‘What do you mean, Daddy? She just said she’s my new nanny.’ She sniffs again. ‘I like her. I don’t want her to go as well. Everyone dies or leaves.’
I flinch. Kids don’t lie.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I suck in a ragged breath.
Ivy can’t stay.
Not now the image of her face as she came undone on my hand is seared into my brain.
Not now I know what she tastes like.
Not now I’ve beaten myself off thinking of her six times in the shower since.
It’s too awkward.
Too weird.
It’s just wrong.
‘Why don’t I stay for a while, and we can talk about this mix up later.’ Ivy beams at Orla without sparing me a glance. ‘Do you have any dolls? Or teddies? Or are you a Polly Pocket type of girl?’
Huh. I know exactly what type of girl–woman–Ivy Winters is, and even though she’s doing a great job at calming my distraught daughter down, she’s no fucking Mary Poppins. Mary Poppins would never have let a stranger get her off in public.
‘I’ll show you the playroom,’ Orla exclaims. ‘We have everything. Barbies. Lego. Even a tent with fairy lights. You need to see it!’ She slides down Ivy’s tight white vest top andass-sculpted jeans, slips her hand into hers and drags her down the wide corridor.
Samuel stands in the hallway with a quizzical expression on his face. ‘The luggage, Mr Beckett?’
‘Leave it there. She’s not staying,’ I repeat.
‘Very well.’ Samuel raises his bushy eyebrows but doesn’t linger.
My son, Owen, trundles down the stairs with his favourite stuffed animal, Patches, tucked under his arm. Patches is an oversized, tatty teddy bear who’s seen better days, like the rest of us. His stuffing is falling out, he’s lost an eye, and he’s in desperate need of a wash, but Owen won’t part with him for a second, let alone the hour it would take to put him through the washing machine.
‘New nanny?’ he scowls.
Owen has hated every nanny we’ve had. It’s not their fault they’re not Isabella. He was only three when she died, but he talks about her every day. Though he doesn’t have that many memories of her, he likes to go over the ones he does, which is endearing, but brutal, for me.
There’s no escaping the reminders of her. I know I don’t deserve to escape, but sometimes to do so is a relief.
Owen refuses to let another woman close to him. Is it possible that he feels the same sense of disloyalty I felt the first time I had sex with another woman?
‘Yep. But this one isn’t staying.’
‘Good.’ He reaches the bottom step. ‘Dad, I have to fess something.’ His huge chocolate eyes fall to the floor. Both kids inherited my colouring, but they both have their mother’s soft features.
‘What is it, buddy?’ I cross the hall and crouch to his level. The scent of pee clings to him and his ‘fession’ is suddenly obvious. He’s been bed-wetting most nights since Isabella’s death.
‘I — ’‘ He swallows thickly and tugs at Winnie’s one eye.
‘It’s okay, buddy.’ I pull him against my chest, feeling his heart thud against mine. ‘I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.’
We have a housekeeper, Liz, but Owen would rather I put his sheets in the wash than tell the staff about his accident. Liz is a firm but fair type of woman, but the kids find her a little intimidating.
‘Come on up. I’ll put you in the bath while I strip the bed.’ I hoist him up and carry him up the stairs.
I have a million things I need to do today, but at least I’d arranged to work from the home office this week. It usually takes a few days to get the new nanny settled. I should know. I’ve done it way too many times now.
And now Ivy showing up has tossed a brand-new spanner in the works.
