Our Little Secret (8 page)

I didn’t mention Scott once. I didn’t
think
about Scott once.

He cocks his head to one side, staring at me through narrowed eyes.

I really dreamt about him giving me head. Oh my God.
I can barely bring myself to look at him. I’m awash with pheromones and shame. This is altogether different from when I had an Edward-named fantasy in the shower. This was real – involving the real Edward. The real him standing here now.

‘So, you remember that you agreed to come into town later?’ he says.

I nod again, remembering now with a sickening jolt that he told me about his friend’s art gallery opening this evening. In Manhattan. Proper central New York. Like I’ve only ever seen in the movies. How he invited me to join him, and I said I would, like it was no big deal. But, in the cold light of day, there’s a million reasons why I don’t want to – can’t possibly actually go.

His wife, for a start.

He looks me up and down now. I don’t want to speak. I know my breath must stink, but he’s waiting for an answer.

‘I said, didn’t I . . . but I’m not sure . . . I mean—’ I begin, flustered. ‘I don’t think I can. I’m not . . .’

‘Do you have anything to wear?’

I pull a face, thinking of the black dress I wore to the interview, which I only flung in my case at the last minute just in case. And how Tiff told me that I was being ridiculous, and that I was staff and wouldn’t be going anywhere posh.

He stares at me. He’s obviously thinking what I’m thinking: that any cheap black dress that I’ve brought from England isn’t going to cut it in Manhattan.

‘I’m not sure if it’ll be OK, though,’ I say, lamely. Why are we having this conversation about my wardrobe? ‘And I didn’t bring the right shoes. I think maybe it’s better if I don’t—’

‘That’s no problem. How big are your feet?’ He smiles and stares down at my bare feet. If feels like a funny question for him to have asked. I screw up my nose and follow his gaze, wiggling my toes.

‘A thirty-eight,’ I tell him.

He looks back up into my eyes, a smile in his. ‘I really have no idea how your English sizes work. What dress size are you?’ he asks. He’s businesslike as he taps his lips, thinking. His soft lips. The lips I’ve already kissed like I wanted to devour him whole.

‘A . . .’ I croak. I clear my voice and shake my head, ineffectually preening my hair. ‘A ten, I guess,’ I try again.

‘Turn around,’ he says, pushing my shoulder gently. ‘I know what to get, if I can actually get a sense of your proportions. But you wear such hideous baggy clothes, I have no idea of your actual shape.’

He’s teasing me, I know, but it’s still a shock that he’s so rude. Are my clothes hideous? I thought they were cool.

‘Can I see your back?’ he asks.

‘My back?’ My mouth has gone dry.

‘Uh-huh.’ He says it so matter-of-factly, and then lifts the hem of my pyjama top, and I pull it up a little more, crossing my hands over my chest. I try and look over my shoulder. ‘I know about proportions from life drawing. Always start with the back.’

He’s staring at my waist, like he really is sizing me up to do a drawing or painting. But I guess that’s what he does. Did. Before he made squillions out of other artists.

‘I see,’ he says, as if he’s just had some sort of big revelation. ‘Don’t you have lovely skin.’

He says it as a statement, then runs his finger along the curve of my back, as if he’s painting it. Immediately my skin erupts into goosebumps. Fully awake now, my blood pounding, I look ahead in alarm and catch him staring at me in the mirror on the opposite wardrobe door. As my eyes meet his in the mirror, I feel a spark. Like there’s palpable electricity fizzing between us. As if, in that one look, he’s been able to tell every second of my dream and can see through me completely.

My pyjama top has ridden up and he must be able to see the bottom of my right breast. I hastily cover it up, and the moment is gone in a fraction of a second, but I’m still shaken.

He breaks my gaze quickly.

‘Great,’ he says, his voice breezy, as if nothing has just happened. He steps away, out of the room. ‘I’ll catch you later,’ he says, as he walks away.

And then he’s gone.

16

I’m rattled all morning, and I’m still trying to make sense of our encounter as I go downstairs into the kitchen and fix myself a giant bowl of cereal. Mrs Janey and Laura are in the kitchen too, but they’re busy issuing instructions to three Hispanic-looking gardeners. Mrs Janey tells me to help myself to cereal, flapping her hand in the direction of the cupboards, as if I’m a big inconvenience. She obviously disapproves that I’m up so late, because she looked up twice at the big clock above the door and then back at me.

I feel like shit, and I know I look just as bad. I have a hangover and I’m jangled after my dream, and worried that I’ve made an idiot of myself. I should have protested more. I don’t want to go to a party with Edward Parker. Not where I’ll be on show. He said to have fun getting ready, but I have no idea what’s expected of me, or what that means. Am I supposed to get dolled up in my black dress?

I hear a voice bellowing in the hall and turn to see a large black woman arrive in the kitchen doorway.

‘Hello? Roberta Greerson.’ Her tone and expression convey that she finds it impossible that she, Roberta Greerson, hasn’t been given more special treatment.

She scowls at me eating, until I stop. She looks like she’s used to bossing lots of people around. She has shiny skin, and she’s wearing lots of orange lipstick. Her eyes are green, accentuated by sparkly green eyeshadow. She takes her hair, which is a mass of tiny brown plaits, and puts it up in a band that she pulls from her wrist. Then she puts her hands on her considerable hips, like she means business.

‘Which one o’ you is Miss Henshaw?’ she demands.

Mrs Janey, who moves away from the back door, shakes her head, nodding in my direction, and leaves us alone. She doesn’t seem fazed by Roberta’s presence at all, or ask her any questions. Was she expecting her? She must have been. How does this household work? I don’t get it.

I slide off the stool and greet Roberta, who looks me up and down disapprovingly.

‘Lord, what happened to you, girl?’ she asks, scowling at my hair.

I pat it nervously. It’s not that bad, is it? I go to work at FunPlex with my hair looking much worse than this.

She grabs my chin and thrusts my face into the light. ‘You wearing some nasty make-up,’ she exclaims. It’s not a question.

These Americans really don’t mince their words, do they?

‘He said I’d have a job on my hands and, boy, he sure weren’t wrong this time,’ she continues, exaggerating this sentence, her eyes widening at me, and I think that this must be her attempt at humour.

I smile weakly, unable to finish my mouthful of cereal, as her strong thumb and fingers are pinning my jaw shut. Does she mean Edward, when she says ‘he’? Has ‘he’ described me as an impossible case?

‘We got work to do to get you in shape. Come on, girl. Hurry up. We ain’t got much time to get you party-ready.’

I’m still hungover and desperately trying to figure out a way to wriggle out of the art-gallery party tonight as Roberta takes over my room, hauling in three enormous wheelie-cases, as well as a huge reclining leather chair, which she humps into the centre of the carpet with Laura’s help. I’m told to sit in it, which I do with a thud, thanks to a fairly hefty push from Roberta’s hand.

She spends a lot of time on her mobile phone taking calls and barking orders to other people. I get the feeling she’s been dragged away from an important job to be here. She looks at her watch a lot. And swears even more.

I sit in the chair, but as I do so, an image of my dream flashes into my head, as vivid as if it had actually happened in real life. And then I remember Edward’s look. His hand on my waist . . .

Stop
, I almost say out loud.

I won’t think about it, I resolve, banning my imagination. It’s got me into enough trouble for one day already.

Roberta puts special hair-serum on my hair and then sets about massaging my face roughly. She tells me this is the latest beauty craze, which is all about cell-renewal, especially after drinking alcohol. She fixes me with a look. Like she knows all about last night.

The face massage is plain weird. It’s rough and invasive, especially when she does my eyes, which makes me feel like she’s going to pop my eyes out of their sockets any second. It really hurts, but my yelps don’t stop her. She even gets inside my mouth, massaging my cheeks from the inside. It’s bloody painful.

Afterwards she scrubs my face roughly, before applying a special mask, which dries like another skin, forcing me to keep still. Then she threads my eyebrows, which stings like crazy. She tuts at my hands, before painting my toenails and fingernails with the kind of precision and speed I have never encountered. If only the girls in the nail bars back home were like her, they’d triple their wages in a day.

Then she hauls me into the bathroom and washes my hair, puts on another face mask, daring me not to speak, and I can’t help wondering if I’ll have any skin left by the time she’s finished with me. I’m tingling all over. And not in a good way.

She hands me a drink of something fizzy and forces me to drink her ‘special tonic’. Then, once I’ve downed it, she puts pads of cool lotion over my eyes and tells me to relax, but it’s hard to. I want to curl my toes up, but I can’t because my nails are still drying.

‘Who gave you this awful cut?’ she demands, and I imagine her studying the ends of my hair between her fingers.

‘My friend Stacey,’ I counter, feeling defensive, but it’s hard to speak with the mask on. I had my hair cut especially before flying here. I go to Stacey as she’s an ace at waxing, and throws in a bikini, leg and armpit wax for the price of a haircut.

‘Well, if you don’t mind me saying, your friend Stacey don’t know shit about hair.’

I do mind her saying it. I mind very much, but I’m not in a position to complain. It’s difficult to move my face.

She sets about snipping my hair and I sit in terror, wondering what the hell she’s doing to me. After a while the snipping stops and, seemingly satisfied, Roberta sets about drying my hair, yanking it as she blow-dries it in sections and curls it. The room is soon filled with wafts of hairspray.

In the middle of this, there’s a knock at the door and Laura announces herself. I can’t see what she’s got, but there is a moment of hushed reverence, before Roberta instructs her to put whatever she’s carrying on the bed. Is this something Edward has sent for me to wear?

Eventually, my hair having been tugged, dried, curled and preened to within an inch of its life, Roberta removes the eye pads, wipes off all the gunk from my face, then rubs in a rich cream in luxurious circular motions and eventually instructs me to open my eyes. I’m so relieved that we’re done, and the physical assault is over, that it takes me a moment to register the dress on the bed.

I guess it must be intended for me, but even the first second I lay eyes on it, I know I’ll never have the nerve to wear it. It’s made of this slinky silvery fabric, which catches in the light with shimmering golds and blues. It’s the kind of fabric you’d expect mermaid costumes to be made out of.

Did Edward choose this for me?

I walk over to the dress and pick it up. It’s so flimsy and insubstantial, it’s going to show every lump and bump. It’s also backless, so there’s no way I’ll be wearing a bra.

‘Sensational, huh?’ Roberta says, grabbing the dress from me and holding it up against me. ‘Go put it on.’

‘I can’t wear that!’ I squeal.

‘Course you can, girl,’ Roberta frowns. ‘That’s what you’re supposed to wear.’

And you’ll do as you’re told
. She doesn’t say it, but her look does say it loud and clear. I’m going to wear that dress whether I like it or not. It’s in the plan. Whatever the plan is.

The phone on the dressing table rings, making us both jump. It’s Edward.

‘Hi,’ I say. And at that moment I catch sight of myself in the mirror and I almost drop the phone.

My hair looks incredible. As in . . .
in-cred-ible
. It’s never looked so glossy and lush. My face is shining with vitality. I look like a completely different person. I almost have to do a double-take to check it’s really me.

‘Miss Henshaw, listen,’ Edward says, and I spring back to listening to him.

Why does he keep calling me Miss Henshaw? Aren’t we beyond that?

His voice is low, like he’s trying to be private in a public space, as he continues, ‘Trewin, our driver who you met yesterday, is going to bring you into town in the car and drop you at the gallery, where I’ll meet you. I want you to promise me that you won’t say anything to anyone when you arrive. Don’t tell them anything, do you understand? Not your name, where you’re from?’ His voice is urgent.

‘Oh . . . well, OK,’ I stutter.

Why is this so important to him? I have no idea who will be at the gallery, so it’s hard to imagine who I would talk to anyway. The way he’s speaking makes me nervous. Exactly how many people are going to be there? Who would be likely even to notice me?

I’ve known from Gundred, right from the start, that Edward Parker and his wife are intensely private, but this is the first real sense I’ve had of it. Perhaps it’s all part of their mystique. Perhaps he likes to keep people guessing about him, but even so the words ‘gagging order’ spring to my mind.

‘Under no circumstances tell anyone that you’re my nanny, or that you are employed by me.’

‘Sure,’ I say. He makes our connection seem so formal, it wrong-foots me. Whatever closeness I thought we had is definitely one-sided. That dream has clearly skewed my view. I’m an employee, I remind myself. And nothing more.

‘Also, it’s very, very important that you don’t give any indication of where we live. Any at all. Not even the smallest hint.’

‘OK,’ I repeat. ‘Why would I tell anyone that anyway?’

He sighs. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t, but we don’t want the press all over us. It’s happened before. And we’re more exposed in Thousand Acres.’