“Oh. Okay. Well, Mark is in surgery at the moment, but he was wondering would you be available to meet him here at the clinic?”
“Really?” It probably wasn’t good to sound so shocked.
“Well, yes – you did apply for a position with him?”
“I did, yes, of course – when would he like to meet?”
“Well, he’s aware it’s short notice, but if you didn’t mind coming here, he could fit you in between appointments late this afternoon?”
As she was speaking I tried frantically to do some quick calculations in my head. I could cancel my flight, meet him, and know today if the whole thing was viable. That left me enough time to get another flight tomorrow or, worst case scenario, on Sunday.
And if it was a roaring success, I’d have time to phone HR in New York and give them an amazing-reason-that-I’d-yet-to-think-of for not coming back for a couple of weeks, possibly months . . .
“Miss Green?”
I realised with a start she’d been talking and that I hadn’t a clue what she’d been saying.
“It’s perfect!” I said, trying yet again to sound calm.
She started to give me directions to the veterinary clinic and I forced myself to focus.
This was getting serious.
The phone beside the bed rang and with a deep intake of breath I walked towards it.
“Your taxi, Miss Green.”
I recognised the monotone of the receptionist that had checked me into the Melrose Hotel just fifteen short minutes previously.
“I’ll be right down,” I answered.
I went to stand in front of the full-length mirror, exhaling at the sight of my reflection. I had taken care to choose the right suit. There was a time and a place for killer lapels and this definitely wasn’t it. Not that I was entirely sure what kind of suit a nanny would wear to a job interview, which was entirely fitting given that I wasn’t remotely sure what a nanny did, full stop.
Leaning towards the mirror I examined my face anxiously for any signs of the madness of the previous hour. Thanks to the wonders of Touche Éclat, an unblemished complexion looked back at me, devoid of flushed cheeks and tear stains. I looked at my watch: 3.50 p.m.
My plane had just left the runway at Dublin Airport.
At this thought the room started to spin around me and I reached out to steady myself against the mirror.
I tried to console myself with the fact that I’d done nothing irreversible yet.
You cancelled your flight.
I postponed my flight – that’s different!
Between the bed and the wardrobe sat the now not-so-neat assortment of cases and cartons, the transference of which from my apartment to this tiny city-centre hotel bedroom had been largely to blame for my earlier ruddy complexion. Where in God’s name it was going to end up next was anyone’s guess.
One thing at a time. I took another deep breath.
First of all, I had an interview to do.
An hour later I was still in the taxi, anxiously looking at my watch. Apparently we were stuck behind some “bleedin’ accident” which had managed to take every car this side of the Red Cow Roundabout and knit them together into a big, snarling mess.
“Will we make it on time?” I anxiously asked the taxi driver for possibly the sixth time.
“We’ll be grand, love,” he assured me. “As soon as we get through this bleedin’ roundabout I’ll get off the main road and I’ll have you there before you know it.”
He wasn’t joking. Within fifteen minutes we’d left the dual carriageway and were tearing at breakneck speed along windy, potholed country roads. By the time we slowed to turn down an even worse by-road, I wasn’t sure what was making me sicker, nerves or motion-sickness.
I’d had time to google Raven’s Hill Veterinary Clinic back at the hotel, as much to give myself some idea of where I was going as anything. It appeared it was situated on the property of the senior partner, a Mr Fenton Harper, which all sounded very All Creatures Great and Small to me.
I wasn’t far wrong. We finally pulled up outside what appeared to be a turn-of-the-century country house, flanked on either side by outbuildings and fenced paddocks. Getting out of the taxi, I made my way cautiously through the gloomy dusk up to the badly lit front door which was at the top of a short flight of steps.
Nervously, I rang the bell.
Suddenly a volley of barking erupted inside the house and something huge started to fling itself against the far side of the door. I jumped, almost falling backwards down the steps.
“Nero!” a woman’s voice roared from behind the door. “Get back, you fool of a dog!”
There was the sound of more jostling as the door cracked open and a pretty female face peered out. Long blonde hair framed her face and her eyes were the brightest blue I’d ever seen.
“Hi?”
I recognised the voice from the telephone call earlier.
“Hi, you must be Tara,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “I spoke to you on the phone. My name’s Holly Green. I’m here to meet Mark Fielding.”
“Oh hi! Sorry, no one ever uses this door! Get back!”
It took me a second to figure out that this last bit was not directed at me but at the giant black dog that her slight frame was grappling to keep inside the house.
“Sorry about this – would you mind going around the back to the clinic – he should be there somewhere with Dad.”
“Of course,” I said, only too pleased to get out of reach of the slobbering beast.
Back I went down the steps and onto the gravelled driveway. As I crunched my way around the side of the house I couldn’t help feeling relieved that I’d decided against wearing the Louboutins.
It was hard to figure out where exactly I was meant to go but a commotion in the buildings to my left seemed to consist at least partly of human voices so I made my way tentatively in that direction. Before I could get to the door there was the sudden roar of some sort of machinery and a tractor started to trundle past me.
With a squeal I jumped back from its path, and then I noticed what it was pulling.
A huge, dead, horse.
Or at least I assumed it was dead – to be honest I’d turned away before I could make a proper diagnosis.
“Hey there! Sorry about that, can I help you?”
I turned tentatively, but the tractor and its gruesome cargo had moved on around the corner. I stared in its wake, open-mouthed in horror.
“You must be Miss Green. Mark Fielding, nice to meet you.”
I looked in the direction of the voice and jumped, my hand shooting to my mouth to stifle a scream. I’d been expecting a man resembling Harry, at least in looks – hopefully an easy manner – and a warm handshake.
I wasn’t expecting a creaturethat looked like he’d stepped straight fromNight of the Living Dead.
I wasn’t expecting someone whose vast frame, enveloped in a huge scrub-like garment, was spattered with blood, who stank of something noxious, and whose steely blue eyes peered out from a blood-smeared face, unsmiling, into mine.
Yes, his hand was out,but it too was covered in something unmentionable.
He clearly wasn’t expecting my horror. He looked puzzled until, withdrawing his proffered hand, he caught sight of his bloodstained fingers. “Oh, fair enough.” He wiped the offending digits on his trouser leg, then, catching sight of the look of horror that still remained on my face, decided against offering it again. “We’re in the middle of surgeries.”
Looking slightly defiant, he gave the impression that I should be grateful he’dcome out to me at all. The fact that he was covered in some animal’s insides was clearly a small price to pay.
“What happened to that one?” I asked, referring to the corpse I’d just seen dragged across the yard.
“You can’t save them all,” he answered, his voice suddenly cold. Stepping back, he gestured for me to come inside the building.
Once in the ti
ny hall, he closed the door and seemed to take a breath before saying, “Allow me to start again. Mark Fielding. You must be Miss Green.”
“Please. Holly.” Without thinking, I went to hold out my hand, but then remembered and pulled it back quickly to my side.
He had the manners to pretend he hadn’t seen, though a flicker of a smirk caused his lips to purse slightly.
“We have one more to do and then I’ll clean up, I promise. Make yourself a cup of tea and if you’re so inclined you can watch through the window.”
He opened the door into a tiny tearoom and then vanished.
I looked around me in disgust. Several cups were stacked in the sink, their insides brown with dirty tea stains, and an opened carton of milk sat on the counter. No sign of any cup I’d consider putting near my lips. I automatically picked up the milk and opened the fridge before shutting it quickly when I got sight of the pack after pack of labelled blood bags that were crammed onto its shelves.
I put the milk back on the counter, resolving not to touch another thing for the duration of my visit. A huge rumbling caused me to turn around towards the window he’d been referring to, which looked out onto what I presumed was the surgery. Huge lights hung from the ceiling over a long low table. Wondering what the rumbling could be, I peered in. For a second I could see nothing, then I looked up and to my amazement another horse, hanging upside-down from what looked like a giant hoist swung into view. I could see Mark and another gowned man guide it onto the table, where a smaller gowned figure started to clean down its huge belly. Another figure moved to the head of the horse to attach some kind of breathing apparatus.
It really was quite a remarkable sight. I was even more amazed by the fact that, in direct contrast to the untidy muddy yard and equally grubby tearoom, the surgery looked shiningly clean. Even Mark seemed to have changed into a spotless set of scrubs. Forgetting the fact that there was a taxi sitting outside waiting for me, I moved a stool to the window and gazed, entranced, at the spectacle before me.
When the obsessive cleaning of the stomach was finished by what I assumed was a nurse, she moved to the side and rolled over a metal trolley. Then the two men moved in. They worked deftly for almost twenty minutes, the nurse seeming to anticipate their every move by constantly handing instruments and swabbing the site with huge wads of gauze.
With a start I remembered that my own sister carried out these kinds of procedures on humans every day, and I suddenly felt an unexpected dart of admiration for her. Too soon, it was over and the men stepped back as the rumbling recommenced and the horse swung once again out of sight.
Seeing Mark say something to the other man and gesture in my direction, I moved quickly from the window, embarrassed now at my open-mouthed wonder. Within minutes the door opened and he stood once again in front of me.
The offending scrubs were gone and he had changed into a clean shirt. While his perfunctory wash hadn’t quite caught all the smears on his face, at least now I was able to get a good look at him without my stomach churning.
Obviously older than Harry, there was very little resemblance between the two men. Yes, they were both tall, but where Harry was willowy, Mark was broad, his wide shoulders further dwarfing the small room. Even their blond hair held no similarities: Harry’s was highlighted and swept carefully into a “mess” while Mark’s was tinged with grey and cut very short.
But the biggest difference was in his demeanour. From the start Harry had been chatty, friendly, and almost too familiar. I knew instantly I was going to have no such problem with Mark.
“Sorry about the wait – we’re never sure how long these things are going to take.”
“At least that one lived.” I tried to sound pleasant.
“For now, yes.” He smiled as my face dropped. “I’m joking – it’s going to be fine. So welcome to Raven’s Hill. I presume you’ve never been anywhere similar before?”
I shook my head, without clarifying that the audit of Sculpting Inc, a private New York plastic-surgery clinic, was the closest I’d come.
“Well, this place belongs to Fenton Harper, my partner. Not exactly how we’d like it, but my dream would be to build a purpose-built clinic myself someday.”
Unsure of what to say next, I said nothing.
“So you’re a friend of Harry’s?” he said.
“Well, an acquaintance.” I might as well start with whatever truth I could.
“Well, let me explain a few things. I work long hours. Long, anti-social hours. If you have a social life that requires you to be out Thursday to Sunday every week then there is no point in us continuing this conversation. It’s not going to happen if you work for me.”
“I don’t,” I said, surprised that my second answer was also the truth, given that anyone I knew in Ireland thought I was in New York.
Outside the window the rumbling had started again.
“Good. Well, when can you start?”
I looked at him open-mouthed. “Start? But you haven’t –”
“What? Oh I’m sorry, I haven’t told you anything about the children, have I?”
Ooops! I’d forgotten all about the goddamn children.
“So what do you need to know?” He stared at me and I struggled to think of an intelligent question.
“Well,” I stuttered, “what ages are they for a start?”
“Five and two and a half.”
“Right.”
There was a silence.
“Girls or boys?” I asked.
“A girl and a boy.”
There was another silence as I wondered how in Christ’s name it had come to me interviewing him instead of the other way around.
“So, anything else?” he asked. “I presume the rate of pay in the advertisement is agreeable to you?”
I nodded, not wanting to tell him that I had never seen the ad. However, I had a feeling I might be better off not knowing what meagre amount of money was on offer.
He seemed to take a breath then before he said, “Look, I’m not sure how much Harry told you about my situation . . . but their mother, well . . .” He trailed off uncomfortably.
“It’s okay,” I interjected quickly, sensing that this topic was obviously still very distressing for him. “Harry filled me in. I’m very sorry.”
“Yes.” He brightened. “Well, look, I’ve got to head back in there. I’m guessing you wouldn’t have come the whole way down if you didn’t want the job. You look capable enough . . .”
“But what about references?” I’d spent a crazed half hour creating an amazing reference from my sister – I couldn’t help feeling disappointed that this work of fiction might have been composed in vain.
“Leave them with me,” he smirked. “I’m sure they’re glowing.”
I nodded, speechless at his blasé attitude.
He turned to leave the tearoom.
“Eh, I could start tomorrow?” I called after him.
“Oh, yes, well, that would be perfect.” He turned. “And don’t worry – we’ll know quick enough if it’s going to work out.”
And with that he was gone.
I had a job.
I was one phone call away from staying.
Chapter 9
“Oh Oliver,” I groaned, “I’ve missed you too, I really, really have . . .”
My pulse was racing, my eyelids heavy with lust, my heart pounding in my ears . . .
Oliver was here. I was in his arms at last. Now we could be together forever. I wondered how I had ever doubted that this ridiculous plan would work.
But then, above the sound of my heart thumping, I could hear a piercing wail, at first quiet, but then louder, closer.
Ignoring it, I wound my fingers in his hair and he nuzzled deeper and deeper into my neck . . . but there it was again. And then, without turning, I knew Catherine was standing behind me, holding a screaming baby, a victorious gleam in her beady blue eyes . . .
“No!” I was groaning again, but this time it wasn’t the
throaty mumblings of passion, but the guttural moan of loss.
No! Not this again. It wasn’t fair. Oliver was mine now, no matter what scheme that strait-laced bitch had thought up, and she wasn’t getting him back this time . . .
But, despite my best efforts, I could feel him slipping away. Well, sort of . . . something was still digging into my neck, something still wasn’t quite right.
I opened one eye and squinted at the rain sliding down the skylight above my head. For a moment, unsure of where I was, I rolled over searching for the strong arms of the man I loved, but it was too late, he was gone.
But if he was gone, then what in God’s name was . . . I reached behind my head and extracted a copy of Childrearing, A Labour of Love from where it had been digging into my neck behind my left ear.
Oh Christ, it was all coming back to me now. Stretching out, I flung the useless tome to the far side of the room in disgust.
And then I heard it again, the soft but persistent wail coming from the room below me.
Sweet Lord. It only seemed like a nanosecond since that cry had interrupted my sleep at four thirty that morning. And that had been for the third time that night. Did that child ever sleep?
Resisting the urge to heed my heavy eyelids and slide back into a deep slumber, I sat upright. Then swinging both legs from under the warm duvet while taking care not to hit my head on the sloping attic ceiling, I rolled grumpily from the bed.
Automatically, though it had only been two days now, I tiptoed down the creaky attic stairs, picking my way carefully around the piles of laundry, and made my way along the narrow hall.
What in God’s name had possessed me? Sitting in Harvey’s, face to face with Harry Fielding, it had all seemed like such a good idea. I would take a step back from the hamster-wheel of Dublin life, bury myself in the countryside, work on my plan to get Oliver to New York and, oh yes, mind a few children in my spare time.
On my return from my bizarre trip to the veterinary clinic, I’d rung the HR department in New Yorkbefore I could change my mind. I needn’t have worried; it had been like taking candy from a baby. They’d swallowed my family emergency story without hesitation, and simply asked that I keep them in the loop about my plans.
Between You and Me Page 7
