calmly.
‘What do you mean, a hiccup?’ added Dad.
Andrew gulped.
‘Oh, God, don’t tell me the flowers didn’t turn up!’ I said. The colour-blind church housekeeper had been determined to provide them and I’d had visions of a gaudy array of fit-inducing hydrangeas.
‘No, nothing like that,’ said Andrew, loosening his collar.
‘The organist? Oh, shit – Jess warned me he was a bit of a pisshead but I thought—’
‘No, Zoe. Stop!’ said Andrew. ‘It’s nothing like that.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘It’s – it’s Jason.’
My mind went blank. I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. ‘He’s . . . been in an accident?’
‘No,’ said Andrew. ‘He’s fine. I mean, he’s not fine . . .’
‘What , Andrew?’ I said, suddenly impatient. ‘What is the matter with Jason?’
‘He’s not coming,’ said Andrew, lowering his eyes. ‘Zoe, he’s not coming.’
Chapter 13
‘Zoe! Wake up, Zoe!’
It’s a nightmare. It must be a nightmare.
‘We want our breakfast, Zoe!’
I roll over and put a pillow over my head, willing myself to go back to a semi-erotic dream involving Jason, a plush hotel room and a six-pack of Cadbury’s Creme Eggs.
‘Zoe! Come on! ’
The voice is soft and not particularly loud. But what it lacks in volume it makes up for in insistence.
‘Zo-eeeeee!’
I open one eye and see Ruby and Samuel standing there, perky as two little bunnies on a spring day. ‘What time is it?’
‘Um, not sure,’ says Ruby, unconvincingly.
‘You could tell the time last night,’ I point out.
‘Um, six twenty-five,’ she replies sheepishly.
I groan. ‘You shouldn’t be up yet.’
‘But we always get up at this time,’ says Ruby.
‘Oh, goody.’ I rub my eyes. ‘Excellent news.’
I turn to look at them. ‘You’ve only had a few hours’ sleep,’ I remind them. ‘You’ll be exhausted today.’
‘We’re not exh– exh– tired,’ says Ruby, as Samuel stands behind her, yawning.
‘I want SpongeBob ,’ he says, rubbing his eyes.
‘Not sleep?’ I ask, hopefully.
‘Uh-uh,’ they confirm.
As I hobble out of bed, I can’t help reflecting that I’m supposed to have Sundays off. And, while I know I’ve only just got here, part of me had hoped that would apply today so I could at least try to get over my jet-lag. Problem is, Mr Talkative and I never got round to discussing that.
‘Come on , Zoe!’ the children shout.
I head downstairs in my dressing-gown, holding Samuel’s hand and looking, I suspect, like a Victorian charlady after a forty-two-hour shift. We go into the kitchen, where Ruby puts on the TV – yes, there’s one in there too.
‘Okay,’ I say, trying to sound upbeat. ‘What do you normally have for breakfast?’
‘Hmm, we had Hershey’s yesterday,’ Ruby tells me.
‘Isn’t that a chocolate bar?’ I frown.
‘Uh-huh,’ says Ruby, as if that was the most reasonable thing in the world.
‘Now, come on, I can’t believe your daddy would let you ha—’ I begin. ‘No, hang on, maybe I can believe it. Okay, what did your last nanny give you for breakfast?’
‘French toast,’ declares Ruby.
My heart sinks. I was hoping for something no more taxing than a bowl of Cheerios. ‘How about cereal?’ I ask, hopefully.
‘Whatever.’
I’m about to look for some cereal, when I stop myself. What am I thinking? This is an opportunity to win the kids over, especially after last night’s dramatics. Of course they can have French toast. It’s virtually a speciality of mine. And, besides, there’s no way I’m refusing them something a previous nanny gave them.
‘Okay,’ I reply jauntily. ‘Seeing as it’s you two, French toast it is.’
I have visions of the children greedily tucking into my home-cooked breakfast and viewing me as some sort of Nigella Lawson figure, primed to rustle up a luscious culinary delight from nothing more than half a pound of self-raising flour, a couple of pistachios and the odd free-range
‘What do you mean, a hiccup?’ added Dad.
Andrew gulped.
‘Oh, God, don’t tell me the flowers didn’t turn up!’ I said. The colour-blind church housekeeper had been determined to provide them and I’d had visions of a gaudy array of fit-inducing hydrangeas.
‘No, nothing like that,’ said Andrew, loosening his collar.
‘The organist? Oh, shit – Jess warned me he was a bit of a pisshead but I thought—’
‘No, Zoe. Stop!’ said Andrew. ‘It’s nothing like that.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘It’s – it’s Jason.’
My mind went blank. I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. ‘He’s . . . been in an accident?’
‘No,’ said Andrew. ‘He’s fine. I mean, he’s not fine . . .’
‘What , Andrew?’ I said, suddenly impatient. ‘What is the matter with Jason?’
‘He’s not coming,’ said Andrew, lowering his eyes. ‘Zoe, he’s not coming.’
Chapter 13
‘Zoe! Wake up, Zoe!’
It’s a nightmare. It must be a nightmare.
‘We want our breakfast, Zoe!’
I roll over and put a pillow over my head, willing myself to go back to a semi-erotic dream involving Jason, a plush hotel room and a six-pack of Cadbury’s Creme Eggs.
‘Zoe! Come on! ’
The voice is soft and not particularly loud. But what it lacks in volume it makes up for in insistence.
‘Zo-eeeeee!’
I open one eye and see Ruby and Samuel standing there, perky as two little bunnies on a spring day. ‘What time is it?’
‘Um, not sure,’ says Ruby, unconvincingly.
‘You could tell the time last night,’ I point out.
‘Um, six twenty-five,’ she replies sheepishly.
I groan. ‘You shouldn’t be up yet.’
‘But we always get up at this time,’ says Ruby.
‘Oh, goody.’ I rub my eyes. ‘Excellent news.’
I turn to look at them. ‘You’ve only had a few hours’ sleep,’ I remind them. ‘You’ll be exhausted today.’
‘We’re not exh– exh– tired,’ says Ruby, as Samuel stands behind her, yawning.
‘I want SpongeBob ,’ he says, rubbing his eyes.
‘Not sleep?’ I ask, hopefully.
‘Uh-uh,’ they confirm.
As I hobble out of bed, I can’t help reflecting that I’m supposed to have Sundays off. And, while I know I’ve only just got here, part of me had hoped that would apply today so I could at least try to get over my jet-lag. Problem is, Mr Talkative and I never got round to discussing that.
‘Come on , Zoe!’ the children shout.
I head downstairs in my dressing-gown, holding Samuel’s hand and looking, I suspect, like a Victorian charlady after a forty-two-hour shift. We go into the kitchen, where Ruby puts on the TV – yes, there’s one in there too.
‘Okay,’ I say, trying to sound upbeat. ‘What do you normally have for breakfast?’
‘Hmm, we had Hershey’s yesterday,’ Ruby tells me.
‘Isn’t that a chocolate bar?’ I frown.
‘Uh-huh,’ says Ruby, as if that was the most reasonable thing in the world.
‘Now, come on, I can’t believe your daddy would let you ha—’ I begin. ‘No, hang on, maybe I can believe it. Okay, what did your last nanny give you for breakfast?’
‘French toast,’ declares Ruby.
My heart sinks. I was hoping for something no more taxing than a bowl of Cheerios. ‘How about cereal?’ I ask, hopefully.
‘Whatever.’
I’m about to look for some cereal, when I stop myself. What am I thinking? This is an opportunity to win the kids over, especially after last night’s dramatics. Of course they can have French toast. It’s virtually a speciality of mine. And, besides, there’s no way I’m refusing them something a previous nanny gave them.
‘Okay,’ I reply jauntily. ‘Seeing as it’s you two, French toast it is.’
I have visions of the children greedily tucking into my home-cooked breakfast and viewing me as some sort of Nigella Lawson figure, primed to rustle up a luscious culinary delight from nothing more than half a pound of self-raising flour, a couple of pistachios and the odd free-range
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