Barely Yours (3 page)

I’m here in my office, shirtsleeves rolled up, trying to make my way through the mountain of paperwork for this revised New York deal. But something’s wrong. I just can’t concentrate. The words on the page don’t even look like words anymore, just shapes dancing before my eyes. And my mind is elsewhere. Stuck on a very different kind of problem.
Have I made the right decision?

I promised myself that Tabby wasn’t going to be brought up in the same cold, heartless, traditional way that I was. And that means that I
promised
never to ship her off to boarding school or to employ a whole parade of faceless nannies to raise her.

It was what her mother wanted, too; what
Emma
wanted. But of course, Emma’s gone now, isn’t she?

I thought I was staying true to her memory by honouring her wishes and not hiring a nanny. But over the past months it’s become increasingly obvious that I’m just not managing. I’m my own boss. So I can take time out from the office when I want, look after Tabby, and then make it up with long hours into the night, hunched over my laptop while she’s asleep.

The parents I’ve met at all Tabitha’s various day cares have been so kind. They’ve offered play dates and babysitting. But most of the time, I’ve said no. I can tell that they’re just interested in finding out more about my story. About the tragic single father and the poor, motherless little girl.

And then there are her grandparents. Emma’s parents and mine. They look after her whenever they can. And I should be grateful. I
am
. But they’re so traditional, so cold, that sometimes I worry they’re just as bad as any boarding school would be.

And of course, Emma’s
not
here, so things are different. Tabby needs someone to care for her, someone she can trust. My darling Tabby. She’s such a shy little girl – so wary. And who can blame her? She was too young to even understand that she had lost her mother, but I know that she feels her absence deeply and it’s made her so guarded, so reserved.

Christ. I’ve never seen her light up the way she does with Chrissie. It’s amazing.

I know I should have done this properly. Put out an advert. Hired an agency. God, even checked that the person I’ve employed to look after my daughter every day has
references
; isn’t a criminal. But would anyone else make my little girl’s face light up, the way Chrissie does? No.

And I can trust her. I feel it too.

She starts tomorrow morning. At eight am sharp, she will knock on my door, come into my house and begin caring for my little girl.

I know I can trust her, but can I trust myself?

An image of her flashes into my swirling brain: those emerald green eyes, that lustrous chestnut hair, the healthy glow of her tanned skin. 

Damn it. This is a mistake. There’s still time to stop it. I should call her up, tell her I’ve reconsidered, say that I’m happy to pay her the money I offered, but there’s no job after all. Because do
I trust myself around her?

There’s just something about this girl. Something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Something that makes everything seem sharper and brighter, like the world is suddenly in glorious Technicolor around her.

I’ve only felt this way once before; the first time I laid eyes on Emma.

But I can’t think about myself, my feelings. Because this is not about
me
. This is about Tabby and what
she
needs. She needs a stable presence in her life, which means
no getting involved with the nanny.

This is about Tabitha. About my daughter. I don’t need anyone in my life but her. And whatever my personal feelings are towards Chrissie, I have to put them to one side. She’s the perfect person to look after my little girl, and I resolve to remain completely professional in my conduct around her.

From this moment on, she is my employee, Tabitha’s nanny.

And
nothing
more.

I check the address once more on the business card Will gave me. Yep. This is definitely the street. But I can’t quite
believe it. During my lunch breaks from the boutique, I’d sometimes wander aimlessly around this square, looking in the windows of the beautiful houses – huge, impeccably kept, candy-colored mansions, each more stunning than the last – and I’d imagine the perfect lives of the people who lived inside them.

Seriously, being inside a house on this street has been a
fantasy
of mine, and now it’s about to become reality.

I stand outside his four-storey, baby blue, detached house: number 72, Chancellor Crescent, Chelsea. I walk down the path, up the steps – one, two, three, four, five, six – and then stand in front of the large, glossy black front door. I can’t imagine how much this house must have cost. Millions?
Tens
of millions? I genuinely have no idea. I’ve looked at houses like this before, in the windows of swanky Chelsea estate agents, but it’s not like they tell you how much it actually sets you back to buy one. Oh, no.
Price on application
, it always says. Basically you’ve got to be rich enough to buy one before they’ll even tell you the cost.
If you have to ask, you’ll never know
.

So how much money does this guy
have
?

I mean, I knew he was rich; that much was obvious. For a start, his clothes. His suit looked super expensive, and I’m sure I spotted a Rolex on his wrist. Then, he didn’t even blink before offering me (a total stranger, I might add!) a hundred freaking grand a year for a
nannies
job.

I don’t even have any qualifications!

But a house like this is something else entirely. This guy must be worth millions.

I check the time on my cell. 7:57 am. Perfect. Not too early, but not yet late. There’s nothing for it. I’m just going to have to ring the bell.

The door opens, but it’s not Will who answers. Instead, the person who opens the door is a small plump woman whose grey hair matches her uniform, the impeccable outfit completed by a crisp white apron and shiny black shoes.

Holy crap
, I think.
He actually has a housemaid?!

“Ah, you must be Christina,” the woman says warmly in what I’m pretty sure is an Irish accent.

“Um, yes,” I say. “But call me Chrissie, please. Only my grandmother calls me Christina.”

“Chrissie, of course,” she smiles. “Do come in! Let me show you upstairs, where Mr Cavendish and young Miss Cavendish are waiting for you. So if you’d care to follow me?”

I nod, and with that she leads me into the huge hallway with its beautiful checkerboard marble floor and ornate gold table featuring the most beautiful display of lilies I’ve ever seen. She leads me up a sweeping staircase, complete with red stair runner and carved mahogany bannisters. We go up one flight of stairs, then another, and then
another
.

Then finally she knocks on a door.

“Come in,” replies that now-familiar commanding English accent.

“Mr Cavendish sir,” the woman announces, “Chrissie’s here for you.”

She pushes open the door and leads me into what must be Tabitha’s room. It’s a pink princess palace, strewn with toys, bright cushions, plush animals and other assorted playthings. And there, right in the middle of the room, is Will. He’s dressed another one of his perfectly tailored, expensive suits, but he’s also sitting down on the floor, playing with is daughter. And jeez – I don’t mind telling you, it’s incredibly sexy.

I know that sounds
weird
. But I can’t be the only one who thinks it, right? What is it about seeing a man looking after children that just makes my hormones race? It’s like my brain is sending signals to my body that say: This man will look after your children, you need to get pregnant by him IMMEDIATELY!

Jesus, Chrissie. Pull yourself together!

You need to stop thinking that way. Yes, he’s your boss. And yes, he’s sexy AF. But you’ve gotta concentrate. You’ve got a job to do.

And your first job is shutting down all these crazy thoughts, right now.

I walk into the room and crouch down to join him and Tabby on the floor. But he quickly gets to his feet.

“Right,” he says, no longer the doting father, suddenly the ruthless businessman instead. “I’m going to the office. I’ve got a lot to catch up on, so I may be home late tonight.”

“Oh actually,” I offer gently. “I kind had plans to go to the cinema ...”

“
Actually
Chrissie,” he cuts in, “you’re being very handsomely rewarded for this job, therefore I expect you to stay as late as needed, tonight and any other night. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

I nod.

Sure. Crystal.

“Good,” he says, decisively. “I will call at lunchtime to check that everything’s okay, otherwise I expect to see you when I return this evening.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Wow
, I think.
What made him turn so cold? One minute he seemed so relaxed, and then the next he was like a different person. What’s going on here?

I don’t think he’s going to be the easiest person in the world to work for, and on top of everything, I’ve got an obvious crush on him, haven’t I? He must be able to sense it.

What am I gonna do?

Just then a small voice pipes up. “Can we go to the park?” Tabby pleads.

And then I remember.
This
is the person I’m here for. After all, she’s the one I’m going to be spending all day with;
she’s
the one I should be worried about.

“Of course we can!” I reply, brightly. “Now let’s get your coat on and why don’t you show me where your wardrobe is?”

“Mr Cavendish?”

As I hear my name, I suddenly snap back to attention. “Yes, I’m sorry,” I say. “What was that again?”

A whole boardroom of faces is staring at me, and it’s clear that my mind has been wandering. I’ve not been paying attention.

“I
said
,” repeats my secretary Hannah, “if that’s all then we can adjourn the meeting for today?”

“Yes, of course, thank you, Hannah,” I say. “I think we’ve covered everything. That will be all for now. Thank you everyone.”

The assembled group get up and shuffle silently from the room. I walk slowly back to my desk, picking up some paperwork on the way. But it’s the same problem as before. When I try to focus on it, all I can see is a dancing jumble of letters, swimming before my eyes.

“Hannah?” I call.

“Yes, Mr Cavendish?” says Hannah as she walks gingerly into my office. She’s fumbling nervously with her fingers. I can tell she’s worried that I’m angry or something; frightened that I’m going to explode. She probably thinks she’s done something wrong.

“I can feel a migraine coming on,” I say. “So I think it’s best if you cancel my meetings for the rest of this afternoon. I’m going to work from home.”

“Yes, Mr Cavendish,” she nods, “I’ll reschedule everything. I hope you feel better soon.”

I gather my briefcase and jacket, then head out of my corner office, away from the exposed glass and shiny mahogany surfaces, into the lift, and out into the downstairs lobby.

But I don’t go home. Because of course, I don’t have a migraine, do I? Instead, I take out my mobile and make a call.

“Bruce?” I say. “It’s been too long. What do you say we hit the squash courts this afternoon? Catch up on things while I thrash you again ...”

§

Less than an hour later, Bruce and I are both drenched in sweat, going at it full throttle on the squash court. That’s one of the many things I like about Bruce. He doesn’t cut me any slack. Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean that right here, right now, we’re not competitors, too. Deadly enemies. And although yes, it’s true, my mind
is
elsewhere, my game is on form. Just like I said, I’m thrashing him.

“Whoa! Steady there, old chap!” Bruce laughs. “What exactly has gotten into you today? You’re vicious. You’re showing no mercy. I mean, great game, but come on, I was out late last night with Helena. Can’t you take it easy on a bloke once in a while?”

“’Fraid not,” I laugh. “You know how this works. We play properly or not at all. And anyway,” I add, “I’ve got a lot of tension to work out. It’s Tabby.”

“What’s up with her? Not the nightmares again I hope?”

“No, nothing like that,” I explain, “but I hired a nanny. Someone to be with her all day. It’s her first day today, and I guess I’m just concerned.”

“Well, good for you,” says Bruce, his usually curly ginger hair now plastered with sweat to his forehead.

Maybe I do need to go a little easy on him.

“What d’you mean?” I reply, wiping the sweat from my brow.

“I’m just glad you’ve finally done it,” he says. “I know you wanted to look after Tabitha on your own, but it was never gonna work. Not while you’ve got a business to run as well.”

“Yes, I know you’re right,” I sigh. “And I’m sure I’ll get used to it in time. It’s just strange to think there’s someone else looking after her right now.”

“So,” Bruce says, moments before he serves, “is she a hottie?”

The question takes me completely by surprise, the ball whistling straight past my head at a hundred miles an hour.

“What?” I stutter, almost tripping over my trainers.

“This nanny,” Bruce persists. “Is she a hottie?”

“I haven’t noticed,” I lie. “I’ve employed her to look after my daughter, not just as some eye candy for me to ogle around the house.”

“Sure,” Bruce grins, “but why not kill two birds with one stone, if you get my meaning?” 

“Just quit it,” I growl, giving him a look that wipes the smile off his face.

“Wow,” Bruce says, grabbing the ball for his next serve. “I think someone’s protesting a little
too
much ...”

Damn it. He’s right.

She’s not even here and it’s totally obvious.

I came here this afternoon to try and get her out of my mind. But it’s not working. What am I getting myself into?