Chapter 26
My plan is simply to go out and buy some envelopes, put Ryan’s letter into one, slip it in with the rest of the mail and pretend I’ve not seen it. I’m anxious to make sure he doesn’t get the impression that I’m the sort of person who would wilfully disregard his privacy by reading what is obviously a very personal letter. Even if I
am
that sort of person.
The rest of the day, however, isn’t just hectic, it’s like a bad day in Bedlam times ten.
First, there is synchronized-swimming practice for Ruby, which I smugly deliver her to ten minutes early before realizing I’ve left her swimsuit in the hallway. By the time we get home and back, we’re impossibly late and everyone else has miraculously graduated to some elaborate movement called the Oyster, while poor Ruby is still struggling to tread water.
She accepts this with incredibly good grace, but it doesn’t take a psychology textbook and home tuition with Sigmund Freud to work out that she’s upset. I feel terrible about this – but, sadly, it’s only the start.
Next, we head for the tip down the road to throw away some boxes of non-recyclable rubbish that have been cluttering up one of the cupboards in the hall since I arrived. Both children want to help and I see no reason not to let them. It’s only when we’re leaving that I marvel at how clean and clutter-free the boot looks – then realize that, actually, it isn’t meant to.
In her enthusiasm, Ruby has also thrown into one of the skips a bag that contains half of Ryan’s wardrobe, which I’d been supposed to take to the dry-cleaner’s. Panic-stricken, I consider my options, recognize that there aren’t many and settle on the only thing left open to me.
By the time I have jumped into the skip, located the offending item and am attempting to wade out again, I have a rusty bed-spring tangled in my hair, a generous portion of old pizza poking out of the top of my T-shirt and several burly blokes from the local authority standing at the side and threatening to have me arrested.
‘I
love
having you as a nanny, Zoe!’ Ruby giggles, as I slam my foot on the accelerator to make our getaway. ‘Just wait till I tell Daddy!’
Shortly after this I come precariously close to reversing the car into a tree, Ruby falls over outside the house and nearly breaks her leg, and Samuel shoplifts a packet of condoms from the supermarket under the misapprehension that they are a new type of M&Ms.
The tantrums – which haven’t been so bad over the last few days – start early at seven o’clock. To give Ruby and Samuel some credit, their excuses are becoming almost impressive in their inventiveness. Tonight Ruby announces there is a leak in her bedroom ceiling and she can’t possibly go to bed in case she is dripped on.
‘Ruby,’ I say calmly, ‘there is no leak in your bedroom ceiling. It couldn’t be drier if it was in the middle of the Sahara desert.’
She sticks out her bottom lip.
‘Mine drips too,’ says Samuel, in what is either a display of solidarity with his sister or a blatant attempt to pinch her excuse. ‘Drip, drip, drip!’
‘No, it doesn’t!’ I shrill, in my merriest, most upbeat tone – although I’m as weary as someone who has trekked cross-country on a donkey for several days before realizing they’ve left the iron on at home. ‘Now, what did you do with your pyjamas?’
‘I don’t like pyjamas,’ Samuel informs me.
‘Course you do, sweetie!’
‘I don’t.’
‘But these are your favourites, Samuel! Look!’
‘Nooooooooo!’
At that point I discover that my strict new rule of drinking alcohol no more than once a week – devised last night when I was ordering my third glass of wine on a girls’ night out – is in serious jeopardy. The prospect of grabbing a bottle of beer and conversing on the phone with Trudie for a minimum of an hour and a half is too tempting.
At nine twenty-one, the moment finally arrives, when I creep upstairs and put my ear to each child’s door and hear something sublime. Silence.
My shoulders relax, I take a deep breath and head downstairs, straight for the fridge. I refuse to be disheartened by the fact that, once again, Ryan has left an almost full plate of pasta on the work surface for the house-work fairy (i.e. me) to make disappear.
I have my hand on a bottle of Coors when I hear him coming into the kitchen. ‘Oh, hi!’ I say. ‘Just trying to find a little snack for supper.’
But as I turn and glimpse his face, I see he’s about as interested in whether or not I’m snaffling his beer as the weather forecast in the Galapagos Islands. ‘Would you care to tell me what this is about?’ he thunders. He’s clutching the letter I found earlier today.
‘What what’s all about?’ I ask angelically.
‘You’ve been opening my mail!’
‘No!’ I splutter. ‘Well, yes. I mean—’
‘Why
would anyone do that?’
The question is delivered with such force I could easily believe he’s about three seconds away from turning into the Incredible Hulk.
‘Why
would someone come into my home and open my private mail?’
‘I – I didn’t mean to open it!’ I know I sound pathetic.
‘What? Your hand just slipped? You
accidentally
opened the envelope,
accidentally
took out the letter, then
accidentally
disposed of the envelope?’
‘Well . . .
yes
!’ I reply, hoping I’m maintaining a suitably dignified air, despite my cheeks feeling so hot you could fry an egg on them. ‘The thing is there was no—’
‘Oh, man!’ he interrupts. ‘You are a piece of work! You seriously expect me to believe that? I gotta tell you, I’ve seen some crappy behaviour from nannies before now but none as bad as this. I mean, what in God’s name . . .’
As Ryan continues his tirade, I grow more and more indignant. Okay, I shouldn’t have read the letter, but it really was an accident that I opened it. And, besides, do I really deserve this sort of berating after what I’ve had to put up with so far in this job?
With my own blood reaching simmering point, I know the only way to deal with this situation is swiftly and with singular aim: to demonstrate that Zoe Moore is not the kind of woman who puts up with such behaviour.
Empowered by this thought, I lift up my left hand and go to slam it down on the work surface, determined that the force of this – with my steely, authoritative glare – will shut him up immediately, then have him begging for forgiveness.
Sadly, I fail to factor into the equation Ryan’s uneaten plate of pasta, which is in the way of my fist as I bring it down.
As my hand lands, the plate and its ribbons of tomato tagliatelle are propelled into the air and across the room in a firework effect, the likes of which I haven’t seen since the opening ceremony of the last Olympics.
As the plate clatters on to the tiles and smashes into what must be eighty-odd pieces, my heart is thumping crazily and I’m almost panting with panic.
Right, Zoe, hold yourself together. Think of a sensible strategy with which to respond to this. Beg for forgiveness, maybe? Pretend it was always my intention to redecorate the walls this evening?
Run?
Oh, shit . . .
Then I notice something. Okay, so it wasn’t quite what I had in mind. But Ryan – sporting a dollop of tomato sauce on his nose – is well and truly stunned into silence.
I straighten my back and frown at him. He’s had an important meeting today – I can tell because he has shaved and is wearing an expensive white shirt that makes the skin on his neck look gloriously sun-kissed and smooth. My eyes are drawn to the erotic curve of his Adam’s apple and a terrible mental image flashes through my mind – of my lips brushing it. I’m spellbound by the sensual contours of his cheekbones, his determined brow and his indecently full lips.
He’s breathtaking, he really is. No matter how arrogant, angry or annoying he is, nothing can take that away from him.
But I can’t let it distract me. ‘I was
trying
to tell you,’ I say, ‘that your letter came in an envelope which had
no
name and
no
address on it. I did
not
know it was for you. And I certainly did
not
know the nature of its contents.’
He straightens his back, clearly reminding himself that
he’s
supposed to be annoyed with
me.
‘But now you do, huh?’
I shake my head at him silently, with the calculated expression of disappointment you’d see on a dog trainer whose King Charles Spaniel has just pooed on the carpet.
Before he has a chance to say or do anything other than feel uncomfortable, I turn and – ignoring the mess I’ve made – walk to the fridge. I open it and pointedly pick out not one, not two, but
three
bottles of beer. Then I slam it and head for the door. ‘I’m going to bed,’ I announce.
I march upstairs, feeling a surge of elation. I have made Ryan shut up and listen to me. Unbelievable!
I’m just about to crack open a congratulatory beer, when I realize I’ve forgotten to bring anything to open it with.
Don’t worry, Zoe. This is not a disaster. I can still get a bottle-opener without ruining the effect of my spectacular exit. The drawer where it’s kept is at the side of the kitchen next to the door. So, even if Ryan is still in there, I can creep downstairs, open the door and scurry quietly back up with it before he notices me.
I’m in the kitchen with my hand in the drawer when I catch sight of Ryan on the other side of the room doing something that shocks me: he’s wiping tomato sauce off the walls with a cloth and some kitchen spray. It isn’t that he has never seen a bottle of cleaning fluid before: it’s just that, the few times I’ve seen him examine one, it’s with the sort of bewilderment you’d see on the face of a caveman who is attempting to assemble an IKEA flat-pack.
When he catches me looking at him, he stands up and reaches into his back pocket. ‘Here,’ he says, holding out the bottle-opener. ‘I used it earlier.’
‘Thank you,’ I say curtly, taking it from him.
‘Sure,’ he replies.
I am about to march out of the room, when he’s looking at me again and I feel a flush of heat at my neck.
He’s smirking.
What has he got to smirk about? As I frown back, his mouth twitches and I realize he’s trying to suppress a giggle.
For some reason, the idea makes me smile – which triggers something in him. Laughter. Uncontrollable, slightly hysterical laughter that, it’s clear, isn’t going to stop, no matter how firmly he holds the back of his hand to his mouth.
Worse, it’s infectious. I find myself joining in, chuckling at first, then full-on, unstoppable howling.
It becomes cyclical. Every time I think I’ve got myself under control, I catch sight of his face, which starts me off again. And him.
Eventually, with tears in his eyes, Ryan directs me to the door. ‘Get outta here,’ he manages, between snorts. ‘Crazy woman.’
As I run giddily up the stairs, it strikes me that this is possibly the strangest thing that’s happened since I got here. Oh, God, now I really need a beer.
Chapter 27
I must confess that it’s been a number of years since I went to church for anything other than weddings, funerals or christenings. About twenty, to be exact. It’s not that I don’t believe in God, I do. I think. It’s just that the level of conviction I had aged nine hasn’t stayed with me. Besides, my grandma Bonnie is no longer around to tell me I’ll go to hell if I don’t turn up each week with freshly washed hair and shoes so shiny they dazzle half the congregation.
In America, church attendance seems to be at a far healthier level than it is in the UK. As the other nannies and I walk into St Stephen’s, our neighbourhood Episcopalian church, and assemble our rabble of children near the back, the place is so packed you’d think they’d come to watch Frank Sinatra on the first date of a world tour.
‘I really thought, when I started exploring the principles of Scientology, that I’d never set foot in a mainstream church again,’ Amber tells me earnestly.
‘When did you start exploring the principles of Scientology?’ I ask.
‘Last Tuesday.’
The church is a traditional one, and just being there plunges me into thoughts of my wedding day. Not that I got as far as being
inside
the church. But I still keep thinking about it all the same.
I often find myself drifting into a fantasy world, in which our usher Andrew – instead of dragging himself over to Dad and me to tell us that Jason had done a runner – smiles broadly and says, ‘You look amazing, Zoe. Jason’s a lucky man. He won’t know what’s hit him when he sees you walking down that aisle – although I know he’ll be relieved. He’s been here for the last thirty-five minutes.’
At that point the daydream usually disintegrates. Maybe picturing myself standing at the altar with Jason is a delusion too far. Deep down I know this sort of thing isn’t good for me.
I’m dragged back to the here and now as an explosion of music fills the church to herald the arrival of the priest who, although he is surprisingly young, walks to the front with a serenely commanding air.
‘Good morning to you all on this beautiful day,’ he says, as the music dies down. ‘I’d like to start by welcoming to St Stephen’s anybody who is joining us for the first time.’
The priest, it is clear, doesn’t fit the stereotypical image of a churchman. That of an off-duty Armani model, perhaps. Or George Clooney’s dazzling younger cousin. And I’m clearly not the only one who’s noticed.
Trudie leans over Samuel’s head and beckons me. ‘He’s fit!’ she hisses.
I nod sagely in an attempt to convince the woman in the next pew that she’s relaying some theologically profound comment.
During the ceremony I find myself attempting to look as
au fait
with the proceedings as someone who attends four times a week and twice on Sundays. My rendition of ‘What A Friend We Have In Jesus’ is particularly convincing, I think, except for the bit where I accidentally turn over two pages of the hymn-book and end up singing ‘How Great Thou Art’ until Felicity prods my arm.