I’m just trying to work out how Felicity has managed to make something as straightforward as using a knife and fork sound like the worthy subject of an advanced lecture in applied science when she leaps in again. ‘I do think this sort of detail is worth while, don’t you, Zoe?’ she asks, her smile broader than ever. ‘I’m a firm believer in the importance of parents setting a good example. I’ve seen so many times what happens otherwise. If parents run a sloppy household, they end up with sloppy children.’ Then she laughs. ‘And, to put it bluntly, I don’t look after anyone’s slops!’
Felicity is supremely attractive: a slim, coltish redhead – think Nicole Kidman fifteen years ago. And, although her approach to childcare is about as progressive as that of a Victorian schoolmistress, it’s hard not to warm to her.
‘Okay, I think I got it now,’ replies Nancy, in a broad east-coast drawl. ‘Like this?’ She holds up her knife and fork to Felicity for approval.
‘Parfait!’
exclaims Felicity.
‘Félicitations!’
‘Hmm?’ asks Nancy.
‘Oh, don’t worry, we’ll get on to that another day.’
Nancy Magenta and her husband Ash made their money running a hairdressing empire that they sold last year to concentrate on developing a range of shampoo. They’re not exactly typical of the Hope Falls residents who, I have worked out, fall mainly into two categories: deep-thinking intellectuals or high-flying City types. Judging by Nancy and Ash’s success in life, you can only assume they’re as sharp as they come. And, given that, you might think being retrained in the art of holding cutlery wouldn’t be top of their priorities. Apparently you’d be wrong.
‘Y’know, this is just the kind of added value a British nanny brings to a household,’ Nancy tells Trudie, Amber and me as she flicks her hair behind a Versace-clad shoulder. ‘I just knew the day we got Felicity we were right to hire one of you people. I mean, she has so much to give
culturally.
’
Nancy pauses momentarily in chewing her gum, which she’s been doing so vigorously for the past half-hour that my jaw aches just to look at her. ‘I don’t tell you this enough, Felicity, but it is
so
great to have you here!’ She leaps up to give Felicity a hug, apparently to celebrate her very existence.
‘Yes, well, let’s not get too carried away,’ chuckles Felicity, unravelling herself from Nancy’s grasp. ‘Now, Tallulah, have you washed your hands and face in preparation for our day out?’
Tallulah, a cute, slightly tubby little girl with a Cleopatra bob and shy smile, nods obediently.
Less than an hour later we arrive at the park and Tallulah is loosening up a bit, thanks, largely, to her hitting it off spectacularly well with Ruby – as big a Bratz fan as she is. The pair skip to the swings as Felicity perches herself on a bench and smiles fondly. ‘Tallulah’s a lovely little girl,’ she says.
‘Do you like working for Nancy?’ asks Trudie.
‘Of course!’ replies Felicity. ‘I mean, no family is for ever, and I’m sure I’ll go back to the UK at some point, but for the moment they’re all wonderful!’
‘They sound a lot better than the last bunch you worked for,’ Amber says, nodding. ‘From what you’ve said, I just can’t
believe
anybody could be so materialistic.’
‘I have nothing against materialism,’ Felicity responds. ‘In fact, I’d almost consider it a prerequisite. There’s nothing worse than working for someone who’s not prepared to part with any money. ’
‘You can’t do this job for the cash,’ Trudie points out.
‘Of course not!’ Felicity hoots. ‘Although I am well paid.’
‘Really?’ I ask doubtfully.
She looks at me pityingly. ‘There are people in Boston with JDs – that’s a law degree – who make less than a good nanny,’ she informs me. ‘If you play your cards right, as I have, you can get all sorts of benefits . . . health insurance, a country-club pass, personal trips using your employer’s frequent-flyer miles . . .’
I haven’t seen a sniff of anything like that from Ryan, and from Trudie’s expression, I can only guess that she hasn’t either.
‘Of course it’s all about being in demand,’ Felicity continues. ‘Nancy knows that I’m often approached by parents in the park offering to double what I’m making. I had a note slipped under the windscreen wipers only yesterday.’
I continue staring at her, stunned.
‘Oh,’ she adds hastily, ‘I’d hate to give you the impression I’m in this job for the wrong reasons. I’m here because I find working with children and their parents very satisfying. When they’re well behaved, that is.’
‘It can get you down when they’re not, can’t it?’ I leap on to our first bit of common ground. ‘I mean, Ruby and Samuel are gorgeous – and perfectly behaved most of the time – but bedtime is an absolute nightmare sometimes.’
‘I was referring to the parents,’ Felicity replies. She stands up and cups her hands round her mouth:
‘Tallulah! Tallulah! Over here now, please!’
The instruction is delivered at the pitch of a falsetto sergeant major in charge of the deaf squadron. Tallulah drops her doll and sprints over to us, eyes wide with anticipation.
‘Now,’ Felicity tuts gently, ‘what did I tell you about your clothes?’
‘Um . . .’ Tallulah ponders, biting her lip. ‘I’m not sure.’
Felicity sighs as she takes a brush out of her bag and starts going at Tallulah’s hair as if she’s grooming an Afghan hound. ‘I asked you to try to keep them clean,’ she reminds her, smiling. ‘You may be five years old but that isn’t an excuse to start letting yourself go. Wait until you’re your mother’s age before you do that. Now, run along and be careful, darling.’
‘Have I told you my family want me to go to the Seychelles with them next month?’ Amber announces.
‘You’re kidding!’ shrieks Trudie. ‘You lucky thing! I mean, Barbara and Mike are great and everything but there’s no way they’ll be taking a holiday any time soon – let alone with me tagging along. They’re just too busy for
vacations
, Barbara keeps telling me.’
I’m about to share with them that I was supposed to be going to Bermuda this summer, but decide against it. I’m enough of a professional not to dwell on such things. Even if I did come close to ceremonially burning my bikini a couple of weeks ago.
‘Well, I’m not at all sure about it.’ Amber frowns.
‘What? Why not?’ I ask.
‘It’s just . . . I mean, it’s very difficult to reconcile the trip with my beliefs.’ She’s twiddling a dreadlock. ‘They’re planning to stay in a five-star hotel. I grew out of that sort of thing years ago. I prefer to travel meaningfully, staying with the indigenous population preferably. In fact, I had a trip planned last year to stay with the Zulu people of South Africa. It was only because I broke my toe getting on the plane that it didn’t happen.’
Trudie – who has been bouncing Andrew up and down on her knee in the most vigorous session of horsey-horsey you’d get outside a rodeo – pauses to look at her. ‘Can I give you some advice, love?’ she says. ‘Drag yourself to the Seychelles, pull up a sun-lounger, order the biggest Piña Colada they’ve got and relax. Then, if you’re still worried about your principles, give me a ring. I’ll be over like a shot.’
Chapter 25
Despite his tender age, Samuel loves helping me with household tasks. Almost as much as his father doesn’t. I’ve been in America for nearly two months now, and there aren’t as many of these as there were when I first got here, thanks to our new cleaning lady, Daria (apparently they’d had several before I arrived – almost as many as there were nannies). But whether it’s helping me to unload the dishwasher, sweep the floor after dinner or clear the coffee-table after we’ve been drawing, he plunges himself into each job with huge enthusiasm. He leaves a bit to be desired in the skill department but that hardly matters.
It all began a couple of weeks ago when I challenged Samuel to put away his toys faster than his sister could hers, then stood back to marvel at what a bit of competition does for a child’s motivation. They both ran round the living room, tidying things away, as if they’d been possessed by the spirit of Mr Sheen.
Samuel’s latest favourite is emptying the mailbox at the front of the house when the post arrives. He seems to remember this each day before Ruby does and begs me to let him run outside and down the steps so that he can stand on tiptoe to reach up and get it.
This morning when he runs back to the house, his little hands are full of letters. Most of it is junkmail, catalogues and leaflets for things no one wants, but there are some bills too. At first sight, none looks as if it’s for me, but I’ve come to expect that. Most of my correspondence is via email, which is far quicker and more practical. The only downside of checking my inbox is that I spend most of each day wondering whether Jason will have emailed me. When I first got here, I couldn’t stop myself logging on at every opportunity with a pounding heart – which subsided the second I realized that, yet again, there was no word from him.
I was just getting this under control when I had his phone call. Since then, I’ve been logging on with shaking hands and sweat on my brow – pointless, because all I ever get are emails from Mum.
As I sort through the letters, I find an envelope near the bottom of the pile that is curious for no other reason than that there is neither a name nor an address on the front. It is made of particularly good-quality paper, but apart from that – and the lack of an addressee – it has no distinguishing features whatsoever.
Assuming it is another piece of junkmail I tear it open and remove its contents. But the second I catch a glimpse of the piece of paper, I realize it isn’t junkmail, and that I’m not the intended recipient.
‘What your letter, Zoe?’ asks Samuel.
‘Oh, um, it’s from my daddy,’ I lie, blushing pathetically.
‘Can I have it?’ he asks, reaching up.
‘Oooh, er, no, I don’t think that’d be a good idea.’
‘I want a letter.’
‘Sorry, Samuel, you can’t have this one, sweetheart. Now, how about we do something else? Come on, what else would you like to do?’
His eyes light up with the cheeky glint of someone who has spotted an opportunity. ‘Can I watch
SpongeBob?
’ he asks, with a hopeful grin.
‘Why not?’ I reply, ushering him through the door.
He looks so surprised that I can tell he’s already wondering whether it might be worth asking for a tub of ice cream and a bucket of popcorn too.
Now I know that the letter isn’t for me, it would be unreasonable to continue reading it. Which is bloody annoying because, from the quick glance I caught, its contents couldn’t have been juicier than if they were canned by Del Monte.
I head into the hall and really do intend to fold the letter up, return it to its envelope and leave it on the hall table to await its intended recipient.
Problem is, as I’m attempting to do this, I’m attacked by an insurgent group of rebel brain cells. Brain cells that camp out somewhere in my head and ambush me from time to time.
It is those brain cells that force me, against my will, to purchase and wolf Crunchie bars when I have vowed only hours earlier to follow a strict macrobiotic diet, as favoured by Gwyneth Paltrow.
It is the same brain cells that march me to the shops and compel me to use my Visa card on a new pair of strappy shoes, which are certain to bust my overdraft and match not a single item in my wardrobe.
It is those brain cells that are responsible for all manner of scurrilous decisions on my part. Of which sneaking Ryan’s letter into a corner of the hallway so I can read it is undoubtedly one.
Darling Ryan
,
It is weeks since I last wrote to you and it has taken all of my willpower not to write again before now. I am assuming there is a good reason why you haven’t responded to my first letter. I don’t know what it could be, but I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt.
I saw you in the city on Tuesday, you know. You were having a business lunch with someone at that new place in Boylston Street. I was so tempted to come and say hello but I wasn’t alone at the time so I couldn’t.
You were wearing the black shirt I love you in so much. I couldn’t help but notice. You really suit dark colours, Ryan, I always said so. It brings out the colour in those amazing eyes of yours.
You’re probably wondering by now what this letter is all about and in some ways so am, I. I suppose I just needed to make contact with you and reiterate what I said last time. To reach out to you and beg you not to ignore me. No, not beg. I don’t beg, do I? It really isn’t my style. But, then, I think you know that.
What is the case, though, Ryan, is that there is so much more to me that you don’t yet know. What we started was just that – the start. The start of something beautiful, if you’ll let it be. Please, Ryan, listen to your heart – and your head. We’re great together and you know it deep down. Just don’t make the biggest mistake of your life by not recognizing it, my love.
Yours for ever
,
Juliet
XXX
‘Can I read your letter, Zoe?’ asks Ruby.
I jump and hide it behind my back, aware that I couldn’t look more suspicious if I was wearing a false beard and glasses. ‘Er, no, it’s just a bill,’ I say.
‘You told Samuel it was from your daddy. I heard you.’
‘It is.’ I blush. ‘My dad’s called Bill. It’s just that I think you’d find it boring, that’s all.’
‘You told me his name was Gordon,’ she tells me.
‘It’s like living with Inspector Poirot round here.’ I sigh. ‘Look, it’s a private letter, okay? Simple as that. And I would, just this once, like to keep it to myself. Is that okay with you?’
‘Is it a love letter?’ She grins. ‘Come on, Zoe, is it a love letter?’
‘No!’ I tell her, shaking my head in mock exasperation. ‘Absolutely not.’ Well, I’m
half
telling the truth.