My phone buzzes in my bag and I know that will probably be Damien with more work questions that need answering.
Maybe… no, not maybe, definitely. I think I definitely need help looking after the house and the girls. I’m not sure why I’ve been resisting the idea for so long. Maybe it’s because admitting that I need help feels like defeat. I’ve always prided myself on being able to do it all. The family, the career, the home – like my own mum did before she died. But lately, it’s all been too much.
When Robert gets home, I’ll tell him that maybe we should go ahead and interview the nanny. It doesn’t mean we have to hire her. We can just… see what she’s like. Maybe she’ll be awful and that will make the decision for us.
Or maybe she’ll be the answer to all our prayers.
Twenty
I much prefer this hotel to the previous one. It’s not that it’s any nicer – if anything, it’s probably five points higher on the grotty scale. The walls are a dirty cream, the kettle is furred with limescale and the windows need a good clean. It’s a shithole. But it’s what it represents. This place actually feels like a stepping stone rather than yet another forced destination. I have a strong feeling I’ll be out of here really soon and with any luck, I’ll never have to stay in a place like this again.
Dumping the contents of my holdall onto the blue candlewick bedspread, I cast a critical eye over my ‘capsule wardrobe’, as I like to ironically call it. I know the type of thing I want to wear, but I can’t overdo it. Subtlety is key.
First I pick out a cheap and nasty black polyester trouser suit. It has a horrible sheen to it which almost makes me want to gag. Next a hospital-blue, fitted cotton blouse. Finally, plain black low-heeled court shoes top off the ensemble. I peel off my jeans and sweatshirt and pull on my chosen outfit, eager to see the result. But there’s no mirror.
I push open the bathroom door and wrinkle my nose against the faint smell of drains. There’s a mirror above the sink so I stand on the loo seat to try to get a sense of what I look like. Hmm, not bad, but something’s missing. I go back to the bedroom and dig out my washbag from the pile of stuff on the bed. Taking the quilted bag into the bathroom, I unzip it and rummage around until I find what I’m looking for – a small pot of Vaseline lip balm. I dip a finger into the pot and rub a glob of the stuff between my thumb and fingers. Then I slide my fingers through my dark hair. I keep going until my silky locks become dull and greasy. Then I tie the whole lot back in a low bun at the back of my head.
I should have cultivated a monobrow and let the dark, fine hair on my top lip grow back, but there was no time for such authenticity. This will have to do. I check myself in the mirror, and smile.
I am Sadie Lewis. Plain. Unremarkable. Perfect.
Twenty-One
She sits still and perfectly poised at the kitchen table. There is no nervous laughter or fidgety hands. Just polite responses to our questions. If only my facilities manager candidates came over as professionally as this woman does.
Her name is Sadie Lewis and she’s here to meet with me and Robert with a view to becoming our nanny, and to tutor Eva. So far, I like her. She’s young, reserved, and softly spoken. She’s… nondescript and serious, her hair scraped back into a no-nonsense bun. I’m not a clothes snob, but Sadie’s suit is truly hideous, with a shine that screams ‘highly flammable’. I think back to Rebecca’s warning about not hiring a pretty nanny and smile inwardly. There is nothing in the least bit provocative about Sadie.
‘So, what made you become a nanny?’ I ask.
‘Actually, I got into it accidentally.’ She gives a small smile. ‘I’d just finished my A Levels and my parents had friends who were going skiing for a month and needed someone to look after the children while they hit the slopes. My mum recommended me to them, and they liked the idea as I was already a family friend. It worked out really well and I ended up staying with them for three years.’
‘Wow!’ Robert says. ‘That’s great. How many children did you take care of?’
‘Three. Sam, Oliver and baby Maisie. I still miss them.’
‘Yes, I can imagine that must be quite hard,’ I say, ‘bonding with them, being with them every day, and then leaving.’
She gives a small shrug. ‘It’s hard, but I’ve found the best way of dealing with it is to throw myself into my new job. Start bonding with my new children. And I still keep in touch with all my families, so it’s not as though I never see them again.’
‘That’s so nice!’ I say, relieved to hear it. If she keeps in touch, that means they parted on good terms. ‘So, it says in your résumé…’ I put my forefinger on the sheet of paper on the table, ‘that you’ve worked for four previous families full-time, plus five temp jobs.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you mind me asking why you left each of them?’
‘Sure. Different reasons. A couple were fixed-term contracts so I was only required for a year or so. My first family moved abroad, and with my last job, the children grew up and the family no longer needed me.’
‘How did you get your nannying qualifications if you went straight from A Levels to working?’ I ask.
‘I trained while working, getting my childcare and teaching qualifications, which are all listed on my résumé.’
‘And you have experience of tutoring?’
‘Plenty. I’ve coached children to get through school entrance exams, as well as GCSEs.’
‘And what’s your approach with children? I mean, are you strict or laid-back? Where do you stand in terms of discipline?’ I realise I don’t want some scary, strict person in our house. Although she doesn’t look like she would be.
‘To be honest, I always take my lead from the parents. But I would never want to be overly strict – that goes against my childcare ethos. I prefer the carrot approach.’
