by Jackie Clune
“I ran all the way here—Lola’s got another tooth coming through and I just couldn’t get her off to sleep, and Sasha’s having a dinner party tonight, so I was on bed duty. God, I’m so sorry—were you about to go? I mean, can we get our table back? Is that—I mean, would that be all right? Do you want that?”
Whether it was the beer, the throbbing egg, or the ruffled suit and T-shirt combination Andy was sporting so well, Amy wasn’t sure, but she did something uncharacteristically forward. She kissed him. Full on the lips, with just a hint of tongue. He responded after the briefest of stunned moments, and they stood locked in an embrace for a few moments. Su coughed gently and pushed the metal tray bearing Amy’s change noisily across the counter.
“Right,” said Andy as they pulled away. “It’s a funny thing, but I’m suddenly not feeling that hungry.”
“Me neither,” said Amy, looking up at him. He was taller and even sexier than she’d remembered—so it wasn’t just the daddy appeal, then.
“Want to see my etchings in Docklands?” she asked.
“Can’t. Have to be on duty later tonight. Said I’d be back by eleven.”
Amy did a rough calculation—half an hour there, half an hour back, which left about one and a half hours to do the deed. Long enough, technically, but was he the sort who needed to talk into the wee small hours to get warmed up? Were these New Men types comfortable enough with their feminine sides to care for children, these Metrosexuals with their gay hair, their pink shirts, and their gym-buffed bodies man enough to do wham, bam, thank you, ma’am?
“I’ve got a better idea—why don’t you come back to mine?”
Amy frowned. Was that allowed? Could live-in nannies do one-night stands?
“I’m not sure Mary Poppins would approve,” she said, testing the water.
“I’ve got my own room and my own bathroom up in the attic. The baby’s room is next to mine. It’s cool,” he said, taking her hand in his. The touch sent electric shocks through her fingers. It had been a long time.
“OK,” she said. “That’s practically perfect in every way.”
. 15 .
The house was brightly lit as they crept up the winding front path, ducking under the overgrown lilac tree and sending rain-scented rose petals flying. It had been years since she’d felt this daring. Here she was in the depths of Hackney, inexplicably creeping into a young man’s room in order to get herself pregnant.
Someone should inform Social Services, she thought wryly.
“I’ll just get my key,” whispered Andy, fumbling in his trouser pocket.
From inside came the sound of middle-class people having fun—glasses were chinking, boorish comments were being over-laughed at, and the latest easy-listening compilation purred unobtrusively in the background.
“Bugger. Can’t find it. Must have left it behind in the rush,” hissed Andy again.
“Why are we whispering? I thought you said it’s OK to bring people back,” said Amy, starting to feel a little uncomfortable now.
“It is—it’s fine, honestly. It’s just that Sasha can be a bit, erm, a bit . . . territorial about me.”
“Oh, great! So she’s going to love me then!” said Amy loudly.
“Shhh! Look, it’s not that bad—I’d just rather we didn’t bump into her before—well, before—”
Amy raised a mock-quizzical eyebrow.
“Oh, you know. Let’s just nip round the back,” said Andy, tugging on her hand. Electricity again. This was going to be good.
The noise from within surged suddenly, and a corridor of light illuminated the pathway. Someone had opened the front door.
“Thought I heard someone outside!” shrieked a loud female voice.
Sasha was silhouetted in the doorway, her long, curly hair billowing around her bare, well-defined shoulders. She was about Amy’s age, tall and strong-looking and effortlessly elegant in a mushroom-colored satin dress. She was barefoot, and the whole effect was Amazonian.
“Sorry,” said Andy. It sounded like a reflex.
“You left your keys on the stairs. Again,” said Sasha, every inch the niggling wife.
“Hello, I’m Amy,” said Amy, offering her hand.
“Oh! Didn’t see you there! Didn’t realize you had someone with you. Oh, sorry, come in, come in!”
Andy waited for Amy to go in before mouthing something that looked like “Is this all right?” Amy heard whispered, “Yes, yes, of course,” before turning to face them both.
“We’re just about to have pudding—why don’t you join us?” said Sasha, far too brightly.
Oh my God, she’s in love with him, Amy realized.
“Er, no, no, you go ahead, we’re just going to, erm, go upstairs and . . . listen to some music,” said Andy, aware that he sounded like a fifteen-year-old on a dope-smoking mission. This was weird. He was a fully grown adult who was working for this woman, living in her house, and here he was acting like a guilty teenager. Or a cheating husband.
“Fine, great, see you later,” chirruped Sasha, going back into the dining room.
“Just pop your shoes off if you’re going upstairs, Amy, thanks,” she added briskly. “Oh, and there’s half a bottle of Bolly left in the kitchen—and some smoked salmon,” she added.
Andy indicated for Amy to wait in the hall while he dipped into the kitchen. Amy stood uncomfortably for a few moments. She didn’t want the scraps from this woman’s table. It was odd to be in a house less expensive than her own whose owner instantly treated her like an inferior. Sasha clearly had a problem with other women, at least where Andy was concerned. Amy became aware of hushed voices at the dinner-party table—Sasha was obviously telling her guests that the staff had brought some totty home. There was a huge explosion of laughter. Amy couldn’t help but feel it was at her expense. Why was she doing this? It had better be worth it.
The dining-room door opened again.
“Oh. He’s not here,” said Sasha, somewhat accusingly. The two women blinked at each other for a moment.
“He’s in the kitchen,” said Amy flatly.
“Right. Could you just ask him to check on Lola before you—he—go to bed? Thanks.”
She ducked back into the dining room amid stifled giggles. This was silly. Was she some kind of jealous schoolgirl? Had Andy never had a woman back here before?
“Sure,” said Amy, trying to sound as unfazed as possible.
Andy reappeared clutching the champagne and a foil-covered plate and ushered her upstairs.
“Oh—Madame says can you check on the baby,” said Amy, as they got to the top floor.
“Right—take these,” said Andy, thrusting the leftovers at her before tiptoeing into the child’s room. Amy noted with some amusement that the wallpaper was one of her own designs—the Enid Blyton fairies from The Magic Faraway Tree. If only Sasha knew.
“All fine. Fast asleep. Want to see?” He held the door open to let her peek in. Lola was flat on her back, little fat fists clenched at either side of her curly head, her cheeks flushed and her eyelashes flickering gently as she breathed. She was the picture of contentment.
“Does she wake up much?” asked Amy, keen to find out if they were likely to be disturbed. The sight of the cherubic baby had reminded her to focus her attention on the task at hand.
“Nah. She’ll stay like that until about six thirty—seven if we’re lucky. . . .” He pulled Amy to him and began to kiss her hard on the lips. She responded, reveling now in the tension of the situation. Why did it feel so deliciously naughty? It wasn’t as if he was in a relationship with Sasha—Lola wasn’t his child, and Amy was single—but something about the fact that she was about to attempt to get pregnant via a male nanny in someone else’s house thrilled her. It was a middle-class porn scenario for the working woman. Tucking the bottle under her arm, she reached round to grab Andy’s ass, eager to move things on now—no point hanging around when with every minute her egg was becoming older and staler.
Ther
e was an almighty crash.
“Shit! The champagne!” The bottle had slipped and smashed all over the hardwood floor.
The glass lay glinting in puddles of bubbles.
Instinctively, they both turned to look at the baby. For a second there was silence, but just as Amy was about to breathe again, Lola let out a long wail that rose in pitch and volume like an air-raid warning.
“Waaaaaahhhhh!” she cried, a mixture of shock and indignation in her small, loud voice.
“Fuck,” said Andy, hurriedly kicking the glass aside and rushing to soothe Lola.
“It’s OK, it’s OK, shh, shh, shh, go back to sleep, it’s OK,” he said, barely audible above the distressed sobbing that was now convulsing Lola’s tiny frame.
But Lola was having none of it.
“Waaaahhhh!” she wailed, each new cry growing in intensity.
Footsteps thundered up the stairs.
“What’s the matter—is anything wrong?” asked Sasha, looking more pleased than anxious.
“We had a little accident with the bottle and it woke her up,” said Andy, still in his baby-soothing voice.
“Oh dear, bubba—silly Andy! Silly Janey!” cooed Sasha.
“Amy,” said Amy, a little too hotly.
“Did they wake you up, my bubba? Well, Mama’s got her friends to play, so Andy will kiss it better and help you get back to sleep. Poor bubba,” said Sasha. “The mop and dustpan are under the stairs—Amy. Would you mind?” It was clearly a rhetorical question, because Sasha wafted down the stairs very pleased with herself indeed.
“Sure. Great. Just what I wanted to be doing tonight,” sighed Amy, trudging after her.
“Sorry.” Andy grimaced, still frantically jiggling the screaming child. Lola was now turning an attractive shade of purple, her breath coming in jags between wails.
Returning with the mop, Amy set about cleaning up the mess. Lola was inconsolable, but Amy knew from having been around babies that it was sunshine and showers—one minute they would be beside themselves with grief, the next all giggles and smiles. All was not lost. If she could just get Lola’s attention for a second, she could try to wrong-foot her. What was it that she always did to distract a crying child from its exaggerated display of suffering? Peekaboo! No child had ever been able to resist it. Amy put down the mop and picked up an elephant cushion—again, one of her own designs from the Noah’s Ark collection. She got right within Lola’s eyeline, then hid her face behind the cushion. The crying suddenly stopped. An expectant hush filled the nursery, and Amy knew she was onto a winner.
“Boo!” she exploded, pulling the cushion sharply away from her face.
Lola blinked. She blinked again. Then something very bad happened. Her bottom lip trembled, went in, came out again, and went in before finally wobbling miserably for a few moments. It was make-or-break time.
“Boo!” shouted Amy again.
Lola thought for a moment before breaking into a wail so much louder and insistent than it had been, as if she was redoubling her efforts to ruin their evening.
“What are you doing?” snapped Andy.
“I thought it would help—it usually works.”
“Oh, dear, dear, dear sweetheart, don’t worry—Amy was just playing a little joke. Ssh, ssh, shh,” said Andy, jiggling away.
Lola wailed and wailed. She was a devoted wailer, a dedicated howler, a fundamentalist screamer, and in between wails, she peeped over Andy’s shoulder just to remind herself who it was she was unhappy with.
Thump, thump, thump up the stairs and Sasha was at the doorway.
“What’s happened now?” she accused, looking directly at Amy.
“I think she’s teething, and Amy was just trying to cheer her up by playing peekaboo and she got a bit upset,” Andy hollered over the din.
“Oh, bubba! Is there a strange lady in your room? Is she a bit frightening?” cooed Sasha.
“I think she’s just overtired and teething. I’m sure it’s not Amy’s fault,” said Andy, hugging the baby close to him. Lola, however, had other ideas, and kept popping up over his shoulder to get another look at the scary stranger.
“I think she’s a bit freaked out, poor thing. She’s not really used to seeing new faces in here—especially not so late at night,” countered Sasha, clearly intent on blaming someone.
“It’s only ten o’clock,” said Amy gloomily.
“That’s the middle of the night for a baby. How would you feel if you woke up to find a strange woman in your room in the middle of the night, smashing glasses and shouting ‘boo’ at you?”
“Delighted,” said Amy. “I’d take her out for a pint.” Why did she feel like she was back at school in front of the headmistress?
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really think you ought to go. It’s just that Andy needs to get her back to sleep, and I need to return to my guests. Sorry. Perhaps another time?”
Sasha had the stiff authoritarian tone of a parent rearranging her son’s playdate.
Amy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Were they serious, the pair of them? One look at Andy and she knew all she needed to know—he smiled a thin apology, then carried on jiggling Lola.
“Right. No problem. I’ll leave you to it,” said Amy, brushing past Sasha and onto the landing. But at the top of the stairs, she stopped and remembered esprit de l’escalier—that moment when you think of the perfect exit line but you’ve already left the situation—so she gave herself a breath before turning and facing them again.
“And perhaps when you’ve settled Lola, Andy, Mummy will give you a nice bit of booby.” Hardly Dorothy Parker, but it would do.
Behind the dining-room door, the chatter continued as Amy pushed her feet into her shoes and made her way out.
“Bloody, bloody, bloody hell,” she muttered as she headed up the path. The overgrown roses now snagged at her clothes and soaked her in raindrops, and the scent of the lilac, so intoxicating just an hour before, was overpoweringly sickly.
What now? She stood on the street corner, furious and humiliated. What a spineless jerk! All he had to do was stand up to his employer—insist that Amy be taken downstairs and entertained while he settled the child, and all would now be well. As it was here she was, egg awaiting, stranded in a taxi-no-go area of Hackney. A hooded youth approached, idly pedaling a too-small bike up the street.
“Hey. You looking for company?” He laughed, toking on a large joint. He wasn’t threatening, and Amy had lived in London long enough to know it’s the ones who don’t say anything that you have to worry about. For a split second she thought of asking him to go for a drink—weren’t brown babies as fashionable as this season’s kitten heels?—but even in her current situation, she couldn’t stoop so low. Pick up some hapless black kid and make him a father? She drew the line at an evening that could end up on The Jerry Springer Show. The youth cycled a figure eight in the middle of the road before meandering off in the direction of the common for some other sport just as—miraculously—the yellow light of a taxi swung into view.
“Where to, love?”
“Anywhere.”
“Like that, is it?” laughed the cabbie.
“Yep,” said Amy, brushing the rain from her face. She suddenly felt exhausted.
“Take me to bed,” said Amy, not caring about the ambiguity— if the cabbie were to misinterpret her, she could be in all sorts of trouble.
“Righto. All I need is your address, love, and you’ll be up the wooden hill to the land of nod before you can count a dozen sheep.”
Great. So even the cabbie was totally immune to her charm.
Three months down—nine to go.
. 16 .
Monday morning. Normally, the ache of self-pity felt by all wage slaves at the dawn of a new working week was anathema to Amy. Owning her own business meant that normal office hours were a thing of wonder. She ate, breathed, and slept the shop all week long, all year through. This Monday morning, the knot in the pit of her st
omach had nothing in common with that of the thousands of commuters now pouring themselves into already packed tube trains. It wasn’t grief at the loss of freedom the new week heralded, and it wasn’t a sense of futility at a humdrum, repetitive existence. Amy felt sick to her stomach because for the third month running, she had not only failed to get pregnant (she could handle that, six months to a year was average) but had also spectacularly failed to even bed the required man. She lay in bed listening to the furious chattering of the magpies above. It was only too easy to interpret their row as hostile, mocking laughter. She put the thought out of her mind and tried to focus on what had gone wrong. It had all looked so good. She’d done what Greg had said—she’d deliberately found a baby-friendly man; she’d given him a day’s notice; she’d not been too keen. He, for his part, had been as eager as her to do the dirty right up until the baby woke up. If it hadn’t been for Sasha sticking her big nose in, she might now be the proud host of a blob of rapidly subdividing cells. It was clear that Andy and Sasha were in a codependent, fucked-up relationship. Sasha had been quite deliberate about her wedge-driving. Short of prostrating herself on the floor and screaming, “Don’t sleep with her! Don’t sleep with her!” she couldn’t have made her feelings more clear. And Andy? Well, the only consoling thought Amy had was that when she got that all-important twelve-week scan picture in her hands, she wanted to be sure the child had inherited a backbone.
“Enough of this. Time to check on the troops,” she said, jumping out of bed and throwing on the nearest clothes—a dirty sweatshirt and the oldest jeans in the world. It wouldn’t matter that she wasn’t smartly dressed; she was only going to pop in and make sure they weren’t slacking in her absence. It had been a whole three weeks—unheard of for Amy. It was important that she go in and make sure the staff were not indulging their twee sides too much. Last time she’d popped in, she’d been appalled to discover the beginnings of a window display featuring a Tweenies picnic. Yuk. She’d stamped on that one pretty sharpish. Her style may be cozy, but it was a retro kind of cozy that ironically believed in fairies. The distinction was important, if only to Amy.
