The Nanny (25 page)

‘I know enough to figure out when someone’s trying to pull a fast one,’ I retort. ‘I used to manage the stock at the sports club. I’ll be fine.’

She’s still reeling off instructions when she pulls up in front of the Fulham shop. I nod attentively, not listening to a word. Frankly, much as I love the twins, I can’t wait for a
couple of hours off from wiping snotty noses and changing nappies. How hard can it be to count tulips?

The metal shutters are still down; inside, the shop is cool and dim. I don’t bother to switch on the lights, enjoying the green gloom. It smells
amazing
: like burying your head in
the biggest bouquet of flowers you’ve ever seen. It must be fantastic to work in a place like this. Imagine going home smelling of roses and jasmine instead of puke and baby shit.

I plump down on the high stool behind the counter, spinning slightly to and fro. No wonder Clare loves her shops so much. It is kind of calm and peaceful here. It’s not just the quiet of
having no customers; it’s the feeling that you’re somehow grounded and connected with the real world. The living, growing world.

‘You lucky bitch,’ Kirsty sighs, when I call and tell her what I’m doing. ‘It’s Hector’s birthday party this afternoon. Fran’s invited eight little boys
over, and guess who’s got to entertain them?’

‘Get your tits out,’ I suggest. ‘That should keep them quiet.’

‘I might just do that,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘They’ve discovered their willies at ten, right?’

‘Are you kidding? Rowan plays with his whenever I take his nappy off, and he’s only six months.’

The bell rings as the door opens, and I quickly click my phone shut. A tall, grim-faced man in an ankle-length coat strides into the shop like he owns the place.

I come out from behind the counter and stop him in his tracks. ‘Sorry, we’re closed.’

‘Where’s Clare?’

‘She’s not here today—’

‘Who’re you?’ he says rudely.

Bad-tempered American arse. ‘I work for Clare. Can I take a message?’

‘Unlikely.’

He doesn’t leave. I glare pointedly at him, but he just glares back. He’s got that mean, unshaven Clint Eastwood thing going on, but his eyes are gorgeous: a really piercing blue. He
could be quite cute if he wasn’t so fucking grumpy. And twenty years younger, of course.

‘Can I help you?’ I ask, making my tone as unhelpful as possible.

‘Help?’

‘Yes. Was there something you wanted?’

‘Camellias,’ he says suddenly. ‘Give me some camellias.’

‘I told you, we’re closed—’

‘You’re here, aren’t you?’

I wouldn’t know a camellia if it jumped up and bit me. ‘I really can’t—’

‘There,’ he says, pointing to a bucket of red blooms surrounded by evergreen leaves. ‘Just give them to me.’

‘But—’

‘You don’t have to arrange the damn things. Just send them to . . . send them to Clare.’

‘Who shall I say they’re from?’ I ask, with what I consider commendable patience given my insatiable curiosity.

‘She’ll know.’

I rummage through the paperwork my side of the counter, wondering what to charge him; even how to, for that matter.

‘When you’ve figured it out,’ he drawls, ‘put it on my account. Cooper Garrett.’

Before I have a chance to process this crucial information, the shop phone rings. At the same time, a scrawny youth slouches through the door with a sheaf of paperwork in his hands.
‘Delivery,’ he grunts, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

When I look up, the American has gone.

I should never have let Clare talk me into this. It’s like a zillion times more than I can afford, even when I’m not £16,000 in debt.

But this dress is so beautiful. And so sexy. And it makes me look so
thin
.

I twirl before the mirror. The pleated, gunmetal-grey Azzedine Alaïa flares gently from just below my bust, skimming my wobbles and rolls and ending flatteringly at mid-thigh. It looks
classy, chic and expensive. Particularly expensive. I’m going to be in hock to Clare for the next twenty years.

What was I supposed to do, when she invited me to come to a private designer sale with her to thank me for holding the fort at the shop? Especially when she offered to loan me money to buy
‘something special’ to cheer me up. If I’d known breaking up with Jamie would earn me admission to Designer Heaven, I’d have dumped him years ago.

I slip on my new Manolos (I never thought I’d own a pair of Manolos; but like Clare said, in for a penny, in for three hundred and forty pounds) and skip downstairs, feeling like Carrie in
Sex and the City
. Only without the horse face and freaky hair.

‘Oh! You look amazing!’ Clare cries as I spin princessily into the sitting room. ‘Marc, doesn’t she look lovely?’

Marc doesn’t bother to look up from his paper. ‘Mmm.’

‘Are you going out with Kirsty again?’

I flush. ‘Actually, I’ve got a date.’

‘A date? But how nice!’ I can tell she’s bursting to know who it is, but is far too polite to ask. ‘I hope he’s taking you somewhere wonderful.’

‘I’m meeting him in town,’ I mumble. Trying to distract her from any more tricky questions, I make a big deal of fiddling with my hair in the mirror over the fireplace.
‘Do you think I should put my hair up? It’s grown out a bit, and I’m not sure if it really suits me down.’

‘Oh, up, definitely. I’ll do it if you like.’

‘It’s OK, I’ve got a couple of clips somewhere—’

‘Go on, I’m really good at it,’ Clare pleads. ‘Davina taught me. One of the few times,’ she adds sadly, ‘she ever took any interest in me.’

I don’t have the heart to say no. I follow her upstairs, feeling like a total bitch as she brushes and pins. It’s bad enough that I’m seeing Xan behind her back. All this
shopping and sisterliness makes it a thousand times worse.

Clare pulls my hair in a soft, sexy chignon, leaving a few stray tendrils to frame my face in that hot, just-fallen-out-of-bed way. She picks up a make-up brush to touch up my inexpert
application, and by the time she’s finished I barely recognize myself. I look like a cover girl, with flawless foundation and huge, smoky eyes. It’s a shame it’ll all end up
smeared on Xan’s pillow.

She gives my shoulders a squeeze, and bends to meet my eyes in the mirror. ‘I hope you have a wonderful time,’ she smiles. ‘You really deserve it.’

Seriously. Could she make me feel any worse?

Marc is champing at the bit by the time we get downstairs, anxious to get going on the drive to Davina’s, where they’re spending the weekend. He hustles Clare out of the door before
she can offer me a lift. I breathe a sigh of relief. If this turns out to be anything more than a brief fling, I’m going to have to come clean with Clare. I can’t stand all this
sneaking around.

I’m just about to leave the house when Xan calls. ‘Change of plan,’ he says. ‘Is the coast clear? Good. I’ll be there in five.’

Three minutes later the doorbell rings. I glance in the hall mirror, blow myself a kiss for good luck and open the door.

A police car is waiting outside.

Xan sticks his head out of the rear window. ‘Come on,’ he grins. ‘Hop in.’

‘What’s going on? Have you been arrested again?’

‘Oh ye of little faith.’ He climbs out of the car and holds the door for me. ‘A friend owes me a favour. Meet Brendan and Lee. Ever been in a police chase?’

I fold my arms. ‘Very funny.’

‘Seriously. I’m on the side of the angels. Most of the time, anyway.’ He runs his finger slowly down my bare arm, and I tingle. ‘I lead a dissolute life, as Clare will
tell you. Occasionally, I mix with characters even I deem too unsavoury for my tastes. I hear things. Sometimes I pass them on. Last month, when I was arrested? Bit of a mistake by the boys in
blue. I got caught up in the wrong stake-out. Right hand didn’t know what the left was doing. This is by way of an apology.’

I get in the car, wondering if Xan is a secret agent, a grass, an ex-con or all three. This is the weirdest first date I’ve ever had.

‘Your bird’s a bit overdressed,’ Brendan grins, glancing in his rear-view mirror. ‘She won’t be tackling many villains in that get-up.’

‘I’m undercover,’ I retort.

Xan’s hand slides up my bare leg. ‘Now there’s an idea.’

The police radio crackles, and we pull out into the road. I wait for the screaming tyres and sirens, but for the next two hours we schlep from one boring false alarm to another. Burst water
mains, a ‘domestic’, two teens pelting rocks on to the road from a building under construction.

Finally, a call comes in alerting us to a shop robbery in progress.

‘Fancy the blues and twos?’ Brendan asks.

‘Are you
kidding
?’

He switches on the lights and sirens. We tear down the King’s Road, jumping red lights and ignoring zebra crossings. I cling to the seat for dear life as the car corners on what seems like
two wheels. Xan’s fingers slip beneath the edge of my knickers, and I nearly come with excitement.

The radio crackles again, telling us the thieves have fled the scene and run into an underground car park. We do an immediate 180, and turn sharply into the multi-storey we just passed, jolting
over the speed hump at the entrance. Two figures are racing towards a low wall at the far side.

‘Stay here!’ Lee barks.

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I watch breathlessly as the two cops leap out of the police car and give chase, Xan’s fingers stroking my clitoris with infuriating slowness. Almost
immediately, they catch up with the fleeing figures. The cops slam them none too gently against the wall, yanking their hands behind their backs and cuffing them just like they do in the
movies.

‘Guess we’ll have to make our own way home,’ Xan says, releasing me and opening the car door. ‘Brendan and Lee will need the back seat for the villains.’

For fuck’s sake!
I so need to get laid
!

I sit up and straighten my skirt. ‘Where the hell are we, anyway?’

‘Darkest Fulham.’ He grins at my expression. ‘Don’t worry, we’re not far from my flat.’

Twenty minutes later, we fall through his front door. I fumble for his belt buckle, hampered by the impressive erection straining his zip. Buttons skitter noisily on the floor as I yank his
shirt off his shoulders. He pulls my dress to my waist and slides the straps of my bra down my arms, freeing my breasts. Mindful of the lifetime it will take me to pay for the Alaïa, I quickly
shimmy out of it before it becomes another casualty of lust.

Half-hopping with his jeans round his knees, he carries me into the sitting room, throwing me in a magnificent but slightly painful gesture on to the leather chesterfield. Winded, I squirm
impatiently against the cold leather, spreading my legs ready. He shucks off the remainder of his clothes and slides between my thighs, his cock nudging my knickers.

At the last moment, he stops. ‘Are you sure?’

‘
Christ
,’ I pant.

‘I won’t be around for long,’ he warns. ‘This isn’t the start of something.’

I grab his buttocks with both hands and pull him towards me. ‘Would you just fuck me already?’

He fumbles under the sofa. Seconds later, I hear the sound of a condom wrapper. Clearly the chesterfield has seen plenty of action. I don’t care; actually, it’s rather sexy.
I’ve had enough of grown-up relationships to last me a while. I want some dirty, uncomplicated sex from a man who’s been around enough to know exactly what he’s doing.

Xan’s turquoise eyes fasten on mine as he pulls my knickers off and thrusts into me in one seamless, practised movement. No need, now, for foreplay. The pulse of his cock inside me is all
I want. I come moments later in thunderous waves, screaming my appreciation with scant regard for the neighbours.

‘Now
that’s
over,’ Xan murmurs against my neck, ‘the fun begins.’

On Sunday evening, I stagger up Clare’s front steps like John Wayne. It wouldn’t be accurate to say we haven’t got out of bed all weekend.
Au
contraire
: we’ve made full use of the kitchen table, the bathroom cabinet, the sofa (four times), the staircase, the fridge and (once) the bed. I have blisters, friction burns and a
blossoming case of cystitis. I have never been so sated, sore, or hungry.

The house is cold and silent when I let myself in; Clare and Marc aren’t yet back from Davina’s. I offer up a silent prayer of thanks. The last thing I need is for her to recognize
Xan’s shirt and cut-offs.

I stumble down the hall, knocking my elbow on the under-stairs cupboard door. I yelp, hopping up and down and rubbing it as my funny-bone tingles painfully. Flicking on the lights, I try to shut
the door, but it jams on something. I bend down and pull on the end of a leather holdall, trying to wedge it back in amongst the jumble of tennis rackets, umbrellas, wellies and baby crap. I
succeed only in upending it into the chaos, spilling the contents.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

I crouch down among the odd shoes and tennis balls and pick up the large, rectangular block of money in disbelief. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much cash in one place before. I
run my fingers down the side of the brick, swiftly calculating the number of zeros I’m holding in my hands.

A hundred thousand US dollars. At least.

Why on earth would Marc have so much money in his gym bag?