Until You're Mine

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘As I was saying,’ I continue when Oscar’s tucked up in bed, ‘Zoe Harper sounded . . . lovely.’ Other adjectives evade me. ‘No, really.’ I chuckle when James pulls a face. ‘Oh God, I don’t know.’ I run my hands over my tummy. ‘She’s worked in Dubai and London apparently.’

  ‘How old?’ James’s breath smells all winey. I want to kiss him.

  ‘Thirty-something, I suppose. I didn’t actually ask.’

  ‘That was smart. She could be twelve.’

  ‘Give me some bloody credit, James. I’m going to put her through the mangle, turn her hide inside out and then re-mangle her again. By the time I’ve finished with her I’ll know more about her than she knows about herself.’

  ‘I just don’t understand why you’re bothering to go back to work at all. It’s not as though we need the money.’

  This is the point at which I laugh. A good belly laugh. ‘Oh, James.’ I shift myself sideways and press up against him. I kiss his neck. ‘You’ve known the deal from the start. We wanted a baby but I also love my work. Am I selfish to want everything?’ I kiss him again and this time he turns his head and reciprocates, but it’s so very hard for us. He knows the deal. Doctor’s orders and I’m sticking to them this time. ‘Anyway, everything would go to hell in a handcart in the department if I stopped working completely. We’re understaffed as it is.’

  ‘I thought Tina was running things while you’re away?’

  I shake my head, starting to feel stressed. ‘Everyone’s sharing out my caseload while I’m on maternity leave, but when the baby and the boys are settled, I’ll want to go back. At least if I work up to my due date, I’ll have more time at home with the baby after she’s born.’

  Sensing my anxiety, James cups my face and plants a smacker on my mouth. It’s a warm kiss and says: I won’t mention it again and, more importantly, I won’t pressure you for sex.

  ‘Anyway, Zoe Harper, nanny extraordinaire, is coming for coffee tomorrow morning at eleven.’ I grin.

  ‘Fine,’ James says, switching the channel to Sky News. He starts hoovering up all the stock market stuff and moans about his pension and investments. I can’t really see that far ahead – being old, retiring, needing to draw off James’s inherited pot. I can only see as far as the end of this pregnancy, having my baby, being a complete family. Becoming a real mother, finally.

  2

  I’M GOING TO be late. I feel the frown chiselling into my face as the freezing air bites at my skin. I can’t afford to be late. I need this job badly and it’s not an option to fail. God, no one knows how much I need this position with James and Claudia Morgan-Brown. Get them – double-barrelled and all big-housed in Edgbaston. I pedal harder. I’m going to be a sweaty red mess when I arrive. Who decided cycling was a good idea? Was it to impress them with my love of the outdoors, my penchant for green transport, my love of exercise that I’ll no doubt impart to their offspring? Or perhaps it’ll just make them think I’m an idiot for arriving at an interview on a bike.

  ‘St Hilda’s Road,’ I say over and over, squinting at road signs. I wobble as I stick out my arm to turn right. A car honks as I dither and waver in the middle of the road. ‘Sorry!’ I yell, although it doesn’t look like the kind of neighbourhood where one yells. It’s a far cry from my place . . . my last place.

  I pull over to the kerb and take a bit of paper from my pocket. I check the address and cycle on. I pedal past two more streets and turn left into their street. The houses were big before but they’re massive down St Hilda’s Road. Imposing Georgian buildings sit squarely in their own grounds either side of the tree-lined street. Gentlemen’s residences, they’d be called by estate agents.

  James and Claudia’s house is, like all the others, a detached period property, the lower half of which is being strangled by a twiggy Virginia creeper. I’m no gardener but I recognise it from my childhood home, which incidentally would have fitted twenty times inside this place. The creeper still has a few scarlet leaves clinging on even though it’s mid-November. I wheel my bicycle through a huge pair of open wrought-iron gates. Gravel crunches beneath my feet. I have never felt so conspicuous.

  The Morgan-Brown residence is a symmetrical house built of red brick. The front door, surrounded by a stone portico, is painted shiny green. Either side of the impressive entrance are large stained-glass windows. I don’t know what to do with my bike. Should I just lie it down on the gravel at the bottom of the front steps? It’ll make the diamond-shaped rose beds and the neat squares of lawn set into the sweeping parking area look like a scrapyard. I glance around. There’s a tree just outside the main gates. I quickly go back out onto the street. Its roots are pushing up and splitting the tarmac like a mini earthquake and the trunk is too big to get my security chain around. I walk along the pavement a bit further, wheeling my bike, and notice that there’s another, smaller drive down the side of the house leading to a triple garage. I tentatively enter the property again, feeling as if dozens of eyes are staring out at me from the windows, watching my silly, incompetent arrival.

  I still don’t know what to do with my bike. It looks too shiny and new for someone who’s meant to cycle everywhere. I decide that resting it against the side wall of the garage, out of view from the street and house, will have to do. I’m careful not to scrape the handlebars down the side of the massive four-wheel-drive or the BMW that sit side by side.

  I take a deep breath and finger my hair into some kind of style again. I wipe the sweat from my face with my sleeve. I walk back to the front door and knock three times on the huge brass upside-down fish knocker. Its mouth gapes open at me.

  I don’t have to wait long. A small child pulls the door open as if it’s taking all his strength. The little boy is almost see-through pale, about hip height, with shaggy mousey-blonde hair. One of my charges, I assume. They’re twins apparently.

  ‘What?’ he says rudely.

  ‘Hello.’ I crouch down like nannies do. I smile. ‘My name’s Zoe and I’ve come to see your mummy. Is she here?’

  ‘My mummy’s in heaven,’ he says, trying to close the door. I should have brought sweets or something.

  Before I can decide whether to push against him and risk a tussle with the kid or revert to knocking with the fish again, a beautiful woman is looming over us. Her belly is enormous and pushes out from beneath a black stretchy top. It’s right in front of my face. I can’t take my eyes off it. ‘You must be Zoe,’ she says. Her voice is just as lovely as the rest of her. It jolts me back to reality. The smile she gives me makes a fan of tiny lines on the outside of each eye as well as two dimples in her cheeks. She looks like the friendliest woman in the world.

  I stand up and hold out my hand. ‘Yes, and you must be Mrs Morgan-Brown.’

  ‘Oh, call me Claudia, please. Come in.’ She grins.

  Claudia steps aside and I go into the house. It smells of flowers – there’s a vase of lilies on the hall table – but mostly it smells of burnt toast.

  ‘Let’s go and get comfy in the kitchen. There’s coffee.’ Claudia beckons me on with her smile and her burgeoning belly. The kid that opened the door trots between us, glancing up at me as we walk along the black-and-white chequerboard tiled floor. He’s got a toy gun tucked into the waist of his trousers.

  We go into the kitchen. It’s huge.

  ‘Darling, Zoe’s here.’

  A man looks up from behind The Times. Good-looking, I suppose, as they all appear to be in this family.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, sounding as cheery as I can.

  There is a moment’s hesitation between us.

  ‘Hi, I’m James. Good to meet you.’ He stands briefly and offers me his hand.

  Claudia gives me a coffee that’s magically come from a shiny machine that looks impossible to use – a machine I’ll no doubt have to operate if I get the job. I take a sip and look around, trying not to gawp. It’s an impressive kitchen. Where I live . . . nearly don’t live . . . has a kitchen the size of a cupboard. No roo
m for a dishwasher or any fancy appliances, but then I remind myself it’s just the two of us and it hardly takes any time at all to swill a couple of plates and a saucepan through.

  This kitchen, though, it takes my breath away. Great big Georgian windows rise from behind the double Belfast sink affording a view down a garden that’s far too huge to be in a city. There are cream-painted cupboards spanning three sides of the room with a red Aga as big as a car set into the old chimney breast. Wooden worktops the same honey colour as the old wooden floor give it a country feel. Up this end of the room, near the pine table, there’s a saggy old sofa piled with cushions and a rucked-up rather grubby throw. It’s littered with Lego pieces.

  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.’