bag on my lap, smiling as I look around the mall from the bench where I’m sitting.

  It seems like I’m all set.

  I glan
ce at my watch. I still have an hour to go, though, before I have to meet my new employer and the child I’m supposed to take care of.

  David Brewster, eight.

  I can still remember the picture Carol showed me – a boy with thick, dark brown hair, some of which cover his forehead all the way to his eyebrows, bright, blue eyes with a gleam of intelligence and mischief, dimpled cheeks and a charming smile showing slightly crooked front teeth, which I’m sure will straighten out given a bit more time and dental care. He’s a darling, to be sure. Given a few more years, he’ll break hearts here and there.

  It’s hard to believe such an adorable face can cause so much trouble and yet, that’s exactly what Carol told me.

  “He’s a troublemaker, that one,” she said. “A young rebel. The kind to drive a nanny out of her wits. Be careful.”

  I almost laughed then. Be careful? Of what? Seriously, what’s the worst thing an eight-year-old boy can do? Put gum in my hair? A spider under my shirt? Throw a soccer ball at my chest?

  I’ve been through worse. Much worse. I’m pretty sure I can handle a mischievous little boy.

  I pick up the cup of juice that I set down beside me and take a sip, afterward taking a deep breath.

  I guess starting from today, I’m going to be a full-time nanny.

  I never thought I’d be a nanny for a rich person’s kid. Frankly, It’s not my dream job. I can’t complain, though. Beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, it’s not that bad. The pay is good. I’ll have a roof over my head and three meals a day. I’ll even have my own room, and it’s not going to be locked. Well, not from the outside. Best of all, I don’t have to fear for my life or be afraid of getting hurt. Carol assured me of that.

  Carol. God bless her. She saved my life. If not for her, I…

  Suddenly, I stop, the little hairs on my nape standing on end.

  Someone’s watching me.

  Quickly, I look around, trying to spot anyone suspicious or someone who might be one of Vince’s thugs. After all, I don’t expect him to come searching for me himself.

  Who is looking at me?

  I’ve changed my appearance in the last three months. I’ve dyed my blond hair Galactic Copper – at least, that’s what the hair dye box said, though frankly, I find it no different than the shade of a copper wire. I cut it short – not pixie cut, just short, about an inch below my shoulders. I started wearing Mystical Black contacts – again, that’s what it said in the box – to hide my bluish-gray irises, even though they hurt sometimes, like I have a huge grain of dust in my eyes. I even gained a bit of weight. Well, Carol said I was too skinny, like malnourished skinny.

  When I look at the mirror, I can barely see Savannah Brown, only Sabrina James. The new Sabrina James. Still, I can’t be sure any of Vince’s peons won’t recognize me. For all I know, they can detect my scent like hounds.

  Finally, my eyes rest on someone – a man in his forties with sunglasses, a beard and a leather jacket, standing beside the nachos stand across me. He’s suspicious, all right. Worse, I can’t see exactly where he’s looking but his head is turned in my direction and he isn’t moving so he might be staring at me.

  Oh, shit.

  Quickly, I grab my things, slinging my canvas bag over my shoulder and towing my suitcase on wheels behind me as I make my hasty retreat.

  I know I may just be acting paranoid. That man might not have been staring at me at all. He might have been staring at someone behind me. Or he might have been staring at me but for a different reason – maybe I look like someone he knows or maybe he just likes the way I look, you know, checking me out.

  Even so, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

  See, that’s what happens when someone breaks your trust. You lose trust in everyone. You go from trusting to paranoid. There’s no in between.

  Passing by a garbage can, I throw my cup away. As I do, I glance behind me, my heart pounding in fear when I see that man a few feet behind me.

  He’s following me?

  No.

  I take my sunglasses, which are clipped to the neckline of my shirt, and put them on before walking faster, my sneakers squeaking on the freshly mopped tiles while heels clack and strollers roll on by.

  Is he still following me?

  I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I just walk faster.

  Eventually, I spot the sign to the women’s room. I make a beeline for it, like someone lost at sea who has just found an island.

  Come on.

  Down the last stretch, I glance back. I don’t know why. My head just turned on its own.

  He’s gone. No sign of him.

  So, he wasn’t following me?

  Well, that’s a relief. That’s…

  I don’t finish my thoughts, my breath knocked out of me as I slam against a wall and trip back.

  At least, I thought at first it was a wall but as I look up from where I’ve fallen on the floor, my sunglasses having slid down the bridge of my nose, I realize that it was a person I bumped into.

  A man.

  A hulk of a man.

  “Are you all right?” he asks in a deep, coarse voice, like some rock star from a bygone age.

  He is wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, but he might as well be in one of those elastic weightlifting suits. His clothes do nothing to hide the bulge of his chest, the firm contours of his abdomen, the size of his ripped thighs, or the curves and dips of his huge arms. He’s big, all right, but he doesn’t scare me like Vince’s thugs. In fact, his form reminds me of a gladiator in an arena, an ancient warrior, the kind who could win one battle with a swing of his sword.

  Even his face looks like that of a Roman statue. Above his aquiline nose are deep-set, startling blue eyes with thick, long brows. Just now, those eyes are trained on mine with sympathy. His lips curve slightly upwards, as if to stifle a full-blown smile. His upper-lip is almost non-existent on top of his sultry lower lip.

  Wow. A breathtaking masterpiece. Not the kind you’d like to mount on a wall but the kind you’d like to mount just the same.

  The statue moves to offer me a hand.

  No, not a statue. A man.

  “I said, are you all right?” he asks again.

  “Y-yes,” I say, grabbing his hand.

  I’d like to say I picked myself up but he did. Something in his grip tells me he can carry me like I weigh nothing.

  Carry me.

  Suddenly, my mind paints an image of him lifting me in his arms the way Superman lifts Lois Lane in the comic books. My heart skips a beat, my body already imagining his strength, his warmth…

  “I’m so sorry about that,” he says.

  “No, it’s fine.” I push my sunglasses to the top of my head as I gather my bearings, wiping the imaginary drool from the corner of my mouth and the imaginary dust from my knees. “It was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “Neither was I. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yup,” I say more confidently.

  Apart from the fact that I feel like a battering ram made of rubber that just bounced off an iron castle gate, I’m fine. No bruises or anything.

  “Let me get that.” He kneels down to pick up the canvas bag I don’t even remember dropping.

  “No, it’s okay.” I kneel as well, trying not to get into a head butt with him, which I imagine would feel worse, as I pick up the spilled contents of my bag. “I…”

  Just then, I hear a scream.

  I turn my head and I find an old lady standing a few feet away with her face pale, one hand clasped over her mouth and the other to her chest as she looks down at the floor.

  Is she having a heart attack or something?

  At first, I’m confused, but as I follow her gaze, I see the plastic, hairy-legged spider on the floor and I realize what’s going on.

  “Shit.”

  I run toward it, picking it up.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell her, holding it up. “It’s just a toy that must have catapu
lted out of my bag when I fell…”

  She reels back, her eyes wide at the sight of it. She was about to fall, too, but thankfully, Achilles – I mean the stranger I just bumped into –caught her.

  At the same time, a mall cop rushes over.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I’m so sorry. I…”

  “Just put that away, okay?” the cop tells me, eyeing the toy still in my hand.

  “Right.” I put it in my pocket.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?” the cop asks the old woman as he gets her from Achilles. “Do you need a doctor? Is there someone here with you?”

  “I’m fine,” she says weakly. “I’m just a little startled.” She looks at me. “You shouldn’t be carrying those things around.”

  “Sorry,” I say again, bowing my head slightly.

  “It was my fault, actually,” Achilles says, opening his wallet to take out a twenty-dollar bill. “Please buy yourself some medicine or a drink or ice cream, anything to make you feel better.”

  She nods, taking the bill, and the cop ushers her away.

  I heave a sigh of relief, then turn to the man next to me. “Thank you. You shouldn’t have done that, though.”

  “It was my fault,” he repeats.

  So, he’s strong but he has a noble heart. He’s more of a knight then?

  “Here.” He gives me the handle of my suitcase and my canvas bag.

  “Thanks.” I take them and put the toy spider that was in my pocket at the bottom of the canvas bag where it won’t escape again.

  “You don’t have more of those, do you?” he asks.

  “Actually, I do.” I sling the canvas bag over my shoulder. “They’re presents.”

  “Presents?”

  “For a little boy I’m going to meet for the first time.”

  “Oh.” He scratches the back of his head. “You know what? I don’t think you should give a boy those. You’ve seen the effect they have, right? Those are just trouble in a boy’s hands. Take it from me.”

  “Right.” Why didn’t I think of that?

  “Besides, they prefer the real thing.”

  “Of course they do.” I pull the bag strap further up my shoulder. “Thanks for the tip. I guess I’ll think of something else to give.”

  “Yeah, you do that.” He crosses his arms over his chest, making it look even bigger. “Just don’t buy anything noisy or flashy, you know, the battery-operated ones with lights and sounds. The kids love them but they drive some parents crazy and the batteries run out overnight. Oh, and maybe not Lego, unless the kid is twelve or older or super organized. The parts tend to get lost easily until you find them stuck to the sole of your foot.”