Until You're Mine Read Free Page A

roots are pushing up and splitting the tarmac like a mini earthquake and the trunk is too big to get my security chain around. I walk along the pavement a bit further, wheeling my bike, and notice that there’s another, smaller drive down the side of the house leading to a triple garage. I tentatively enter the property again, feeling as if dozens of eyes are staring out at me from the windows, watching my silly, incompetent arrival.
    I still don’t know what to do with my bike. It looks too shiny and new for someone who’s meant to cycle everywhere. I decide that resting it against the side wall of the garage, out of view from the street and house, will have to do. I’m careful not to scrape the handlebars down the side of the massive four-wheel-drive or the BMW that sit side by side.
    I take a deep breath and finger my hair into some kind of style again. I wipe the sweat from my face with my sleeve. I walk back to the front door and knock three times on the huge brass upside-down fish knocker. Its mouth gapes open at me.
    I don’t have to wait long. A small child pulls the door open as if it’s taking all his strength. The little boy is almost see-through pale, about hip height, with shaggy mousey-blonde hair. One of my charges, I assume. They’re twins apparently.
    ‘What?’ he says rudely.
    ‘Hello.’ I crouch down like nannies do. I smile. ‘My name’s Zoe and I’ve come to see your mummy. Is she here?’
    ‘My mummy’s in heaven,’ he says, trying to close the door. I should have brought sweets or something.
    Before I can decide whether to push against him and risk a tussle with the kid or revert to knocking with the fish again, a beautiful woman is looming over us. Her belly is enormous and pushes out from beneath a black stretchy top. It’s right in front of my face. I can’t take my eyes off it. ‘You must be Zoe,’ she says. Her voice is just as lovely as the rest of her. It jolts me back to reality. The smile she gives me makes a fan of tiny lines on the outside of each eye as well as two dimples in her cheeks. She looks like the friendliest woman in the world.
    I stand up and hold out my hand. ‘Yes, and you must be Mrs Morgan-Brown.’
    ‘Oh, call me Claudia, please. Come in.’ She grins.
    Claudia steps aside and I go into the house. It smells of flowers – there’s a vase of lilies on the hall table – but mostly it smells of burnt toast.
    ‘Let’s go and get comfy in the kitchen. There’s coffee.’ Claudia beckons me on with her smile and her burgeoning belly. The kid that opened the door trots between us, glancing up at me as we walk along the black-and-white chequerboard tiled floor. He’s got a toy gun tucked into the waist of his trousers.
    We go into the kitchen. It’s huge.
    ‘Darling, Zoe’s here.’
    A man looks up from behind
The Times
. Good-looking, I suppose, as they all appear to be in this family.
    ‘Hello,’ I say, sounding as cheery as I can.
    There is a moment’s hesitation between us.
    ‘Hi, I’m James. Good to meet you.’ He stands briefly and offers me his hand.
    Claudia gives me a coffee that’s magically come from a shiny machine that looks impossible to use – a machine I’ll no doubt have to operate if I get the job. I take a sip and look around, trying not to gawp. It’s an impressive kitchen. Where I live . . . nearly
don’t
live . . . has a kitchen the size of a cupboard. No room for a dishwasher or any fancy appliances, but then I remind myself it’s just the two of us and it hardly takes any time at all to swill a couple of plates and a saucepan through.
    This kitchen, though, it takes my breath away. Great big Georgian windows rise from behind the double Belfast sink affording a view down a garden that’s far too huge to be in a city. There are cream-painted cupboards spanning three sides of the room with a red Aga as big as a car set into the old chimney breast. Wooden worktops the same honey colour as the old wooden floor