Her fake references have checked out. One from a reputable UK nanny agency, one from Australia, postmarked and everything. The internet. As good as it is evil. Magenta had muttered something about running a CRB check on her, but clearly hadn’t gotten around to it yet, too preoccupied with finding a replacement cash cow by the looks of it. The ‘official’ references from the ‘official’ nanny agency and the glowing report from the Aussies seemed to more than suffice for now at least. Plus, by the time that selfish irresponsible bitch ever did get around to it, the job would be complete and she’d be long gone.

‘He’s so gorgeous,’ she says, ‘can I pick him up?’

‘Of course,’ the woman says brightly, smoothing her hands down her expensive trousers. ‘Rachel meet George, George meet Rachel’ She hands her the baby, almost offloading him. He feels soft, cool, perfect in her arms, his legs kicking and pulling up in responsive touch, uncoordinated, jerky like an octopus. George smells so good, like a fresh hopeful morning.

Baby Bear.

‘Ahh, he likes you,’ the woman says turning away, probably thinking about the facial she’s got booked later, already finding fault with the treatment and the therapist who’ll give it. Nothing will ever be good enough for Magenta. Magenta. The name says it all. She holds him in her arms and coos over him naturally. So beautiful, so helpless and reliable, so real and vulnerable. Babies need. It’s all they do. Need feeding, need a nappy change, need holding, need cuddles, need love. Need, need, need. But really they’re no different to adults. Adults have had to learn that wailing and whining and crying will not bring you these comforts. That no matter how much you cry, no one will come. No one ever comes.

‘George has an afternoon nap around 3 p.m., but only for an hour or so, then he has to be woken, or else he won’t sleep at night… He’s not the best sleeper, light, like his father.’ She snorts. ‘Although he never had difficulty in finding a bed if you know what I mean.’

‘Is George’s father away on business?’

Magenta raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

‘You could say that,’ she smirks, ‘he’s away anyway,’ she says, adding dryly, ‘he likes to keep himself busy.’

Rachel’s careful not to press any further.

‘I suggest we have a trial week, see how you and George bond, see if you like one another. I’m planning a trip away in a couple of weeks, so if all goes well I can leave George in your capable hands.’

Rachel smiles. Pleased. She senses that Mr Magenta has left his wife in the lurch somewhere along the line and the idea of full-time single motherhood has rapidly lost its glossy sheen. Magenta has money though; this much is obvious by the quality of her home furnishings – and the fact she clearly doesn’t work yet can still afford to employ a nanny. Daily Mail fodder. She talks about hours, wages, time off, notice periods, George’s sleeping and eating patterns, how he can’t be without his squidgy giraffe, how the Bugaboo stroller is a bitch to dismantle, how she’ll only use organic products on his perfect baby skin and how she must follow the Annabel Karmel recipes for his puree to the letter. George is fascinated by TV apparently, but she’d rather he listened to classical music and she’s bought him some Baby Mozart instead. There’s a local drop-in group on a Thursday she’d like them to attend; it’s £50 a pop but the babies get to sit in a circle and watch a menopausal, childless woman with a sock puppet and a tambourine sing and help them learn through play. He also has sign-language lessons on Tuesday mornings, despite the fact George cannot yet speak. Magenta wants to know if she speaks Spanish, or if she’s prepared to learn quickly so that she can speak to George in another language.

Rachel nods and tells her she knows some German, that her father’s parents were from Berlin. Magenta looks thrilled and says ‘perfect’.

She wonders if perhaps she should kill her instead? Either way, she feels she would be doing her a favour.

‘Are you single?’ Magenta asks her boldly.

‘Yes,’ Rachel replies, ‘not looking.’ This is the correct answer, she knows.

‘No plans to marry, have babies, travel?’

‘None.’ She thinks about Daniel again.

George is still wriggling in her arms; he’s a beautiful baby. She feels his strong life force, his chubby, milky-skinned face observing her as he exerts his strength. Babies are much more robust than they look; people treat them as if they might easily break, like china dolls. But she knows differently…

‘He smiled!’ Magenta jumps up, ‘Gosh, he rarely smiles!’

Rachel refrains from making a caustic remark like, no shit, with a cunt of a selfish mother like you, or something. She smiles back at him, then at Magenta.

‘I think he likes you.’

‘Perfect,’ she says.

Magenta smiles brightly. ‘Okay Rachel, when can you start?’