Ice Creams at Carrington’s (12 page)

A few hours, and several pots of tea later, and the third wannabe nanny has just left, a twenty-something Russian girl with limited English – the agency had said she was fluent. It quickly became apparent that she really wanted to be a pop star, though, and even offered to sing for us, but Sam politely declined, saying it wouldn’t be necessary. And the last candidate hasn’t turned up yet, but she’s already twenty minutes late, which isn’t a good sign.

‘Oh God, at this rate we’re never going to find someone suitable!’ Sam says, scooping her legs up into the armchair. ‘They were all a nightmare. Did you see how Ivy cried when that … whatever her name was,’ Sam waves a dismissive hand in the air, ‘picked her up and squeezed her cheek? I have a good mind to call the agency and complain. She shouldn’t be allowed to scare children like that.’

‘But then she did have a very hairy wart on her chin!’ I say, making light of it. I didn’t think she was that bad, but Sam seems really upset – furious, even.

‘Hmm, I could barely tear my eyes away from it; you would think she would have it removed, seeing as how she works with children. And she was way too rough – poor Ivy’s little cheek. Did you see how red it was? It’d better not be bruised.’ Sam folds her arms.

‘Nooo,’ I say, glancing towards the door as Nathan scoops both girls up, one under each arm, and heads into the kitchen. ‘But I’m sure Ivy will be fine,’ I add diplomatically. Ivy’s cheek looked fine to me and I thought the woman was very gentle with both the girls, but then, what do I know about babies? Or how they’re supposed to be handled? ‘Sam, can I ask you something?’

‘Sure. What is it?’ she shrugs, staring at the carpet.

‘Well, I just wondered if everything was OK?’ I keep my voice low – the kitchen door is closed, I think, but I’m not absolutely sure. ‘With you and Nathan?’

‘Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?’ Sam frowns and I hesitate.

‘It’s just that you seem a bit … err,’ I pause to feel my way, but Sam doesn’t give me anything other than a blank face. ‘Um, stressed,’ I settle on.

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. I know you’re tired—’

‘Georgie, you have no idea, but take my advice and stay single and childless for as long as possible.’

‘Um …’ I start, feeling taken aback, but the doorbell rings, stealing my moment to probe further.

‘Can you get it? I need a few seconds on my own without a baby screaming or tugging at me.’ Sam rests her head back on the sofa and closes her eyes.

‘Oh, err, sure.’ I jump up, feeling confused and sad. We usually chat about anything and everything, but I guess I’ll just have to find another time and try again.

I head along the hallway and pull open the front door, but there’s nobody there, only a sleek black limousine at the end of the driveway with a guy by the door in a chauffeur’s uniform. Blimey, this candidate must be well heeled. And quite a bit older than the others we’ve seen today.

A woman wearing skintight black leather jeans and the highest stacked heels I’ve ever seen emerges from the car and sashays towards the house.
Hmm, hardly suitable footwear for a nanny!
She’ll break her neck trying to run around after the twins in those. And I instinctively know that Sam will hate her on sight – way too much lip filler and volume spray in her super-big blonde hair. She looks more like an ageing rock star than Supernanny!

Not even bothering to acknowledge me, the woman strides past, pausing only briefly to hand me her cashmere pashmina. Flaming cheek – must think I’m a servant or something. I sling the pashmina in the boot box by the door and charge after her down the long
Dynasty
-style hallway, trying not to cough as a heady cloud of Oud perfume wafts my way.

‘Oh hello,’ Sam says, looking a bit taken aback as she walks out of the lounge and almost bumps right into the woman’s chest. ‘Err, you’re a bit late.’ Sam springs back, eyeing the wall clock before glancing at me over the woman’s shoulder. I pull a face.

‘Well, that’s one way of putting it.’ The woman plants a hand on her bony, leather-clad hip.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Sam stands square on to the woman, her eyes flashing.

‘Look, why don’t we sit down and start again?’ I jump in, gesturing towards the lounge.

‘I don’t think that will be necessary. You’re not really what we have in mind for a nanny. Sorry! I’ll see you out.’ Sam goes to walk away, but the woman grabs her arm. I move closer, wishing I hadn’t left my bag in the kitchen now. I scan the hallway looking for a phone, just in case I need to dial 999. This woman is clearly a looper. Sam shakes her arm free.

‘Don’t be silly, darling. I’m not here to look after your babies,’ the woman says.

‘Oh! Then why are you here?’ Sam says right back.

‘To see you, of course!’

‘But, I assumed … sorry, who are you?’ Sam gives the woman an up-and-down look.

‘Your mother! But you can call me Christy.’

Sam’s face pales immediately.

She clutches the side cabinet.

Instinctively, I launch myself across the hall to stand by her side, but I’m too late. Sam’s legs buckle and she crumples to the floor.

Oh my God
.

11

D
an’s gig was awesome; he’s such an amazing singer and the crowd was mesmerised as he treated us to every one of his hit songs, ending with my all-time favourite – ‘Sweet Sugar’, a country/soul ballad that he co-wrote and originally recorded in Memphis. It’s a very special song for me, as it was playing on the radio in the Carrington’s staff canteen when I very first clapped eyes on Tom.

The aftershow party is in the VIP suite of a nearby Mayfair hotel, so Tom and I walked here. It’s such a warm evening, it would have been a shame not to.

As the lift doors open directly into the suite, the atmosphere is already charged. Exciting. And very glamorous. All kinds of fashion and music types are milling around looking fabulous. Cara Delevingne is standing by the floor-to-ceiling window with the best billion-dollar brows I’ve ever seen. Tinie Tempah is chatting to a girl right next to me (I remember Dan saying they have the same manager), and an exceptionally hot guy who looks incredibly like Benedict Cumberbatch has just walked in. Swoon. I try not to stare as I walk by on my way to the bar, which is situated underneath a giant screen showing film footage from Dan’s performance.

‘Shall we have Sex on the Beach?’ Tom grins, waving the cocktail menu at me.

‘Oooh, why not?’

‘As long as there isn’t any sand … eh? We don’t want any chafing.’ He nudges me and I laugh at his schoolboy joke.

Tom orders while I scan the crowd looking for Dan. And then I spot him, surrounded by people on the other side of the room. He sees me, nods before smiling and excusing himself, and heads towards us.

‘Georgie. So pleased you made it. And this must be Tom? Pleased to meet you.’ Dan and Tom shake hands.

‘Thanks for the invite, Dan; the gig was awesome. Can I get you a drink?’ Tom says easily.

‘No, but thanks dude, I have a backlog already.’ Dan shakes his head and lifts a half-empty pint glass, gesturing to the end of the bar where six full pints are waiting plus two ice buckets with bottles of champagne chilling inside. ‘In fact, you two could really help me out … Fancy some bubbles?’ Dan grabs a bottle and plonks it on the bar. ‘Let’s crack this open and have that chat about the regatta.’ He flips the cork out and fills three flutes, one for each of us.

‘Cheers,’ Tom lifts his glass.

‘To Georgie, and the Mulberry Regatta,’ Dan toasts.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ I laugh, and take a big swig of champagne; thrilled that everything is pretty much organised now; #TeamCarringtons has done a fantastic job – my last committee meeting in the town hall went very well. Cher, Matt and Jared seemed impressed with my Pinterest pages, even if Meredith wasn’t. And I spoke to Sam last night and she said Christy had booked into a nearby hotel and that they were ‘chatting things through’, but she didn’t seem keen to elaborate and I wasn’t sure how far to probe. In fact, she was surprisingly reticent, to be honest. I really need to go and see her at home so we can have a proper heart-to-heart … I’ve popped into the café loads of times, but she’s not been there at all this week, which is understandable under the circumstances.

*

Dan and I have been through the logistics and I’ve explained that Jared, at Mulberry FM, is organising the mini-music festival, so his manager is going to liaise with Jared to get everything arranged for Dan’s performance. He’s not bothered about a full sound check and all that, as long as his band are looked after and he has somewhere to chill, away from the crowd, before going on stage. And he’s agreed to do a set of six songs, including ‘Sweet Sugar’ (I told him it’s my favourite). It’s going to be amazing.

‘I’ll chat to Cher, she’s the landlady at the Hook, Line and Sinker pub …’

‘Oh, yes I know it,’ Dan says. ‘Great location for a music festival, on the beach overlooking the marina … very St Tropez!’ Dan grins, and we all laugh. Mulberry-On-Sea is a trillion miles away from being as chic as the French Riviera, although at the last regatta committee meeting, someone did say the council had planted a row of palm trees along the promenade next to the penny slot amusement arcades, so I guess that’s a start.

‘I’m sure Cher will have somewhere you can use as a “green room”, a VIP area, just like they have backstage at Glastonbury.’

‘Awesome. We’ll talk more before then, though … Have you said hello to Kelly yet?’

‘
Kelly?
’ Oh my God, is she actually here? And then I remember, Kelly and Dan go back years. It’s how he came to be in the TV show, and subsequently how we met.

‘Yeah, you know … Kelly Cooper TV. Green geek glasses, looks a bit like Ronald McDonald.’ Dan laughs. ‘But don’t say I said so … you know what she’s like.’ He rolls his eyes.

‘Oh, how could I forget?’ My heart sinks. Instinctively, I can feel myself bracing, scanning in case a camera is nearby – which is ridiculous, I know, but I’m still paranoid after her filming me undercover and it being plastered on YouTube, which is exactly what happened when she rocked up instore last year and caught me twerking along to that ‘Single Ladies’ song. Hideous. I gulp down a big swig of champagne.

‘I didn’t realise Kelly would be here tonight; we must say hello,’ Tom says and, right on cue, Kelly appears, wearing one of her trademark swirly patterned Westwood playsuits, teamed with diamanté-studded biker boots, which are actually pretty cool (I make a quick mental note to indulge in some online shopping to see if I can find a pair).

‘
Geooooorgie
. Darling, how are you?’ Kelly shrieks in her usual flamboyant way – wild orange Medusa curls bouncing all over the place. She pulls me in close and delivers two air kisses either side of my head before letting me go and grabbing hold of Tom. Kelly flings both arms around his neck and plants a big kiss on his lips. ‘Oooh, the things I could do to you!’ she jokes, stepping back and pressing a palm to his chest. ‘But we mustn’t tell your mother! Oh no. Isabella still hasn’t forgiven me for hitting on that guy she was shagging in university … Not my fault if he just wasn’t that in to her.’ Tom coughs discreetly, and tactfully lifts Kelly’s arm away. Oh God! I had forgotten just how inappropriate she could be. ‘So, are you all getting on it? Hoovering lines of candy cane and necking the shots?’ An awkward silence follows, but Kelly is immune. ‘Wasn’t Dan amazeballs?’ she swiftly adds, making big eyes, while I stifle a snerk at her trying to sound all ‘down-with-the-kids’.

‘He certainly was, and he’s agreed to perform at the Mulberry Regatta, so we have that to look forward to as well,’ Tom says to steer the conversation into more conventional territory.

‘Well, we have to support the local community. Don’t forget I grew up in Mulberry, and everyone, from primary school to my first Saturday job in Tesco and everyone in between, has been incredibly supportive over the years.’ Dan grins.

‘Perfect!’ Kelly jumps in and then hollers, ‘
Georgie!
’, making me jump. Tom squeezes my hand as if secretly saying,
Just humour her and she’ll go away very soon …

‘How’s that column of yours going?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

‘Good. I just luuuuurved that piece you did on Scherzy’s handbag. She’s such a doll. Hilarious too! I met her recently at a TV awards do.’ She pauses to do the crossed-arm
X Factor
thingy. Cringe. ‘I’m hoping to do a special “Day in the Life” documentary with her next summer … Ooooh, have you met Gaspard?’ she adds, suddenly changing topic. I stare blankly – it’s a full-time job keeping up with her.

‘Err, Gaspard?’ I crease my forehead, wondering what the hell she’s going on about.

‘Oh, darling, you must. Come with me.’ Taking my hand from Tom’s, and before I have a chance to protest, Kelly whisks me away and practically propels me to the other side of the room, where an older guy, sixties maybe, with black-framed geek glasses and a flamboyant magenta-coloured velvet tuxedo, complete with frilly white shirt and bow tie, is chatting to a group of tall, incredibly beautiful women. I’m guessing he’s very important as they’re all hanging on his every word. Unperturbed, Kelly powers on through the throng and presents me, literally, to the guy.

‘Gaspard. This is Georgie Hart. The girl I told you about. The one who loves handbags … From Mulberry-On-Sea!’ A fleeting glimmer of disdain passes Gaspard’s face as he gives me a quick up-and-down look, before frowning, reluctantly excusing himself from the group, who quietly drift away, and fixing his gaze directly on me.

‘Ah, yes … I have a vague recollection,’ Gaspard says slowly, with a French accent.

‘The one from my last series … in the department store,’ Kelly prompts, and I wish my cheeks would stop burning – it’s obvious that he has absolutely no idea who I am. Awks! ‘Talk to her, Gaspard, she’s Isabella’s son’s girlfriend,’ Kelly instructs. ‘She’s a huge fan of your work.’
I am?
Gulp. But before I can catch my breath, Kelly has disappeared, leaving me alone with a man who quite clearly would much rather be entertaining his fangirls than exchanging polite chitchat with me.