Until You're Mine (3 page)

James folds his newspaper and shifts over. I sit down next to him. He smells of soap. There’s no room for Claudia but she drags a chair over from the table. ‘I’m better perched on this,’ she remarks. ‘It takes a crane to haul me out of that old thing.’

A moment’s silence.

Then there are two little boys skittering at our feet. Both identical. They are squabbling over a plastic toy.

‘Oscar,’ James says wearily, ‘give it up.’

I’m not sure why he should. He had it first.

‘So,’ I say when the din has subsided, ‘you’ll want to know all about my experience.’ I have it all prepared, learnt off pat. Right down to the colour of my last employer’s eyes and the engine size of their car. Greeny-brown and two point five litres. I am ready for anything.

‘How many families have you worked for?’ Claudia asks.

‘Four in total,’ I reply easily. ‘The shortest term was three years. I only left because they went to live in Texas. I could have gone with them but preferred to stay in England.’ Good. She’s looking impressed.

‘Why did you leave your last job?’ James pipes up. First bit of interest he’s shown. He’s probably leaving the decision-making to his wife so he doesn’t get it in the neck if they end up with a nanny fresh from hell.

‘Ah,’ I say with a confident smile. ‘Nannies tend to get made redundant when the kids grow up.’

Claudia laughs but James doesn’t.

I was careful to dress down for this morning – sensible tapered trousers for cycling, kind of rust colour, and a high-necked grey T-shirt with a pleasant primrose-yellow cardigan over it. Short and slightly mussed-up hair – trendy but not overly so. No rings. Just my silver heart necklace. It was a special gift. I look nice. Nanny-about-town nice.

‘I was with the Kingsleys for five years. Beth and Tilly were ten and eight when I arrived. When the youngest went off to boarding school aged thirteen they didn’t need me any more. Mrs Kingsley,
Maggie
, said I was worth having another baby for.’ I put in her first name because that’s obviously how Claudia likes things to be. First-name terms.

The way her hands rest gently on her swollen stomach . . . it’s killing me.

‘So how long have you been unemployed?’ James asks rather bluntly.

‘I don’t see myself as unemployed exactly. I left the Kingsley house in the summer. They took me to their place in the south of France as a good-bye treat then I went on a short but intensive course in Italy at a Montessori centre.’ I wait for the reaction.

‘Oh, James. I’ve always said we should get the boys registered at a Montessori school.’

‘It was an amazing experience,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to put into practice what I learnt.’ I make a mental note to re-read the Montessori information.

‘Does it help with four-year-old delinquent boys?’ James asks with a smirk.

I can’t help a little laugh. ‘Definitely.’ Then, right on cue, I’m showered with a bunch of wax crayons. I try not to flinch. ‘Hey, are you trying to colour me in?’ The twin from the front door – I only know this because of the green top he’s wearing – hisses at me through gritted teeth. He grabs a couple of crayons from the floor and hurls them at me from point-blank range.

‘Pack it in, Noah,’ his father says, but the boy pays no attention.

‘Have you got any paper?’ I ask, ignoring the sting on my cheek.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Claudia says. ‘I’d say they’re feisty, not delinquent as such. And it’s just Noah who’s occasionally challenging.’

‘Birth troubles,’ James adds quietly as the boys fight over who’s going to fetch the pad of paper.

I look at Claudia and wait for her to tell me. I know it all anyway.

‘Not
my
birth troubles,’ she begins with a fond swipe of a hand across her belly. Then, in a whisper, ‘The twins aren’t mine. I mean, they are, of course, but I’m not their biological mother. Just so you know.’

‘Oh. OK. That’s fine.’

‘My first wife died of cancer when the boys were two months old. Came out of nowhere and swept the life from her.’ He raises his hands at my sudden pained expression. ‘Nope. It’s OK.’

I switch to a little sympathetic purse of my lips and a respectfully low flick of my gaze. It’s all that’s needed. ‘Hey, well done, you,’ I say as Noah races back to me flapping a pad of paper. ‘Now, why don’t you have a race to see who can collect the most crayons off the floor? Then it’s a competition to see who can draw the best picture of me. Right?’

‘Wight!’ says Oscar. He jumps up and down with excitement. His cheeks turn pink.

Noah stands staring at me for a second – unnerving, I have to say – and then quite calmly he tears a piece of paper from the pad. ‘For you, Oscar.’ And he gives it to his brother.

‘Good boy,’ I say. ‘Now, off you go and I want to see them both when you’re finished!’

The twins shuffle off in their silly slippers – characters from some cartoon or other – and settle down at the table with the crayons. Oscar asks his brother for the blue. Noah hands it over.

‘I’m impressed,’ James says reluctantly.

‘Pure distraction with a bit of healthy sibling competition thrown in for good measure.’

‘We’re looking for someone to live in Monday to Friday, Zoe. Would that be a problem?’ Claudia’s cheeks have turned coral, making me imagine I’ve touched my thumb to them, a little smudge of powder blush. The heat of pregnancy.

‘That wouldn’t be a problem at all.’ I think of the flat, of everything contained in it. Then I think of living here. My heart flutters so I take a deep breath. ‘I can totally understand why you’d need someone on hand all hours during the week.’ If I’m honest, the timing of this job is perfect.

‘But you could go home at weekends,’ she says.

My heart sinks, though I don’t show my disappointment. I must fit in with what they want. ‘I could disappear on Friday evening and reappear magically on Monday morning. But I can stay weekends too if you need me.’ An answer to satisfy for now, I hope. In reality, it won’t work like this. I can’t help believing in fate.

‘Look!’ Noah calls out. He flaps a piece of paper in my direction.

‘Ooh, keep it a secret until you’re finished,’ I tell him, and turn back to his parents. ‘When I take a job I like to become part of the family but to keep my distance too, if you know what I mean. I’m here if you need me, vanished if you don’t.’

Claudia nods her approval.

‘I’m away at sea much of the time,’ James informs me. He doesn’t need to. ‘I’m a Naval officer. A submariner. You’ll mainly be dealing with Claudia.’

You’ll mainly be dealing with
 . . . as if I already have the job in his mind.

‘Do you want to look around the house? See what you’d be letting yourself in for?’ Claudia is standing, hands on the back of her hips in that typical pregnant-woman pose. I make a point of not staring at her bump.

‘Sure.’

We start downstairs and Claudia leads me from one room to another. They are all grand and some don’t look like they’re ever used. ‘We don’t use this one very often,’ she says as we enter the dining room, echoing my thought. ‘Just at Christmas, on special occasions. When friends come for supper we usually eat in the kitchen.’ The room is cold and has a long shiny table with twelve carved dining chairs set around it. There’s an ornate fireplace, intricate plaster cornices, and a chandelier in dusky hues of violet hangs centrally. It’s a beautiful room but not at all cosy.

We cross the chequerboard hallway again.

‘And the boys, well, they don’t come in this room very often.’ Not allowed to, she means. She shows me a large room with sumptuous cream sofas. No television, just lots of old paintings on the walls and antique tables with glass dishes and lamps set upon them. I imagine the twins wearing their muddiest shoes, leaping from sofa to sofa, brandishing large sticks, while the ornaments go flying and the paintings rip. I stifle the smile.

‘And we watch telly in here,’ she says as we move into the next room. ‘It gets really warm and snug when the fire’s lit.’ Claudia holds the door open and I peek in. I see big purple sofas and a thick furry rug. One wall is lined with bookshelves, overflowing with paperbacks. I imagine reading with the boys in here, waiting for Claudia to get home, running her a bath, wondering about her due date. I will be the perfect nanny.

‘And then there’s the playroom.’ She hesitates, hand on door knob. ‘Sure you want to go in? It’s usually a bit of a zoo.’

‘Very nice,’ I say, stepping past Claudia. This is where I must shine. ‘Excellent. You have loads of Lego. I love it. And look at all their books. I insist on reading to my children at least three times a day.’ I’d better be careful. Claudia is looking at me as if I’m almost too perfect.

Upstairs an array of bedrooms spans off the galleried landing. I peek into the guest suite, and then she shows me the boys’ room. They share. The room is tidy. Two single beds with scarlet and blue duvets, a big rug printed with grey roads and flat houses, and, over in the corner, a couple of cages with, I suppose, hamsters or mice inside.

‘We have a cleaner who comes in three times a week. You wouldn’t need to do any of that.’

I nod. ‘I don’t mind doing bits and pieces around the house but I prefer to spend my time caring for the children.’

‘Come up and see your rooms then.’

Your rooms
.

Another flight of stairs takes us to the top floor. It’s not an attic of the dusty-full-of-boxes kind but the sort with sloping ceilings, beams and old country-style furniture. A battered white-painted chest stands on the small landing. The floor is covered with sisal and patchwork hearts hang from the doors that lead off the area.

‘There are three rooms up here. A small bedroom, a living room and a bathroom. You’re welcome to eat with us in the kitchen. Use it as your own.’

Your own
.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘Very homely.’ It’s like something out of an interiors magazine and not really my style, if I’m honest.

‘You’ll get a bit of peace up here. I’ll make it a no-fly zone for the boys.’

‘Oh, that’s not necessary. We could have fun up here.’ I check out the rooms again, stepping into each like an excited kid. The bedroom has a sloping ceiling and a little window overlooking the garden, while the bathroom has a roll-top bath and an old-fashioned loo. ‘I love it,’ I say, desperate for her to know I like it without giving away my virtual homelessness.

Back in the kitchen, where James is behind the newspaper again, Claudia hands me a list. It spans two pages. ‘Something for you to take away and consider,’ she says. ‘A list of duties and things we expect. Plus those we don’t.’

‘A great idea,’ I say. ‘There’s no chance of confusion then,’ I add, thinking that however many lists she writes, whatever ground-rules and job descriptions she dreams up, they’ll all seem rather futile in the long run. ‘I’m always open to suggestions from my families. I like to have a weekly meeting with parents to discuss how the children are doing, stuff like that.’

Then the twins are leaping about at my side like a pair of yapping terriers.

‘See mine, see mine!’

‘No, mine!’

‘Look what you’ve started,’ Claudia says with a laugh but then suddenly stretches her hands round her lower back. She leans against the worktop and grimaces.

‘Are you OK, darling?’ James makes to get up but Claudia wafts her hands at him, mouthing
I’m fine
.

‘Let me see then. Hmm. In this picture I look like an alien with huge pink lips and no hair. And in this one I think I’m half human and half horse with a mane down to the ground.’

‘Nooo!’ the boys chant in unison. They giggle, and Noah shoves Oscar. He stands his ground. ‘Which one, which one’s the best?’

‘I love them equally. You are brilliant artists and both winners. Can I keep them?’

The boys nod in awe and their mouths hang open, exposing tiny teeth. They run off happily and I hear a waterfall of Lego as an entire box is tipped out in the playroom.

‘I think you’re a hit,’ Claudia says. ‘Are there any questions you’d like to ask me?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, unable to help the glance at her bump. It’s as if someone’s revving the accelerator to my heart. ‘When’s the baby due?’

It’s what I’ve been dying to ask all along.

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR LORRAINE
Fisher had never thrown up on a job before. Leaning against the wall, she wiped her mouth across the back of her hand. She didn’t have a tissue.

‘Who are you?’ she said to a man standing in the flat’s tiny hallway. Her throat burned and her expression was sour.

‘Will you give me an exclusive statement, Detective? Do you believe this is a murder inquiry?’ he said.

‘Get him the shit out of here, you idiots, this is a crime scene,’ she barked at her colleagues.

A white-suited flurry of activity ensued and it was as if the journalist had never existed.

Lorraine felt another surge rising in the gurgling, disgusted pit of her belly but she knew there was nothing else left inside. She’d not had time for breakfast, skipped lunch, and dinner was looking unlikely. Even that bag of crisps wasn’t inside her now.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ she said, raising her hand to her forehead. She snapped it back down when she realised the gesture could give the wrong impression to those who didn’t know her. Twenty years in the force and nothing this grim or pitifully sad had come her way. As a woman – as a
mother
– she was angered to the core. She pulled the white mask down over her face again and drew in a deep breath – partly for courage and partly so she didn’t have to suck in the decaying stench that filled the small bathroom.

It had all taken place in here, she could see that instantly. There was no blood anywhere else in the flat. The ceramic tiles, once white with mouldy grout stretching around the edge of the bath, were spattered and smeared with blood – some of it pinky-red and some of it dark burgundy, almost brown, as it crazed the tiles like some weird piece of congealed art at the Tate Modern.

Sweet Jesus . . . what had gone on in here?

In the basin there was a claw hammer and a kitchen knife. The knife was part of a set from the flat’s kitchen. Both were bloodied. The bath tap was dripping every couple of seconds, making a clear river of white one end of the blood-stained plastic bath. The woman lying in it was half naked. The plug was in. The baby was blue and lifeless, its powdery skin mottled and delicate. Finger-shaped bruises decorated its shoulders from when, she supposed, it had been pulled from the womb.