‘Well, I might get in late,’ said Carmen. ‘What is this job anyway? Mum just said retail.’
That was not remotely true, but Carmen hadn’t really been listening. Also, Sofia hadn’t been a hundred per cent open with her mother about how bad things were at the shop in case Carmen went off on one and refused to come.
‘It’s a bookshop,’ said Sofia. ‘One of my clients owns it. Mr McCredie. Needs someone to help him over Christmas.’
‘Well, that sounds okay.’
‘You like reading, don’t you?’
Sofia had never been a bookworm like Carmen: she had studied hard and read textbooks, and now she liked interior design magazines, whereas Carmen followed her heart and read books wherever her interests took her; about space, history, romance, anything she felt like, alighting from one to the next like a butterfly.
Carmen shrugged.
‘So,’ said Sofia. ‘Okay,’ said Carmen. ‘What is Skylar studying?’
‘Something arty? Not sure.’
‘She seems very … organised.’
Sofia was in no mood to discuss Skylar after a hit-and-miss trail of previous au pairs had spent their days crying with homesickness, ransacking the fridge, smoking in their rooms, flirting with Federico and actually stealing.
‘She’s great,’ she said. ‘Please don’t fall out with her. I really need her.’
Carmen was about to snap back that she didn’t fall out with anyone, but thought better of it on the grounds of it not being strictly true.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll be good.’
Sofia smiled.
‘You don’t have to be good,’ she said, the way she’d done when they were both small and Carmen was in trouble again. ‘You just have to look good to the grown-ups.’
Which was peace of sorts, and enough for their mother when Sofia called to tell her all about it, and which lasted slightly less than twenty-four hours.
Well, thought Carmen the next morning, as she woke up in the strange quiet dingy room and looked around. Supper had been difficult: Phoebe had refused point-blank to eat the couscous and everyone had silently blamed Carmen after the whole crisps incident, then Sofia had encouraged Pippa to play her bassoon, which she had, loudly and uncharmingly, and encouraged Phoebe to sing, a suggestion which was met with as much enthusiasm as the couscous, while Jack repeatedly kicked the expensive Shaker kitchen table leg and Carmen had thought she would just go to bed early before she caused any more trouble.
And now she was starting work. At a new job. Cor.
Perhaps it would be all right. A lovely bookshop where people came to sit and read and it was quiet and she could drink tea and grab a copy of something good and sit quietly in the corner until somebody needed her.
That would be all right, wouldn’t it? It would be nice. Bit of light dusting. It would be easier than haberdashery, with its wedding rush and bridal lace fretting. Books were hardly a big deal. Plus young Mr McCredie, as Sofia had called him, was apparently ‘nice if a bit quiet’。 That didn’t sound too bad. He couldn’t possibly be worse than Mrs Marsh, that was for sure. Carmen had wanted to ask how old he was exactly, but didn’t want Sofia getting that simpering look she got when she got all excited about Carmen’s love life and lied about how much she liked Carmen’s boyfriends when it was obvious that anyone less than Federico, with his immaculate hair and manners and job and tailoring, she considered basic scum. The fact that occasionally Carmen had dated fairly basic scum didn’t help either. Hey: there was a lot of scum about. That was just the law of averages.
She went up to breakfast – the two younger children were sitting at the table: Jack in a pair of little old-fashioned pyjamas with buttons, and Phoebe in a fussy nighty. Her hair stuck straight out and she wore a menacing expression that in someone slightly older would have inspired Carmen to bring them a coffee.