Our Little Secret Read Free Page A

ball-pit.
    ‘Jasper, NO,’ the woman cries. ‘Wait.’ She lunges forward, accidentally chucking the contents of her coffee cup at me in the process.
    I gasp as the hot liquid lands mostly on the desk and splashes all up the front of my shirt. It’s scorching.
    ‘Oh,’ the woman exclaims, flushing. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
    ‘It’s OK,’ I say, fanning the shirt away from my stomach with my fingertips. Leticia, unimpressed, moves her magazine away from the brown spillage and then the computer keyboard. She stares at me, like it’s my fault.
    The woman dumps her toffee-coloured leather bag in a dry patch on the counter and quickly unpacks.
    ‘Here, take this,’ she says, handing me a bulky rolled-up magazine, then rummaging inside to find a packet of tissues, which she hands me, apologizing again. I mop up the coffee as she hurriedly pays and runs after the little boy.
    ‘What about your magazine?’ I call after her, but she flaps her hand. She clearly doesn’t want it. I unfurl it, to see that it’s
The Lady
. I’ve heard of it, but never read it.
    I go into the staff loos whilst Leticia goes to get another shirt for me from the locker. Whilst I’m waiting, I flick through the magazine. At the back I see an advertising section for nanny jobs and greedily read through them. Why haven’t I looked here before? One in particular catches my eye:
    Articulate, presentable, well-mannered English girl required for an exclusive domestic position immediately in Upstate New York. Preferably aged 20–25. References and photograph essential. All travel and expenses paid. Salary details at interview. Basic qualifications required.
    Exclusive. I wonder what that means? But it’s in America. Wow! Upstate New York. I bet it is super-posh.
    I stare in the chipped mirror at my shabby coffee-drenched reflection, the words whirring in my head.
    ‘Sophie, I’ve got a new shirt for you,’ Leticia calls from the other side of the door. ‘You decent?’
    I’m twenty-two. I have good skin. Scott says I’m pretty. And I can pass as articulate.
    Upstate New York.
Dare I?
    ‘Yes, I’m decent,’ I call back. Then I rip out the advert and fold it carefully, stuffing it deep into the back pocket of my jeans.

4
    Tiff is sitting cross-legged on my single bed sucking a lollipop. Behind her is a pin-board with a montage of ancient photos – mostly selfies – of the pair of us, on the Big Dipper in Blackpool and in various pubs, and of me and Scott kissing at New Year.
    ‘What about this one?’ I say, looking over my shoulder at the back-view of the little black dress in the slim wardrobe mirror. This is the one I’ve selected for the interview in London tomorrow. I stand on tiptoes, as if I’m wearing heels. The dress is short, but it shows off my legs, which I know are one of my best assets. Dancer’s legs, like Mum’s were. I grab my hair and put it up, as if it’s already in the smart updo I’m planning.
    I give my best glittering ‘give me the job’ look at Tiff, who tips her head over to one side, and the lollipop stick wiggles from side to side. She takes it out of her mouth and I can tell she doesn’t approve. But that’s why she’s here. Because she’s been my best friend since, well, forever, and she’s nothing if not honest.
    It was Tiff who told me to apply straight away to the advert I ripped out of
The Lady
. Tiff who patiently peered over my shoulder and edited my CV, daring me to send it off. And Tiff who knew how much it meant when I got a call this morning asking me to come for an interview tomorrow. and so now she’s here, to help me prepare.
    ‘Isn’t it a job interview to be a nanny? They don’t want you to look like you’re going to a nightclub,’ she says. ‘Don’t you have anything . . . I don’t know. Mumsy? Frumpy?’
    Her words throw me into despair and I growl in frustration.
    ‘This is my only good dress,’ I moan. ‘Scott bought it for me.’
    Tiff’s eyebrows rise, one