get to the kitchen, there’s no cute little girl to say good morning to me. Oh no. Instead, there’s just Will: dressed in a sharp black business suit, cup of coffee in his hand, and an icy cold expression on his face as he turns the page of the Financial Times .
And when I enter the room and stand awkwardly at the end of the huge table, he barely looks up to register my presence.
“Good morning?” I say, unable to get the questioning tone quite out of my voice.
No answer.
I was glad to see him a second ago, but now I’m not so sure. I nervously make myself a cup of coffee too, just to keep busy. Luckily, the Scandinavian wood kitchen table is so big that I can sit on the other end of it, and put some distance between us.
“Where’s Tabby?” I offer.
“I sent Tabitha to the TV room,” he replies coolly, still not even looking up from his paper. “And actually, I wanted to talk to you about something privately. I’m slightly concerned that Tabby is picking up some ... how can I put this? Slovenly habits from you.”
I’m stunned. What the hell? I’ve no idea where all this is suddenly coming from.
“She called me pop this morning. A dreadful Americanism, which I can only assume she picked up from you. If you would please be more careful with the language you use around my daughter,” he adds witheringly. “She comes from a very good family and she will grow up a proper lady. Therefore it is imperative she talks like one. “
I’m totally dumbstruck, no idea how to reply. For one thing, I don’t even use the word pop myself. I’ve always just called Dad, well, Dad. It’s not a word I’ve used, and so Tabby can’t have picked it up from me.
I feel anger rising up inside me and I want to defend myself, to shout out: I don’t use that word. It’s not my fault. Maybe it’s all the television you let her watch. Did you ever think she might have picked it up from there?!?
But one look at his face tells me that would be a pretty dangerous move. This subject is clearly no longer up for discussion, this or any other subject for that matter.
I stare down into my cup of coffee. Coffee that now tastes so bitter.
And then I mutter quietly, barely audibly, “Roger that.”
Will snaps his newspaper shut, as if to signal a satisfactory end to the discussion.
“I’m going to the office,” he announces.
And those dark eyes – eyes that last night seemed so alive, burning with fire and passion – are now totally steely and cold, emotionless, dead.
“Try to do something educational with Tabitha today,” he adds.
And with that he drains his coffee, places his cup back on the table, picks up the embossed dark leather briefcase, and without another word leaves the room.
Alone in the silent kitchen, it’s all I can do to fight back the tears.
I spend the day focussing hard on work. Okay, so I’ve been distracted, but no longer. This silly charade ends now . Once again, I inwardly congratulate myself for finally doing the right thing. For shutting down this pathetic little childish infatuation of mine with the nanny. It was making a mockery of my beloved Emma’s memory. And it had to stop.
Now it’s over, I can finally fix my concentration on what really matters. On growing my business, expanding my property portfolio, and caring fully for my daughter.
I’ve finished work for the day, but something’s stopping me from going home. Deep down, I know that it’s Chrissie. I upset her this morning, that much was clear. It had to be done, but she was obviously hurt.
She’s a girl. An American. The kind of person who can’t keep her feelings in check. If I get home tonight, there’s every chance she’ll be waiting for me with those big pleading puppy dog eyes, pouring her heart out, begging me to talk to her. And I simply won’t allow it.
Why did I ask that damn girl to move in!
I have – what? – fifty other flats and houses here in London. I could have
And when I enter the room and stand awkwardly at the end of the huge table, he barely looks up to register my presence.
“Good morning?” I say, unable to get the questioning tone quite out of my voice.
No answer.
I was glad to see him a second ago, but now I’m not so sure. I nervously make myself a cup of coffee too, just to keep busy. Luckily, the Scandinavian wood kitchen table is so big that I can sit on the other end of it, and put some distance between us.
“Where’s Tabby?” I offer.
“I sent Tabitha to the TV room,” he replies coolly, still not even looking up from his paper. “And actually, I wanted to talk to you about something privately. I’m slightly concerned that Tabby is picking up some ... how can I put this? Slovenly habits from you.”
I’m stunned. What the hell? I’ve no idea where all this is suddenly coming from.
“She called me pop this morning. A dreadful Americanism, which I can only assume she picked up from you. If you would please be more careful with the language you use around my daughter,” he adds witheringly. “She comes from a very good family and she will grow up a proper lady. Therefore it is imperative she talks like one. “
I’m totally dumbstruck, no idea how to reply. For one thing, I don’t even use the word pop myself. I’ve always just called Dad, well, Dad. It’s not a word I’ve used, and so Tabby can’t have picked it up from me.
I feel anger rising up inside me and I want to defend myself, to shout out: I don’t use that word. It’s not my fault. Maybe it’s all the television you let her watch. Did you ever think she might have picked it up from there?!?
But one look at his face tells me that would be a pretty dangerous move. This subject is clearly no longer up for discussion, this or any other subject for that matter.
I stare down into my cup of coffee. Coffee that now tastes so bitter.
And then I mutter quietly, barely audibly, “Roger that.”
Will snaps his newspaper shut, as if to signal a satisfactory end to the discussion.
“I’m going to the office,” he announces.
And those dark eyes – eyes that last night seemed so alive, burning with fire and passion – are now totally steely and cold, emotionless, dead.
“Try to do something educational with Tabitha today,” he adds.
And with that he drains his coffee, places his cup back on the table, picks up the embossed dark leather briefcase, and without another word leaves the room.
Alone in the silent kitchen, it’s all I can do to fight back the tears.
I spend the day focussing hard on work. Okay, so I’ve been distracted, but no longer. This silly charade ends now . Once again, I inwardly congratulate myself for finally doing the right thing. For shutting down this pathetic little childish infatuation of mine with the nanny. It was making a mockery of my beloved Emma’s memory. And it had to stop.
Now it’s over, I can finally fix my concentration on what really matters. On growing my business, expanding my property portfolio, and caring fully for my daughter.
I’ve finished work for the day, but something’s stopping me from going home. Deep down, I know that it’s Chrissie. I upset her this morning, that much was clear. It had to be done, but she was obviously hurt.
She’s a girl. An American. The kind of person who can’t keep her feelings in check. If I get home tonight, there’s every chance she’ll be waiting for me with those big pleading puppy dog eyes, pouring her heart out, begging me to talk to her. And I simply won’t allow it.
Why did I ask that damn girl to move in!
I have – what? – fifty other flats and houses here in London. I could have
Similar Books
