The Turn of the Key

“Sandra, don’t give it a second thought,” I said. The top was not going to be okay, at least not until I could wash it, and possibly not even then. It was a silk blouse, dry-clean only, a stupid choice for a nannying interview, but I hadn’t thought about the fact that I would be interacting with the kids. Maybe I could get a small moral advantage from the situation. “Honestly, these things happen when you have kids, right? It’s only porridge! However—” I leaned over and took the bowl of porridge away from Petra before she realized what was happening and put it out of her reach. “I think you’ve had enough, little Miss Petra, so maybe I’ll take charge of that while I clean up. Where’s your mop, Sandra, and I’ll clean up that blob on the floor before one of the girls slips on it.”

“It’s in the utility room, that door there,” Sandra said, with a grateful smile. “Thank you so much, Rowan. I honestly wasn’t expecting you to start pitching in unpaid, this is beyond the call of duty.”

“I’m glad to help,” I said firmly. I ruffled Petra’s hair as I passed with an affection I didn’t entirely feel, and gave Ellie a little wink. Maddie was not looking at me; she was staring down at her plate as though the whole thing had passed her by. Maybe she was ashamed at her earlier role, egging Petra on.

The utility room turned out to be in the older part of the house—probably the original scullery judging by the Victorian sink and stone-flagged floor—but I wasn’t in the mood to appreciate architectural details. Instead, I shut the door behind me and took a couple of deep breaths, trying to rid myself of the last of my irritation, and then set to work trying to rescue my top. The worst of the porridge flicked off into the sink, but I was going to have to sponge the rest. After several tries that only succeeded in getting porridgy water onto my skirt, I pushed a mop against the handle of the kitchen door and peeled off my top.

I was standing there in my bra and skirt, dabbing at the porridgy patch under the tap and trying not to get the rest of the shirt wetter than necessary, when I heard a sound from the other side of the utility room and turned to see the door to the yard open and Jack Grant come in, wiping his hands on his overall trousers.

“Mower’s going, San—” he called, and then broke off, his eyes widening in shock. A vivid blush spread across his broad cheekbones.

I gave a yelp of surprise and clutched my wet top to my breasts, trying my best to preserve my modesty.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” Jack said. He was covering his eyes, looking at the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but me. His cheeks were flaming. “I’ll—I’ll be—so sorry—”

And then he turned and fled, slamming the yard door behind him, leaving me gasping and not sure whether to laugh or cry.

There was not much point in either, so I hastily dried my wet top with a towel hanging over the radiator, filled up the mop bucket, and then made my way back to the kitchen with my cheeks almost as pink as Jack’s.

“Shirt fixed?” Sandra said over her shoulder as I came in. “Let me get you a coffee.”

“Yes.” I was not sure whether to tell her what had just happened. Had she heard my squeak of surprise? Would Jack say something? “Sandra, I—”

But then my nerve failed me. I couldn’t think of a way of saying, Sandra, I just boob-flashed your handyman, without sounding hopelessly unprofessional. I felt the blush on my face deepen in shame at the thought of it. I could not bring it up. I would just have to hope that Jack was enough of a gentleman not to refer to it himself.

“Milk and sugar?” Sandra said absently, and I set the conversation aside.

“Milk, thanks,” I said, and put down the mop bucket and began clearing up Petra’s missiles from the stove and floor, feeling my cheeks cool as I worked.

At last, when the coffee had come through and I was seated at the table, eating a piece of excellent toast and marmalade, I was almost able to pretend it had never happened.

“So,” Sandra said, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Girls. I didn’t get a chance to introduce you to Rowan. She’s come to have a look around our house and meet you. Say hello.”

“Hi,” Maddie muttered, though she said it more to her plate than me. She looked younger than her eight years, with her dark hair and a sallow little face. Beneath the countertop I could see two skinny knees, covered in scabs.

“Hello, Maddie,” I said, with what I hoped was a winning smile, but she kept her eyes firmly down. Ellie was easier; she was looking at me with frank curiosity from beneath her white-blond fringe. “Hello, Ellie. How old are you?”

“I’m five,” Ellie said. Her blue eyes were round as buttons. “Are you going to be our new nanny?”

“I—” I stopped short, not sure what to say. Would I hope so come across as too nakedly pleading?

“Maybe,” Sandra cut in, firmly. “Rowan hasn’t decided yet whether she wants to work here, so we must be very well behaved to impress her!”

She gave me a little sideways wink.

“I tell you what, run upstairs and get dressed, and then we can show Rowan around.”

“What about Petra?” Ellie asked.

“I’ll sort her out. Go on—chop-chop.”

The two girls slid obediently off the tall stools and pattered away across the hallway and up the stairs. Sandra watched them go, fondly.