Barely Yours (5 page)

But then the weirdest thing happens. It’s like the world slows right down as Will moves his face toward mine, and I push up onto tiptoes to meet him, and as I take another deep breath of his cologne, our lips touch – so, so gently – for one, two, three, four,
five
seconds ... And then it’s over.

We look at each other, and while I might be a little spaced out sometimes, I
know
I’ve not imagined this. Yep. There’s definitely something between us – something unmistakeable. Something primal. Something that neither of us can quite control.

I can feel it, and Will must be able to, too.

We were meant to meet. I just know it.

I’m lost in his eyes, lost this moment.

And then he breaks the pulsing heady silence to say, “You’re a great employee. I’ll see you Monday.”

The radio burbles away in the background, and I’m rushing around the kitchen, preparing a simple breakfast of toast and eggs and bacon, coffee and milk and orange juice. The staff have all got the morning off, so it’s just me and Tabby. A simple Saturday morning breakfast, before our walk to the park. It’s our little routine and I love it. It makes everything seem so wonderfully normal – if only just for one morning. 

Right now, Tabby’s sitting at the table, simultaneously drawing and prattling away happily, like little girls do, telling herself stories: “And then, the mouse who is also a ballerina put on a very,
very
pretty pink dress and it was the best and everybody said she was the most prettiest ballerina of them
all
!”

“That’s a nice story, darling,” I say with a grin.

Tabby nods, her tongue stuck out of her mouth in concentration as she continues draw. “Chrissie taught it to me,” she explains innocently. “I like Chrissie, Daddy. She’s very nice.”

“Yes, darling,” I say quietly. “I like her too.” 

Chrissie
. All the thoughts of last night come flooding back, rushing into my head. The doorstep. The look. The kiss.

God damn it.

I’m such a fool. I
knew
I felt something for her, yet I hired her anyway. And now Tabby’s fallen so deeply in love with her, and just it’s too late to fire her.

Christ, man. Why didn’t you listen to your intellect for once?

And there’s something else, too, isn’t there? Just like Tabby, I’m falling for her.

But how
can
I be?

It’s too soon – far too soon since Emma. My beautiful wife. The woman I promised to love, forever. How can I betray our vows? Her memory? She’s been gone only three years. I thought I could never feel anything for another woman, yet slowly but surely I can feel something stirring, something awakening inside me. Something I need to shut down.

Just then the toaster clicks and the strong smell of burnt toast hits me. I hold back a curse, not wanting to accidentally teach Tabby any bad words.

This is crazy. You need to pull yourself together. Come on man, you’ve got a double first from Oxford and a PhD from the Sorbonne. You can make breakfast for your daughter.

So I slice some more bread and push it into the toaster, determined this time around to shake these distracting thoughts from my head.

“Daddy?” chimes Tabby, just then. “Can we go and see Chrissie today?”

“No, honey,” I say. “Not today. You’ll see her on Monday though.”

“Promise?” she says.

“Promise,” I say, placing the fresh round of buttered toast in front of her and ruffling her soft, blonde hair.

I’ll see her Monday, too, I think. But it will be on a strictly
professional
level. The crazy adolescent crush I have on this girl needs to stop. For the sake of my daughter. For the memory of Emma.

It has to stop.

Stupid girl! Stupid silly thoughtless girl!

How could I ever think he wanted me? How could I possibly think that there was actually something between us, that a guy like him would ever want anything to do with a stupid unsophisticated kid like me?

I bet right now he’s probably out having brunch with one of his rich glamorous socialite girlfriends, laughing about the silly nanny who’s got a crush on him. Laughing about the silly nanny who won’t stop mooning over him.

The cringe-worthy scene replays over and over in my head like a nightmare: the tight lipped smile and cold business-like way he said to me,
You’re a great employee. I’ll see you Monday
.

God. He must have been
so
embarrassed when I looked up at him, all puppy dog eyes. I was like an open book: so freaking obvious. My emotions were all over my damn face.

I mean, it’s not like I’ve been dating hundreds of English men. I bet a kiss on the lips – what is it they call it? A ‘peck’? That’s right. I bet a peck on the lips like that is a perfectly normal goodnight. I mean, sure, I’ve kissed Brian like that haven’t I? But no ... not like that.

I’ve never felt anything quite like
that
before.

Anger and confusion and hurt and rejection all rise up in me at once, competing for space in my head, until there’s nothing for it: I scrub harder, hard as I possibly can, attacking the grime on this bath like it’s all the negative emotions coursing through me and if I just scrub hard enough I can scrub them right away.

You see, when I’m angry or sad or worried, there’s only one thing for it. I clean. Like a maniac. Not that it makes any difference in this disgusting house, of course, not when I’m living with someone as crazy untidy as Magenta. But still, I give it my best shot, scrubbing and scrubbing like there’s no tomorrow.

But despite my best efforts, a moment later I’m snapped out of my scrubbing trance by the insistent buzz of my phone. I don’t really feel like speaking to anyone at the moment, I just feel like ignoring it, but a quick glance at the display tells me it’s Brian and I just can’t resist.

“Bri,” I say, picking up the call, and before he can even say hello, it all comes rushing out of my mouth in a mad crazy cascade of words. “What does it mean when a guy kisses you on the lips? Not like, a
kiss
kiss, not like, with tongues, but more like – you know – when a guy kisses you on the cheek? Like
that
, but on the lips? Oh wait, and it goes on for like
five
seconds? Like just a little bit
too
long? What does
that
mean?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Brian laughs in my ear. “Hold your horses. Kiss? Lips? You’re talking a thousand miles an hour and making no sense. What are you doing?”

“Cleaning,” I reply a little sheepishly.

“So it’s serious,” Brian laughs. “You’ve got to be stopped! Let me take you for brunch and you can tell me all about it ...”

§

I didn’t even realize how hungry I was until the waitress places my plate of eggs and salmon in front of me.

“Oh my god,” I gasp. “Food! I’ve only just realized that I skipped dinner last night.”

“Oh, Chrissie,” Brian sighs. “This
is
serious, isn’t it? Okay, first of all, no it is
not
totally normal for your boss of a whole seven days to kiss you on the lips like that, at his doorstep, at midnight. Nope. That is
not
what British men do. And secondly, I seriously doubt he’s laughing at you right now. You’re a beautiful young woman and I’ll bet that he wanted nothing more than to totally ravage you, right there and then on his doorstep, okay?”

“Shut up,” I say through clenched teeth, trying to keep the grin off my face. “That’s not funny.”

“Oh come on,” Brian continues. “You know it’s true. I’ll bet you any money that it was only the thought of his darling daughter asleep in bed upstairs that stopped him from having you right there and then.”

“I don’t think so,” I say, shaking my head. “You didn’t see the way he
looked
at me afterwards. It was as if the guy I’d just spent an amazing evening with vanished and was suddenly replaced by this block of ice.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Brian says with a sympathetic smile. “I’ve had guys freeze on me too. But that’s usually
after
I’ve been to bed with them.”

“I just feel totally humiliated,” I sigh. “I know, I know. I’ll be fine. I’ll get over it. But I guess I just want to wallow in a little self pity first, just for today.”

“Okay,” Brian grins. “How about I give you two hours to bemoan your tragic love life or lack thereof to your hearts content, but after that you’re taking me shopping. Deal?”

He holds up his coffee cup.

“Deal,” I say, clinking my coffee against his.

It’s Friday evening. Again. Another long week has rushed by, and once more I find myself having a pot of tea with Chrissie. Strictly
professionally
, of course. I’ve wanted to find out how she’s been getting on with Tabby. I’m a concerned father and I want to be reassured that she’s happy.

No funny business this time
, I tell myself.

And just to make sure nothing happens, I’m sitting as far away from her as is humanly possible without looking rude.

“She’s just got this crazy imagination,” Chrissie says, as she continues expounding on Tabitha’s many good points. “The things she comes out with!”

“You don’t need to tell me,” I reply with a laugh. “I’m her proud father, remember? Of
course
I think I’m raising a genius!”

“Sure, why not,” Chrissie says. “She might well be a genius. The imagination she’s got, I bet she’ll win the Nobel prize one day!”

Although Chrissie is the same bright, funny, engaging girl I sat here with last Friday night, I it doesn’t take much to tell that she’s on her guard tonight too.

Sitting there in the plush mustard armchair, back straight, legs clad in black skinny jeans, knees pressed primly together, hands tucked demurely in her lap, chestnut hair tumbling over her crisp white t-shirt, it’s like she’s somehow alert – as if expecting I might ask her to leave any minute.

“Oh, look at the time!” she says, brightly, just as I’m thinking it. “I’ve really got to be going. It’s my turn to cook dinner for my roommate, Magenta, tonight. And even though she’s totally rude and crazy, and will probably hate what I’m cooking anyway, I’d better make a move ...”

“Rude and crazy?” I ask, my interest piqued. “How so?”

Suddenly something changes in her. She tenses up and starts talking a thousand miles an hour, her tanned hands gesticulating madly as she talks. “She’s completely crackers!” she exclaims. “She hates everything I do. Nothing’s ever good enough. She uses all of my makeup and all of my bath stuff – even the really expensive stuff my mom sent especially as a Christmas present for me? And she plays her dreadful repetitive dance music at all hours. And, oh my god, she’s
so untidy
. I mean, no wonder we’ve got rats. She leaves food lying around
everywhere ...
”

“Whoa, stop right there,” I say, holding up a hand. “Did you say rats?”

I can’t quite believe what Chrissie is saying.

“Yep, you heard correct,” she says. “Rats. It’s
so
gross. At first it was just mice, and I thought that was bad. But these critters? Ugh! They’re
huge
.”

“My god,” I exclaim. “What are you still doing living there? If there are rats, you need to move out, immediately.”

“God, I’d love to,” she replies with a shrug, “but it’s just ... the money, you know? Renting in London is insanely expensive and this place is really affordable.”

Poor Chrissie. I can’t believe I’ve been so insensitive. After all, I know how privileged I am, and how unusual an upbringing like mine is.

“You should have said something,” I urge her gently. “Because if it’s a matter of money, then please don’t worry about it. I’ll increase your salary. How much more a month would you need to move into a better place?”

“No, no, no, no, no!” she says, green (?) eyes ablaze, suddenly full of worry. “It’s not that. I don’t want any more money. I mean it. The amount you pay me already is crazy. I never thought I’d be earing so much money for a job like this. Oh god, I hope you don’t think I was trying to beg more money out of you!”

She looks slightly worried and agitated, and she pushes herself up from the armchair and starts pacing the room, wringing her hands in front of her.

“My salary,” she continues. “It’s great. I really don’t need any more money. But the thing is ...”

She pauses and I detect a shyness coming over her as she bites down gently on her plump lower lip and twists a curly strand of that lustrous chestnut hair through her long slender fingers. She looks beautiful, yet startled – like some wild animal that’s just been caught.

She sighs.

“Last week, we were talking about travelling, remember?”

I nod.

“All those places you’ve been to?” she continues, “well, I want to go there too. To Brazil, and Paris. To Rome and Singapore. Tokyo. Berlin. But it’s expensive, and I’ve got to save, so I’m saving. Every penny I can. So you see, for now, I don’t mind. I can handle the rats, because soon I know I’m gonna visit the Taj Mahal.”

The fire and passion within her is incredible. She’s alive and it’s wonderful to see. But more than that, it’s intoxicating, and without really even knowing what I’m doing, I’m standing up to join her on the rug. 

“That’s wonderful,” I say, turning to face her. “Your passion, your dreams. I’m so glad I chose you to look after my daughter. However,” I add.

“What?” she questions.

We’re only a foot apart now, standing there, looking at each other, just like that afternoon a few short weeks ago when I first offered her the job.

“However,” I repeat, “I simply can’t have someone who lives with rats looking after my daughter. I won’t allow it. And if you won’t spend any more on rent, then it seems there’s only one option remaining.”

“What do you mean?” she says, her face awash with confusion.

“You’re going to have to move in here, with Tabitha and I. There’s a whole empty floor, right at the top, with its own bathroom, kitchenette and study. It’s all yours, Chrissie. I’m afraid the position has become
live in
and it’s non negotiable. I’ll arrange for a van to pick up your possessions, first thing Monday morning. Understood?” 

She doesn’t answer me with words. She just slowly nods her head, as if she knows, as if we both know deep down that this new development was inevitable; that it was always to be the way.

And as quickly as she’s agreed to come and live with me, she’s gone from the room – racing back to her flat to explain to her flatmate, pack up her life, and bring it here.

Meanwhile, here I am, left wondering what crazy impulse just washed over me. How without even knowing what words were spilling from my lips, I’d asked her to
move in
with me. But most of all, I’m wondering how the hell I’ll manage to keep things professional, once we’re living under the same roof.