Read Online The Nearly-Weds by Jane Costello - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Costello
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the time to have that conversation with him: the one about a plethora of matters we haven’t yet broached, the rules, Ruby’s reading, Samuel’s toilet skills (which, it has become apparent, are haphazard) and my day off.
I push open the living-room door. Ryan is still ploughing intently through his paperwork.
‘Um, hi,’ I pipe up. He doesn’t turn so I scrutinize his face, trying to work out whether or not he’s heard me. I am hit again by an overwhelming sense of how alluring his features are and blood rushes to my neck.
‘I wonder if now is a good time to have a chat about a couple of things,’ I say, slightly louder.
Ryan looks up momentarily, but only to witness Tony Soprano putting his hands round someone’s throat. ‘Not really,’ he replies.
My heart sinks. ‘Well,’ I persevere, ‘I know you’ll be at work tomorrow so there won’t be a chance then and I really need to discuss a couple of things with you.’
‘Look,’ he sighs, ‘I have a stack of work to get through before tomorrow. Is this really urgent or can we do it tomorrow night?’
‘Well . . . “urgent” probably isn’t the word I’d use,’ I’m forced to admit. ‘It’s not life or death but there are some practical things that—’
‘Okay, if it’s not life or death then let’s do it tomorrow.’ He picks up a file from the floor and drags it on to the sofa next to him.
Clearly I don’t have much choice.
When I don’t move, he flashes a look as if to say: ‘Are you still standing there for a reason?’
‘I’ll go, then,’ I say despondently. I’m starting to feel quite depressed about the whole thing.
When the kids and I wake up the next morning, my first thought is whether I really will get to pin Ryan down – or whether I’ll just have to wing it. My answer comes in the form of a Post-it note on the kitchen table. The handwriting is surprisingly graceful. ‘Late tonight – don’t wait up. R.’
Winging it, then.
Later in the morning, the kids and I venture over to Trudie’s place and we are soon ensconced in her employers’ vast kitchen.
This room, like the rest of the house, is gorgeous: trendily traditional with duck-egg blue Shaker cabinets, an island bursting with sparkling utensils and the odd hand-woven basket as if Little Red Riding Hood had dropped by on the way to Grandma’s.
The purpose of the visit is a ‘play date’ – an exercise designed to broaden the children’s life experiences by allowing them to interact with other youngsters in a safe environment. And, of course, for their nannies to have a good gossip.
We have been joined today by Amber, another British nanny who has washed up in Hope Falls and with whom Trudie got together a couple of weeks ago. A pretty blonde with dreadlocks Bob Marley would have coveted, Amber has a cannabis-leaf-shaped stud in her nose, and so many bangles on her arms it’s a wonder she hasn’t the biceps of a Russian shot-putter. The overall look is of someone brought up by a family of tree-hugging political activists on a diet of reggae and space cakes. The accent, however, couldn’t have been more Sloaney if it had come with a certificate from Cheltenham Ladies’ College.
‘I’m considering getting another tattoo,’ she tells us excitedly, as Trudie prepares lunch and I oversee a game of Snap. ‘I mean, I like the one I’ve got, but it’s true what they say about them being addictive.’
‘What are you thinking of having?’ I ask.
‘Well,’ she begins, flicking back her dreadlocks and leaning over the breakfast bar, ‘I’ve been reading a lot lately about the women warriors of Skrang Iban in Borneo.’
‘The who?’ asks Trudie.
‘Skrang Iban,’ she replies. ‘In between doing warrior-type things and weaving their sacred pua kumbu blankets, they were trailblazers in the art of tattooing. The Iban’s ultimate aim was to provide balance and harmony in the cosmos, which is so where I’m at in my life right now. I
I push open the living-room door. Ryan is still ploughing intently through his paperwork.
‘Um, hi,’ I pipe up. He doesn’t turn so I scrutinize his face, trying to work out whether or not he’s heard me. I am hit again by an overwhelming sense of how alluring his features are and blood rushes to my neck.
‘I wonder if now is a good time to have a chat about a couple of things,’ I say, slightly louder.
Ryan looks up momentarily, but only to witness Tony Soprano putting his hands round someone’s throat. ‘Not really,’ he replies.
My heart sinks. ‘Well,’ I persevere, ‘I know you’ll be at work tomorrow so there won’t be a chance then and I really need to discuss a couple of things with you.’
‘Look,’ he sighs, ‘I have a stack of work to get through before tomorrow. Is this really urgent or can we do it tomorrow night?’
‘Well . . . “urgent” probably isn’t the word I’d use,’ I’m forced to admit. ‘It’s not life or death but there are some practical things that—’
‘Okay, if it’s not life or death then let’s do it tomorrow.’ He picks up a file from the floor and drags it on to the sofa next to him.
Clearly I don’t have much choice.
When I don’t move, he flashes a look as if to say: ‘Are you still standing there for a reason?’
‘I’ll go, then,’ I say despondently. I’m starting to feel quite depressed about the whole thing.
When the kids and I wake up the next morning, my first thought is whether I really will get to pin Ryan down – or whether I’ll just have to wing it. My answer comes in the form of a Post-it note on the kitchen table. The handwriting is surprisingly graceful. ‘Late tonight – don’t wait up. R.’
Winging it, then.
Later in the morning, the kids and I venture over to Trudie’s place and we are soon ensconced in her employers’ vast kitchen.
This room, like the rest of the house, is gorgeous: trendily traditional with duck-egg blue Shaker cabinets, an island bursting with sparkling utensils and the odd hand-woven basket as if Little Red Riding Hood had dropped by on the way to Grandma’s.
The purpose of the visit is a ‘play date’ – an exercise designed to broaden the children’s life experiences by allowing them to interact with other youngsters in a safe environment. And, of course, for their nannies to have a good gossip.
We have been joined today by Amber, another British nanny who has washed up in Hope Falls and with whom Trudie got together a couple of weeks ago. A pretty blonde with dreadlocks Bob Marley would have coveted, Amber has a cannabis-leaf-shaped stud in her nose, and so many bangles on her arms it’s a wonder she hasn’t the biceps of a Russian shot-putter. The overall look is of someone brought up by a family of tree-hugging political activists on a diet of reggae and space cakes. The accent, however, couldn’t have been more Sloaney if it had come with a certificate from Cheltenham Ladies’ College.
‘I’m considering getting another tattoo,’ she tells us excitedly, as Trudie prepares lunch and I oversee a game of Snap. ‘I mean, I like the one I’ve got, but it’s true what they say about them being addictive.’
‘What are you thinking of having?’ I ask.
‘Well,’ she begins, flicking back her dreadlocks and leaning over the breakfast bar, ‘I’ve been reading a lot lately about the women warriors of Skrang Iban in Borneo.’
‘The who?’ asks Trudie.
‘Skrang Iban,’ she replies. ‘In between doing warrior-type things and weaving their sacred pua kumbu blankets, they were trailblazers in the art of tattooing. The Iban’s ultimate aim was to provide balance and harmony in the cosmos, which is so where I’m at in my life right now. I
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