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‘Hello, baby... Oh, he’s so lovely... Come on, baby Declan, let’s show you your room.’
Rose waited until she saw which door the young woman was headed for then followed. She didn’t look but she knew his eyes were following her, the skin on the nape of her neck tingling, the tiny hairs on her skin dancing.
The nursery suite, when they reached it, was charming. And, considering it must literally have been created overnight, remarkably well equipped—from the drawers of neatly folded baby clothes to the colourful playroom filled with toys.
It had its own little kitchen complete with some chilled wine in the fridge, which she assumed was a thoughtful addition for her, though she had to question the professionalism of sampling it in charge of a baby. She left Camille while she did a quick tour of her own section of the suite.
Her bedroom, utterly charming with a cool dark wooden floor and bleached oak furniture, was a million miles from anything she had ever lived with. No flatpack cheap and cheerful, but items with workmanship that spoke of hours and hours of the loving care and skill that went into each individual piece’s creation. She walked through the open French door onto a Juliet balcony that looked directly onto the infinity pool she had spotted from the air, and the sea beyond.
If the bedroom was charming, her bathroom was genuinewow! The stone-lined shower had high-tech digital controls that were slightly daunting. What was tempting and not daunting was the free-standing copper bath deep enough to float in that was set beside a full-height window that overlooked the ocean.
Rose could easily imagine herself setting up residence in the bath—with that view, what would be the reason to get out? Longing to linger and maybe try out the decadent tub, she hurried back to the nursery kitchen where Camille was humming a soft melody to a heavy-eyed Declan.
She smiled and lifted a finger to her lips when she saw Rose. ‘I changed him,’ she whispered, adding a mouthed, Shall I put him in his crib...?
Rose nodded and felt slightly redundant. Camille seemed super-efficient. She left her to it and followed the coffee smell and poured herself a cup, then, putting her bottom onto one of the high stools that faced a small island unit, sat and waited for Camille.
She didn’t have long to wait. ‘He was asleep before I put him down.’
‘Thanks,’ Rose said, lifting her mug, and added, ‘This too. Just what I was longing for.’
‘No need to thank me. If I wasn’t here I’d be babysitting my twin brothers who are eleven, so thank you, you have saved me!’
‘What university do you go to?’
‘Athens. I’m in my final year, maths, but I just got accepted at Imperial for my masters, so this job is useful. Actually I wouldn’t be going at all if it wasn’t for Mr Adamos.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, not him personally, at least that’s what he said when I thanked him, but the Adamos Foundation provides bursaries for students who have brains but no cash—that’s me,’ she said cheerily.
‘That’s fantastic. When you come to London you’ll have to look me up.’
‘You live in London? I’m so jealous.’
‘You live here. I’m so jealous!’
They both laughed.
When Camille left it was agreed that she’d return to babysit around seven-thirty when she said dinner was served.
She actually arrived at six-thirty with a laptop and a stack of books. Rose was still in a big fluffy robe from a hamper with a pile of them in the bathroom. Her hair, half dried, hung loose and almost to her waist.
‘I’m late!’ she exclaimed when Camille appeared.
‘No, I’m early. I’m always early,’ the girl admitted. ‘Can I do anything?’
‘No, Declan has had his bath and feed and he’s settled well. Apparently he had colic quite badly recently, so if you have any problems you will come and get me...’
‘Of course, no problem, go eat, but maybe get dressed first?’
Rose laughed and whisked away to her bedroom. Picking an outfit was quite simple as there was a choice of two and the cotton sundress was creased even after she had hung it in the bathroom in the hope of getting the creases out. She was sure that she could have just asked and an iron would have appeared but the second option was fine.
The pair of wide-legged trousers had folded to almost nothing in her bag but as she laid them on the bed the silky black fabric was totally crease-free. She had brought a couple of white tee shirts to team with them in the daytime but the black boxy-shaped top, sleeveless with a simple scoop neck in the front and a deep vee in the back, was her go-to for more dressy occasions.
Under her gown she was wearing a tiny silky bra and pants. After she pulled the trousers up over her hips and fastened the zip she realised that she must have lost a few pounds since she’d last worn them, but the cut covered a multitude of sins except, in this instance, her waist. She hitched them higher but they slid down again. Even if she’d had a belt to secure them, there were no belt loops.
No point stressing, it wasn’t noticeable and the top would disguise the problem—except of course it didn’t. The boxy-cut top ended where the waistband of the trousers began, which was perfect but became less than perfect when she moved. Every time she did a sliver of stomach came into view, not exactly illegal or even particularly daring but tonight it made her uneasy.
