2. ARIES
2
ARIES
A clattering of pans greets my ears as I descend to the kitchen. There’s also a radio blaring. I peek into the room; it’s so vast it looks like it could cater for an entire restaurant. The surfaces are steel, and I half expect Gordon Ramsay to spring out from behind one of the enormous fridges and give me a mouthful of abuse. Instead, there’s a slim young man in a chef’s white coat flapping around.
He looks up when I take another step into the room. “Can I help you?”
He’s a sweet-looking man, maybe in his late twenties. Blond, blue-eyed, and doesn’t look like he could grow a beard, ever.
“Hi. I’m Aries. The new nanny?” I don’t know why it comes out like a question. Probably because I’m still recovering from the ordeal of trying to maintain a normal— ugh, nowhere near normal —conversation with the hot-but-grumpy gardener. “I’m waiting for Mrs Minter. She should be back soon.”
“Ah. Aries. Like the Zodiac?”
Here we go. “Yup. I’m an Aries. And I’m Aries.”
He chuckles at my lame joke. “Fiery and passionate rams, right?” He nods at my hair. “You look the part.” Thank God he didn’t nod at my tits. I’ve had that before.
“Thanks, I think.”
“ Welcome to the madhouse,” he says, smiling even wider. I can already tell I’ll like this guy. So much friendlier than the gardener.
“That bad, eh?”
He chuckles. “It’s all right. Been a bit rough since Mrs Hawkston left. We’ve been scrabbling to keep the place ticking over.”
“She left?”
“Last summer. They’re divorced.”
“Oh. Mrs Minter didn’t mention that. Just said that Mrs Hawkston wouldn’t be able to speak to me, and that Mr Hawkston was too busy, so he delegates all household employment decisions to her. He’s always at work, apparently."
“Sounds about right, although Mr Hawkston’s been around a bit more recently. For the kids. But between you and me, I don’t think he really knows how to care for them. Never put in the time. Workaholic.” He wipes his hands on his chef’s coat. “Not that I can talk. The hours he’s got me working here, I’m worse than he is. I’m Alec, by the way.”
He points a knife at me rather than shake my hand, then continues chopping up an onion with a precision and speed that nearly blows my mind.
I take a seat at a large granite island in what appears to be the more homely part of the kitchen. I glance around to find there’s also a wooden kitchen table, a cushioned window seat, and a sofa area across the other side of the room. Overall, the place looks like it’s having an identity crisis, but in a very stylish, deliberate way.
“Were they together long? Mr and Mrs Hawkston?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah. Years. Since they were teenagers, I think.”
Wow . I can’t even imagine being with someone that long. “How old are they now?”
“I dunno. Mid-thirties? Somewhere around there. Far too old to have stuck out a marriage like that.”
Alec keeps chopping like he hasn’t just dropped a gossip bombshell. I’d love not to pick it up, but I don’t have that kind of restraint. Plus, I’m feeling a bit off-kilter, given I’ve entered an entirely new environment and, as Matt the grumpy gardener reminded me, I haven’t done my research about where I’m living. Surely, information from a member of staff is more reliable than Google, anyway . “What was wrong?” I probe.
Alec scratches his eyebrow with the back of his wrist, still holding his knife. “It’s not my place to say this, but they were bloody miserable. You could hear them fighting almost every time they were in the house together. Charlie, that’s the son, he used to come in here when he was little and hide under the kitchen counters when it got really bad. I came in one morning and found him sleeping in the cupboard over there.” He points with the knife at a double-doored cupboard. “Said he’d come down in the night because his parents were fighting upstairs.” Alec inhales deeply and blows out the breath. “Sorry. That’s a bit much, isn’t it? It wasn’t a nice place to work. You could feel the toxicity in the air.”
I wince. “Sounds awful.”
He closes his eyes and shudders, then snaps them open again. “Yeah. Like I said. Better now. Quieter.”
“Happier?”
Alec stills, his eyes glazing over like he’s remembering something. “I don’t know about that.”
For a moment, I hold my tongue. My parents were stuck in an unhappy marriage until I was six. I know what it’s like to be the kid hiding.
Alec focuses on his chopping, as if realising he’s said too much. For a while, we fall into an uncomfortable silence. Not that silence is ever comfortable for me. It’s part of the reason I talk too much. I feel obligated to fill the void, but after the intensity of our conversation about the Hawkston’s, I feel it even more so.
Soon, the weight of the silence becomes more than I can endure. “I met the gardener out the front. He’s a peculiar guy. Not very friendly.”
Alec’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t look up, focusing on his chopping. “Really? I’ve always liked Steve. Really cheery guy. I didn’t know he was in today.”
“Steve?” I frown. “He said his name was Matt.”
Alec’s knife pauses mid-chop. “Matt?”
“Yeah. Tall guy. Huge. Really broad.” I hold my arms up to span the distance of the guy’s chest. I exaggerate, hoping to make Alec laugh.
He doesn’t, and unease prickles my spine. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Matt’s not the gardener.”
“Huh? But he was cutting the lawn.”
“Ooh, you want to stay out of his way when he’s doing that…”
I’m about to question him further when Alec’s eyes shoot over my head, obviously catching sight of someone behind me. A tingling pressure erupts on the back of my neck, telling me that someone’s standing there.
I turn on my stool, which conveniently—or perhaps not conveniently—spins round far too easily. I nearly fall off, managing to stabilize myself at the last second, fixing my gaze on the man in the doorway.
Oh, crap .
It’s the gardener. Except— holy shit —he doesn’t look like a gardener now. His dark hair is wet, thick, and combed back off his forehead, making his dark eyes appear even more intense, and the way he’s fixing them on me has me swallowing nervously, but I can’t stop staring at his face. That bone structure is insane . His cheekbones are so sharp they look like chipped flint. He’s just had a shower, and the realisation brings a whole host of—not entirely unwelcome—images into my mind. Water, skin, muscle…
I blink to focus on the real-life man before me, rather than the imagined showering version. A charcoal grey suit hangs from broad shoulders, fitting him perfectly; the phrase ‘like a glove’ suddenly takes on a whole new meaning. I’ve never really noticed suits before, but this one is different. It looks expensive, so I guess you get what you pay for. His white shirt is a burst of light in the otherwise dark impression of the man, and the pale blue silk tie is a river of calm down his chest. He’s breathtaking, and very, very corporate.
His dark eyes flit away from me as he directs his attention to Alec. “I’m going out for lunch. I’ll be back for dinner. Just me tonight. 8 pm.”
“Absolutely, boss.”
Whatever spell this man has me under splinters, leaving the unbearable truth.
This is the boss. Lucie’s dad. This is Mr Hawkston, who’s always working and never home and who I was highly unlikely to ever meet.
Oh, my God . I’m dying.
His unflinching gaze lands right on mine and he steps towards me. "Aries.” He holds out his hand. “Matt Hawkston.”
We’re not seriously shaking hands a third time, are we? I glance at it like I’m not sure what to do with it, but then I pick my jaw off the floor and grab his hand again . It’s so big he could crush me with it.
“I’m so sorry. Really. I had no idea that you were you , outside in the garden.” I press my free hand to my temple. “And now you’ve gone and done a Superman—”
There’s a noise behind me. Did Alec just snort ? Matt’s irises dart from me to Alec, and I know he heard it too. The silence that follows that small shift in Matt’s attention is enough to make my heart rate peak. He might not be snorting, but he probably thinks I’m a complete idiot too.
Matt drops my hand, but holds eye contact. It’s so intense that I want to screw my eyes shut. “Superman?” Matt finally says.
“Yeah. You know. You’ve stripped off the disguise.” Oh, fuck. Why can’t I stop talking? “Fifteen minutes ago you were working that sexy gardener thing and now you’re all suited-up like a corporate superhero—”
“Stop.” His command has my mouth sealing shut. Shit, shit, shit . “I assume Mrs Minter selected you because you’re the best for the job, but I’m not seeing that right now. If you’re caring for my child, you need to do your research. Any time you take her anywhere, you need to know who you’re meeting. You make sure it’s safe. You might trust your gut to make decisions that affect your life, but I don’t want you using it to care for my daughter. At least not until I know you better. No more mistakes. Three strikes and you’re out.”
For once, I’m speechless. Then I say, “Out?”
“Yes. Out. Home. Back to Scotland. If you put my daughter at risk in any way, I’ll put you on that train myself."
And with that, he’s gone, leaving nothing but a hot, uncomfortable embarrassment filling my body, and the lingering scent of expensive cologne hanging in the air.
I’m still staring at the doorway when I hear another snort from behind me, or perhaps it’s the other half of the one Alec had to stifle earlier.
I spin to face him. “What?”
“Looks like you made a good first impression.”
I exhale a curse. “Was he being serious? Just because I didn’t look him up, doesn’t mean I would put his daughter at risk. Would he get rid of me because I didn’t know who he was?”
“Maybe. Everyone knows who Matt Hawkston is. Like… everyone . Especially people he employs. How… I mean, how did you not know?”
I shrug. “I’m interested in the kids, not the parents. And when I interviewed for this role I only spoke to Mrs Minter, and she was lovely. I got a really great feel from her. She said she was my point of contact, and that Mr and Mrs Hawkston were always away. I didn’t feel the need to know more than that.”
“Hmm. Curious.” Alec’s lips twist like he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. “That’s like me saying I only want to know where they do their food shopping.”
I chuckle. “That’s important information, though, right?”
He breaks into a broad smile. “Yup. Crucial.”
Laughter bubbles up and flows out of my mouth like a riot I can’t control. It’s verging on hysterical, and I think Alec knows it, but he’s laughing too, and I am seriously wishing I’d met him first. Then I might not have made a prize fool of myself in front of my boss. Who, I might add, looks even better in a suit. Matt Hawkston is one very, very good-looking man.
The thought pricks some idle hope I didn’t realise I’d been entertaining, deflating it like a sad balloon; the gorgeous gardener, who I’d already anticipated would be the friend I needed to show me around London, doesn’t exist.
“Oh, God.” I drop my forehead into my palm. “I told him he could narrate audiobooks.”
“That doesn’t sound like the worst thing,” Alec says slowly, as though he’s trying to work out if he believes what he’s saying. He tips his head to one side and adds, “A bit odd, but not the worst.”
I scrunch my eyes closed briefly before looking back at him. “I said he had a voice that could deep-fry a Mars bar.”
Alec’s lip curls. “Yuck. And I say that as a man who tries to accept all food on an equal basis.”
I try to laugh, but can’t summon enough humour to drown out my humiliation. “It was a joke. You know, a Scottish thing. Everyone thinks we eat deep-fried Mars bars, but actually you have to search pretty hard to find one. I meant… I meant he has a smoking hot voice. One that women love to listen to because it turns them on.”
Turns them on? Please, Aries, stop talking.
A large smile breaks over Alec’s face. I think it’s amused, rather than mocking. Thank goodness. “Yeah, I got that. I’m pretty sure Mr Hawkston would’ve understood it too.” He tosses another onion in the air and catches it, then winks at me. “You also called him Superman.”
I let out a groan and bury my head in my hands. How can I come back from this?
By the time Mrs Minter arrives with Lucie, I’m almost beside myself with worry. Should I even unpack my bag? If I’m going to be fired soon, maybe I should save myself the effort .
As Mrs Minter runs me through details about the house, I try to stay focused and listen to her instructions, but I can’t help wondering if I ought to fess up and tell her I’ve already made a dreadful first impression on the boss, so I might not be here long.
I decide to hold my tongue, because Lucie, Mr Hawkston’s daughter, is staring up at me the whole time, peeking out from behind Mrs Minter’s legs, where she’s clinging as though she hopes no one will notice her. She’s a gorgeous, dark haired four-year-old, who has definitely inherited her father’s good looks, but without the grumpy exterior. I can’t wait to get to know her better.
Once Mrs Minter has finished the introductions and explanations, she leads the way upstairs. She’s wearing a simple cream blouse and jeans, which surprises me. I expected the housekeeper to wear a uniform of some sort in a house like this. She must be in her mid fifties, but her figure is as neat as a woman of twenty. She has highlighted blonde hair and a pretty face with even features. Lucie grips her hand, shooting glances back at me and whispering to Mrs Minter, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.
I smile in the hope it’ll make her warm to me, but when I do she hides her face by burrowing it against Mrs Minter’s thigh.
“The lift is this way.” Mrs Minter points down the corridor, her face impassive, as if having a lift inside a private house is normal. I try my hardest to mirror her expression, whilst in my head I’m screaming, ‘ Lift? There’s a fucking lift in here?’
I grab my suitcase from where I left it in the entrance hall and drag it along behind Mrs Minter and Lucie. Moments later, the three of us are crammed into the lift.
“Mr Hawkston’s rarely home during the day, even at the weekends,” Mrs Minter says. “He works long hours. He’s a very busy man. The Hawkston Hotel Group has forty hotels in the UK alone.”
“Hotels?” My stomach cinches, like someone just pulled a too-tight belt around it. “He’s Hawkston like the Hotels?”
I feel like a prize idiot. I do trust my gut, and my gut was screaming like a fire engine telling me to take this job. But maybe it’s na?ve to make all your decisions that way. My mum taught me to do it. She always said our intuition is the greatest superpower most people don’t know they have. She was a tarot reader and reiki practitioner, so reading people’s energy and letting her intuition guide her readings was her thing. It became like a game for me; letting my intuition choose my clothes for the day, or which book to read, or any number of other things. And it was fun to see how everything panned out.
I never felt really stupid about it until I was confronted by that unforgiving glare that Matt Hawkston sent my way in the kitchen. It has me questioning all sorts of things, and near the top of the list is whether my reading on him in his ripped jeans and tank top was completely off. Was I thrown by his casual appearance, or is there really a kind and caring soul buried deep inside? If we’d first met in the kitchen, him all stiff in his suit and tie, would the possibility even have crossed my mind?
Maybe all my practice hasn’t honed my intuition at all, and I’m as easily influenced by appearances as the next person. Those jeans and tank top had me believing there had to be a casual, relaxed man in there somewhere. Maybe it was nothing more than wishful thinking. Either way, relying on my gut meant I wasn’t prepared to meet my employer, and that’s got to be an almost unforgivable employee sin.
“Your mother didn’t tell you?” Mrs Minter’s voice pulls me back into the tight space of the lift. Of course, they’ve spoken, but Mrs Minter doesn’t know Mum well enough to know she wouldn’t give a crap about whether someone had money or not, let alone how they made it.
“No,” I say. “She wouldn’t have considered that important information.” Was that rude? I just dismissed Mr Hawkston’s family business as though it meant nothing. “She’s been too ill,” I add quickly, although that has nothing to do with her omission.
“Ah. Yes, of course. I’m so sorry.” She’s frowns, and Lucie stares up at me, still nuzzled into Mrs Minter’s side. “Your mother is a wonderful healer. All those sessions she did for my father online… it made it all so much easier.”
My stomach drops a little. Mum told me Mrs Minter’s father died last year. She had been doing distance reiki sessions for him to help with the side effects of chemo. After he died, Mum and Mrs Minter kept in touch, and that’s how I found out about this job. I always wanted to live in London, at least for a while, and after Mum’s diagnosis, she started getting all worried about how my refusal to leave her alone meant she wasn’t going to see me live my dreams. So here I am, living the proverbial dream as a nanny in West London. Or at least satisfying my mother for a while.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, and Mrs Minter nods, giving me a sympathetic glance. Fear stirs in my belly, knowing how likely it is that people are going to be saying those exact words to me in the not too distant future.
“What’s wrong with your mummy?” Lucie asks. “My mummy’s not well either. That’s what Daddy says.”
Mrs Minter gives Lucie’s hand a tight squeeze. “Your mummy is absolutely fine, honey. Daddy’s wrong.”
Lucie’s tiny features crumple inwards, looking confused.
“My mother has cancer,” I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t, because Lucie looks even more confused, but for whatever reason she doesn't ask a follow-up question. Thank goodness.
Mrs Minter gives me another compassionate glance, but I can tell she’s holding something back, as though she’s on one side of the gulf and I’m on the other. The before and the after. I repress a shudder at the thought and focus on how thankful I am that Mrs Minter was so eager to help when she found out Mum was ill. The pay for this job is so good that I’ve already appointed a private carer to look after Mum while I’m here. And I’ve always loved working with kids, so this is perfect.
The lift stops and the doors open behind me.
“This is the fourth floor,” Mrs Minter announces. The fourth? Wow. How big is this place?
I back out with my suitcase and when we’re all out in the corridor, Lucie tugs Mrs Minter’s hand. "She does, doesn’t she?" she hisses, obviously continuing an earlier conversation.
I kneel down, fixing my gaze on Lucie’s huge dark eyes. "What do I do, Lucie?" I keep my expression open and non-judgmental. I know it sounds weird, but I always remind myself to speak with love when I’m working with kids. It sets my energy system up correctly, and the day goes much better from there. They respond better too, but then we all respond best to love, don’t we? Sometimes, though, when everything feels like shit, it’s hard to remember.
Lucie looks up at Mrs Minter for approval. She, in turn, glances down at Lucie with an appreciative smile on her face.
“Go ahead,” Mrs Minter says, and Lucie fixes her eyes on mine, more sure of herself now.
“You look like The Little Mermaid. From the cartoon. You have orange hair.”
I smile, but make sure not to laugh. I don’t want her to think I’m making fun of her. “Shall I tell you a secret?” I whisper, and she leans in, eyes wide. “I reckon it’s actually red.” I twist a strand of it around my finger and hold it out toward Lucie, who stares at it like it’s made of gold.
“I’d say it’s a mixture of the two,” Mrs Minter interjects, sounding as though she’s really considered the issue. “Reddish-orange.”
“I love it,” Lucie coos, still transfixed by my hair. “Mine is boring. It’s dark brown, like Daddy’s.”
“You have great hair,” I say, ruffling the top of her head as I stand. And so does your dad.
Damn . I kind of hate that my thoughts went right there.
When it’s apparent Lucie has nothing more to say, Mrs Minter directs me to a room at the end of the corridor.
“This is Lucie’s floor. There’s a separate kitchen up here for you, a bathroom and her bedroom. Charlie’s room is on the floor below.”
“Ah, right. And Charlie is Mr Hawkston’s son?”
“Yes. He’s sixteen. Nearly seventeen. He’ll be home for the summer in a few weeks.”
Sixteen. So he’s a decade younger than me. And his father is maybe ten years older. I wonder to what extent Charlie will be my responsibility when he’s home.
I drag my bag into my room, with its plain white walls and single bed. I’m in the eaves, so the ceiling slants harshly over the headboard. There’s a dresser, a wardrobe, and a dormer window that looks out onto the street below.
“Can I show you my room?” Lucie says, her tiny hand slipping into mine.
Mrs Minter smiles. “Shall I let you two get acquainted? Lucie can show you around the house.”
Lucie bounces up and down. “Yay. Let’s start with my room and the playroom.”
“Don’t go into Daddy’s room though. Or his study,” Mrs Minter says.
“Yes, Mrs Minter,” Lucie replies, clipping the heels of her shoes together and standing bolt upright. She looks like she’s used to obeying rules.
“Have you had lunch?” Mrs Minter asks me. I shake my head and she checks her watch. “Twenty-minute tour of the house and then come back to the kitchen in the basement. I’ll get chef to make Lucie’s lunch and we can all eat together.”
Lucie jumps on the spot and claps her hands. “Come on, Ariel. I’ll show you everything.”
“You can call me Aries,” I say. “It’s nearly the same.”
“Oh yes, I know.” Lucie’s gorgeous little face pinches into a serious expression. “But I don’t want to.”
Right. I guess that’s that then. Ariel it is, for the foreseeable.
She shows me her room first, opening her cupboards so I can see her rows of beautiful designer dresses and shoes. I try to fake the enthusiasm she’s expecting, rather than the shock I’m feeling at the opulence of the contents of her wardrobe. I suspect there are going to be multiple opportunities for me to be shocked at the wealth on display in this house. My mind is already blown, and I’m conscious of how my body is reacting to it. Mum always said if displays of extreme wealth make you uncomfortable, then it’s like sending a message to the universe that you don’t want money.
I try to keep that in mind, but it’s almost impossible when Lucie parades me through the house, which is decorated like no home I’ve ever seen, with plush fabrics and sleek lines, and furniture that looks too good to touch, let alone sit on. There’s not a spot of dirt on anything, anywhere, and I can’t help but feel a little bit overawed.
Lucie proudly takes me to the basement to show me the full gym, sauna, and indoor pool. It’s like a luxury spa, with mirrored walls. I can see myself from every angle, and it makes the space feel even bigger than it already is.
There’s music playing from speakers hidden in the walls, even though no one’s here. It’s as if the ambiance is set, just in case Mr Hawkston decides to take a dip. Unbelievable .
We take the lift to the very lowest level, where the doors open into an underground car park. There are five cars parked down here: a red Ferrari, a black Bentley, a McLaren, a Lamborghini, and a sleek silver Mercedes, which is the most discreet of the lot. There are two more spaces, perhaps in case they have visitors. Safe to say Mr Hawkston likes his cars.
“Which would you choose?” Lucie asks. “I like the red one.”
I huff out a little chortle of laughter. “I’ll take the McLaren,” I say, pointing at it. “Because I bet it goes really fast.”
For some reason, an image of Mr Hawkston sitting behind the wheel, a pair of dark sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his large hands gripping the wheel, cords of muscle flexing up his forearms, flashes in my mind.
Am I drooling?
Lucie giggles, and I check my watch. “Let’s go to lunch. Mrs Minter will be waiting.”