Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“J ust wait till I tell my mum,” Manon grumbles as she climbs into the back seat of Antoine’s Porsche.
I’m really late. Not a casual French fifteen minutes late. But a whole hour late to pick the kids up from art lessons with Estelle. My interlude with Emi, Damien, and Jamie had usurped much of my free time. And if I hadn’t stayed in that bookshop with him , maybe Manon wouldn’t be as upset as she is now. But she’s not the temper tantrum type. No, for this eleven-year-old, she’s dishing a disappointed scolding. Like mother, like daughter.
Milo and Josie don’t seem as bothered. More time with Estelle means the more mango ice pops she’ll give them. But for Manon, today is not the day to be late. She had strictly instructed that she absolutely 100% needed to be back home by 3 p.m. Twice, her favorite band, was releasing concert tickets, and Angela had given her the go-ahead to purchase them with my assistance. Because Estelle chose to do without Wi-Fi in the summers to “enjoy the simple pleasures of la vie, ” and given her apartment’s already spotty connection, the transaction would really only work at the villa. Knowing how well off the Chessleys are, I’m shocked Manon couldn’t just order someone to do it. But it’s not like they have a waitstaff besides Sylvie, and she’s off Tuesdays and Wednesdays.
Antoine chats up the younger ones as we drive along the verdant cliffs. From the passenger seat, I take a look at the three of them smushed together in the back. Josie and Milo hold up their watercolors proudly. Manon’s stone face shifts to a warm, artificial smile as she plucks a piece of paper out of her art portfolio and hands it to me.
The clarity in her pastel work is actually quite commendable, but I take issue with the subject. It’s a brunette in a green jumpsuit—cough, cough—seated on a plane’s wing that’s headed back to a mountain with an American flag. I’m surprised she didn’t draw smoke and flames too. I swallow my discomfort, complimenting her use of color. Manon only purses her lips.
From the driver’s seat, Antoine takes a quick look at the picture and muffles a chuckle. His wink to me makes me feel like maybe this is normal. So what if it is? They’ve had au pairs before who didn’t fare well. Emi had told me that almost all of them either quit or got fired within six weeks of being here. That can’t be me. By the disgruntled look plastered on Manon’s face, if I’m going to make it through twelve weeks of this without being tossed on the street and risk my name being tarnished at Continental, I’m going to need to put pedal to the metal on learning the language, cultural nuances, and the family’s necessities. My incompetencies are piercing through. I’m going to change that.
* * *
Turns out, whether or not Manon actually filed a complaint with her mom about me, I didn’t get fired last night. When I was cleaning up from dinner—caving in and making the kids boxed mac ’n’ cheese at their begging request—Angela was returning from a photo shoot for her winter line. And she only managed to get through half an eye roll when she passed me in the kitchen and saw the empty pasta box. In my book, it’s a major improvement compared to the exaggerated sighs of disappointment I received my first week.
What gave me a bit of comfort was that Angela was taking the kids on a road trip over the Italian border to Sanremo, where they’d be visiting cousins of hers. Which meant forty-eight hours of Kat time.
The thought did cross my mind that I was intentionally being left behind. I mean, Angela’s shelling out a few hundred euro my way every week for au pairing. Wouldn’t she want to make use of the help she’s paying so much for?
Unless she’s hoping to nab me with that spy of hers. It’s the perfect trap. Both parents, a.k.a. bosses, out of the house. No kids to watch over. Just a horny girl drowning in hormones, or so Angela presumes. I swear it’s like she’s waiting for me to mess up and snog Jamie—Ha! Like that’ll happen—just to justify her suspicions.
Before I open my eyes to a new, unimpeded day, I can feel the yellow morning light pouring in through the window. I left the balcony door open last night to carry in the sounds and scents of the ocean. The French sun must be as rejuvenating as it’s hyped to be, because I haven’t slept this well in I don’t know how long. I reach for the pillow next to me, but my hand rests on the cotton sheet. Something warm is beneath it. For a moment, I wonder what the hell I did last night.
Did I break into the wine cabinet and drink myself silly? Am I even in my bed? Who the hell is in here with me? It can’t be him. I wish. No . No way.
But the sounds that follow confirm that it’s no human in bed with me.
Baa!
Pushing myself up, I lift up the sheet.
A lamb!
Baa!
What the hell is a lamb doing in the house! In my room! In my bed!
The animal is covered in mud from hoof to sternum, and now, so are the eggshell sheets. My mouth gapes wide, and I try to shuffle the bichon-sized creature off the mattress.
Baa! Baa!
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no! Don’t get on the rug!” If that tapestry gets stained, I’ll be spending my two days of freedom with a sponge and carpet cleaner. Lifting the animal up, it squirms in my hands, kicking dirt on the oversized T-shirt I wore to bed.
That’s when I see her. The bedroom door is cracked open, and half of Manon’s face watches me with a maniacal sort of pleasure.
Manon: Two. Kat: Still zero.
Payback. I knew she was going to get me, I just wasn’t expecting this!
A car honks outside.
Angela’s voice echoes up the main staircase. “Manon, allons-y!”
Manon whips a cunning smile in my direction before bolting down the hall. In a matter of seconds, car doors shut, tires crunch down the gravel driveway, and I still have a baaing lamb in my arms.
I run down the hall, down my special secret staircase, and through the kitchen, forgoing pants in favor of finding the quickest solution to the lamb problem. “A lamb, a frickin’ lamb. Where the hell did she get a frickin’ lamb?”
The villa, thankfully, is secluded enough that no neighbors will see me if I put the little sheep in the enclosed tea garden until I figure out where it came from and what to do with it. “Emi, call Emi, she’ll know what to do with this.” I calm the squirming creature and scuffle around a hall corner. “Then I— Ah!”
My right shoulder bashes into someone.
“Whoa!” Jamie exclaims.
Of course it’s him.
Baa!
I resecure my grip on the lamb. He examines my slumping ponytail and the fidgeting lamb smooshed against my chest. Heat races up my spine and around my neck as Jamie’s eyes land on my bare legs.
“I-um, I-I found this in my bed,” I say, nodding like this is all completely normal.
Jamie leans his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms and holding back a grin. “I mean, I like some company too.”
“Gross, ew, no. No, I didn’t put it there.”
A breathy chuckle passes through his nose as he scratches the back of his head. “Manon?”
My shoulders loosen. Seems like he just got up too, still in his boxers and a red Manchester United T-shirt. His wavy side bangs are tumbling out of his low bun.
“Mum leave with the little ones?” Jamie asks looking over my shoulder.
I nod, nearly smacking my jaw against the lamb’s head.
“C’mon,” he says, turning around. “Knowing Manon, she probably got it from the Duponts on the other side of the olive groves.” By the way he’s loosened his shoulders, I can tell the warm, charming Jamie Chessley has returned. Part of me wonders how long it’ll last before we’re caught in another quarrel. I make a mental note not to mention Damien again.
I fumble with the agitated animal. Jamie takes the lamb from my arms, an amused grin forming as our arms tangle awkwardly.
“We’ll put it in the garden for now, and I’ll bring it back on my way to work.”
He sends the animal outside, and it immediately begins gnawing the hydrangeas. Jamie, acting as if this is just a regular Wednesday, heads down the hall, and I follow him until we land in the kitchen.
“For now? Why the delay?”
“Because,” he says, stretching his arms out wide. “I have this place to myself... ish, and I’m gonna make us breakfast.”
“Us?”
Mr. Nice Guy returns. Guess he’s putting our bookshop argument behind him. He shrugs. “If you want.”
I do want. But only because this is strictly platonic, and there will be no funny business under the surface. I’m sure he intends the same.
“I’m just going to put on some pants first.”
Jamie glances down as if he’s just now noticing I am missing a key article of clothing. I blush as I realize he can see my butt poking out under my shirt. Don’t get me wrong, I’m quite proud of my fondness for squats. But it makes me nervous for Jamie to see the results, even if deep down, I kind of want him to. He presses his lips to a smile and winks before I bolt back upstairs.
Parsing through my still unpacked suitcase for a clean pair of pants turns out to be a nightmare. That little lamb not only muddied the sheets, but my clothes too. Manon must have let it snuggle all around in my bag before plopping it under the covers.
When I come back downstairs, Jamie’s in the midst of conducting a gastronomic symphony. He’s entrenched in a rhythm between the crack of an eggshell, the fibrous chop of fresh fruit, and the crinkling of a bag full of baguettes and croissants.
I take a seat at the island, and he pours me a cup of pressed coffee. He may be half-French, but his English side doesn’t let it steal the spotlight as he pops a dollop of milk into his mug of tea.
“When did you start cooking?” I ask, sipping the coffee with a splash of whole milk.
Jamie looks at the clock on the wall. “’Bout ten minutes ago,” he says with an expected smirk. I roll my eyes at the joke. “Ever since I was about this high.” He holds a hand up to his waistline. “When did you start writing?” He grabs some jam jars from the fridge, and I squirm back on my stool.
“Few years ago.”
Jamie takes out two plates from the cabinet. “What made you start?”
Before I can stop myself, I speak the thoughts swimming around in my brain. “It needed to come out.”
“Hmm. Your head was ’bout ready to proper burst.”
I nod and slug another long sip of coffee. It’s true. I’ve always been thinking up a story or seeing them unfold in real life. Being the last stop on the school bus came with its daydreaming perks.
“So what is it you write, exactly?”
I shrug. “Scripts. For film. Documentaries mostly. Some fiction pieces too. Short stories.”
“What are your plans for it?”
Jeez, what’s with the game of twenty questions?
Sighing through my nose, I tilt my head to the side. “It’ll be my job. Eventually.”
It’s still early days. I’ve got years to go of polishing up my prose to become an artistic beast before I even debut. The collection of half-written outlines stored on my computer only prove my progress. Trouble is, I just have to finish them before hopping onto the next logline like a lion to its prey.
“Ever thought of film school?” he asks. “There are some great ones in Europe.”
“Here and there. But I don’t have time. Not right now.”
Jamie prepares a plate, adding scrambled eggs speckled with fresh herbs next to strawberries, kiwi, and a piece of bread ripped from a baguette loaf. He must detect the dejection in my tone, much as I try to perk it up.
“I’ll figure it out though,” I say, nodding. “...In a few years.”
“Why the wait?” Jamie slides the plate toward me.
“Well we can’t all follow our dreams right out of college.” I lay a napkin over my lap as Jamie leans his palms on the edge of the island’s countertop.
“I take it you mean me? Well for your understanding,” he says, grabbing his cup of tea, his tone not at all accosting, “I’m not sittin’ on buckets of cash. Sure, I’m blessed to have been born into this.” He gestures to the kitchen. “But I don’t get to take it with me when I move out.”
I scrunch my brow as I take a bite, mentally ordering myself to focus on the conversation instead of the freshest, fluffiest eggs I’ve ever had.
Kat, whatever you do, do NOT moan.
I swallow my pleasure. “You mean, you don’t have anything set aside?”
“Only what I’ve made myself. Mum and Dad never believed in trust funds. They help us with university, and that’s about it.”
“They want you to work.”
“Bingo.”
“Wouldn’t they be happy, then? That you’re... you know, going at it on your own?” I lower my voice. “At the Vigne?”
We’re most definitely alone in the house, but even Jamie looks over his shoulder.
“I know their expectations,” Jamie says, toying with the lid on the raspberry preserves. “It’s like they can’t picture success outside of the boxes they’re accustomed to.”
I lean forward, the loose ends of my bun mingling with the food on my plate. “Have you tried telling them about pursuing culinary arts? Aren’t you a bit curious to give them the benefit of the doubt?”
“Look, it’s not to their standards. They’d say I’d be throwing my life away.” It’s his turn to take on a cynical attitude. “We’re doing just fine as it is. They have their ideas about me, and it gives me all the liberty to do as I really please.”
“But it’s not true,” I press. “You’re not this womanizing party jerk.” As I say the latter half, I wonder if I’m wrong about it.
“What we have is enough to get through the week, have a laugh here and there, and make Christmas just barely tolerable. If they knew the truth about me, their perfect family portrait would be shattered.”
And they’d be left with a slap-in-the-face reminder that their relationship isn’t what any of them wished it really was. Angela pegs him as a delinquent. But it’s his secretism—for fear his parents won’t accept him—that birthed the shady behavior. So he’d rather maintain the lie and hang on by a fraying thread than completely cut himself off from his family forever.
Jamie tears through the crust on his bread. “It sucks when the people biologically programmed to love you think you’re a fuckup.”
Lowering my shoulders, I swallow one more bite. My mind flickers to my own family—cousins and aunts and uncles who don’t care to make an effort with me all year except for obligatory small talk at the holidays while we share shrimp cocktail. “I know what you mean. It’s always an act.”
His eyes flash as they trail to my face. “Exactly.”
We eat in silence for a few moments. Jamie wipes the corner of his mouth where the jam he’d smothered over his bread had landed. His gaze searches his plate.
“You know, I didn’t even think twice when I signed the contract to acquire the company when Dad hits seventy.” He sighs. “Like a voice in my head was shouting at my hand to stop, but I just kept watching every letter of my signature come onto that page... Can’t back out now, not yet anyway.”
“What about all this?” I wave my hand to the array of food he’s prepared.
“It’ll have to wait.”
Why do his dreams get a delayed start, but he’s so adamant that I don’t put mine on hold?
“Wait for what?” I lift my brow at him, and he blends a scoff with a chuckle.
“When the time is right. Can’t rush the rise.” Bread. He’s talking about bread. Thank you, Great British Baking Show . “If I back out of the deal before I can find someone to replace me, Dad’s reputation would be worthless. He’s put all his trust in me, and I can’t walk out on him like that, embarrass him like that, especially after he’s touted me to the company’s clients and partners. So, as much as I fervently disagree with him on multiple points, I couldn’t do that to him. I won’t.”
Damn, he’s posh. I open my mouth to say something, but Jamie’s caught in a fluster.
He takes a big sigh and bows his head. “Sorry.”
Without thinking, I reach across the counter and rest my hand on his.
“Hey, no, it’s okay. I get it. I do.” Jamie looks at my palm, and I’m immediately mortified. Swiping it back, I feel everything in my stomach halting its digestion and swelling to nausea. “Oh my gosh, look at the time. I told Emi I’d meet her for the market.” Every bone in my body feels as if it’s been dunked in a bath of awkwardness, and I nearly stumble off my stool.
“Kat, wait.”
I stop him before he has the chance to tell me it’s okay and that he either a) has a girlfriend or b) isn’t interested in me like that. But I wasn’t trying to even come on to him!
After repeatedly thanking him for breakfast and for helping with the lamb and mentioning at least five times that I am going to get ready for the day, I finally make it back to my room. Shutting the door, I slide my back down until my butt reaches the hardwood. My fingers tug at the fringes of the rug.
Why in the world did I just do that?
There’s no explanation for why I took his hand, only that something intrinsic in me cannonballed it there.
Is it a full moon tonight? Did I have too much caffeine?
In reality, I don’t have much time to ponder the error of my ways, because I truly do need to meet Emi for the farmer’s market before hitting the beach, and it’ll take me a good fifteen minutes to walk to èze village where we’ll catch the bus down the hill. Perfect. Plenty of time to reprimand and remind myself why I’m here and why getting emotionally involved with a guy who my boss strictly prohibited me from dating is not in the game plan.
Besides, I’m not here to fall in love. Like that would happen. I’m here to be the best damn au pair this family has ever seen and to catapult myself on to the corporate ladder at Continental Air.