I don’t have time to spend weeks settling in new nannies while trying to run the Beckett chain of boutique hotels. I’m bang in the middle of acquiring six more properties in several countries. Some of the older hotels are undergoing extensive refurbishment, and I’m busting my balls trying to help push through planning for a brand-new luxury flagship on a piece of land my brother, Sean, has acquired in Galway.
Time is money.
I run the bath, place Owen into it with plenty of toys, then strip his bed, all the while trying to work out what the fuck I’m going to do about the woman playing snakes and ladders with my daughter. My daughter, who is usually inconsolable for days when one of her fishes dies but is now laughing like a hyena on helium. The sound travels up the stairs and seeps through my sternum.
I pull my phone out of my jeans pocket and dial the agency that supplies the nannies.
‘Hello, Tatiana speaking, how may I help you?’ The manager always answers with the same cheery tone. Who arethese people who can muster enthusiasm on a whim? Do they have coffee on an IV drip? A pocketful of Haribos? Two lines of cocaine with their breakfast? How can they always be so fucking cheerful?
‘It’s Caelon Beckett. You sent me the wrong nanny.’ I stalk towards the big window overlooking the pristine front lawn. Not that I can take any credit for it. It’s all down to my gardener, Jared, who comes four times a week. His man vests are tighter than mankinis, and he often reeks of weed, but he gets the job done.
‘Ah, Mr Beckett, give me a second.’ I hear the tap tapping of fingernails on a keyboard.
‘We sent Ivy Winters. Did she not arrive?’
‘Oh, she “arrived”.’Right over my hand on Saturday night. ‘But there‘s been a mix up. She’s completely and utterly unsuitable for the position.’
‘Did she do something wrong?’ Tatiana’s voice hitches with surprise. ‘She came with excellent references.’
‘I specifically requested someone who has five years’ experience with children, is trained in CPR, and is a competent swimmer.’And preferably someone who doesn’t look like a fucking supermodel would be really fucking helpful.
‘Miss Winters meets all the criteria. She has buckets of experience, excellent references, and her mother is one of the top paediatricians in the country,’ Tatiana boasts.
I know. Mainly because that top paediatrician also birthed my best friend too.
‘Look, she’s just not a fit for this family. Can you please send someone else?’ I lean against the door frame, watching as Orla and Ivy stroll across the grass hand in hand. Something sharp twists in my chest as they stop by the water fountain and peer at the lily pads. Ivy says something to Orla, and she laughs.
Tatiana clears her throat, ‘I’m afraid there isn’t anyoneelse. I lost four of my girls to a charity dig in Africa. Two have accepted “real jobs”, their words not mine, and the others are all settled with families. There’s a possibility I might have someone in a few weeks, but the background checks take a while, as you know.’
For fuck’s sake.
‘How about you keep Miss Winters for the summer and get back to me in September if things don’t settle?’ Tatiana suggests. ‘How does that sound?’
I could try another agency, but Tatiana’s is the best in the city.
I sigh sharply. We’re at the start of the summer holidays. Orla’s school has finished up for ten weeks. Owen’s just graduated from playschool and is about to start big school in September. I need someone now. I can’t be here all the time.
‘It sounds like I don’t have a choice.’
Chapter Six
IVY
Orla is one of the sweetest, cutest kids I’ve ever worked with. My heart breaks for what she’s endured in her short life. Dead fish and multiple nannies clearly aren’t helping.
I can help though. I’d love to try at least. Try to bring some happiness back into this beautiful little girl’s life. I’ve always been compelled to help people, kids especially. Perhaps because I couldn’t help my own sister. My mother begged me to study medicine. She’s convinced I’m a ‘fixer’. I think that’s just wishful thinking.
It’s not ideal that Orla’s father is the tall, dark and tortured stranger who got me over the line faster than a Formula One car, but I can get over that happy accident, if he can. Especially now I know he’s a widow, not a cheater. Though, given the way he’s been simultaneously scowling and spying on me all morning, and the fact my suitcase is still at the bottom of the stairs, him “getting over it” isn’t looking likely.
Is he worried I’m going to spontaneously jump him?
Or say to his kids, “Hey guys, guess what Daddy did the other night.”
As if.
We’re both adults. Professionals. We can forget it ever happened. Well, okay, I’ll probably never forget, but I can pretend. It doesn’t have to be an issue unless he makes it one. We both know it can never happen again.
‘I’m hungry,’ Orla whines, tugging me towards the opulent kitchen. The back wall is entirely made of glass and opens out onto a dark, polished wooden decking area with a rustic -looking table and six chairs.
