I’m stunned. What the hell? I’ve no idea where all this is suddenly coming from.
“She called me pop this morning. A dreadful Americanism, which I can only assume she picked up from you. If you would please be more careful with the language you use around my daughter,” he adds witheringly. “She comes from a very good family and she will grow up a proper lady. Therefore it is imperative she talks like one. “
I’m totally dumbstruck, no idea how to reply. For one thing, I don’t even use the word pop myself. I’ve always just called Dad, well, Dad. It’s not a word I’ve used, and so Tabby can’t have picked it up from me.
I feel anger rising up inside me and I want to defend myself, to shout out: I don’t use that word. It’s not my fault. Maybe it’s all the television you let her watch. Did you ever think she might have picked it up from there?!?
But one look at his face tells me that would be a pretty dangerous move. This subject is clearly no longer up for discussion, this or any other subject for that matter.
I stare down into my cup of coffee. Coffee that now tastes so bitter.
And then I mutter quietly, barely audibly, “Roger that.”
Will snaps his newspaper shut, as if to signal a satisfactory end to the discussion.
“I’m going to the office,” he announces.
And those dark eyes – eyes that last night seemed so alive, burning with fire and passion – are now totally steely and cold, emotionless, dead.
“Try to do something educational with Tabitha today,” he adds.
And with that he drains his coffee, places his cup back on the table, picks up the embossed dark leather briefcase, and without another word leaves the room.
Alone in the silent kitchen, it’s all I can do to fight back the tears.
I spend the day focussing hard on work. Okay, so I’ve been distracted, but no longer. This silly charade ends now. Once again, I inwardly congratulate myself for finally doing the right thing. For shutting down this pathetic little childish infatuation of mine with the nanny. It was making a mockery of my beloved Emma’s memory. And it had to stop.
Now it’s over, I can finally fix my concentration on what really matters. On growing my business, expanding my property portfolio, and caring fully for my daughter.
I’ve finished work for the day, but something’s stopping me from going home. Deep down, I know that it’s Chrissie. I upset her this morning, that much was clear. It had to be done, but she was obviously hurt.
She’s a girl. An American. The kind of person who can’t keep her feelings in check. If I get home tonight, there’s every chance she’ll be waiting for me with those big pleading puppy dog eyes, pouring her heart out, begging me to talk to her. And I simply won’t allow it.
Why did I ask that damn girl to move in!
I have – what? – fifty other flats and houses here in London. I could have put her into any of those, but instead I moved her into my own family home. That was a schoolboy error.
And I resolve in the morning to ask my assistant to look into moving her into one of the many other properties in my portfolio; somewhere smart, somewhere nearby so she’s available for Tabby, but still far enough away from me.
I’m simply not in the mood for conversation with her tonight. I have to ensure that we’re not in the house alone. So I call up Bruce and to my relief, he answers immediately.
“Hey buddy,” I say. “What are you up to tonight?”
“Not a lot,” he replies with a deep chuckle. “Unless I get lucky on Tinder in the next couple of hours!”
Typical Bruce.
“Drop all that,” I tell him. “Come to mine, play a game of pool with me in the old games room. It’s been months since I’ve used it – and it’s a crime for it to just sit there empty.”
“Okay, okay,” he laughs. “Unless I get a better offer of course.”
“Of course,” I say. “See you at seven?”
“See you at seven,” he replies.
§
I dawdle at the office long enough that I know Bruce will be practically waiting for me when I come in. And sure enough, no sooner have I dropped my bags in the hallway when the doorbell rings again. I turn to answer it, but as I do, Tabby comes running from down the stairs.
“Daddy!” she cries, full of excitement. “We played a number game! Do you want to hear all about my numbers?”
Chrissie follows down the stairs behind her, demurely dressed today in smartly pressed navy slacks and a flimsy cream blouse. She seems nervous, twisting her hair. She’s smiling but I can tell its put on, like she’s going to pretend that whole silly little charade never even happened.
Good, I think.
“Yes,” says Chrissie, “we’ve been learning all about numbers.”
She’s about to continue but I hold up one finger to cut her off. “Excuse me,” I say, turning to answer the door. “Good evening, old chap,” I say, ushering Bruce into the house.
Trust Bruce, he’s dressed like he’s come ready to pick up girls in a nightclub, rather than shoot a few games of pool with his old friend. He’s wearing a suit jacket and chinos, with a freshly ironed white shirt – unbuttoned at the neck as if to show he’s a smart guy but still ready to party.
Tabitha suddenly becomes shy, hiding herself away behind Chrissie’s long legs.
“Hi Bruce,” Tabby whispers.
“Hello, princess,” Bruce replies in a tone which suggests he’s talking to Tabby, but if I’m not mistaken, he’s looking directly into Chrissie’s eyes.
“She’s tired,” offers Chrissie, by way of explanation for Tabby’s sudden shyness.
“That’s because it’s her bedtime,” I snap, surprising myself with the sternness in my voice. “I’m going to put her to bed now. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”
As I lead Tabby upstairs to bed, I wonder if the strange glint in Bruce’s eye when he saw Chrissie is something I should be worried about or whether I just imagined it.
What does it matter anyway? I remind myself. So what if Bruce wants to make a play for her. She’s nothing to you.
§
With Tabby safely tucked up in bed, I go back downstairs to find Bruce and Chrissie have moved through to the kitchen. They’re talking – and at first glance it looks innocent and relaxed. But something about the scene tells me that Chrissie is wary of him. She’s on guard, sitting bolt upright at the table, straight backed and alert, clasping her glass of water with two hands as if for protection. She’s nodding politely as Bruce explains American culture to her – all of the places he’s been, where to get the best tacos, the best burgers. As always, Bruce has to know everything.
“Enough of the cultural studies,” I say. “Chrissie’s not on the clock any more, old chap. I’m not paying her to be polite to you.”
“Oh, no,” she exclaims, politely but with a subtle hint of sarcasm that only someone who knows her would pick up on. “We were having a great time. Bruce was explaining to me ...”
“Enough, enough,” I say. “You don’t need to tell me about Bruce. I’ve heard it all before. I’ll take him off your hands. Come on, old man. Time to get thrashed at pool.”
“Oh, it’s on,” Bruce laughs. “And I think you’ll find it’s you who’s about to get the thrashing ...”
As he makes his way out of the room, he turns to shoot a strange glance back at Chrissie, who’s still sitting at the kitchen table.
“We’ll continue this later, yeah?” he says in a low suggestive tone. And if it wasn’t before, it’s obvious now that Chrissie has really caught his eye.
§
As always, women are never far from Bruce’s mind, and as I rack up the first frame, he immediately begins to quiz me about Chrissie.
“So,” he begins, as he lines up his cue to break, “you must be going out of your head with a hot young thing like that living under your roof!”
He slams the cue into the white, which in turn scatters the balls impressively – pott
ing a couple of reds in the process.
“She’s my daughter’s nanny, Bruce,” I reply with a sigh. “An employee. I don’t think of her like that.”
At this, Bruce looks up from his next shot and shakes his head. “You’re inscrutable,” he grins. “Anyone else but you and I wouldn’t believe it. But you always do things by the book.”
I don’t answer, just raise my eyebrows in response, as I stand to take my shot, slamming the cue hard into the white, aiming for a yellow by the top corner pocket but missing by a fraction of an inch.
God damn it.
“So this nanny, this employee,” Bruce persists. “Any boyfriends sniffing about?”
He takes his shot, potting another red and setting himself up perfectly for his next shot.
“You mean, is she available? Is that what you’re asking?” I reply a little coldly.
Bruce pauses, lines up his cue, then slams the white into his chosen ball in another perfect shot, sending it flying into the far corner pocket.
“Yes, is she single? Is she available? Can I ask her out?” he grins back.
I’m about to say yes. After all, she’s nothing to me, is she? But even so, something gives me pause. The idea of Bruce’s hands on her. His lips on hers. I just don’t like it. Could it be that I’m ... jealous? But that’s absurd. You can’t be jealous if your friend wants to get involved with someone you have absolutely no interest in whatsoever. And I’m not interested in her. I have to keep telling myself that to extinguish any remaining flames of feeling that might bubble up inside me. I have to scrub all memories of that night, that kiss, the feel of her body against mine, from my mind.
“Sure,” I say after a slight hesitation. “Knock yourself out. She’s a nice girl. And I reckon she could probably do with a date or two, anyway. I’ll give you her number.”
I stand to take my next shot, lining my cue behind the white, aiming for a plant. But again, my calculations aren’t quite correct, and I end up fouling, knocking Bruce’s last red into the centre pocket.
“Cheers, old chap,” he says, as he steps in, hardly even lining his cue up as he breezily slams the black into the left corner pocket, winning the game.
How dare he! The slimy entitled bastard. Just who does he think he is? Just because he’s my boss, doesn’t mean he fucking owns me. Doesn’t mean he can pass me onto his friends less than a fucking week after discarding me.
Okay, sorry about all the swearing, but I hope you understand. Because right now I am mad.
I mean, only met Will’s friend Bruce for five minutes that night, and without even checking with me that it’s okay, Will has obviously given him my fucking number. What the hell?
I pace up and down the room in anger and frustration, before sighing and flopping back down on the bed to look again at the text message I’ve just received.
Hey American girl This is Will’s friend Bruce here. I was hoping we could continue that fascinating conversation we had a few days ago. I’d like to get to know you better. Drinks sometime? xx
I toss the phone back onto the sheets in disgust. Know me better, he says? He knows nothing about me. He just heard my accent and started talking about all the places he’d been to in America. He didn’t even ask which state I’m from.
I’m so goddamn angry with Will, I’ve got half a mind to run downstairs right this moment, interrupt his evening, and let him know exactly how I feel. But I know just what he’d do. He’d simply shut the conversation down immediately. Start by telling me off for something imaginary that I’d done, just like before. Then leave me in a mess of emotion. There’s no point. Damn him. Why did I ever get fooled by his charm, his height, his accent.
He seemed like the perfect gentleman but I guess he’s just another bastard.
So what am I gonna do tonight then?
Same thing I’ve been doing all week – hiding away in this apartment, pretending I don’t even exist. Doing my best to avoid any awkward conversations; in short, making life easier for him.
This place seemed huge when I first moved in. I couldn’t believe I had my very own kitchen, my own bathroom, my own living room. But tonight it seems tiny and claustrophobic, and I don’t know how I’m gonna spend another evening in here, cramped on my own.
I don’t feel like seeing any friends right now; they’ll be able to tell just how upset I am and I don’t feel like explaining.
And so, before I can change my mind, I hastily grab the phone from beside me and type out a text.
Sure. How about tonight?
I hit send.
What the hell did I just do?
Within seconds I can see on the screen of my phone that Bruce is typing a reply.
Great. 8 o clock? I’ll send a car.
§
A couple of hours later, we’re sitting opposite each other in some swanky wine bar, and Bruce is on his third Negroni, while I’m still nursing my first elderflower Collins. I’m not interested in getting carried away tonight. And surprise, surprise, Bruce is still talking about himself. He’s moved on from his travels though, and now he’s telling me in-depth about his job at a ‘top London commodities firm’. I’ve hardly understood a word he’s said, to be honest, but actually, I don’t think he’s even noticed.
Okay, maybe I’m being a little harsh on him.
He’s actually a nice guy, if a little boring. I mean, he’s not being a sleaze or anything. It’s not one of those dates where the guy can’t keep his eyes off your cleavage. And he did send a car for me, and he’s paying for all the drinks, and he said he’d chosen a bar that wasn’t full of city trader types on purpose so that I would feel more comfortable. So I guess he has thought about me at least a little bit.
Although it was kind of forward, asking me on a date out of the blue like that, it was Will who gave him my number in the first place.
I bet he put him up to it. I bet Will told Bruce to ask me out just to mess with me.
But still, nice guy or not, I can’t help but stifle a yawn. He’s really not my type. Physically, I’ve never gone in for blondes, but looks aren’t even the main thing. I guess a girl just wants to be asked a question once in a while.
And maybe he’s a little more perceptive than I thought, because all of a sudden he stops his monologue to say, “Look, I can see you’re yawning your head off. I can tell this isn’t going too well. I guess you’re just not that into me, huh?” he adds with a smile.
I laugh for the first time this evening – for what seems like the first time all week.
“You’re a nice guy,” I reply, “but if I’m totally honest, yeah, I guess you’re just not my type.”
“I get it,” he grins back. “And I think I might know what you’re type is. Are you perhaps a more tall dark and handsome kind of a girl?”
There’s a tone in his voice that I don’t like. I think I know just what he’s insinuating. God. Am I really that obvious?
“It’s not like that,” I say. “I guess it’s more about chemistry?”
He nods, understandingly, and I’m relieved when he doesn’t push it any further.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll take you home.”
The house is quiet. It seems so empty, and I realise just how quickly I’ve got used to her presence. Even the knowledge that she’s up there in the attic is a comfort to me somehow. But tonight, the house is silent.
I’m sitting in the library, trying to concentrate on my book, but my mind won’t focus on the page in front of me. It’s times like these when I wish I could have a stiff drink; a nice Scottish single malt whiskey, perhaps. But no. Not tonight. Never again.
Other people’s drinking habits have caused me too much pain, and I vowed never to hurt anyone with mine.
Suddenly the house stirs with life and noise, and I realise it must be Chrissie returning from wherever she’s been this evening. I can’t help it; I’m relieved. I half expect her to just move out one day, to just leave without telling me. I wouldn’t blame her. The way
I’ve behaved, I don’t deserve her continued devotion to Tabby. Her continued presence in the house.
For some reason, I still haven’t asked my assistant Hannah to look into an alternative living arrangement for Chrissie in one of my other properties. Maybe I don’t want to hurt her feelings by asking her to move out so quickly, or maybe I just need her around, somehow.
Calmed by the knowledge that she’s back, I feel ready to finally relax and go to bed. But then I hear a second voice in the doorway and it dawns on me she’s not alone.
And wait. I know that voice ...
I head quickly down the stairs, and sure enough, there’s Chrissie and to my surprise, she’s with Bruce. Wow. When I gave him her number, I guess I didn’t think that they would actually go out together, not to mention so soon. I have to hand it to him – he’s a fast worker.
“Will, old buddy!” says Bruce cheerily. “I’ve just had a delightful evening with Chrissie, here. She’s a real find.”
Chrissie glances at me, an expression in her eyes that I can’t quite read.
Then she suddenly turns to face Bruce and, touching his arm, coos, “Yes, we’ve had a great time. We went to the most amazing cocktail bar. All done out in prohibition style! You have to take me again there sometime, Bruce.”
Whoa, I think. This isn’t what I expected. I didn’t suspect she’d actually like him. But the way she’s looking at him now, it’s obvious she does. And even Bruce looks a little taken aback, but pleasantly so.
“Sure, of course,” he says. “I’m out of the country this week, but I’ll call you the minute I get back.”
“See you next week then,” she says brightly.
“See you next week,” returns Bruce, before looking up at me. “Same to you, buddy,” he says.
“Of course,” I say, coolly, trying to keep my anger at bay. “See you next week.”
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