2
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Except I do know. It’s the fact that I just agreed to a ten p.m. curfew. Max is going to be livid; my chest constricts just thinking about it.
Relax, Kate, it’ll be fine.
Except it won’t be. It never is. That’s the problem living with a monster – a psychopath who loathes his own daughter. We exist in a constant state of alert, waiting for the next inevitable meltdown, the next eruption of anger, the fists banging on walls, even going through doors, once. I am the buffer between Max and Holly. Conversations are a minefield, and the slightest deviation from Max’s directives is taken as a personal affront. We are cowered, Holly and I, shadows moving swiftly through the house, striving to stay out of his way.
‘Excuse me?’
I turn around and stare at an elegant, short woman with red-framed glasses. I try to dredge up her name. I picture her daughter, Caroline, who is in the same class as Holly. Caroline Henry. She came to our house once, after school, to study with Holly when Max was away on business.
‘Hello, Mrs Henry. How are you? This is quite the party, isn’t it?’
‘Are you Holly’s nanny?’
I get this a lot. I’m twenty-three years old, and Max is forty-five, so this isn’t the first time I’ve been taken for Holly’s nanny, or Holly’s older sister. Still. I can’t help but glance down at myself. I am wearing high-heeled Alaïa calfskin boots, my chocolate-coloured, Italian wool-cashmere-blend coat and a Reiss knitted dress. I wonder how much people pay their nannies around here. Max buys my clothes for me, so I have no idea how much they cost, but let’s just say I’m pretty sure my wardrobe costs more than a year’s worth of my primary school teacher salary.
‘I’m not Holly’s nanny,’ I say. ‘I’m her stepmother.’
‘Really,’ she says, trying not to grin. Ah. So she already knew. Then, as if to underscore the point, she gives me a pointed up-down look. ‘I thought you looked too…young, to be Holly’s mother.’
‘Also, Holly’s mother is dead,’ I say.
She recoils, mouth pursed. Then she looks over her shoulder at a group of parents standing together near the gates of Scarlett’s house. They are laser focused on us, and I wonder if Mrs Henry was sent to talk to me.Go on! Ask her if it’s true that she went from nanny to wife.
She turns back to me. ‘Well. Good for you. Well done.’
I blink. ‘Surely you mean—’ I give her a similar, deliberate, up-down look ‘—good for him.’
She looks like she swallowed a lemon.
‘Was there something you wanted to ask me?’ I say.
She stands a little taller. ‘Yes, actually, there is. Since you’re going to pick up Holly after the party, you could pick up Caroline, too, and bring her home. We live on Hartford Avenue, on the other side of town.’
‘You want me to pick your daughter up from the party and drive her home to the other side of town?’
‘That’s right. Is there a problem?’
I don’t know what I’ve done to these women to make them treat me so rudely. This isn’t the first time one of the mothers has spoken down to me, but it’s definitely the first time they’ve instructed me to chauffeur their children to and from parties.
‘Holly’s father will be picking up Holly. You’re welcome to ask him. You’ll have his number from the class list.’
‘Ask Max? God no!’ She laughs, her gloved hand delicately at her throat. ‘I would never be that rude! How is dear Max by the way?’
‘He’s fine.’ I give her a tight smile. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, then reach into my bag for my phone. ‘I need to take this call.’
I walk away, staring at my non-ringing phone. I press my friend Jen’s speed-dial number. The phone rings, and I look over my shoulder to see that Mrs Henry has joined the group of parents. They’re now huddled together, deep in conversation.Please don’t tell me they’re talking about me. I can’t possibly be that interesting.
‘I was just thinking about you!’ Jen says.
‘And here I am!’ I sing as I get back into my car. I immediately feel better just hearing her voice. I picture her in her flat in Lewisham, probably on the small balcony, leaning back in her chair with her feet up on the railing, sipping on a mug of tea. ‘God, I wish I was there for real,’ I say.
‘Why? You’re living the country life while I’m stuck here marking tests on a Saturday. What could you possibly be missing? Are you wearing your wellies? Your quilted jacket? Or is it waxed?’
I chuckle. Once upon a time, if you’d told me I’d be dressed head to toe in Reiss, Mint Velvet and LK Bennett, I would have laughed so hard I would have vomited. But Max has standards – as he often reminds me – and he doesn’t like me wearing jeansand T-shirts even though that’s exactly what I was wearing when he proposed.
‘Yep. You got me,’ I say, before telling her about my encounter with Mrs Henry.
