Chapter 48
FORTY-EIGHT
‘Ready for the bucking bronco, Slate?’ Beatrice asked. ‘Hold on tight.’
On all fours on the floor, she hunched her back, raised her hands, hunched again, hopped into a half-handstand, then repeated the process – only faster. She twirled around and went again.
Slate clung on, his knees digging into her ribs, his hands twisted into the shoulders of her sweater, shrieking with laughter.
Now, more than ever, Beatrice was taking comfort from every moment she spent with the children. After her argument with Neil – although she had to admit to herself that it hadn’t been so much an argument as a rant on her side – she’d returned reluctantly to the house on Damask Square, purely because she had nowhere else to go. All her things were there. The Dublin trip had used up the last of her wages so she had no money for a hotel. And part of her – a wilful, stubborn part – felt the need to cling to the house as persistently as the ivy that blanketed its back wall, threatening to bring damp back into the upstairs rooms despite Luke’s best efforts to eradicate it.
To cling – despite everything – to Orla and her distant dreams of how things might have been between them.
She’d texted Neil and apologised and he’d graciously accepted, saying that it was completely understandable that she felt as she did. When she’d taken the children to the library earlier that day, he had been as friendly to them as ever, but Beatrice had noticed a stiffness and formality in his manner towards her that hadn’t been there before.
Orla, in contrast, had been as gentle with Beatrice as if she was a child recovering from an illness. She’d cooked her favourite meal on Monday evening, and the next morning when Beatrice was leaving for work she’d brushed Beatrice’s hand and said, ‘Please let me know when you’re ready to talk.’
Beatrice hadn’t been ready to talk, and more than two weeks later, she still wasn’t. She didn’t know whether she would ever be. She kept meaning to ask Frances about the possibility of her moving in with them, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do that, either. The possibility of escape from Damask Square and all it represented felt alluring, but it also felt final – as if she would finally be turning her back on everything she had hoped to find there.
‘Come on, Bibi,’ Slate urged, his heels drumming against her ribs.
Beatrice snorted theatrically, produced a semblance of a neigh, reared and bucked again. Her laughter was rapidly turning to panting – the kid was heavy. But he wasn’t letting go.
‘You’ve won!’ she gasped as last. ‘Cowboy Slate is king of the rodeo!’
‘My turn!’ Parker squealed. ‘Me now, Bibi, me!’
‘No, me again!’ protested Slate. ‘Be the big, wild black horse.’
‘Just a second.’ Beatrice collapsed on to the floor on her front, laughing helplessly. ‘The horse needs a rest.’
Then she heard Parker’s voice say, ‘Mommy!’ and Slate released his grip on her shoulders.
She rolled over. Frances was standing over her, looking down, an expression on her face that Beatrice was completely unable to read.
‘Oh, hi, Frances.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘You’re back early. We were playing cowboys. It’s too wet out there for the park so I thought they’d better let off some steam before they have their dinner.’
‘So I see.’ There was a hit of acid in her employer’s tone that Beatrice couldn’t remember hearing before. She squatted down and pulled both her children to her in a brief embrace, then got up again and headed for her bedroom. ‘I’ll let you get on with it, then.’
Beatrice was puzzled. In the past, on the rare occasions when Frances had returned early from work, she’d taken over the kids’ bedtime routine, allowing Beatrice to have the rest of the evening off. Clearly that wasn’t going to be the case today. And there’d been a hint of – what? Resentment? Disapproval?
Surely Frances couldn’t object to a bit of rough-and-tumble play? It wasn’t like Slate could have been hurt – earlier, when he’d fallen off Beatrice’s back on to the thick shagpile rug, he’d jumped up right away and demanded to go again.
Oh, well – doubtless if Frances was going to chew her out over something, she’d do so once the children were asleep.
‘Come on then, you two,’ she said. ‘Chicken stir-fry for dinner.’
‘But you said we could have burgers and chips,’ Slate objected. ‘You said that’s what cowboys eat.’
‘Burgers and chips!’ his sister echoed, her lower lip sticking out ominously.
Damn it. Her attempt to sub out the original menu with something more likely to win Frances’s approval had been foiled. She hesitated. What was worse – being caught out giving the kids junk food or Parker throwing an epic tantrum on her watch and both of them most likely refusing to eat anything at all? Besides, she’d made a promise and she didn’t want to break it.
‘I forgot. Burgers and chips it is. But you’ll have shredded lettuce on them.’
She fed the children, tidied away their toys while they ate, ran their bath and stacked the dishwasher, then went to sit with them while they splashed happily in the water. Through the closed door of the master bedroom, she could hear Frances on the phone, long snatches of her talking interspersed with longer pauses. But over the kids’ laughter and chatter, she couldn’t make out any of the words.
While Slate put on his pyjamas, she wrapped Parker in a towel and recited ‘This Little Piggy’, relishing the drowsy warmth of the little girl’s body and the pink perfection of her toes. She ushered them both to bed and read Llama Llama Red Pajama until Parker fell asleep, then read Funnybones to Slate, who’d been obsessed with it since Halloween.
‘Bibi?’ he asked sleepily, once she’d closed the book. ‘Can I be a cowboy when I grow up?’
‘Maybe you can.’ Are cowboys still a thing? Beatrice wasn’t sure. ‘If you work hard at school, you can be whatever you want.’
‘I want to ride wild horses.’
‘Maybe you should start off on tame ones. Even those are much bigger than pretend horses.’
‘Will you take me to ride a horse?’
Beatrice didn’t know if there were horses in London. But she could find out – she’d google it, or ask Neil. Neil would know. An idea struck her – she could find a place with ponies and take the kids as a special treat, maybe just before Christmas. She’d have to clear it with Frances first, but she saw no reason why she would object.
Excitement filled her – the thrill of being able to make a small boy’s dream come true, even just for a day, with a bit of simple organisation.
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘We’ll see. Now it’s time for you to go to sleep.’
‘Night night, Bibi.’ Slate snuggled down into the pillow.
Beatrice pulled the duvet up under his chin and kissed his cheek, noticing how it was losing its pre-schooler plumpness. He was transforming right before her eyes – he was already halfway to his fifth birthday and then he’d be starting school.
‘Sleep tight, Slatey.’
Turning away to dim the light, she saw Frances standing in the doorway. She had no idea how long she’d been there.
‘That looks like a wrap,’ Frances said. ‘Would you like to join me for a glass of wine?’
‘I… Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.’
Frances led the way into the living area, quiet without the children and tidy as Beatrice had left it. She took a bottle of Sancerre from the fridge and poured two glasses, then gestured towards the stools at the kitchen island before perching on one, her long legs in their opaque black tights elegantly crossed.
Beatrice joined her, feeling scruffy and homely by comparison, conscious of how much she’d sweated playing horses in the warm apartment.
‘Cheers.’ Frances raised her glass and clinked it against Beatrice’s.
‘Cheers.’
Frances cleared her throat. ‘I guess I should say thank you. You’ve done a great job with the kids.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’ Beatrice was taken aback, but also relieved. This didn’t feel like it was going to be a telling-off. ‘And my job, obviously. But they’re amazing kids. I… I’ve become really fond of them.’
‘Yes, well.’ Frances sighed. ‘I’m afraid I have some news for you, Beatrice.’
Normally, even once the children were in bed, Frances called her Bibi.
She took a gulp of wine. ‘What’s that?’
‘Peter had a call today from his CEO in New York. There’s been a restructure in the senior leadership team. Someone’s had to be let go, and they need Peter back at HQ as soon as possible.’
At first, Beatrice didn’t understand what she was saying. ‘Peter’s moving back to New York?’
‘We all are,’ Frances explained slowly, patiently, as if Beatrice was a child. ‘There’ll be a handover period with his cover here, but he’ll be starting full time back at the Wall Street office in January.’
‘January?’ Beatrice echoed.
‘Yes. But there’s no point me and the kids shuttling back and forth, or staying here while he’s in the transition period. I gave notice at work today, and I’ve got holiday saved up, so I can wrap things up in a few days.’
‘You mean…?’ Beatrice’s whole body felt numb and floaty, as if she’d necked the whole bottle of wine instead of just taking a couple of sips.
‘We’ll be home by Thanksgiving. The kids’ grandparents haven’t seen them since we moved here – they’re delighted.’
‘So are you saying I…?’
‘Sadly, of course, we won’t be needing you any more. Juanita, who was our nanny in New York, was temping while we’ve been away and she’s free to start back with us. But we’ll pay you two months’ wages, as per our contract, and we’ll be sure to give you a glowing reference. We’ve been very happy, all things considered, with how you’ve grown into the job and especially how you’ve bonded with the kids. We can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve…’
Frances carried on, heaping fulsome praise on Beatrice. But Beatrice barely heard a word.
She waited until Frances finished speaking, slowly draining her wine. Then she returned her employer’s thanks, said goodnight and put on her coat, all on autopilot. She didn’t see the elevator door sliding open or the lights glinting on the river when she emerged at street level.
All she could see was the children’s faces and how they might look when she said goodbye to them for the final time. That, and Orla’s face.
I never understood , she thought, almost in wonderment. I never had any idea what it must have been like for her. But now, even though it’s only a fraction of what she must have felt, I know.
I understand now.