The Turn of the Key

“Rowan!” Sandra came running out the front door, her arms outstretched, and before I was fully out of the car she had enveloped me in a maternal hug. Then, she stood back and waved her hand at a figure standing in the shadows of the porch—a tall man, balding slightly, with close-shaven hair.

“Rowan, this is my husband, Bill. Bill—meet Rowan Caine.”

So this—this was Bill Elincourt. For a moment I couldn’t think of what to say; I just stood there, awkwardly conscious of Sandra’s arm around me, not sure of whether I should break away from her grip to go and greet him or—

I was still frozen in indecision when he solved the issue by striding towards me, sticking out his hand and giving me a quick, businesslike smile.

“Rowan. Good to meet you at last. Sandra’s told me all about you. You have a very impressive résumé.”

You don’t know the half of it, Bill, I thought, as he picked up one of the cases from the boot and made his way back to the house. I took a deep breath and prepared to follow, and as I did, my hand went nervously to my necklace. But this time, instead of tracing its familiar grooves, I slipped the pendant inside the neck of my shirt, and hurried after them.

Inside the kitchen we had coffee, and I sat nervously on the edge of one of the metal breakfast stools while Bill quizzed me about my qualifications, feeling on edge in a way that I never had when Sandra had interviewed me. I wanted . . . I don’t know. I wanted to impress him, I suppose. But at the same time, as he droned on about his punishing schedule and the difficulties of recruiting staff in the Highlands, and the inadequacies of his previous nannies, I increasingly wanted to shake him.

I don’t know what I had imagined. Someone successful, I guess. I had known that from the advert and the house. Someone fortunate—with his beautiful kids and accomplished wife and interesting job. All that, I had taken for granted. But he was so . . . so comfortable. He was padded—every inch of him. I don’t mean he was fat, but he was cushioned, physically, emotionally, financially, in a way that he just didn’t seem to grasp, and it was his very ignorance of the fact that made it even more infuriating.

Do you know what it’s like? I wanted to shout at him, as he complained about their gardener who had left to take up a full-time teaching job in Edinburgh, and the home help who had broken the ￡800 waste disposal unit in the sink and then run away because she couldn’t face telling them what she’d done. Do you understand what it’s like for people who don’t have your money, and your protection, and your privilege?

As he sat there, holding forth as if there was nothing in the world so important as his inconsequential problems, Sandra gazing adoringly into his face like she was happy to listen to him drone on forever, the realization came to me, painfully. He was selfish. A selfish, self-centered man who had barely asked me a single personal question—not even how my journey had been. He just didn’t care.

I don’t know what I had expected to feel when I met him—this man who hadn’t bothered to interview a woman he was planning to leave his children with for weeks at a time—but I hadn’t expected to feel this level of hostility. I knew I had to get a grip on myself, or it would show in my face.

Perhaps Sandra saw something of my discomfort, for she gave a little laugh and broke in.

“Darling, Rowan doesn’t want to hear about our domestic travails. Just make sure you don’t go putting cutlery down the grinder, Rowan! Anyway, quite seriously, all the instructions are here”—she patted a fat red binder at her elbow. “It’s a physical copy of the document I emailed you last week, and if you’ve not had a chance to sit down and read it yet, it’s got everything from how to work the washing machine, right through to the children’s bedtimes and what they do and don’t like to eat. If you’ve got any concerns at all, you’ll find the answers here, although of course you can always ring me. Did you download Happy?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Happy—the home-management app. I emailed you the authorization code?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, the app, yes, I downloaded it.”

She looked relieved.

“Well that’s the main thing. I’ve set up your Happy profile with all the permissions you’ll need, and of course it stands in as a baby monitor, though we’ve got a regular one for Petra’s room as well. Just in case, you know, but the app is very good. What else . . . oh, food! I’ve done you a menu planner here”—she pulled out a loose sheet from a plastic wallet on the first page of the binder—“which is full of stuff they’ll eat fairly reliably, and bought all the ingredients, so you’re absolutely set for the first week. Plus all the passwords are in there for Waitrose online and so on, and here is a credit card for any household expenses. The statement comes direct to me and Bill, but obviously do keep receipts—a quick snap on your phone is fine, you don’t need to keep the physical bit of paper. Um . . . what else . . . I expect you’re full of questions?”

She said the last in a slightly hopeful tone, though I wasn’t completely certain whether she was hoping I would prompt her or hoping I’d say no.

“I did read the email,” I said, though in truth, since the document was about fifty dense pages, I’d only skimmed through the pages. “But it’ll be brilliantly helpful to have a printout of course—it’s always so much easier to flick through a physical copy. It was impressively comprehensive. I think I’ve got a handle on everything—Petra’s routine, Ellie’s allergies, Maddie’s . . . um—” I stopped, unsure how to phrase what Sandra had called her daughter’s explosive personality. It sounded as though Maddie was quite the handful, or could be.