by Minka Kent
I strut away not knowing it was possible to feel like less than half of the woman I thought I was when I came here an hour ago.
Now I feel flimsy and insubstantial, like a bough about to snap in the midst of a torrent.
Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
Autumn
I count the remaining pills in the bottle, eating my words and swallowing my ego.
It’s been a week since I sent my perfect resume to that nanny agency in response to the McMullens’ want ad. And it’s been weeks since I last had the pleasure of enjoying a decent McMullen Instaface story.
I’m going through withdrawals.
And anxious as fuck.
I toss back one of Dr. Josh’s little yellow pills, chasing it with a glass of white wine despite the fact that there’s a bright green sticker on the bottle that explicitly states, “DO NOT DRINK ALCOHOL WHILE TAKING THIS MEDICATION.”
Alcohol intensifies the effect, therefore, I take my pills with alcohol. Besides, I’ve already done my research. I know the exact ratio of booze to pills that would kill me, and I’m not that stupid.
I don’t have a death wish.
I just don’t want to feel anything right now.
It’s as if my life has become a void wasteland filled with nothingness.
If there are no McMullens, there is no point, and that’s the sad, pathetic truth.
The clock above the TV quietly informs me Ben will be home in approximately fifteen minutes. He’s going to want sex tonight. God forbid he goes more than a week without a release, and I’m not sure how much longer he’s going to buy the whole,“these new pills are zapping my libido” excuse.
God, I love when karma comes full circle.
I top off my wine and toss back my pill before settling onto the sofa with Ginger by my side. If I’m lucky, I can catch the end of Ellen on the DVR before Ben comes home and commandeers the remote control.
Lying on my side, I flatten my cheek against a throw pillow and let the booze and pill do their thing. Relaxation floods my body, sinking deeper and deeper until I no longer care.
My eyes are glued to Ellen. She’s laughing, but I’m too zoned out to know what she’s laughing about. From my periphery, Ginger pops her head up, looking at me, and then I hear the faint chime of my phone, ringing from the kitchen.
Sliding one heavy leg off the sofa at a time, I make my way to my phone, not recognizing the number flashing on the caller ID.
Clearing my throat and injecting as much soberness as possible into my tone, I answer. “Hello?”
“Autumn Carpenter?” the woman on the other end asks.
“Yes. This is she.” I always hate when people speak like that. It isn’t natural. Nobody talks like that in real life.
“My name is Harriet, and I’m the assistant to Mr. Graham McMullen,” she says, causing me to almost drop my phone.
Glancing around the spinning room, I search for the nearest seat and take it. Immediately.
“Yes?” I say, silently begging her to continue.
“He wanted me to set up an interview for the nanny position you applied for,” she says. “That is, if you’re still interested.”
My mouth is dry, and I can hardly contain my excitement, but I manage to blurt, “Yes, of course. When was he thinking?”
“He’s doing interviews Monday.”
My heart sinks. She said interviews. Plural.
How could they even need to consider anyone else? I ticked off every requirement they listed. There’s no one more perfect to watch those children than me.
“What time?” I ask, feeling my voice break and quickly reminding myself that I still have a shot. All I have to do is go in there and charm him and show him that he can’t afford not to hire me . . .
“Would nine o’clock work?” she asks. “You’ll be the first one if that’s okay.”
“Perfect,” I say.
“Great. I’ll put you down,” Harriet says. There’s a sweet, benign quality in her voice. She doesn’t sound like a woman who hates her job. I’ll bet she loves working for Graham. I’ll bet he’s good to his people. He appreciates them. “The interview will be at the McMullen-Henry building in downtown Monarch Falls. Are you familiar with our location?”
“I’ve seen it, yes,” I say. It’s hard to miss a building covered in blue glass and shaped like something out of a science fiction movie.
“Perfect. Come to the eighth floor and check in at the front desk.”
“I’ll be there,” I say before ending the call.
I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Twenty-Three
Daphne
I text Mitch the plate number, XHW 771, and make and model of her car, Alfa Romeo 4C, and I sink back in my seat as I watch her exit Graham’s building under a midday sun. They don’t even try to cover it up. Their affair is on full display, out there for the world to see.
My body burns when I think about how many times I’ve stopped into the office and made idle chit chat with some of the employees. All this time, I bet they’ve known. All this time, I bet they looked at me with pity in their eyes the second I turned to leave.
It’s humiliating.
I wait until she’s gone and her tail lights fade to nothing over the hill, and then I climb out of my car and head inside with a boxed chocolate cupcake from Graham’s favorite bakery. I used to do this, back when things were better. I’d show up at his work in the middle of running errands and drop off a sweet treat just to let him know I was thinking of him.
The only difference between then and now is that I used to call. I used to give him a heads up. But today I’m popping by unannounced. I’m bypassing his assistant, and I’m showing myself to the gargantuan double mahogany doors he insisted on having installed two years ago because he thought it would help with impressing potential clients.
I make my way across the parking lot, through the lobby, and up the elevator. When I reach his floor, I give his assistant a quick wave, ignoring her when she tries to stop me, and then pushing through the giant doors at the end of the hall.
He’s on the phone, and he doesn’t notice me at first. He’s laughing, and I hear him talk about his nine iron and a new golf course opening up next spring in the next town over. There’s something relaxed and satisfied in his tone, and for the first time in my entire adult life, I resent his happiness.
I want to take it away from him, drown him with it. I want to boil him in it until he’s nothing but a shallow reduction of the man he used to be. He doesn’t deserve to be so casual and confident and collected.
“Daphne.” His eyes flick up onto mine. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look like the cat that ate the canary, and there isn’t so much as a hint of slick sheen across his brow. “Honey, what are you doing here? Everything okay?”
I stand, in awe of how this man can fuck his mistress across his desk and then greet his wife ten minutes later like nothing happened.
He tells the person on the phone he’ll call them later, and he rises, coming around his desk and moving toward me. Graham adjusts the Windsor knot of his tie and clears his throat.
“Just wanted to drop this off.” I place the small cardboard box with the bakery logo on top at the edge of his desk, and then I turn to leave.
He chuckles. “That’s it? God, you scared me. I thought for a second . . .”
How he can stand there with his haughty smirk and pretentious smile and that untouchable aura is beyond me.
“See you tonight,” I say, showing myself out.
This isn’t normal, and he knows it. I would never stop by unannounced and walk away in a hurry, but I can’t stay.
I can’t keep doing this.
“Daphne.” There’s a darker quality to his voice, one that suggests that maybe, just maybe, he sees his kingdom crumbling before his very eyes.
And he should.
Because by the time I’m done, there’ll be nothing left of his perfect little life but ash and smoke.
Twenty-Four
Autumn
I wouldn’t be human if I weren’t nervous right now. I catch my ankle bouncing as I wait in the lobby of Graham McMullen’s office. His secretary phoned him the second I checked in, and I heard her state, “Yes, sir. She’s a bit early.” I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling because so far, so good.
Must be punctual.
Check.
I grab a magazine from a small side table to my left and page through. My eyes scan the pictures and sentences, but nothing registers. I couldn’t possibly read an article about Roth IRAs at a time like this.
For two days I prepped.
Every waking minute of every day. Right beneath Ben’s nose, too. I kept my tablet angled so he couldn’t see it as I Googled and read dozens upon dozens, if not hundreds, of articles on the art of acing the interview, and I immersed myself in the language of families who use nannies and au pairs, their expectations, their code of conduct.
I purposely avoided the horror stories, as they didn’t seem to apply.
With a family like the McMullens, I don’t anticipate a single off-putting scenario. It’s not their style, and it wouldn’t be in good taste. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that everything Daphne McMullen touches is gilded in style and good manners.
“Autumn Carpenter?” A man’s voice fills the quiet waiting area. I glance up, expecting to see a pimple-faced intern drowning in his father’s three-piece suit, only I’m met with the chiseled features and chocolate-brown hair that can only belong to one person.
I rise, swallowing away any hint of fear and self-doubt, and place a warm smile on my face. A black leather portfolio rests in my left hand, and I slowly extend my right to meet his.
My palm slides against his, fitting perfectly in that warm, tight space. These are the hands that caress the cheek of Daphne, the hands that gather Grace and Rose and Sebastian after a long day’s work. These are the hands that drive the family to the lake on summer weekends, and these are the hands that teach the children how to fish and throw a baseball.
“I’m Graham.” His voice resides comfortably in his broad chest, and his full lips part into a welcoming smirk. Not a smile. Smiles are for casual strangers. Smirks are for people with whom you have an unspoken understanding. I can’t help but feel a connection already, and I can’t help but wonder if he feels it too. “This music out here is awful, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer immediately. It wouldn’t be polite to say yes, but it wouldn’t be in my best interest to disagree with the very first question he throws my way. Plus I don’t want to seem insecure or overly agreeable, as those are some of the worst qualities a childcare provider could have. Children sense weakness in adults. It’s practically their sixth sense.
“My business partner insists on this channel,” he says. “Makes me sleepy. Anyway, let’s head back to my office. You need anything? Water? Soda? Coffee?”
“I’m fine, but thank you.” I follow him, my heels carefully tapping against the polished Carrara tiles.
He holds the door open once we reach his suite, and he lets me enter first. A guest chair upholstered in crackling, aged leather is already pulled out. Smoothing his emerald green tie, he points to the chair and tells me to make myself at home.
I lean my portfolio against the side of my chair and run my palms along the underside of my thighs, smoothing my skirt as I take a seat.
I watch him: the way his hand gently rubs the underside of his jaw as he studies my resume, which rests atop a small pile on the center of his desk. His brow raises, as if he’s discovering something new, and I have to question whether or not he hand-selected these interviewees or had someone else do it for him.
A man like Graham McMullen, who manages millions of dollars in assets on a daily basis, a man who owns his own corporation, surely has enormous fish to fry, so I don’t blame him for outsourcing, but I can’t ignore that niggling twinge of disappointment that accompanies the fact that for once, he didn’t put his children first.
“You live on Willow,” he says, his blue eyes gliding over the table and stopping on mine. My heart stops cold. The corner of his mouth pulls. “We’re on Linden. We must be neighbors.”
I exhale slowly, so as not to make it obvious. “You’re on Linden? No kidding?”
My jaw falls slightly, my lips twisted upward.
“Small world,” he says.
“Indeed.” I resist the urge to point out the obvious, that he should hire me because I’m literally a stone’s throw away . . . that I would never be late because I could walk to work. But I don’t want to seem presumptive. And we’ve only just begun.
“Says here you were a medical assistant at Children’s Medical Group until this past March?” he asks next.
I zip my posture and give a slight nod. “I was. And I loved that job more than anything. I love working with children, and I was actually the lead medical assistant in my department. My supervisor would constantly call me a ‘mother hen.’ She thought I was too mature and responsible for my age, so she put me in charge.”
I give a small chuckle. He does too.
Must love children.
Check.
Must be mature.
Check.
Must be responsible.
Check.
“Impressive,” he says in such a way that I believe him. “So I assume you’re CPR and First Aid certified and all of that?”
“I am,” I say.
Another check.
“What was your favorite thing about working with children?” he asks. “I’m sure it had to have been stressful at times? Sick, screaming babies and all that?”
I offer a polite giggle. “We had our well children as well, the ones there for check ups. And actually, the children were my favorite part of that job. Everyone always said I had a way with them. They’d tend to give me the most difficult ones sometimes because I was the only one who could put them at ease.”
His eyes flick between mine, and for a moment, he appears lost in thought.
“What did you do before that, Autumn?” he asks. “This is the only job listed on your resume. Did you babysit? Dog walk? Any of that?”
“I attended college after graduating from high school. Children’s Medical Group was the first job I landed,” I say proudly. “I worked there for several years, until they were bought out by a group of doctors who were bringing on their own nurses and assistants.”
“I see.” He bites his lower lip. “Have you thought about applying at another clinic? I feel like we’ve got one on every street corner here.”
I don’t understand why he’s asking this question. We’re not here to discuss why I haven’t applied at another clinic. We’re here to discuss this job. This nanny job. The one I applied for.
“I suppose you could say I’m sort of in limbo right now,” I answer.
Good save.
“I was thinking of going back to school in the fall, for nursing, and I’ve been on the fence about it. In the meantime, I still want to work, and when I saw your ad for a summer nanny position, I got excited again at the prospect of working hands on with children. I just felt like the stars aligned.”
He leans against his wingback chair. The thing is massive, upholstered in brown tweed with leather buttons, and fit for royalty. He forces a breath past his nostrils and turns his attention toward my resume once more.
My chest tightens.
I don’t think he likes me.
I don’t think he’s impressed.
I glance down at my attire. White, button-down blouse. Grey pencil skirt. Black kitten heels. Conservative makeup.
Must be well-presented.
Check.
Should I have shown up in clothes better suited for running through a sprinkler? For Play-Doh and finger paint?
My mind processes everything all at once, going a million miles an hour. I spent all weekend preparing for this. I expected to stride in here, say all the right things,
and be met with a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face that tells me he’s thinking, unequivocally, “She’s the one!”
The phone on his desk rings, startling us both. His eyes flick to mine.
“I’m sorry. I need to get this,” he says, yanking the receiver and cradling it on his shoulder. “Yes. I remembered. I’ve worked it out. I’ll be there. All right. Thank you.”
Graham hangs up, pushing the resume across the table and sinking into his chair. He rests his arms across his taut stomach and gives me a casual smile. I can tell he doesn’t like interviews. He seems like a simple, straight shooter, and in interviews, you have to be someone else entirely, at least to a point.
“That was my lovely wife,” he says with a chuckle, “reminding me to pick up the dog from the vet on the way home.”
“What kind of dog do you have?”
He blows a breath past his lips, staring off to the side. “I don’t know. It’s one of this big, giant, hypoallergenic dogs that supposedly don’t shed, but they really do. Kids named her Cocoa.”
“I love dogs,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. It’s true. I love dogs. But my heart is breaking right now and my stomach is twisted and my confidence is disappearing like air from a tire with a slow leak. “I have one of my own, actually. A Cavalier King Charles spaniel.”
He smiles, flashing his perfect, dazzling smile. “I have no idea what those are.”
“Here,” I say, reaching into my purse on the floor and pulling out my phone. “Let me show you. She’s beautiful. Her name is Ginger, and she’s . . . she’s my everything.”
I pull up my photos and hand my phone over. He cradles it gently, bringing it to his face, which lights up when he sees my baby.
“She’s quite the darling little dog, isn’t she?” He hands the phone back, and our fingers brush.
Must be comfortable around pets.
Check.
I spot a family portrait on a table behind his desk. “Is that your family?”
He spins in his chair, retrieving the photo. It’s one I haven’t seen before, one not posted on Instaface for all the world to see, and my heart is going to burst if he doesn’t hand it over immediately. I’ve been jonesing for a fix something fierce lately.