vanilla pod.
I head for the fridge to seek out what Nigella would refer to as the ‘store-cupboard ingredients’ required for this particular dish: a couple of nice fresh eggs, a little butter and some thick-cut bread, preferably the organic wholegrain kind with super-healthy nutty bits and bobs.
Then I open the fridge.
The only consumables inside it are alcoholic. Although there are several items of food, the majority are so old they could be classed as Jurassic. There’s a semi-decomposed tomato in the salad tray, several crusty-lidded sauce jars on the top shelf and a piece of cheese so hard Roger Federer could have served an ace with it.
There are certainly no eggs. And a quick glance in the bread bin confirms there is no bread, unless you count one amorphous lump of carbohydrate with enough mould spores on it to provide an entire hospital with antibiotics.
‘I’m afraid it’ll have to be cereal,’ I tell the children.
But, sadly, when I open the cupboard I realize it isn’t going to be cereal either.
‘Well,’ I say, spinning round. This is the sort of challenge that nannies like me can rise to without a second thought. ‘Where’s the nearest shop?’
Ruby giggles. ‘You mean store , don’t you?’
I can see I’m going to be a source of some amusement round here.
Chapter 14
I’d assumed Ryan was sleeping off his hangover while I dressed the children, stocked the fridge with half the contents of the local 7/11 and made sure the place remained so immaculate that an OCD sufferer would have eaten their dinner off the floor.
Apparently not. I hear the door slam at ten thirty, followed by footsteps bolting up the stairs.
‘Is that your daddy coming in?’ I ask.
‘He’s been for a run,’ Ruby informs me proudly. ‘He runs a lot.’
‘Oh, right.’ I’m reluctantly impressed. Actually, amazed is probably a better word. After the bender he went on yesterday, I can’t believe he’s managed to roll out of bed at all, let alone go for a jog.
‘He does ten miles every morning,’ adds Ruby.
Fifteen minutes later – long enough for me to have satisfied a mysterious urge to dash to the bathroom and apply a slick of mascara and nude lip gloss – Ryan enters the kitchen.
He smells deliciously clean and his hair is so wet from the shower that it’s still dripping, moistening the skin on one side of his now clean-shaven jaw. Despite that, he still has the rough-round-the-edges quality and has obviously thrown on the first pair of jeans he could find. But he’s so glamorous somehow that I feel embarrassed to be in the same room. I get a flash of paranoia that my subtle makeup is fighting a losing battle against the bags under my eyes, which, when I glanced into the mirror earlier, were of a colour best described as ‘ecclesiastical purple’.
‘Daddy!’ hollers Ruby, jumping up and skipping across the kitchen to hug him.
‘Daddy, daddy, daddy!’ echoes Samuel, running over to join in.
‘Hey, you two, what’s up?’ He gives them a cursory hug, prises them off and picks up the newspaper – the one I nearly tripped over when I opened the front door.
‘Um . . . good morning,’ I say brightly, flicking back my hair.
He looks up briefly, and in the split second that he catches my eye, I’m shocked at the extent to which my pulse quickens.
‘Howya doing?’ He sits down and examines the front page. It wasn’t a particularly enthusiastic greeting.
‘Can I get you some coffee?’ I ask, picking up the pot I’ve just made and bringing it to the table.
‘Hmm, great,’ mutters Ryan, starting to dismantle the paper’s sections.
‘Daddy, we had French toast for breakfast,’ Ruby tells him brightly.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Zoe made it for us. She’s a real good cook.’
I swell with pride – and not just because Ruby apparently hadn’t minded that I’d burned hers twice and broken the piece she ended up with when I slid it on to her plate.
‘Good, honey,’ he mumbles, turning
I head for the fridge to seek out what Nigella would refer to as the ‘store-cupboard ingredients’ required for this particular dish: a couple of nice fresh eggs, a little butter and some thick-cut bread, preferably the organic wholegrain kind with super-healthy nutty bits and bobs.
Then I open the fridge.
The only consumables inside it are alcoholic. Although there are several items of food, the majority are so old they could be classed as Jurassic. There’s a semi-decomposed tomato in the salad tray, several crusty-lidded sauce jars on the top shelf and a piece of cheese so hard Roger Federer could have served an ace with it.
There are certainly no eggs. And a quick glance in the bread bin confirms there is no bread, unless you count one amorphous lump of carbohydrate with enough mould spores on it to provide an entire hospital with antibiotics.
‘I’m afraid it’ll have to be cereal,’ I tell the children.
But, sadly, when I open the cupboard I realize it isn’t going to be cereal either.
‘Well,’ I say, spinning round. This is the sort of challenge that nannies like me can rise to without a second thought. ‘Where’s the nearest shop?’
Ruby giggles. ‘You mean store , don’t you?’
I can see I’m going to be a source of some amusement round here.
Chapter 14
I’d assumed Ryan was sleeping off his hangover while I dressed the children, stocked the fridge with half the contents of the local 7/11 and made sure the place remained so immaculate that an OCD sufferer would have eaten their dinner off the floor.
Apparently not. I hear the door slam at ten thirty, followed by footsteps bolting up the stairs.
‘Is that your daddy coming in?’ I ask.
‘He’s been for a run,’ Ruby informs me proudly. ‘He runs a lot.’
‘Oh, right.’ I’m reluctantly impressed. Actually, amazed is probably a better word. After the bender he went on yesterday, I can’t believe he’s managed to roll out of bed at all, let alone go for a jog.
‘He does ten miles every morning,’ adds Ruby.
Fifteen minutes later – long enough for me to have satisfied a mysterious urge to dash to the bathroom and apply a slick of mascara and nude lip gloss – Ryan enters the kitchen.
He smells deliciously clean and his hair is so wet from the shower that it’s still dripping, moistening the skin on one side of his now clean-shaven jaw. Despite that, he still has the rough-round-the-edges quality and has obviously thrown on the first pair of jeans he could find. But he’s so glamorous somehow that I feel embarrassed to be in the same room. I get a flash of paranoia that my subtle makeup is fighting a losing battle against the bags under my eyes, which, when I glanced into the mirror earlier, were of a colour best described as ‘ecclesiastical purple’.
‘Daddy!’ hollers Ruby, jumping up and skipping across the kitchen to hug him.
‘Daddy, daddy, daddy!’ echoes Samuel, running over to join in.
‘Hey, you two, what’s up?’ He gives them a cursory hug, prises them off and picks up the newspaper – the one I nearly tripped over when I opened the front door.
‘Um . . . good morning,’ I say brightly, flicking back my hair.
He looks up briefly, and in the split second that he catches my eye, I’m shocked at the extent to which my pulse quickens.
‘Howya doing?’ He sits down and examines the front page. It wasn’t a particularly enthusiastic greeting.
‘Can I get you some coffee?’ I ask, picking up the pot I’ve just made and bringing it to the table.
‘Hmm, great,’ mutters Ryan, starting to dismantle the paper’s sections.
‘Daddy, we had French toast for breakfast,’ Ruby tells him brightly.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Zoe made it for us. She’s a real good cook.’
I swell with pride – and not just because Ruby apparently hadn’t minded that I’d burned hers twice and broken the piece she ended up with when I slid it on to her plate.
‘Good, honey,’ he mumbles, turning
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