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Rob gets up. ‘Very nice,’ he says, stepping back and drinking me in.
‘You don’t think it’s too low-cut?’
Rob reaches out and adjusts the height of the off-the-shoulder sleeves – gently rearranging the blue chiffon fabric with its tiny sequins and beads.
‘Nope. It’s beautiful.You’rebeautiful.’ He tips up my chin and plants a light kiss on my lips. ‘Do you even need to try on the others?’
At the cash desk, he whips out his wallet, insisting, though I notice how he gives a quick glance at the price tag before swallowing and holding his breath as he hands over his card.
‘Hey, kiddo,’ Rob says, ruffling Amber’s hair as she sits at the kitchen table. Natalia, our au pair, stands at the sink with her back to us, her arms plunged into the water as she scrubs a pot. Thick muscles stand proud on her upper arms, exposed by the black, sleeveless tank top she’s wearing.
‘Everything OK?’ I ask her.
She turns briefly and smiles – a pleasant smile on her young, oval face. Aged twenty-two, she came to England six months ago to learn English, and we are her first family. While of course I don’t need her to care for Belle, she’s been a godsend looking after Amber, as well as occasional cooking and keeping the household running in return for free accommodation and a small wage – plus she ferries the girls about in the little car we bought for her. While I try to be home as much as possible, our careers aren’t always forgiving of family life. Live-in help was the most budget-friendly childcare option.
‘All is fine,’ she says, rinsing the pot and placing it upside down on the drainer. ‘There is spaghetti over left if you like.’
‘Leftover,’ Amber chips in. While we don’t like to correct Natalia’s English too much, not wanting to be critical, Amber doesn’t hold back. A little bit of power wielded over the other woman who doesn’t seem old enough to play mother, yet is too old to be a sister. But she still adores her.
‘Spaghetti leftover,’ Natalia repeats. Her eyes twinkle in the frame of her almost white-blond short, spiky hair. She has a buzz cut around her ears and up to her temples. Somehow the look suits her delicate features.
I thank her and light the stove, sliding on the pot of pasta to reheat. Natalia finishes up at the sink and snaps off her rubber gloves, retreating quietly from the kitchen. Once we’re home, she usually goes up to her room to study or, occasionally, she’ll go out with some girls from her English class or her other au pair friends.
I plate up a couple of portions, and Rob and I join Amber at the table. She’s barely touched her food. ‘How was day camp?’
Rob gets up and fetches a bottle of white wine from the fridge, pouring two glasses.
‘OK,’ Amber replies. She doesn’t look up.
‘Did you hear from your sister today?’ I ask, glancing at my phone on the table beside me. No notifications, despite my attempts at calling her. I last heard from Belle five days ago, and even then, she only replied after I’d sent multiple messages to nudge her. I wanted to check she was OK.
‘No,’ Amber says, dipping her fork into her spaghetti and twirling it around. Then she untwirls it.
‘She’ll be grand,’ Rob says. ‘Too busy having fun with all those French boys to be bothered texting the likes of us.’
God, don’t…My Belle’s a beauty, all right, and attracts all the wrong kind of attention. But at the core of her young woman’s body, she’s still a little girl –mylittle girl – with a veneer of naivety. No – not a veneer, as such. Her innocence runs all the way through her. Bone deep. From the moment she was born, I’ve made it my mission to protect her from anything, or anyone, who might threaten that.
‘It’s not like her, though, not to text,’ I say, concern creeping through me. The wine tastes good. Cold and sharp on my tongue. And it’s true, Belle usually replies promptly. Always lets me know where she is, what she’s up to, if she’ll be late and which of her friends she’s hanging out with. It’s only since this school language trip that things have changed; thatshe’schanged. I never truly wanted her to go in the first place, but everyone else doing A level French in her year at school was off to stay with a host family. Her tutor said it would help with next year’s exams.
‘She’ll be far too occupied with André or Jacques or Pierre, or whatever he might be called, to be thinking about messaging us,’ Rob adds in a silly French accent, as though his point didn’t hit home the first time.
‘Hmm,’ I say, trying to convince myself she’s fine, that she’ll be back on Friday afternoon and then, on Saturday night, it’s party time.
Surprise!
‘That’s not what he’s called,’ Amber suddenly says, shoving a forkful of food into her mouth.
Rob and I both look up. Then at each other.
‘Whatwho’scalled?’ I ask my daughter. At ten, she has a wily way of saying just enough to get my full attention.
Amber shrugs, suddenly looking wary. ‘The man she got engaged to.’
‘What?’ I say, clattering my fork onto my plate. ‘Engaged? What are you talking about?’
I feel Rob’s knee gently bump against mine as he gives me a look.
‘Sisters talk,’ he’d once told me when I was grilling Belle about Amber’s eating habits last summer – when I was concerned my already skinny little girl was trying to lose weight. ‘But theywon’ttalk if you give them the third degree. And then where will you be?’
