Kitabı oku: «Picnics in Hyde Park»

2

‘I’m sorry,’ Matt silenced his phone and placed it face down on the glass table. ‘Today’s been nightmarish,’ he ran a hand distractedly through his hair, ‘to say I’m short-staffed is an understatement.’

If part of the reason for his stress hadn’t been down to him throwing her sister out on her arse, Zoe might have felt sorry for him. He looked genuinely pained. But it was his own stupid fault.

‘That’s okay,’ she said politely, wondering how much of the interview to go through with before sharing the real reason for turning up on his doorstep. She felt like she needed to know more about him first. What if she started accusing him of what he’d done to Melody and he denied it all, or threw her out too? No, that wasn’t good enough. She had to think about this strategically. It was just a shame that dragging tiredness and anger were befuddling her brain.

‘Right, the phone is being ignored and I’m not going to answer the door if the bell goes,’ he declared. ‘Let’s get on with this.’ Leaning forward to grab the notepad again, the movement showed off strong chest muscles shifting under the cotton of his top.

Her eyes flew up, noticing the petal pattern in his forest green irises, and how focused his gaze was.

‘So, tell me more about why you wanted the agency to send you over for this job in particular?’ he asked, pen poised over the paper.

‘Er…um,’ she stuttered. It was an easy warm-up question, but her brain couldn’t seem to come up with an answer. What the heck had she said earlier? She couldn’t remember clearly, she’d been so intent on getting through the door.

‘Well?’ he raised both eyebrows.

Glancing out of one of the French doors, Zoe caught sight of a flowering indigo plant and a section of deck railing. It looked pretty out there, idyllic. Which nudged her memory. ‘Like I said, it’s a lovely place to live,’ she mumbled.

‘That’s it?’

‘Yeah,’ she said lamely. God, this was awful. She was acting like a space cadet. Get it together.

Matt twisted his wrist and checked his battered but expensive looking watch. ‘Are you sure you’re actually here for an interview? To be frank, I’m really busy, so…’ he started unfolding his tall body from the sofa.

It was enough to shake her from the fog. What was she doing? She was here for a reason, couldn’t blow it. ‘N-no,’ she squeaked, and then cleared her throat before speaking with more confidence. ‘I mean, no.’

Shooting up and stalking around the coffee table, he jerked her from the sofa by one elbow. ‘Why the hell are you here then?’

She stumbled against him, letting out an oof as their bodies clashed awkwardly. Typically, his muscles were as solid and defined as they looked and her face bloomed pink as scorching sexual awareness ran through her, hardening her nipples. She glanced down quickly to check he couldn’t see them through her top. Luckily he was more focused on other things, like drilling her for information. He didn’t seem to notice how close they were or how tight his grip was.

‘Are you with the press?’ he demanded softly, the tone somehow scarier than if he’d shouted.

‘No! Absolutely not! I’m not part of that lot.’ She hoped her tone was suitably scathing and convincing, given that one of her best friends was a journalist. ‘And can you let go of me please? That’s way too tight.’ The determined shake of her arm must have convinced him of something, even if it was only that she wouldn’t put up with any high-handed crap.

He let go immediately. ‘Sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt you?’

To his credit he looked sincere. It was the perfect opportunity to make him feel bad, but he hadn’t actually hurt her. Plus, if she went on the attack, it might make him defensive, which would get her nowhere. ‘You didn’t,’ she shrugged, ‘don’t worry.’

‘Good. So now you can explain yourself.’ He crossed his arms across his chest, shoulders tense.

‘Sure. Okay. When I said no, I only meant that no, I didn’t want to leave. You were getting up and I thought you were going to say it was over before it had even begun. I don’t usually perform this badly at interviews, I swear. I wasn’t talking much because I’m jetlagged and feeling a bit funny from the sun.’ She fanned herself to illustrate the point. Did she look as stupid and fake as she felt? But hey, she was committed now, and might as well go for it. ‘I only landed a couple of hours ago, it’s really hot outside and I burn easily. I mean look at this rubbish pale skin.’ She pointed to her face. ‘I may have a bit of heatstroke, but I feel better now I’m inside.’ She mustered her best acting skills and smiled brightly. ‘So perhaps you could offer me a glass of water and a minute to compose myself then we can start again? I’m not from the press, honestly.’ It was easy to hold his gaze, given it was the truth.

There was a long pause as he stared at her. ‘Fine,’ he said, expression guarded. ‘I suppose.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I know journalists. If you were one you would either come clean and bombard me with questions or maybe try to tempt me with something,’ his eyes flickered over her body, ‘in exchange for an exclusive story.’

Her spine stiffened and she smiled coldly. He was either deadly serious and an absolute pig, or was testing her.

‘Luckily neither of those applies. Anyway, what would someone from the press want with you at the moment?’

‘You really don’t know?’

‘Nope.’

Now she was fibbing, having read about a supposed broken engagement in a trashy celeb magazine on the seven hour flight home. The break-up was allegedly because his pop star fiancée had set up a cosy photo shoot with his kids without permission, prompting him to storm into a conference room to collect them, followed by hustling them out of the private entrance at the back of the hotel. As well as leaving with his children, he’d also apparently left with the massive diamond rock he’d proposed with six weeks before.

He shook his head. ‘Never mind then. It doesn’t matter.’

Was he embarrassed? Ashamed? Hurt? None of the above, surely. He didn’t look particularly heartbroken.

‘Hang on. I think it matters. If you gave me the job would I have to live with the papers breathing down my neck all the time? For instance, do your children get followed?’

‘Getting a bit ahead of yourself based on your input so far, aren’t you?’ he asked dryly. ‘Talking yourself into the job. A bit over confident, maybe?’

Arrogant was the unspoken word hanging in the air. From the glint in his eye, he wanted to see how she would react when provoked. But he wasn’t going to see that side of her. At least, not yet.

‘Over confident? No.’ She shrugged. ‘Over qualified? Maybe. I got a CACHE level three Diploma in Home-based Child Care when I left school before it was replaced with the QCF framework, and worked in a nursery for a few years. I progressed to a degree in Psychology with a view to specialising with children, but hated the job itself when I did my placement year at an independent school. So I left uni early, got a Paediatric First Aid award, did basic health and safety training, undertook a food hygiene certificate and became a nanny. My plan tomorrow is to apply to get onto the OFSTED Childcare Register so I can care for under eight year olds…’ She continued talking, reeling off her experience and skills, taking great pleasure in shutting him up. By the time she was done, his eyebrows were so high they’d almost disappeared into his dark hair.

‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ nodding his head, ‘we’ll get on with the set questions after I’ve got you that glass of water.’ He loped away, long legs carrying him quickly to the door.

Her eyes dropped to his deliciously muscular butt and she twisted away, swearing. She was almost twenty-eight, not a teenager. She should not be susceptible to crushes on the latest bit of man-candy in the media.

Think of Melody. What do I do about the indefensible way he treated her?

Matt was so self-assured that Zoe doubted simply taking her sister’s stuff and having a go at him would have the slightest affect, never mind making him feel bad enough to offer to make amends. Her hands curled into fists, picturing her sister’s pale face and bloodshot eyes. According to Jemima, Melody had hardly spoken or eaten since rolling up on her friend’s doorstep unexpectedly the previous day.

Matt walked back into the room and placed two blue glasses filled with sparkling water, ice and neat slices of lemon on the table. Zoe dropped onto the sofa and thanked him politely, hiding her churned up feelings behind a bland expression. As she sipped her drink, her hand was steady, a new determination burning a hole in her stomach. She wasn’t sure how she was going to get even with him yet, but would ignore his physical appeal if it killed her.

‘So,’ she put her water down and clasped her hand together in her lap, ‘what’s the next question?’

For the following half hour, Zoe answered his competency-based questions calmly, talking about educational standards, setting up routines, and how she handled behaviour management issues through shared partnership and agreed strategies with parents. She was candid with her professional opinion of what Matt’s children needed based on their ages, following up with questions about their likes, hobbies and extra-curricular activities to show her interest. At times she accidentally slipped into enjoying the challenge of the interview and as much as she hated the idea of thinking anything positive about Matt, it was obvious from his probing questions that he was bright, sharp and knew what he wanted for his kids. She was shocked to feel genuinely interested in the job when Matt gave an approving smile to her last answer and asked if she had any questions of her own.

‘I assume it’s a live-in position?’ she said after quizzing him about the hours, salary and next stages of the interview process.

‘Yes, you’d have your own bedroom, bathroom and a small lounge area on the top floor.’

‘Great. Could I see them please?’

‘Not today,’ he said brusquely.

No wonder. Melody’s things were probably still in her bedroom and he’d be unable to explain why. Because, after all, not many people would voluntarily leave their stuff behind, and he’d hardly want to admit to slinging a previous employee out so quickly he’d not let them pack up their belongings.

‘Okay, maybe next time, if I’m invited back.’ Sliding forward on the sofa, she leaned toward him with her head tilted to indicate interest and encourage honesty. It was basic psychology. ‘So, am I allowed to ask what happened to your last nanny?’

His lips tightened, a pulse beating in his stubbly jaw. ‘I’d rather not discuss it,’ he replied, shuffling his paperwork together on the table.

‘It’s important for me to know, given I’m applying to replace her,’ she said, peering at him so he had to meet her gaze or appear rude. ‘Did she leave for professional or personal reasons? Was she not happy here? What have you told the children? If I get the job I need to know what happened so I can be prepared for any questions your son or daughter might have about her going. They may be upset, or miss her. They could feel like she abandoned them. Particularly after what happened to your wife…’ she trailed off as his expression turned grim and his knuckles turned white around the notepad. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, meaning it. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She might not like the guy but she wasn’t a robot. There was genuine grief and regret on his face. One thing they had in common.

‘Its fine,’ he said in a taut voice, ‘it’s common knowledge. It’s not as if my family has any right to privacy or anything.’

She sidestepped the bitterness in the remark, choosing not to get into the debate. It was his choice to have a career that put him in the spotlight, so it was for him to deal with the consequences. It was just a shame if it affected the kids. ‘I appreciate it must have been difficult and I don’t want to pry. I’m thinking purely of your children’s welfare.’

‘I understand that. And I suppose you might be right about needing to know what happened. But how do you know my last nanny was a woman?’

She nearly lost her nerve but wouldn’t give in that easily, holding his gaze. ‘Statistically, the number of women in the field compared to the number of men makes it more likely your nanny was female.’ Pushing a strand of black hair behind her ear, she watched his deep green eyes flicker along her collarbone before returning to her face. That was interesting. ‘Seriously, I know I’d have to meet Aimee and Jasper and pass all the clearances and checks, but if you offer me the job I’d quite like to know what happened to the last employee in it.’ Forcing a nervous laugh. ‘She’s not buried under the patio or anything is she? Or chained up in the basement? What’s the big mystery?’

His smile was fleeting. ‘No mystery, just simply not pleasant. She, ah,’ he picked over his words, ‘did something I didn’t agree with that meant she was no longer suitable to be my children’s nanny. It turned out she wasn’t the person I thought she was. It was disappointing,’ he shrugged one shoulder casually as if he didn’t care, but there was something in the set of his chin that suggested otherwise, ‘but these things happen, and I need to replace her urgently. Does that tell you enough?’

‘I guess so,’ she replied through stiff lips, longing to jump up and yell at him. ‘Thanks for sharing.’ He really was an absolute bastard. It felt like every muscle in her face was clenching, but she breathed in and out deeply, striving to keep calm. Since when was falling in love such a crime that it meant you were unfit to look after children? And he could have said anything, taken the diplomatic line and said his nanny had left for personal reasons. Instead he was suggesting Melody had let him down, when the truth was that it was the other way around. Especially after all the time, energy and passion her sister had devoted to his children, who she’d grown to genuinely care about.

Zoe could hardly believe it. He clearly had zero conscience. Was it the industry he worked in that made him think he could treat people this way, or did the nature of the industry happen to support an arrogance that had already existed before he’d made it big? She resisted the urge to bounce out of her seat, grab his precious bloody paperwork and whack him around the head with it repeatedly, very hard and with great satisfaction. Fury didn’t even begin to cover it. Bloody, bloody men.

‘So, what about you?’ he asked, looking at her expectantly.

‘Sorry?’

‘Why have you just left your job after five years and come back to the UK? You must have liked it over there to stay that long? You still sound very British but I noticed you use American slang quite a bit.’

‘I guess it’s normal to pick things up when you’re living and breathing it every day,’ she said shortly. ‘And in answer to your question, personal reasons, including to be with my family again.’

‘Fair enough,’ he stood up. ‘Right, I think we’re done here. Thank you for your time.’

‘Can I have another glass of water before I go please?’ She needed a minute to think, as well as rein her anger in.

‘Sure,’ he checked his watch, ‘but it’ll have to be quick. The next candidate will be here any minute.’

‘That’s fine. Thanks.’

He nodded and picked up the glasses, leaving her alone. Springing off the sofa she strode across the room and flung open the nearest French door, propping herself up against the frame. Her heart beat a rapid ga-doom, ga-doom, ga-doom in her chest, pumping adrenalin around her body. What a bastard Matt was.

The scent of freshly cut grass filled her nose and normally the heady smell of British summer would be a lovely distraction, a balm to the last few years of homesickness. Not today. Her fingers clenched around each other, knuckles tight.

Then as if her system had used the last of its energy up with the hot blast of anger, belated jet lag hit hard again. A drowning wave of languor washed over her, making her eyes go gritty and heavy. Just like that, she couldn’t wait to get out of this house and away from the whole sorry mess. God, she was weary. Curling up in a ball and sinking into a deep slumber suddenly held massive appeal. She hadn’t slept properly for almost two weeks before leaving New York. There’d been too much to do, wrapping up her life and returning to her old one. The nights staring dry-eyed at the ceiling hadn’t helped either. Somewhere inside her there was a healthy need to grieve and cry, but she hadn’t been able to manage it before leaving the States.

It had been a mistake coming here, a knee-jerk reaction. Would it be better if she simply left? Went back to Melody and helped her put her life back together, while doing the same for herself? But then she heard Matt moving around the kitchen, whistling along to a pop track currently in the UK download chart, perhaps one that he’d produced. He sounded so happy, so unconcerned. It was completely unfair. Why should he be acting as if life was peachy when he’d practically ruined her sister’s?

She went to shut the door and her head jerked as she spotted a wooden bench tucked away in a corner of the manicured lawn, not far from a sturdy apple tree and rose-beds resplendent with pearl-white blooms. Her gaze zoomed in on a scrap of fabric draped over the seat. It was a rich mulberry colour. Melody’s cardigan, one Zoe had bought in Bloomingdale’s and paid to have shipped back to the UK for her last birthday. Next to it was a book, left open face down to keep the page. The spine would be permanently creased by now. They’d always argued about Melody’s inability to treat books with respect. Then it dawned that her baby sister had been ejected so quickly she’d not even been able to grab her things from the garden and she shook with regenerated rage, adrenalin boiling up and smothering her exhaustion.

It was time to give Matt, a guy too similar to Greg for comfort, what he deserved. He needed to feel humiliation and hurt on every level. She was sick of men who thought they could treat women like that, tossing them aside when they were done. It wasn’t right and it stung. It ripped apart your self-esteem so you were left wondering, what’s wrong with me? Why aren’t I good enough? It ripped apart your heart so you thought, I never want to go through this again.

Matt Reilly would pay, and not only for making her sister jobless, homeless and breaking her heart with the help of his brother, but for all the other women he’d hurt in the past. She’d read the articles. Sure, you couldn’t take everything you read in the tabloids as a given, but there had to be a grain of truth in them. If only a fraction of the hearts he’d reportedly broken since becoming a widower three years ago were true, the line of devastated women would stretch from London to Brighton and back again.

But how was she going to do it?

Then there was that sweet, magical moment when inspiration hit. As Matt swept back in and she turned to him, smoothing her hands down over her top, she saw an appreciative glint in his eyes, quickly hidden. Put that together with his near paranoia about the press and his desperation for privacy and she knew exactly what to do.

This was going to be so goddamn satisfying…if she could pull it off.