The Babysitter

by Phoebe Morgan

  We took a taxi from Caen Airport, but Maria in her own car is by far the best driver, able to navigate the narrow French roads with much more ease than either of us. Although she lives in England, just down the road from us in Woodbridge, she comes out to the villa all the time, and every summer she spends a few weeks here alone. By car, the journey is less than six hours. The locals in the village recognise her, at least. ‘They always ask me why I haven’t got a man,’ she told us earlier tonight, laughing, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. ‘They ask me when I’m going to bring un petit chou to visit them all.’

  ‘They obviously don’t know you that well then,’ Callum had said, grinning at her, and she’d laughed again, the sound echoing over the hot red tiles, but the tone of it didn’t quite ring true. I wonder if she could be more lonely that we think. I’ve tried to discuss it with Callum, once or twice, but he’s never very interested. I think she was seeing someone more seriously for a while, a man from her work, but she was always very cagey about it and I never got very far in my questioning.

  ‘Rouen in the morning would be lovely,’ I say now, waiting for Callum to agree. Since we’ve been out here, there has been something off about his mood, but I can’t work out if I’m just imagining it. There is a nervous energy, a pulse of unease that began on the flight earlier today. He has never been an anxious flyer, but this time he was on edge for the whole hour, his eyes darting around the plane, his fingers tapping on his phone until an air hostess told him to stop. I smiled at her after that, and ordered a glass of wine. Emma stared out of the window the entire time; I could hear the tinny beat of the music coming through her headphones. Callum bought her expensive ones – he’s never been able to say no to her. Well, he’s never been able to say no to anyone except me. That’s why people love him. The ultimate yes-man.

  ‘Callum,’ I say, ‘wouldn’t that be great? Maria’s offering to take us to Rouen. I’ve always wanted to go, actually. See the cathedral, the churches.’

  He glances at her quickly, but it’s too dark for me to see the expression on his face.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says at last, predictably, ‘I’d love that. I’m sure Ems would too. Thanks, Maria.’

  She inclines her head, then stands. ‘More wine, S?’

  She’s always called me S, ever since we were small, as though saying my full name is a little too much for her. My glass is almost empty; I hadn’t realised.

  ‘Yes please,’ I say, and she moves away, back into the light of the house, her shadow tall and willowy in the darkness. Her hair is a dark brown waterfall, whilst my own is beginning to be tinged with the odd grey. I wonder if it’s time for me to start dyeing it, if Maria would admit to doing hers. I know she does, I’ve seen the packets in her bathroom cabinet.

  ‘Isn’t it great to get away from it all?’ Callum says to me when she’s gone, throwing his head back against the cushioned headrest, staring up at the stars. It’s dark now, the only light the glow from the house and the shimmer of a couple of antimosquito candles. His body language has become more relaxed as the evening has gone on; either that or it’s the alcohol working its magic.

  ‘Mmm,’ I say non-committally, smiling at him as he points out Orion’s Belt, the saucepan, the North Star.

  He pulls me closer, lightly kissing me on the forehead, and lets out a sigh of contentment. ‘I feel free here,’ he says suddenly, ‘really free’. The kiss feels like a stamp; I’m his property, after all. To have and to hold.

  His phone, jammed against my hip, buzzes with a message.

  ‘God, this must be the only spot in the whole place with a reception!’ he says, and I turn away as he looks at it, fix my gaze on the bright lights in the distance, wondering how long we’re going to carry on pretending. One more night? One more week? One more year? I don’t know how much more I can take.

  Chapter Two

  Ipswich, Suffolk

  3rd August: One week earlier

  Caroline

  I miss you, I type out, then watch as the letters slowly erase themselves under the firm grip of my thumb. How are you? I write instead, which is better, but not perfect, and then I hit send before I can think about it any more.

  I promised myself I wouldn’t be like this. Promised I’d keep away. For my own sake. I know what he is now, I know what he made me do. The awfulness of it. But it’s a Sunday morning, and I’ve got that particularly horrible, deep in the gut sort of loneliness beginning to form, snaking its way up my stomach and into my throat. The glasses of wine last night didn’t help either; I’m going to stop drinking, properly this time; I’m going to stop being dependent on both booze and Callum Dillon at the exact same moment. God, I’m pathetic. Why are bad habits so hard to break?

  My phone buzzes and I leap for it, but it’s just Jenny, asking if I want to come round to hers for a meal with her and her husband tonight. My fingers tighten around the phone. No, Jenny, I don’t want to come for a meal in your posh house and watch as you and Rick coo over your brand new baby. I don’t want to stare at your fridge full of wedding invitations, your sweet little high chair, or your giant Smeg fridge. I don’t need any confirmation of how full your life is compared to mine.

  I take a deep breath, then type out a reply to her and bury my phone underneath the pillow next to me in a vain attempt to stop myself from checking it for messages from him.

  It’s only a week until they all go on holiday to France. He’s moaned about it, told me how difficult it is for him to get time off. He’s so busy, so busy and important. The two of us went on a rare night away a month ago, stayed in a little B&B in Norfolk, the best he could manage, but of course I lapped it up. He left his suitcase here afterwards, didn’t want his wife to find it. He hasn’t even come back to get it – he’d rather buy another one than face seeing me again, it seems. It’s all there is of him here – no toothbrush, no razor, no crumpled boxer shorts. It’s almost as if he’s never been here at all. As though our entire relationship has been solely confined to inside my head.

  I can’t stop thinking about them going away together, picturing it all. He told me ages ago, before everything happened, that his sister-in-law had a place in France they were going to visit, although he wouldn’t say much more than that. Where in France? I asked him, but he laughed, kissed me on the nose, told me it didn’t matter. Callum, don’t worry, I’m not going to turn up on the doorstep, I said, and he tugged gently on my hair, teasing me. I wouldn’t put it past you. I tried to find pictures of it after that, googled his sister-in-law’s name. Maria Wilcox. She’s very pretty, just like Siobhan. Even prettier, in fact, like Siobhan with an Instagram filter. Good genes, the Wilcox clan. I couldn’t find a photo of the villa, though. I don’t know what it’s called.

  I don’t want to think about them going on holiday together; I can’t bear it. Even after what he did to me, the thought of him playing happy families makes me feel sick. I put an end to things, told him it was over. And it is over. It has to be, this time. After everything that’s happened this year, I need to make the decision to put myself first. It’s what my mum would’ve said to me, if she was here. Eighteen months is long enough to conduct an extra-marital affair, especially one with a man like Callum Dillon. Jenny told me once that she thinks he’s a misogynist, and I looked up the definition that night: a person who dislikes, despises or is strongly prejudiced against women. Three months ago, I’d have said the exact opposite was true. Callum likes women too much. And women like him. He’s charming, at first – he reels you in with a smile, an in-joke. When we first met, I felt as though I’d been selected, as if a torchlight had picked me out of the darkness. Now I wish I’d stayed in the shadows.

  My phone beeps again, the sound barely muffled under the cushion, and my fingers scrabble to unlock the screen. Go on, Caro, please! I’d love to see you. It’ll be fun! Jenny, again. I stare at the exclamation points: so unnecessarily enthusiastic. I hesitate, try to think clearly, to push away the fug of loneliness that is threatening to
crowd out my thoughts.

  I am still in my pyjamas, sitting upright in my bed, the curtains resolutely closed against the sunlight even though it has gone 11 a.m.. The room feels stale. An empty wine glass stands on the dresser; it will leave an ugly stain. My legs are prickly, unshaven and white. I think of Siobhan Dillon’s legs, long and tanned, stretched out on a sun lounger by a sparkling blue pool, the sun a burning hot sphere in the sky above her. Callum’s hand making its way up her thigh. No. I force myself to push the images away, to stop obsessing. Obsession’s never good for anyone; the therapist told me that after Mum died. But I don’t think obsession is something you develop, or get rid of. You’re born with it – you either have it or you don’t. It might shift focus sometimes, but it never truly goes away.

  The day yawns out ahead of me like a blank canvas, and I feel a fluttering sense of panic at the thought of staying here, stuck in this room, waiting to hear from him, even though I have told myself that it is over. What good will that do?

  OK. I’ll be there, I write to Jenny, and within seconds the reply pings back, a smiley, overexcited emoji that makes me grit my teeth, just slightly. But perhaps I am wrong. Being too harsh. Maybe going to see Jenny will take me out of myself a little; the baby, Eve, will presumably be tucked up in bed, and maybe her husband isn’t quite as annoyingly smug as I remember. Perhaps I can have a good time. Eve. The christening invite is still floating around the flat somewhere; at the time, I couldn’t bring myself to go. It was too painful. But I’m better now. Much better. Or at least, I’m trying to be.

  Feeling newly resolved, I force myself to pull back the duvet and ease myself out of bed, my feet touching the cold floorboards. I try to avoid my reflection, because I know what I’ll see – my long hair feels greasy and unkempt, my face will be slightly puffy from the wine-induced crying I did last night. I think of the day Callum and I met, how different I am now. I wouldn’t want him to see me like this. Not when he’s got Siobhan Dillon for a wife.

  Jenny lives on the other side of Ipswich, right by the south side of the docks. It’s a ten-minute walk from my flat on Woodmill Road and I decide the cooling evening air might help me decompress; besides, it’s still light. July and August have been kind to us this year, hot and sticky; Suffolk has baked under the summer heat. Normally I’d like it, but in my current mood it feels like a punishment. I think briefly of Callum and Siobhan, limbs entangled on a huge white bed, the doors flung open to stave off the humidity. I think of them emerging from a plane into crisp French air, pulling expensive sunglasses down over their faces, smiling at each other as the first wave of warmth hits them. I bet Siobhan speaks perfect French, on top of everything else.

  The docks are lovely at this time of year; the water curves around the harbourside and the sails of the boats chink in the breeze. Ipswich often gets a bad rap, I’ve always thought, but I like it here – it has everything I need. And it’s better than Stowmarket, where I grew up, but still close enough to visit Mum’s grave if I want to. I haven’t for a while. I think she’d be ashamed of me, of what I’ve become.

  As I walk, the restaurants sparkle in the light, but peering at the glowing windows makes me feel worse. I see a couple, smiling at each other over deep, full glasses of wine on the table in front of them, and my stomach clenches. That could be me and Callum. That was me and Callum. A woman comes out of the Pizza Express on the corner, pushing a pram, followed by a tall man holding the hand of a child. The perfect nuclear family – everything I wanted. Everything that is totally out of my reach.

  Forcing myself to keep walking, I round the corner and approach Jenny’s house. It’s set back from the road, in a nice-looking row of buildings that face the water. I remember when she and Rick bought it, just over a year ago; they posted a picture on Instagram of their faces pressed together, keys dangling in her diamond-ringed hand.

  I’ll never post a picture like that. I’ve got nobody to post one with.

  Jenny’s got little window boxes neatly laden with summer flowers, the leaves wilting a bit in the heat. As I approach the front door, I reach out and push my finger into the soil in the box nearest to me; it is dry beneath my skin. Perhaps I’ll remind her to water them. She shouldn’t take things for granted that way.

  ‘Caro!’

  I’ve barely knocked when the door is swinging open, and Jenny is engulfing me, her arms tight around my torso, her perfume sweet in my face. She kisses me on the cheek, then takes hold of both of my shoulders, stands back as though appraising me. What does she think when she looks at me, I wonder; does she find me wanting? Not enough?

  ‘Come in, come in,’ she says, letting go of me and gesturing inside the house. She’s wearing a long cream cardigan and turned up jeans, effortlessly mumsy. I’ve known Jenny since university, but the woman in front of me is almost unrecognisable from the girl I used to share halls with in Leeds, the girl who’d go out in a tiny dress with a WKD in each hand and too-high heels on her feet. No, that Jenny has well and truly vanished.

  ‘Wine? Tea? Gin? What can I get you? Eve’s sleeping, thank God.’

  Eve.

  ‘Wine please,’ I say, forcing myself not to check my phone for the fiftieth time since this morning. Callum hasn’t replied to my how are you? even though the cruel blue ticks on WhatsApp make it obvious that he’s read it. I follow Jenny into the house, my eyes taking in the shiny silver-framed pictures on the walls, the photos of baby Eve in various outfits – swaddled in blankets Eve, wrapped up for snow day Eve, Halloween Eve, her tiny face poking out of a pumpkin costume. My heart seems to close in on itself, like a tightening fist.

  ‘Caroline, hey.’ My heart sinks as I hear Rick’s voice, and then he’s in front of me, smiling widely and bending to kiss me on both cheeks. The French way. France. Callum’s holiday. No.

  I push the thoughts away and accept the large glass of wine Jenny is holding out to me, my fingers gripping it tightly. It’s not that I don’t like Rick, exactly, it’s more that together with Jenny, the pair of them represent everything I haven’t got. Everything I am a million miles away from having, because of how stupid I was.

  ‘I’m so glad Eve nodded off before you came!’ says Jenny, her back to me, bustling around with the fridge. ‘Really, it’s a miracle. It’s been so hard to get her down recently, hasn’t it, Rick darling? The terrible twos, starting early. Just our luck!’ She laughs, the sound high and tinkling, and I feel the words stab into me like tiny poisoned arrows. You don’t know how lucky you are.

  ‘Have a seat, Caro,’ Rick says, and I sit down on one of their high, fashionable stools. They had a breakfast bar installed just before Christmas, part of their house renovation. It must have cost them a fortune.

  ‘I’ve got fresh pasta,’ Jenny tells me, and I smile at her.

  ‘Sounds great.’

  The wine tastes weirdly sweet, too warm in the August air.

  ‘So how are you, Caro?’ Rick asks, smiling at me. His teeth are very white; perfectly so. ‘What’s been going on? How’s the illustration game?’

  I smile back, forcing myself to try to stay in the moment, not to think about Callum.

  ‘It’s great,’ I say, ‘really great, actually. Lots of work coming in. I’m doing a children’s book right now.’

  ‘Ah, well, send it our way when it’s done! We want to get Eve reading as early as possible, don’t we, Jen?’ He glances over at her, rubbing his hands together as though the idea of starting a child reading early is his own version of reinventing the wheel.

  ‘We certainly do!’ she says, coming to sit down next to me at the table, a glass of wine in her hand, smaller than mine. Sensible Jenny. Her rings glisten under the lights. I remember the day she and Rick got engaged; she posted a picture on Facebook of her hand, fingers splayed, diamonds glittering. Thank God I’d had my nails done, the caption said. Thank God indeed, I thought sourly.

  ‘And, so, tell us!’ Jenny leans closer to me. I almost want to laugh, it’s so quick. They’ve man
aged to get any interest in my work out of the way in under a minute. Now onto the good stuff. My love life. The bit we’ve all been waiting for. I take another gulp of wine, feel it slide easily down my throat.

  ‘How’s the dating going?’

  Jenny’s put a little bowl of olives out on the table between us, and I watch as Rick pops one into his mouth – green and fat. His teeth close around it, like those of a wolf.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘I haven’t really done too much lately, I—’

  ‘Oh, Caroline!’ Jenny gives a mock-sigh, throwing both her skinny little arms up into the air. ‘You promised, this year, this was the summer you were really going to give it a go. Didn’t you!’ She nudges her husband. ‘Didn’t she, Rick! You were there. You remember.’

  ‘You did indeed,’ he says, grinning at me, reaching for another plump olive.

  Underneath the table, I dig my nails into my thigh with my free hand, feel them make an indent into my skin. I hope it makes a bruise.

  Chapter Three

  France

  12th August: One day before the arrest

  Siobhan

  I wake up early on our first morning in France, my mouth a little dry from the red wine with my sister and Callum on the terrace last night. Emma didn’t appear from the basement and so we left her to it in the end, stayed outside drinking under the stars until the early hours. I went to bed first, with the intention of having some time alone to think, plan out my next steps, but by the time Callum came up I must have been already unconscious, knocked out by the wine, because I didn’t hear him slide into bed next to me. Didn’t hear anything at all, in fact.

  Beside me, Callum is asleep, the covers flung off him, his mouth very slightly open. He is so familiar to me now, after fifteen years of marriage, and another year of dating before that. Emma was born in the January of the year we married, out of wedlock, as Maria likes to tease. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t got pregnant, if we hadn’t rushed into the wedding, but thoughts like that are useless now. What’s done is done. Or is it? For a while now, I’ve been thinking of a way out, but it’s easier said than done.