Barely Yours (7 page)

I spend the day focussing hard on work. Okay, so I’ve been distracted, but no longer. This silly charade ends
now
. Once again, I inwardly congratulate myself for finally doing the right thing. For shutting down this pathetic little childish infatuation of mine with the nanny. It was making a mockery of my beloved Emma’s memory. And it had to stop.

Now it’s over, I can finally fix my concentration on what really matters. On growing my business, expanding my property portfolio, and caring fully for my daughter.

I’ve finished work for the day, but something’s stopping me from going home. Deep down, I know that it’s Chrissie. I upset her this morning, that much was clear.  It had to be done, but she was obviously hurt.

She’s a girl. An American. The kind of person who can’t keep her feelings in check. If I get home tonight, there’s every chance she’ll be waiting for me with those big pleading puppy dog eyes, pouring her heart out, begging me to
talk
to her. And I simply won’t allow it. 

Why did I ask that damn girl to move in!

I have – what? – fifty other flats and houses here in London. I could have put her into any of those, but instead I moved her into my own family home. That was a schoolboy error.

And I resolve in the morning to ask my assistant to look into moving her into one of the many other properties in my portfolio; somewhere smart, somewhere nearby so she’s available for Tabby, but still far enough away from me.

I’m simply not in the mood for conversation with her tonight. I have to ensure that we’re not in the house alone. So I call up Bruce and to my relief, he answers immediately.

“Hey buddy,” I say. “What are you up to tonight?”

“Not a lot,” he replies with a deep chuckle. “Unless I get lucky on Tinder in the next couple of hours!”

Typical Bruce.

“Drop all that,” I tell him. “Come to mine, play a game of pool with me in the old games room. It’s been months since I’ve used it – and it’s a crime for it to just sit there empty.”

“Okay, okay,” he laughs. “Unless I get a better offer of course.”

“Of course,” I say. “See you at seven?”

“See you at seven,” he replies.

§

I dawdle at the office long enough that I know Bruce will be practically waiting for me when I come in. And sure enough, no sooner have I dropped my bags in the hallway when the doorbell rings again. I turn to answer it, but as I do, Tabby comes running from down the stairs.

“Daddy!” she cries, full of excitement. “We played a number game! Do you want to hear all about my numbers?”

Chrissie follows down the stairs behind her, demurely dressed today in smartly pressed navy slacks and a flimsy cream blouse. She seems nervous, twisting her hair. She’s smiling but I can tell its put on, like she’s going to pretend that whole silly little charade never even happened.

Good
, I think.

“Yes,” says Chrissie, “we’ve been learning all about numbers.”

She’s about to continue but I hold up one finger to cut her off. “Excuse me,” I say, turning to answer the door. “Good evening, old chap,” I say, ushering Bruce into the house.

Trust Bruce, he’s dressed like he’s come ready to pick up girls in a nightclub, rather than shoot a few games of pool with his old friend. He’s wearing a suit jacket and chinos, with a freshly ironed white shirt – unbuttoned at the neck as if to show he’s a smart guy but still ready to party.

Tabitha suddenly becomes shy, hiding herself away behind Chrissie’s long legs.

“Hi Bruce,” Tabby whispers.

“Hello, princess,” Bruce replies in a tone which suggests he’s talking to Tabby, but if I’m not mistaken, he’s looking directly into Chrissie’s eyes.

“She’s tired,” offers Chrissie, by way of explanation for Tabby’s sudden shyness.

“That’s because it’s her
bedtime
,” I snap, surprising myself with the sternness in my voice. “I’m going to put her to bed now. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”

As I lead Tabby upstairs to bed, I wonder if the strange glint in Bruce’s eye when he saw Chrissie is something I should be worried about or whether I just imagined it.

What does it matter anyway?
I remind myself.
So what if Bruce wants to make a play for her. She’s nothing to you.

§

With Tabby safely tucked up in bed, I go back downstairs to find Bruce and Chrissie have moved through to the kitchen. They’re talking – and at first glance it looks innocent and relaxed. But something about the scene tells me that Chrissie is wary of him. She’s on guard, sitting bolt upright at the table, straight backed and alert, clasping her glass of water with two hands as if for protection. She’s nodding politely as Bruce explains American culture to her – all of the places he’s been, where to get the best tacos, the best burgers. As always, Bruce has to know everything.

“Enough of the cultural studies,” I say. “Chrissie’s not on the clock any more, old chap. I’m not paying her to be polite to you.”

“Oh, no,” she exclaims, politely but with a subtle hint of sarcasm that only someone who knows her would pick up on. “We were having a great time. Bruce was explaining to me ...”

“Enough, enough,” I say. “You don’t need to tell me about Bruce. I’ve heard it all before. I’ll take him off your hands. Come on, old man. Time to get thrashed at pool.”

“Oh, it’s on,” Bruce laughs. “And I think you’ll find it’s
you
who’s about to get the thrashing ...”

As he makes his way out of the room, he turns to shoot a strange glance back at Chrissie, who’s still sitting at the kitchen table.

“We’ll continue this later, yeah?” he says in a low suggestive tone. And if it wasn’t before, it’s obvious now that Chrissie has really caught his eye.

§

As always, women are never far from Bruce’s mind, and as I rack up the first frame, he immediately begins to quiz me about Chrissie.

“So,” he begins, as he lines up his cue to break, “you must be going out of your head with a hot young thing like that living under your roof!”

He slams the cue into the white, which in turn scatters the balls impressively – potting a couple of reds in the process.

“She’s my daughter’s nanny, Bruce,” I reply with a sigh. “An employee. I don’t think of her like that.”

At this, Bruce looks up from his next shot and shakes his head. “You’re inscrutable,” he grins. “Anyone else but you and I wouldn’t believe it. But you always do things by the book.”

I don’t answer, just raise my eyebrows in response, as I stand to take my shot, slamming the cue hard into the white, aiming for a yellow by the top corner pocket but missing by a fraction of an inch.

God damn it.

“So this nanny, this
employee,
” Bruce persists. “Any boyfriends sniffing about?”

He takes his shot, potting another red and setting himself up perfectly for his next shot.

“You mean, is she available? Is that what you’re asking?” I reply a little coldly.

Bruce pauses, lines up his cue, then slams the white into his chosen ball in another perfect shot, sending it flying into the far corner pocket.

“Yes, is she single? Is she available? Can I ask her out?” he grins back.

I’m about to say yes. After all, she’s nothing to me, is she? But even so, something gives me pause. The idea of Bruce’s hands on her. His lips on hers. I just don’t like it. Could it be that I’m ... jealous? But that’s absurd. You can’t be jealous if your friend wants to get involved with someone you have absolutely no interest in whatsoever. And I’m
not
interested in her. I have to keep telling myself that to extinguish any remaining flames of feeling that might bubble up inside me. I have to scrub all memories of that night, that kiss, the feel of her body against mine, from my mind.

“Sure,” I say after a slight hesitation. “Knock yourself out. She’s a nice girl. And I reckon she could probably do with a date or two, anyway. I’ll give you her number.”

I stand to take my next shot, lining my cue behind the white, aiming for a plant. But again, my calculations aren’t quite correct, and I end up fouling, knocking Bruce’s last red into the centre pocket.

“Cheers, old chap,” he says, as he steps in, hardly even lining his cue up as he breezily slams the black into the left corner pocket, winning the game.

How
dare
he! The slimy entitled bastard. Just who does he think he is? Just because he’s my boss, doesn’t mean he fucking owns me. Doesn’t mean he can pass me onto his friends less than a fucking week after discarding me.

Okay, sorry about all the swearing, but I hope you understand. Because right now I am
mad.

I mean, only met Will’s friend Bruce for
five minutes
that night, and without even checking with me that it’s okay, Will has obviously given him my fucking number. What the hell?

I pace up and down the room in anger and frustration, before sighing and flopping back down on the bed to look again at the text message I’ve just received.

Hey American gir
l
This is Will’s friend Bruce here. I was hoping we could continue that fascinating conversation we had a few days ago. I’d like to get to know you better. Drinks sometime? xx

I toss the phone back onto the sheets in disgust. Know me better, he says? He knows
nothing
about me. He just heard my accent and started talking about all the places
he’d
been to in America. He didn’t even ask which state I’m from.

I’m so goddamn angry with Will, I’ve got half a mind to run downstairs right this moment, interrupt his evening, and let him know exactly how I feel. But I know just what he’d do. He’d simply shut the conversation down immediately. Start by telling me off for something imaginary that I’d done, just like before. Then leave me in a mess of emotion. There’s no point. Damn him. Why did I ever get fooled by his charm, his height, his accent.

He seemed like the perfect gentleman but I guess he’s just another bastard.

So what
am
I gonna do tonight then?

Same thing I’ve been doing all week – hiding away in this apartment, pretending I don’t even exist. Doing my best to avoid any awkward conversations; in short, making life easier for him.

This place seemed huge when I first moved in. I couldn’t believe I had my very own kitchen, my own bathroom, my own living room. But tonight it seems tiny and claustrophobic, and I don’t know how I’m gonna spend another evening in here, cramped on my own.

I don’t feel like seeing any friends right now; they’ll be able to tell just how upset I am and I don’t feel like explaining.

And so, before I can change my mind, I hastily grab the phone from beside me and type out a text.

Sure. How about tonight?

I hit send.

What the hell did I just do?

Within seconds I can see on the screen of my phone that Bruce is typing a reply.

Great. 8 o clock? I’ll send a car.

§

A couple of hours later, we’re sitting opposite each other in some swanky wine bar, and Bruce is on his third Negroni, while I’m still nursing my first elderflower Collins. I’m not interested in getting carried away tonight. And surprise, surprise, Bruce is
still
talking about himself. He’s moved on from his travels though, and now he’s telling me in-depth about his job at a ‘top London commodities firm’. I’ve hardly understood a word he’s said, to be honest, but actually, I don’t think he’s even noticed.

Okay, maybe I’m being a
little
harsh on him.

He’s actually a nice guy, if a little boring. I mean, he’s not being a sleaze or anything. It’s not one of those dates where the guy can’t keep his eyes off your cleavage. And he did send a car for me, and he’s paying for all the drinks, and he said he’d chosen a bar that wasn’t full of city trader types on purpose so that I would feel more comfortable. So I guess he has thought about me at least a little bit.

Although it was kind of forward, asking me on a date out of the blue like that, it was Will who gave him my number in the first place.

I bet he put him up to it. I bet Will told Bruce to ask me out just to mess with me.

But still, nice guy or not, I can’t help but stifle a yawn. He’s really not my type. Physically, I’ve never gone in for blondes, but looks aren’t even the main thing. I guess a girl just wants to be asked a question once in a while.

And maybe he’s a little more perceptive than I thought, because all of a sudden he stops his monologue to say, “Look, I can see you’re yawning your head off. I can tell this isn’t going too well. I guess you’re just
not that into me
, huh?” he adds with a smile.

I laugh for the first time this evening – for what seems like the first time all week.

“You’re a nice guy,” I reply, “but if I’m totally honest, yeah, I guess you’re just not my type.”

“I get it,” he grins back. “And I think I might know what you’re type is. Are you perhaps a more tall dark and handsome kind of a girl?”

There’s a tone in his voice that I don’t like. I think I know just what he’s insinuating. God. Am I really
that
obvious?

“It’s not like that,” I say. “I guess it’s more about chemistry?”

He nods, understandingly, and I’m relieved when he doesn’t push it any further.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll take you home.”