Sticky Fingers: Box Set Collection 2: 36 More Deliciously Twisted Short Stories (Sticky Fingers: The Complete Box Set Collection)

by JT Lawrence

  No, I told myself. I’m not envious at all.

  I Googled my nanny because she seemed too good to be true. Even her name sounded fake. Who names their daughter Megan Morris? There were no search results apart from a rather milquetoast Facebook profile, and all the details she had supplied in her CV matched up with what I saw there. Still, something about it made me feel uncomfortable. Was it my natural instinct, warning me that something was wrong? Or was I just tired, and envious of a woman who seemed to have unlimited energy (and perky tits)? Either way, I made sure to check in on her social media regularly, but this didn’t stop the steady erosion of my life.

  At first, it was the smallest of things that would go missing: my hairbrush; a framed photo; a pillow. Sometimes the absent objects would be Charlotte's. They would always be returned. I couldn't say for sure it was Megan borrowing the items, but there seemed to be no other explanation. Scott said I was mad, but I was used to that.

  "What would Megan want with a photo of Charlotte?" he asked. He chuckled, but I could tell he didn't find it very funny. He had been acting strange recently—jumpy around the nanny—but, in his defence, so had I.

  Maybe it was because of that evening I'd arrived home early to find them sharing a bottle of my favourite wine and laughing uproariously. Perhaps he felt guilty about that. Megan didn't seem worried at all. I was happy they got on, and I'm not one to begrudge anyone a great bottle of Shiraz, but I found it inappropriate. I may have overreacted, but I wasn't sorry; I didn't want Megan or Scott to think that it was okay to get drunk together while I was at work.

  “We weren’t doing anything wrong,” said Scott, who seemed confused by my outburst.

  “Good,” I said. “Then you have nothing to feel guilty about.”

  There was a shortlist of things that unnerved me that had nothing to do with Scott. Charlotte crying for Megan in her sleep. Charlotte eating her vegetables when Megan cooked them. Charlotte wanting Megan to brush her teeth, brush her hair, lift her out the bath.

  What is wrong with me? I wondered. But I knew the answer. There was nothing wrong with me—apart from feeling perennially overwhelmed—it was just that Megan was a nicer person.

  One evening I asked Charlotte what she’d like to drink with dinner—reheated macaroni cheese—and she had replied “Gin and tonic.”

  I laughed out loud. “You’re three,” I told her. “Three-year-olds don’t drink gin and tonic.”

  She looked put out by this. “Daddy lets me.”

  “You’re so silly,” I said, still smiling. “Daddy wouldn’t. Also, he doesn’t know where the gin is.”

  “Megan knows,” my daughter said.

  I stopped smiling.

  “Megan makes us tonics at the picnic.”

  “What picnic?”

  “Went to the park yesterday. Went on the slide.”

  I imagined Scott and Megan splayed out on our picnic blanket in the dappled shade, drinking out of a shared flask, laughing while they watched Charlotte play.

  When Scott arrived home there was a bottle of gin and a six-pack of tonic water waiting on the kitchen counter for him.

  "What's this?" he asked, scratching his head. I felt like punching him for being such a clueless oaf. Most of the time, I loved him, but sometimes I despised him. I guess that's marriage for you.

  “Charlotte said you guys were drinking G&Ts yesterday, at the park.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  He noticed my anger. “I’m not doing this again,” he said. “You need to get your jealousy under control.”

  "I'm not the one going on romantic picnics with the bloody babysitter." I felt like sweeping the glass bottles off the counter so that they would shatter on the floor.

  “It wasn’t romantic,” he said. “I took Charlotte to the park. Megan came with.”

  “She’s toxic,” I said to Scott.

  He raised his eyebrows at me. "Megan's not the one who's toxic."

  I leaned back against the counter and closed my eyes. Scott came towards me and pulled me into a hug. I resisted at first; then surrendered. I was so tired and on edge, and being hugged felt good. My anger dissipated, but it didn't disappear. Afterwards, I hid the gin away.

  Each time I thought we should terminate Megan's contract, I'd see how much Charlotte loved her, and I knew I wouldn't be able to do it. Charlotte was happy, Scott was happy. I couldn't allow my envy or paranoia to derail that.

  One evening, as I arrived home after a demanding day at work, I could smell Scott’s cologne on Megan. It was just the slightest hint, but it was there. “Where’s Scott?” I snapped.

  Megan paused in the hallway, Charlotte clinging to her like a baby monkey. “I don’t know,” she said. “Showering?”

  I looked at my watch. “At six p.m.?”

  She shrugged and carried Charlotte to the kitchen for dinner. Something was going on, but I didn't know what.

  Sometimes Megan would be over-familiar with me. She’d swing her arm around me, or touch my hair. Make me hot chocolate. Wear a cardigan or scarf without asking.

  “I love you,” she’d say to Charlotte. “I love you more than anything. I wish you were mine.”

  “Did you hear that?” I’d hiss at Scott.

  “Stop picking up stompies,” said Scott. Stompies are discarded cigarette butts—it’s a South African saying that means stop eavesdropping on things that are none of your business.

  Megan would compliment me in a passive aggressive way. She’d say barbed things like “You look great with makeup on!” and “Your hair looks so beautiful when it’s washed.” “Have you lost weight?” she’d ask, and I hated her for it.

  When I rolled my eyes, Scott would shrug. “What?” he’d ask. He was probably thinking women are so complicated. Or maybe he thought I was just being a thorny bitch.

  One day, Megan gave me a photograph of the two of us, laughing together. The frame had the word "Sisters" printed on it. I don't know how she got the photo, or where it was taken. She hung it near the front door, and I hadn't had the heart to take it down, although every time I saw it, I felt a twinge of unease.

  Things came to a head the next time I checked her Instagram profile.

  "So THRILLED to say that I am PREGNANT," read the caption on a grainy picture of a 20-week ultrasound scan. This was slightly complicated by the fact that I was also five months pregnant. I was pale, nauseated, and swollen; Megan was her usual bubbly self. I resented her more than ever.

  “When were you going to tell me?” I asked.

  She had looked suitably contrite. “I was worried I’d lose my job.”

  What kind of a monster did she think I was? Although, to be fair, she was right. It would be the perfect time to get rid of her.

  A few months later, Megan’s Instagram photos showed her holding my daughter, wearing a jacket of mine. I felt as if she were trying to absorb me and take over my life.

  It was time.

  “You can’t fire me,” Megan said, holding her tiny belly. I had noticed with irritation that her waist hadn’t grown an inch.

  “Really?” I said. “Watch me.”

  I felt old and bitter in her presence. I just wanted her out. I didn't care if I was the toxic one; if I was bitter and twisted, she was the one who made me so.

  I broke the news to her gently, and without pleasure. I didn’t enjoy the fact that I was dismissing my daughter’s favourite person, or that our house would return to its former post-apocalyptic state.

  “You can’t fire me,” Megan said again.

  “Yes, I can. I'll pay you for three months' notice."

  “No,” she said.

  “Six months.” It was my final offer.

  “I don’t want to leave you,” Megan wheedled. “I love your family. I love Charlotte as if she were—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “And she loves me,” said Megan.

  Anger climbed up my throat. I wanted to throttle her. I wanted to see he
r face turn purple. “Get out,” I whispered.

  She stood her ground; her eyes shone with malice. “I’ve got a rape kit on Scott.”

  “Shut up,” I said. Reeling, furious, I had to shove my hands into my pockets to stop myself from slapping her.

  “I know it’s hard to hear,” she said. “But it’s true. It’s at the police station. They’ve got the evidence in safekeeping if I ever want to press charges.”

  “He would never,” I said.

  Megan pouted. “You know he would.”

  It was her trump card, and I had to fold. I stared at her. We were twin images, hands resting on our bellies. “I knew it,” I said to her. “I always knew there was something wrong with you.”

  When Scott got home, I launched into him, hitting him and pounding his chest. He grabbed my wrists and shouted at me to calm down. Charlotte began to cry. The house was already a minefield of LEGO bricks, half-eaten apples and hair clips.

  “How could you?” I shouted at him. “How could you?”

  My hair was a nest; mascara tinted my cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry,” Scott said, sitting down, dropping his face into his hands. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Megan says you raped her.”

  He looked up sharply. “What?”

  “You raped her?” I was broken inside. “She has proof.”

  Scott shook his head. “No.” He stood up again and took my chin firmly in his hand. “No, that never happened.”

  Charlotte was howling. Scott went to calm her down and put her to bed; then he fixed himself a whisky and a glass of milk for me. We sat in the living room, looking mournfully at each other. I couldn't touch the milk; I felt like splashing it in his face.

  “The night you had that client dinner at Sasha’s,” he said, throwing the whisky back, and grimacing.

  My jaw was tightly clamped as I kept the tears back. It was five months ago.

  “I was asleep,” Scott said. “I heard you shower and felt you climbing into bed.”

  I had not showered that night. I remember because I had been too exhausted after the presentation.

  “You got into bed and rolled on top of me. You were wearing your silk pyjamas. And perfume.”

  “What?” I said. I felt like I was choking.

  “I only really woke up when it was too late. I had already…”

  I sat still, trying to breathe, trying not to hyperventilate.

  “Stop,” I said. “Just stop.”

  “It was too late,” he said. “Even her hair smelt like yours.”

  “She’s pregnant,” I said. “Five months pregnant.”

  “As soon as I realised, I told her to leave.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded.

  "I felt guilty. She apologised. Said she must have misread my signals. I felt it was my fault."

  “It wasn’t,” I said.

  “I don’t know.” Regret washed over his face. He rubbed the stubble on his cheeks. “I think there were … signals.”

  I glared at my husband, hating every inch of him. “She’s got a rape kit. She’s going to press charges if we fire her.”

  “Then we can’t fire her,” he said.

  If Scott went to jail, Charlotte would grow up without a father. I put my hand on my swollen stomach. The baby would grow up without a father. It was too much.

  “What do we do?” he asked.

  “We go to the police,” I said.

  Scott shook his head. “It’s too risky.”

  “She’s a psychopath. She is NOT staying in this house.”

  “Of course not,” said Scott. “Of course not.”

  I threw the milk down the drain. “You created this problem,” I said. “You fix it.”

  I scrubbed myself in the shower as if I had been the one who was violated. In a way, I had been. I felt sick thinking of how Scott and I had made love in the last five months. Everything I looked at seemed tainted by Megan, as if she had been a feral cat and sprayed everything in my territory. Even my pregnancy seemed tainted, and I detested her for that.

  I washed every square inch of my skin and then rubbed it dry. I put on my most modest pyjamas but still felt somehow contaminated. I felt like smashing things; I felt like screaming. I hated Megan Morris more than I had ever hated anyone. I got into bed and waited under the covers, waited for my husband to come back and tell me that he had taken care of the problem.

  I woke up to screaming. It was Charlotte. I ran to her bedroom and lifted her out of her cot, my heart racing, my ears buzzing. I swayed and shushed her, trying to calm her down. I felt disorientated. Where was Scott? Had Megan left?

  “Meggie,” Charlotte cried. “Meggie.”

  Of course, Megan had been the one to see to Charlotte if she woke up in the night. I remembered the time Charlotte had smacked my cheek because I wasn’t Megan. The memory still stung.

  “Did you have a bad dream, Charlie?” I asked.

  She nodded, her cheeks wet with tears, and I hugged her closer, trying to comfort her with the warm substance of my body.

  "No such thing as monsters," I said, quoting one of her favourite books. She closed her eyes and fell asleep in my arms. I was about to put her back in her cot but decided against it. Instead, I carried her to Megan's room to check that it was empty—it was—and then to the living room, where Scott was sleeping under an old blanket. I put Charlotte in our bed and kissed her soft, damp cheeks. I felt so close to her in that moment, and it made me feel better about everything else.

  "It's going to be okay," I whispered. Two lies in two minutes. I snuggled deeply into her, my lips on the back of her sweet-skinned neck, and we slept.

  Scott looked terrible the next morning, but I didn't feel sorry for him. I was glad he had dark circles under his eyes and mussed hair. I wondered if I'd ever forgive him for what he had done. I checked Megan's room again, and it had been completely emptied. I wondered how Scott had gotten rid of her, but was afraid to ask. The answer came later in the day when I was trying to pay off my credit cards. Charlotte had a meltdown, flinging herself on the kitchen floor. She wanted water. I gave it to her in a purple cup, which had in her eyes been a disaster of unmitigated proportions, as she had wanted it in a pink cup.

  Giving up, I left her on the floor to scream and bang her heels. I wished I could do the same. When I finally was able to focus on my laptop screen, I noticed that R250,000 had been transferred from our access bond. So that’s how Scott had gotten rid of her. It chilled me to the bone.

  I checked Megan’s social media and saw she had already started spending our money—she had some new baby clothes and a designer pram, and included the obligatory bump shot. “Sixteen weeks to go!”

  Megan Morris—or whatever her name was—had utterly played us. She was nothing less than a predator, and I hated her with a white-hot fury. I thought of all the times she had held my daughter, sung to her, whispered in her ears. I felt sick, and I dashed to the sink and retched into it, but nothing came up. Charlotte fell quiet. I turned and saw that she had fallen asleep on the hard timber floor. My watch said it was two hours past her nap-time; no wonder she was behaving badly. I couldn't even remember my toddler’s nap-time and I had another baby on the way. I didn't know how I would cope without a nanny. I sat down on the floor next to Charlotte and cried.

  Later, I received a text from an unknown number: I was never after your money. I didn’t reply.

  Months passed, and my belly grew. Scott tried to atone for his infidelity by cooking dinner, cleaning the house, and spending extra time with Charlotte. Every time he did something nice for me, it was a reminder that he had been unfaithful. I knew I had to forgive him if I wanted the marriage to work, but I wasn't ready yet. I was still angry with him for letting "Megan Morris" happen to us. I raged at myself, too. I felt stupid and naïve for allowing her into our lives and not paying attention to my instinct, which had told me every day that there was something sinister about her. The house returned to its prev
ious state of chaos, with toys strewn everywhere, an overflowing laundry hamper, and mouldy apple cores hiding in the crevices of the couch. As my due date approached, Charlotte regressed. She wanted to be on my lap all the time, climbing up my legs as I tried to meet my deadlines, demanding warm milk in baby bottles, and wetting her pants. Even though Scott was helpful, we hadn't reconnected since his confession. I felt alienated from him, and alone in my pregnancy.

  “I know you’re not going to want to hear this,” Scott said.

  I was eight months pregnant. My back was killing me, my bank account was empty, my anxiety was through the roof, and I wasn't sleeping. Scott was right. I didn't want to hear anything he had to say.

  “We need to look for a new nanny,” he said.

  “Are you crazy?”

  "I know, love. I know," he said gently. "But look around. Look at this place."

  I didn't have to. I knew it was getting worse. Between the two of us, we just weren't keeping up with the relentlessness of full-time jobs, a home, and a toddler. Since Megan had left, we'd been in survival mode. Her room remained empty, despite my intentions to scrub it, hang new curtains, and assemble the new baby cot.

  “You’re about to pop,” Scott said, gesturing at my ballooning abdomen.

  “Thanks for that.” He’d always had a way with words.

  “I can only take a couple of days of paternity leave.”

  I glared at him. “That’s convenient.”

  "It's not my choice, love. I'd rather be here with you."

  “I’m not hiring another nanny,” I said. He tried to argue, but I cut him off.

  Judging from Instagram, Megan's bump was small and neat. My stomach muscles were pre-stretched from carrying Charlotte, and at nine months, people would—rudely—ask if I was expecting twins.