It Could Have Been Her(27)

“And your mum?”

“Yeah. Just do what she tells you to do and keep out of her way.”

The mother doesn’t like this arrangement, it’s clear. She knows why I’m here just as well as I know why I’m here. I’m here to service her husband and tidy her house and feed her children. All jobs that she should be doing, quite frankly, and I have no idea why she isn’t. In Brazil, where I am from, it is a patriarchal society, but here I thought that women had more power. Annie has no power from what I can see. Annie is a prop in her husband’s stage play. But whatever, I don’t want to be in that dirty room anymore, with those dirty men. I would rather be here. Here, I believe, I have more options. Less money, but more choices.

“I noticed there’s a computer in your dining room,” I say to the girl. “I mean, do you think your mum and dad would let me use it? I was thinking I might get back into some kind of studying?”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “They definitely wouldn’t. They don’t even let me use it.”

“Fair enough. Is there a library round here?”

“Yes, up the road. It’s only small though. But listen, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad tidings, but honestly? I don’t think you’ll have time for studying. Mum will work you to death.”

I let out a snort of laughter, but the girl looks at me seriously. “No,” she says. “Being an au pair here. Seriously. It’s a full-time job.”

She turns then at the sound of footsteps coming up the wooden stairs. “I need to go,” she says. “I’m not meant to be in here. They said I can’t talk to you.”

She jumps to her feet and straightens out the duvet where she’s rumpled it, then she backs toward the door and opens it. “Daddy,” she says, “I was just telling Naomi about our crazy family.”

“Very good,” he says, squeezing his daughter’s shoulder. “Very good. See you downstairs.”

She smiles and leaves, and Allen looks at me, a small smile curling at the corners of his lips.

“So,” he says. “Day one.”

“Day one,” I repeat. “What’s the deal?”

“Laundry,” he says crisply. “Laundry. And then floors.”

“Floors?”

“Mopping of. Vacuuming. Et cetera.”

I give him a questioning look. “That doesn’t sound like light housework, Allen?”

“Who said anything about light housework?”

“Well, you did. That’s what an au pair is. Isn’t it? Light housework and childcare.”

He peers down at me, tips his head to one side, and pushes out his lower lip. “Not quite,” he says. “At least, not in this house.”





chapter twenty-three


STUART, NINE YEARS EARLIER

The bedroom door creaks slightly. I am wide awake and breathing heavily, disturbed from a very deep dream. Jessamine doesn’t stir and it feels like the middle of the night, but it is hard to tell at this time of the year. A bolt of pinkish light falls into the room from the open door, and I can just make out the shape of a human being.

“Hello,” I whisper into the darkness.

“Dad?” a child’s voice whispers back.

Fuck.

I duck under the duvet and hiss into Jessamine’s ear. “Jess, it’s Daisy.”

She rouses and groans. “What?”

“Mum?” The child’s voice is closer now and I wriggle farther under the sheets.

“What?” I hear Jessamine mumble. “What is it?”

“I can’t sleep.” Then a second later. “Is Dad here?”

“No, Dad is not here.”

“But there was a man’s voice.” I feel a hand passing over my form in the darkness. “Who’s that?”

And then Jessamine sighs. “It’s nobody. It’s just a friend.”

“Is it the friend who brought the champagne?”

“Yes, it’s the friend that brought the champagne.”

“Why is he here?”

“Because it was late and he doesn’t have a place to sleep at the moment.”

There is a long silence and then I feel a finger prod at me. “Man. You need to come out of there.”

“Daisy!” Jessamine chides. “Don’t be so rude.”

“I’m not being rude. He just shouldn’t be hiding.”

I peel back the duvet and smile sheepishly at the girl. The girl recoils slightly at the sight of me and I don’t really blame her.

“Hi,” I say brightly. “I’m Stuart. And you must be Daisy.”

She nods. Her eyes go to her mother, plaintively.

Jessamine says, “Daisy. It’s four in the morning. Please go back to sleep.”

“But I can’t.”

“I’ve told you before that you have to teach yourself how to sleep. You’re going to be eleven in October. You can’t depend on other people to put you back to sleep at your age. You need to find what works for you.”

Her tone is brusque, teacher-like.

“Counting sheep,” I say. “Have you tried that?”

She nods.