by Sami Lee
Phillipa’s tactlessness didn’t intimidate Meg. ‘The classics never go out of style Phillipa. Some things get better as they get older, like a good wine or Louis Armstrong. Just ask your father, he knows about that sort of thing.’
What was that about things getting better as they got older? Bryce wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted. ‘Are you putting me in that category?’
‘Huh? Oh, no!’ Meg said, her cheeks growing pink. ‘I was referring to your appreciation of wine and jazz. I wasn’t snooping, but your music collection is programmed right into the stereo. I mean, you can’t be much older than thirty-five, right?’
Bryce’s lips twisted derisively. ‘I’m thirty-four, actually.’
‘If there’s any justice in the world,’ Meg muttered, ‘the floor would open up right now and swallow me. I didn’t mean to suggest…’
‘Never mind, Meg,’ Bryce interrupted her. He didn’t need to hear her mad attempts to back pedal the unintentional jibe. He’d already estimated he was a good ten years older than her, at least. He’d glimpsed her last night wearing the threadbare T-shirt she apparently slept in. It had a high school slogan emblazoned across the back. High School. He had no business ogling someone who still owned a high school T-shirt, even had she not been his employee.
The thought turned his expression to a scowl. Her previous employer had ignored those boundaries. There was no way he would do the same.
‘Come on Phillipa, it’s time we got you ready for school.’ Meg turned and led his daughter in the direction of the door.
‘I told you before, I can do it by myself. I don’t need your help.’
‘And be late, like we almost were yesterday? Huh-uh. Upstairs, now.’
‘Do you hear the way she talks to me Daddy?’ Phillipa asked, even as she sauntered off to do Meg’s bidding, Meg following smoothly behind her.
‘I hear it.’ He heard it, and he couldn’t help but approve.
Phillipa left the room with a pained sound at his lack of support for her grievance, and Meg sent him a grateful smile over her shoulder that caught him somewhere in the chest. His lungs contracted.
He approved of too darn much about the woman. Her no-nonsense handling of his daughter’s prickliness. Her tendency to say whatever she was thinking, regardless of the consequences. Her slender, enticing curves and big, sparkling eyes…
Making a sound of disgust, Bryce tossed the remainder of his tea down the sink. As he did so he noticed the plate and cutlery sitting on the side, the plate his daughter had brought back from the dining room on her own steam, without having to be ordered to do so for once. Next to it sat a spiral bound sketchpad.
It was obviously Meg’s. He had seen her scribbling in it once or twice, but she’d always stashed it away hastily whenever he came into the room. Now his fingers strayed to the book’s frayed edges, curiosity warring with his sense of decency. He shouldn’t look at it. Whatever was inside was Meg’s personal business.
Yet, she’d clearly been conducting that business while on the clock as his paid employee. Didn’t he have a right to know how his time was being used?
The argument was thin to say the least, but Bryce found himself turning the pages anyway. Inside, he found several rough sketches of the interior of a house with notes scrawled over them.
Not just any house, Bryce realised. His house. She’d drawn his dining room, his living area, but had changed the furniture and décor. Notes were written in the margin. Bryce read a couple of phrases. Curtains too dark — makes the room sombre. Furniture too heavy — oppressive atmosphere. Re do in warmer tones — peach? Ecru? Crimson?
Bryce closed the book with a huff. So she thought his house was stuffy and old fashioned, like his music collection. Did she think he was stuffy?
Bryce headed for the front door. He was getting worked up over nothing. So what if Meg thought everything in his life needed changing? She wouldn’t be around long enough to do anything about it.
***
The following day dawned bright and warm. Outside Meg’s window a bird tweeted in the branches of a eucalypt, its brown feathers ruffled slightly by a gentle breeze. Although she had never considered herself a morning person, there was something to be said for waking up each day in such peaceful and scenic surrounds. Tossing back the covers, Meg walked to the bedroom window and slid the glass open further, breathing in the scent of fresh spring air perfumed by the saltiness of the harbour water below and the well-cultivated roses of the vast garden. She smiled, feeling glad to be alive.
She dressed quickly in blue jeans and a powder blue V-necked jumper, running a brush through her tangle of pale hair before jogging upstairs to start breakfast.
Bryce had told her that Phillipa was allowed to sleep in until eight o’clock on weekends, but when Meg passed through the living room the little girl was already curled up on the black leather couch, clutching the remote control as she flicked from cartoon to cartoon on the wide-screen television.
Meg halted on her way to the kitchen. ‘You’re up early.’
Not turning to acknowledge her, Phillipa merely lifted her tiny shoulder in negligent reply and Meg had to swallow the unladylike cuss that threatened to burst forth. If only the girl would at least engage in polite conversation of some sort. But every time she walked into a room Meg could still feel how palpably Phillipa resented her presence.
Was she jealous of having another female in her father’s life? It was an understandable, though unnecessary, response. It was clear to anyone within two miles that, despite the long hours he worked that took him away from her, Bryce Carlton loved his daughter. And Meg wasn’t in Bryce’s life, she was merely a peripheral character.
‘Would you like some breakfast?’ Meg injected a brightness she suddenly didn’t feel into her voice.
‘I don’t want French toast again.’
‘Me neither.’ Meg refused to let that sting show. She’d thought her French toast was pretty good. ‘I’ll rustle up something for myself and you let me know when you’ve decided what you want.’
Moments later she came back into the living room with an open box of Fruit Rings, the name giving a false impression of the product’s ingredients, which did not include any fruit. The multicoloured loops were full to the outer rims with processed sugar, and were one of Meg’s favourite indulgences.
Taking a seat on the couch, she said nothing as she dove into the open box and withdrew a handful of cereal, popping the loops into her mouth one by one and crunching loudly.
She was on her second handful when she noticed Phillipa’s attention was no longer on the cartoons. ‘Where did you get those?’
‘The cupboard.’
‘Mrs Dunkirk doesn’t buy Fruit Rings.’
‘I noticed. I had to buy these myself.’ She withdrew another handful from the box, turning to Phillipa as though the idea had just occurred to her. ‘Do you want some?’
Despite being in a state of near salivation, Phillipa replied. ‘I’m not supposed to eat that sort of stuff.’
‘Me neither. But I eat what I want on Saturdays. Don’t you have that rule here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Phillipa said blankly. ‘I never asked.’
Meg could see the possibilities swirling around in Phillipa’s big brown eyes and had to fight not to smile. The notion of a no-holds-barred eat-what-you-like Saturday had obviously intrigued the girl, as it probably would any eight-year-old.
One point for you, Meg.
She held out the box to the little girl. ‘I’m sure a little wouldn’t hurt.’
Before long — having jointly decided Fruit Rings went better with milk — the two of them sat cross-legged on the floor, eating their bowls of cereal at the antique hardwood coffee table while Phillipa filled Meg in on who was who in the world of the cartoon she was watching.
And that was how Bryce found them.
‘Phillipa, what on earth are you eating?’
They both turned at the sound of his voice
, Meg’s glance catching on the sight of him dressed in blue running shorts and a white T-shirt. It was the first time she had seen him wearing anything other than a business suit, the first time she had seen his hair out of its usual neat style. A thick strand of damp hair fell forward across his forehead, half concealing the light beading of sweat on his brow. The T-shirt he wore outlined an impressive breadth of muscle his work attire strongly hinted at but stopped short of revealing. The shorts displayed long, powerful legs lightly dusted with dark brown hair.
The effect of his presence was distinctly unbalancing.
‘Cereal.’ Phillipa answered her father’s question, saving Meg the difficulty of speech for a few moments. ‘Meg bought it. It’s yummy. Do you want some?’
Bryce leaned over the coffee table and peered sceptically into the bowls. ‘I don’t think so.’ He speared Meg with a glance that stilled her breath. ‘It doesn’t look like something on Mrs Dunkirk’s shopping list.’
‘Huh-uh,’ Phillipa admitted with no shortage of glee, before slurping milk from her spoon. ‘Do you know Meg eats whatever she wants on Saturdays? Her whole family does it. And maybe other families, too. But we don’t. Can we do it today, Daddy?’
It was the most animated and cheerful Meg had seen the little girl, and she sent Bryce a look, hoping he would understand the plea in her eyes. Please don’t ruin this for me. It’s the first glimmer of approval I’ve gotten from her.
Their eyes connected, held, for a long moment. Meg’s breath caught again. She wished he would sit down so he was on her level, not towering with such majesty above her. It made him seem so imposing, larger than life.
At last he turned his attention back to Phillipa. ‘Why not? You two seem to have gotten such a good start.’
Some of the tension seeped out of Meg at Bryce’s words. It seemed he had received her message loud and clear, and was willing to break the usual rules to make his little girl happy. Even though the long list of treats Phillipa immediately started to rattle off as her intended menu for the day would doubtless give her a tummy ache.
‘Hold on peanut.’ Bryce laughed. ‘You might want to save some of those items for next Saturday.’
‘Really Daddy? Can we do it every week?’
Bryce sat on the floor near Meg, reaching for the box of cereal. He took out a handful of the sugary loops, popping them into his mouth. He tilted his head at Meg, a half smile on his lips. ‘These aren’t half bad,’ he told her, his eyes remaining on her face while he replied to Phillipa’s question. ‘As long as you don’t make yourself sick, I don’t see why not, honey.’
Meg’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth, milk dripping from its sides into the bowl. Her mouth hung open and if she hadn’t been rendered mute from the moment she had laid eyes on Bryce she might have whimpered.
The honey hadn’t been meant for her, she knew that. But the way he had kept his eyes on her as he’d murmured it made her heart twist as though it had been. Adding to the impact of the endearment was the slight brush of Bryce’s knee against hers beneath the low table where he had tried his best to fit his long legs. His eyes were like pools of warm tiramisu she would love to dive right into, and Meg had a frightening realisation.
Her boss was hot. Not merely handsome, but supernova hot, and much too distracting for her peace of mind.
‘I bet Mummy won’t let me do it.’
Phillipa’s voice seemed to shake them both out of a trance. The word Mummy dumped a bucket of iced water on Meg’s burning ardour. It was the first mention she had heard her charge make of her mother, Bryce’s ex-wife. Bryce had never spoken of her.
The smile left Bryce’s face as he turned back to his daughter. He didn’t ask Phillipa why she had come to such a conclusion, which had her looking crestfallen. ‘No, I doubt she will Phillipa.’
Speaking for the first time since Bryce had entered the room, Meg had to clear her throat to get the one word out. ‘Why?’
‘Mummy says sugar is the enemy of a woman’s hips,’ Phillipa explained. ‘She also says that about something called car… garbohy…’
‘Carbohydrates,’ Bryce filled in, his expression neutral but his tone not quite managing the same. Meg detected a hint of derision she didn’t think Phillipa picked up on.
‘That’s right… carbo-hy-drates. She doesn’t like alcohol either, although she drinks champagne. Only when it’s French though. She says it’s not champagne if it’s not French.’
‘I see,’ Meg said dutifully, thinking Isabelle ex-Carlton sounded a little obsessed with calorie counting. Not to mention snobbish, what with the whole ‘French champagne only’ rule.
Nasty, nasty. You haven’t even met the woman. And technically, it’s not champagne unless it’s French.
‘When I go to Mummy’s, Paolo cooks us things in the steamer.’
‘Who’s Paolo?’ Meg asked
‘Mummy’s personal trainer. For sure Paolo would never let me have Fruit Rings for breakfast. But they won’t be back from the Caribbean for another week, at least. Will they Daddy?’
‘No, they won’t be.’
Meg fluttered a glance at Bryce but his attention was focussed on his cereal. It was obvious Paolo was more than an employee of Isabelle’s, although Phillipa thankfully didn’t seem to understand the implications of the two of them being together in the Caribbean. She didn’t envy Bryce having to explain that one to his eight-year-old daughter.
They finished their cereal in silence, save for the cartoon voices emanating from the television set. Phillipa’s attention returned to the cartoon, leaving Meg all too aware of how close she was to Bryce and the awkwardness that had settled between them since the subject of his ex-wife had come up.
In need of something to do, Meg stood and started collecting the bowls. ‘So what do you want to do today, Phillipa? Besides stuff yourself full of hot dogs and chocolate ice cream.’
The girl screwed up her face. ‘I have a violin lesson.’
Picking up on her obvious disinclination to partake in the activity, Bryce said, ‘I thought you wanted to learn the violin.’
‘I did, but…’ her voice trailed off and she lifted that apathetic shoulder Meg was so used to. ‘I’m not any good at it.’
‘You’ve only been playing a couple of months. You need to give it time.’
‘But it’s boring.’
‘Excuse me.’ Meg collected the bowls and transported them to the kitchen. She was unsure of the protocol when it came to disagreements between father and daughter, but she didn’t think Bryce would consider it a nanny’s place to intervene.
By the time she returned to the living room, Phillipa’s mood was fast approaching steamed. ‘But Daddy I don’t want to!’
‘I said you will continue with the lessons for now, and that’s final. You will honour your commitment to Mrs Henderson.’
With a high-pitched scream of frustration, Phillipa jumped up from where she had been seated on the floor and ran from the room, calling a parting shot up the stairs. ‘You’re so mean Daddy! I hate you!’
Bryce stood too, running a hand through his hair in an infuriated gesture. Meg hesitated a fraction before taking a step forward, almost crashing into him as he stalked from the room.
They stood facing each other, holding themselves very still as though a single movement from either of them might result in physical contact. Bryce was obviously wrestling with his temper and Meg said, hoping he might take comfort from the words, ‘She doesn’t, you know. Hate you, I mean. Kids just say that sort of thing.’
‘Do they?’ Bryce looked doubtful. ‘I don’t remember ever telling my parents I hated them. How about you?’
Meg had trouble recalling a time herself, but she knew she had thought it once or twice. ‘I was pretty mad when my dad told me I couldn’t have a new bike,’ she said with a small smile. ‘And Phillipa has had a lot to contend with the past few years.’
‘By that you mean my divorce, I suppose?’ There was something close to ac
cusation lacing his words. ‘If you think it’s been so hard on Phillipa, don’t go asking so many questions about her mother.’
She gaped. ‘I didn’t—’ but then she cut off the denial. She had, in fact, pursued the topic of Phillipa’s mother. She tried another tactic. ‘Phillipa brought up her mother, if you’ll remember. And I don’t think avoiding the subject is an appropriate response. Phillipa needs to be able to talk to you about your ex-wife without fearing your anger.’
‘What my daughter needs is a mother who doesn’t flaunt her relationship with a twenty-five-year-old Latin toy boy in front of her, but we don’t always get what we want.’ He said it through gritted teeth. Meg had never seen such fury rise so quickly in him. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you’d stay out of it.’
The way he said he’d ‘appreciate’ it clearly meant stay out of it or else. Meg felt a spark of reflexive rebellion ignite. ‘I’m Phillipa’s nanny. What do you suggest I do when the topic of your ex-wife comes up?’
‘I suggest you steer the conversation on to other things and refrain from snooping into subject matter that is none of your concern.’
With that Bryce stalked past her, leaving Meg gaping after him as he ascended the stairs two at a time.
So much for her pleasant morning.
Chapter Five
As ordered, Phillipa went ahead with her violin lesson when the music tutor, Mrs Henderson, arrived at eleven o’clock. Thereafter the sound of Phillipa’s bow being dragged mercilessly across her abused violin strings filled the house and scraped at the enamel on Meg’s teeth.
Meg spent some time cleaning her room lest her tendency to leave her clothes wherever she shucked them aggravate Mrs Dunkirk’s seemingly permanent state of pique, but at last she could stand the noise no longer. Picking up the paperback novel she was partway through reading, she decided to escape to a quiet spot in the garden to read until Phillipa’s lesson was over. Perhaps down by the pool, which would be lovely on this sunny spring morning.