by Karen Clarke
‘You’re gorgeous, Bee, and he’s done with women who look like supermodels.’ I slid open Mum’s wardrobe, which probably rivalled Victoria Beckham’s with deep drawers for handbags and shoes, and shelves of sweaters and tops. I started riffling through the hangers. Some of her clothes were eighties vintage, but I bypassed the sequins and ruffles and pulled out a cropped, black blazer, and a fire-engine red wrap-dress that I knew would complement Bridget’s spectacular hair.
‘Put these on,’ I instructed. ‘And these.’ I took out a pair of black velvet shoes with high heels. ‘You’re only half a size bigger, you should be able to cram your toes in.’
As her head popped through the dress’s soft material and it fell smoothly across her curves, she stood up and hobbled over to the full-length mirror. ‘Not bad.’ She smiled at my reflection.
‘It’s perfect.’ In comparison, I looked like a lanky youth on day release from a remand centre, and wondered whether it was time to rethink my own wardrobe. I seemed to be living in jeans and sweatshirts these days, and could hardly believe I’d turned up at Rufus’s house and then Seth’s looking so… scruffy. Maybe I should get changed before going back over there. It was one thing trying to channel Mary Poppins, another to resemble a suspect on Border Patrol.
‘Would you mind popping Romy into her own bed?’ Bridget’s voice jolted me out of my critical self-appraisal.
‘Sure,’ I said, surprised. It seemed a shame to disturb her. ‘Now?’
‘I don’t want her waking up in here later, on her own.’ Bridget pivoted and studied her rear in the mirror. ‘She should brush her teeth, but I suppose I can let it go this once.’
A thought occurred. ‘Who’s babysitting?’
Bridget stopped preening and a wrinkle appeared on her brow. ‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ she said. ‘You are.’
Chapter Eighteen
It was a measure of how much wine was in Bridget’s bloodstream that she didn’t completely freak out when I told her I’d promised to look after Jack, as Seth’s mother was going home.
‘You put Seth Donovan’s son before your own niece?’ She sounded more hurt than annoyed, which was rich considering she hadn’t asked me to babysit. If I’d thought about it, I’d have expected her to hunt down a childcare expert, not trust her useless sister to look after her daughter.
‘He was going to cancel,’ I said, handing her the blazer to try on with the dress. ‘I didn’t want you to miss your date, so I offered my services.’
‘Well… that was nice of you, I suppose.’ She spoilt it by adding, ‘But you don’t know anything about children.’
I managed not to roll my eyes, or say why do you want me to babysit Romy then? ‘I’ve got to know Jack a little bit. I’ll be fine.’
‘Fancy you looking after Seth Donovan’s son.’ Her eyes saucered wide, as if the absurdity had just hit her. ‘Seth Donovan!’
‘He’s just a man,’ I said drily. ‘He bleeds like the rest of us.’
‘Oh god, what am I going to do?’ Clutching the blazer, she glanced at Romy who was beginning to stir, making soft whispery sounds as if in the grip of a dream. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting him at the restaurant at eight. Should I take her with me?’
‘Why don’t I take her?’ I said impulsively. ‘I can look after them both at the cottage.’
Bridget’s expression hovered between hope and indecision. ‘Oh, Tilly, I don’t know.’
‘Seth trusts me with Jack, so…’ I let the words hang for a moment.
‘But will Seth mind? It seems a bit much for him to meet my daughter before he’s even met me.’
‘I’ll text him.’
She chewed her bottom lip – a gesture I remembered from watching her do her maths homework at the kitchen table, before she got fed up of her kid sister asking her what she was ‘drawing’ and flounced up to her bedroom.
‘But Romy’s so much younger, and it’ll be confusing for her.’
‘It’ll be a lovely, mind-broadening adventure,’ I said, in a no-nonsense tone Mary Poppins would have approved of. ‘And she’ll get to meet a really nice boy who has lots of toys that she can play with.’ I had no idea whether Jack had toys that would be suitable for a two-year-old, but Romy’s face lit up.
‘TOYS!’ she shrieked, immediately awake. She leapt up and bounced on the bed, hair drifting with static, and Bridget peered at the alarm clock beside the bed and bolted out of the room, muttering about needing a stylist to sort her out.
By the time I’d texted Seth and whipped around the house, gathering things that Romy might need – according to Bridget’s shouted instructions – and Bridget had transformed into a semblance of her former self, with glossy waves, smoky eyes and red lips, it was time to leave.
‘Will I do?’ She paraded downstairs with Mum’s velvet blazer hooked over one shoulder, but it was obvious from her posture that she knew she did, and all I had to do was whistle and nod. ‘Seth won’t know what’s hit him,’ I said, which was clearly the right response as she gripped my shoulders, kissed my cheek and said, ‘Thank you,’ in a heartfelt way that left me speechless.
Romy seemed bemused when Bridget crouched to help her on with her coat, and kept touching her hair, open-mouthed. ‘Queen,’ she said reverentially, as if her mother was a fairy tale character who’d sprung from the pages of a book. She beamed at us when we laughed. ‘Not Mummy!’ she pronounced.
‘It is Mummy, but nicer.’ Romy laughed loudly at my comment, despite not understanding, while Bridget tutted and smoothed the skirt of Mum’s dress. ‘I told you it would suit you,’ I said.
‘OK, Stella McCartney.’ She straightened. ‘Let’s get Romy into the car.’
After throwing on Dad’s overcoat to combat the cold outside, she transferred Romy’s car seat into my Picanto and made sure her daughter was securely fastened in. Romy protested that she wanted to sit in the front – by kicking the passenger seat and shouting ‘FRONT!’
‘She’ll be fine, don’t worry,’ I promised. In the brightness of the security light spilling over the driveway, Bridget was starting to look fraught, and her freshly-styled hair was being pushed around by the wind. ‘Go back inside. We’ll see you later.’
‘Drive carefully,’ she called, as if I was planning to emulate one of Seth’s races. She watched as I pulled away in second gear, and was still watching as I carefully turned the corner, and I wondered whether she’d be able to enjoy her date, knowing her daughter was with someone who’d never babysat in her life.
‘She’s cute,’ said Seth as he let us into the cottage. When he’d texted to say it was fine to bring my niece, I’d wondered whether he was just saying yes to everything in the interests of ‘repayment’ but he seemed genuinely charmed by Romy, who was clutching my hand and looking around, her teddy tucked under one arm.
She’d been silent on the way over, but as I was considering engaging her in a nursery rhyme sing-off, I’d checked the rear-view mirror and found her looking chilled, as if she was enjoying the peace and quiet, and looking forward to an evening out.
‘DOGGY!’ she squealed as Digby trotted out of the living room and came to investigate the visitors with a couple of throaty woofs. ‘’S a doggy,’ she repeated, looking at me for confirmation, while Digby sniffed at our feet.
‘It is,’ I said, enjoying her simple joy, thinking it might be nice to get a pet at home – except Bridget would only complain that it was something else to look after.
‘His name’s Digby,’ Seth informed her, and we shared a smile as she passed her fingertips gently over his head. ‘Do you know what colour he is?’
‘Black,’ she said. ‘Silly.’ She chuckled, as if tickled by the idea that Seth didn’t know what colour his own dog was.
‘He’s three years old,’ Seth persisted. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-eleven,’ said Romy, and ran after Digby who’d finished his snuffling and was on his way back to the living room.
‘I wish I was
twenty-eleven.’ Seth grinned at me. ‘It sounds sort of magical.’
‘It actually does.’ I returned his grin, thinking how nice he looked in his ‘going out’ clothes – a midnight blue shirt, open at the collar, and dark jeans that showed off his thighs without being too tight. Rufus had worn skinny jeans once, that left nothing to the imagination, and I’d had to fight back horrified laughter at the sight. Apparently, his sixth-formers had convinced him to get some, saying they’d make him look ‘hench’. They’d made him look like a court jester, and he’d swiftly reverted to the slightly baggy blue jeans he wore when he wasn’t teaching.
‘You look nice.’ Seth raised a brow and I immediately coloured up. I’d changed out of my sweatshirt at the last minute, into a jumper I’d spotted while finding Bridget an outfit – one that Mum rarely wore because she said the colour made her look like a blob of mustard, but somehow toned nicely with my skin and hair.
‘Thanks,’ I said, tugging it over the waist of my jeans, conscious my bosoms didn’t make much of an impression in the kitten-soft wool. ‘It’s my mum’s actually.’ Great piece of information, Tilly.
‘No disrespect to your mum, but I’m guessing it looks better on you.’ I could feel my cheeks burning scarlet. Was this how he flirted with women? Was he practising for when he met Bridget? ‘I’m guessing your mum wasn’t available for babysitting duties this evening.’
‘My parents are away at the moment.’
‘Oh?’ I hadn’t taken much notice before, but his eyes were inquisitive. The sort that could make a woman feel fascinating. A different woman. Not me. ‘Somewhere nice?’
‘I’m sure my sister will tell you all about it.’ I sidled past, avoiding his gaze. He’d put on cologne and smelt how I’d imagine an exclusive men’s club would smell – all wood and leather with a top note of expensive brandy. It almost eclipsed the lovely whiff of paint hanging in the air. ‘I should go and check on Romy.’
‘Jack was looking forward to meeting her.’
I turned. ‘He was?’
‘Well, he came down from his room, which I took as a good sign, and hasn’t run back up there.’
‘Was your mother…?’ I hesitated. ‘Did she say anything after I’d gone?’
‘It’s hard to tell with Mum, but I think she was…’ He paused, and screwed up his eyes. ‘Not impressed, exactly, but I think she nearly liked you.’
I couldn’t help laughing. ‘Nearly?’
‘As much as my mother likes anyone outside her immediate circle, who hasn’t been educated at Oxford or Cambridge.’
‘Hey, how do you know I wasn’t Oxbridge educated?’
‘Because you still have a local accent, and lack an air of entitlement?’
‘Ooh, that’s mean.’ I was still smiling. ‘I’m sure not everyone who went to Oxford feels a sense of entitlement.’
‘Hey, how come you don’t have a Canadian accent if you lived over there for ten years?’
‘You’ve lived abroad,’ I countered. ‘How come you don’t have an Italian accent?’
‘Per favore, penso di no, alla prossima, mi dispiace,’ he replied, with an exaggerated flourish, eyes smouldering in the manner of a passionate Italian.
‘You speak the language?’ I was impressed, in spite of myself. The only accent sexier than a French one was an Italian one.
‘Actually, they’re just a few basic words and phrases I picked up over there,’ he admitted. ‘Please; I don’t think so; ’til next time; I’m sorry.’
‘Ah.’ I nodded. ‘Sounds like you spent a lot of time apologising.’
‘A lot,’ he said wryly. ‘Not that it did me much good.’
Something I couldn’t find a word for flowed between us, and I jumped when thunderous music erupted from the living room.
Rushing through, I saw Romy – big-eyed with fright – gripping the television remote, the volume deafening, Jack on the sofa in his pyjamas and dressing gown, hands clapped over his ears, while Digby spun in circles, barking with excitement.
‘Give it to me, Romy.’ I took the remote from her outstretched hand and stabbed at the buttons, somehow switching channels several times. There was a horrible moment when skimpily-clad females were thrusting their pumped up buttocks at the screen, while a rapper in leather and sunglasses droned, ‘Ma bitches, I love ma bitches. I really love dem bitches.’
‘BITCHES!’ Romy bellowed, and I finally jabbed the off button before she started twerking. In the silence that followed, I looked round to see Seth in the doorway, a hand over his eyes, shoulders shaking with laughter, and Jack started giggling; a wonderful gurgling sound that made Digby cock his head. Romy shunted her coat onto the floor and scrambled up beside Jack, her plump legs, encased in woollen tights, barely reaching the edge of the sofa.
‘Tree!’ She pointed to the hastily decorated Christmas tree, which hadn’t been touched since our efforts earlier, but looked somehow charming, especially with the lights casting a rainbow of colours across the wall. ‘Pretty,’ she mused, and it struck me as funny that she liked it just as much as the perfectly decorated one at home.
‘She’s got good taste,’ Seth murmured, eyes twinkling almost as brightly as the lights. ‘Hey, buddy,’ he said to Jack, coming over to the sofa. ‘I’ll see you later, OK?’ He ruffled Jack’s hair. ‘You be a good boy for Tilly, and go to bed when she tells you to.’
‘I’m not a baby,’ Jack protested, shifting away from Seth’s touch, and I felt a pinch in my heart as the laughter drained from his face.
‘I’m not a baby, too,’ said Romy – the longest sentence I’d ever heard from her.
‘We’ll be fine,’ I assured Seth, wanting to bring back his smile. ‘No partying, no alcohol, no eighteen certificate films.’
‘Sounds a bit dull.’ His mouth lifted, but some of the brightness had left his eyes. He’d be no good to Bridget if he left the house feeling bad.
‘Hey, how many marks out of ten would you give your dad’s outfit?’ I said to Jack. ‘Give him a twirl.’ I motioned to Seth, who looked mortified. ‘Go on!’
He obliged, doing a slow spin on the spot, hands out to the side, his eyebrows raised while Jack watched, as if he couldn’t help himself – as if he’d never imagined his dad doing something playful.
‘Maybe… eight and a half?’ he offered. ‘You should wear a suit for going out.’
‘I should?’ Seth looked down at his jeans. ‘I was going for smart casual.’
‘It’s OK,’ Jack conceded, turning his attention back to Digby who’d climbed up on the sofa. Romy was trying to pull him onto her lap. ‘Careful,’ Jack said to her, adjusting the lapel of his dressing gown. ‘He’s quite heavy.’
‘Go,’ I whispered to Seth. ‘Have fun.’
He stood for a moment, watching the children, as if he wanted nothing more than to throw himself down beside them, and I sensed the effort it took to turn and head for the hallway. ‘You’ve got my number?’ he said, over his shoulder.
‘You know I have.’ I tutted. ‘I texted you earlier.’
‘Oh, yes.’ He looked distracted as he pulled on a black pea coat with a purple lining and patted his pockets. ‘Well… call if you need me.’
‘Go.’ I made a shooing motion. ‘Don’t keep my sister waiting.’
He held up his hands. ‘OK, I’m gone.’ With a final glance at each of us, he took his keys off the table by the door and left, and I stood for a moment, feeling somehow bereft.
Chapter Nineteen
An hour later, I was wondering why I’d never babysat before, when it was proving to be such fun. Romy was full of beans after her earlier nap, and excited about being somewhere new, so after locating some popcorn in a kitchen cupboard I microwaved a bowlful and we all settled down to watch Paddington 2 – which was so good, I made a mental note to watch the first Paddington (again) at the earliest opportunity.
Seth and Bridget texted twice to ask how things were going, and I replied Swimmingly! along with a selfie of us bathe
d in the glow of the television screen, tongues out, Digby’s tail in blurry shot as he attempted to get in on the action. I considered texting Bridget to ask how the date was going, but decided against it. It would be awkward for her to reply in the middle of dinner, and my mind got stuck on an image of them, staring at each other over plates of spaghetti, lost for words – which was silly when they both had enough baggage to fill any conversational gaps.
When the film finished, no one wanted to move, so I suggested a game I’d loved playing as a child, when Dad would give me the first line of a story to carry on, and we had to take it in turns to keep it going. Usually Mum would join in, and things would quickly descend into silliness. Jack embraced the idea with surprising enthusiasm.
‘Once upon a time there was a boy who…’ I began, unoriginally.
‘… was made of seaweed…’ he continued, bare feet curled beneath him, one arm slung over Digby who was lying across us, while Romy snuggled against me, absently stroking my arm.
‘Seaweed?’ I grinned. ‘OK… was made of seaweed, which meant he lived on the beach…’
Romy’s head shot up. ‘He made a sandcastle!’
‘It was a ginormous sandcastle.’ Jack demonstrated with his hands. ‘And he decided to live in it…’
‘… but then the tide came in, and…’ I made big eyes and looked at Romy.
‘WHALE!’ she yelled, and Digby’s ears twitched.
‘The boy climbed on the whale’s back and it swam into the ocean…’ Jack gave me an expectant smile that made my heart fill.
‘… where they met a mermaid…’
‘Mermaid!’ Romy loud-whispered.
‘… who had a beard and sticky-out ears…’ said Jack.
I laughed. ‘… and was driving a Lamborghini, then…’
‘… they drove to the moon…’
‘Moon is made of cheese!’ declared Romy.
I stroked her hair back. ‘… where they saw three blind mice…’