The Safe Place, page 7
Scott cleared his throat.
“Well, o-kay!” she said, realizing she’d been staring at his chest hair.
He ordered food. Seared scallops. Pasta with diamond-shell clams. Gelato for dessert: sour cherry and sweet vanilla. The most delicious array of flavors she’d ever tasted.
Emboldened, Emily asked him about his life. “I did all the talking this morning. Now it’s your turn.” She mimicked his director’s tone. “Maybe you could tell me a little about yourself.”
Scott hesitated. Then, with downcast eyes, he told her his story. He’d grown up in the Cotswolds, the younger of two boys. His mother was a dressmaker, and his father, as far as anyone knew, was a successful entrepreneur. Over several years, Terrence Denny had set up multiple companies and made a lot of money, and for many years they’d all lived very comfortably. But it all came crashing down the day bailiffs knocked on the door. Unbeknownst to the family, a serious gambling problem had first raised Terrence up then torn him down. They lost everything. And then he left, taking with him, for some unknown reason, Scott’s only brother.
“The shame and grief nearly killed my mother,” Scott said, and for one electrifying moment, Emily thought he was going to cry. “I swore I would fight my way to a better life—for both of us. I swore I would do what he couldn’t.”
Possibly it was the champagne, but for a few raw seconds, everything was different. Time slowed down. There were no walls between them, no hidden agendas, no other people; just the movement of the air between them and the gentle truth of their hearts.
But the moment dissolved just as quickly as it had arrived, and Scott was back: calm, collected, and totally in control.
“So…,” Emily said, changing the subject. “This job. Say I was to accept.”
“Hypothetically?”
“Hypothetically, yes. What would happen then?”
“Well,” Scott pushed his empty plate to one side. “Hypothetically, I would give you this.” He reached down beneath the table. From a black laptop bag, he pulled a slim document.
“What is it?”
He passed it to her. It was a sheaf of printed A4 paper, maybe twelve pages, bound together by a black plastic spine.
“It’s a confidentiality agreement. Also known as an NDA.” He shrugged. “All our staff sign one. Or, at least, the seniors do.”
Emily looked at it, her eyes skimming over the clauses and legal jargon. “Okay … what’s it for?”
“In this case? Nothing really. We use them all the time at Proem because we share sensitive information between clients and investors, but with you it’s more just about keeping local gossip to a minimum.” He grinned and leaned toward her, his tone suddenly confessional. “Truth? I cheated a bit when I started renovating the property. I needed to push things through quickly so, you know, I’ve occasionally neglected to obtain the correct planning permissions. It’s no big deal, but I really don’t need it coming back at me. Also…” It was hard to tell, but Scott appeared to be blushing. “God, this is going to sound so pompous, but my public image is growing, and I like to keep a low profile.”
Emily giggled. “A low profile?” She snapped her fingers in the air. “Hang on, I knew I recognized you from somewhere! Can I please have your autograph, Brad? I just loved you in Benjamin Button.”
Scott laughed. “Don’t take the piss.”
“Don’t freak out, but I think I see helicopters circling. Must be the paps.”
“I’m serious. I don’t want people knowing where I live.”
Emily smiled. She’d heard of nondisclosure agreements. Celebrities used them all the time. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll keep your secrets for you.”
“You’re too kind. So, anyway—hypothetically—after that’s signed, I might present you with these.” He rummaged in his jacket pocket, pulling out a shiny black credit card and three keys on a silver ring. “This would be your card. You can use it for whatever you like, within reason of course. Your weekly wage will be paid into your account. Or you can use the card to withdraw it in cash, if you prefer.”
Tax-free income, Emily thought. This just gets better and better.
“These are the keys to the house and your car. This little one is for the front gate, but the security system is electronic so you won’t need it. Yves will explain everything when you get there.”
“Yves?”
“My man on the ground.” That boyish smile again. “A local guy; he’s a landscaper. Takes care of the heavy lifting, so to speak. Big stuff, like fences, drainage, plumbing. He does most of it himself, but he has plenty of connections should we need anything outside of his expertise.”
Emily took the card and the keys and placed them both on top of the agreement. “And after that? What would happen then?”
“Well, if you had no further questions, I’d tell you that your flight is already booked and you leave on Thursday.” Scott sat back, studying her, and Emily understood that she was standing at a crossroads. It was now or never. Yes or no. The red pill or the blue pill.
She looked up at the trellis and the patches of pure blue sky just visible between the creepers. Housekeeper. Emily thought about her bathroom and the thick layer of grime that covered the sink and the bathtub. Au pair. Sure, she was good with kids but she knew nothing about taking care of them, especially not ones with “health issues.” But an all-expenses-paid summer on a luxurious estate by the ocean? She could learn on the job, right?
“You know, Em,” Scott said, his voice strangely weary. “The smallest thing can change your life. Just one decision can open so many doors. You can walk through any one of them—or all of them at once—and become a completely different person. And just like that, nothing is ever the same again.”
Their eyes locked, and Emily felt like he could see right through to her soul. Her heart flared like a struck match. Maybe she was special.
Holding the agreement in her hands, she smiled. “Have you got a pen?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
SCOTT
IN THE living room of his riverside apartment, Scott stood with his phone pressed to his ear. Nina wasn’t picking up. He tried twice more before the line finally clicked and her voice floated through a crackle of static.
“Scott?” He could only just hear her.
“Nina. Are you there?”
The line hissed in reply.
“Nina?”
“… hear you,” she said. She sounded far away, like she was speaking to him from the back of a giant cave.
He waited. “I’m sending someone,” he said, eventually.
More hissing. Then: “… body out there.”
“What?”
Suddenly Nina’s voice came hurtling through the earpiece, loud and clear. “… watching me. There’s somebody watching the house.”
A tremor pulsed through Scott’s body, quick and sharp, leaving him prickling all over. He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “Nina—”
“In the woods. I can hear them.”
“Nina, listen. There’s no one in the woods.”
The static was back. Her voice dropped out.
He waited. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she said, faintly.
“Did you hear what I said? I’m sending someone.”
“You’re what?”
“Sending someone. To you. She arrives on Thursday.” There was a pop, then a soft howl, like the wind blowing. “Yves will meet her at the airport and bring her to you.”
“You’re…” Nina faded away again.
“Where are you? Are you outside?” Scott pictured her standing on the lawn, holding the phone in one white-knuckled hand. Her brow would be knotted, her eyes wide. “Go back inside, Nina, there’s no one in the woods.”
“Scott? Did you just say someone’s coming here?”
“Yes, but not now. Thursday.”
“Thursday? Who? Who’s coming?”
“A housekeeper.”
“A housekeeper,” Nina echoed, her voice faint.
“Or a gardener. A babysitter. A general dogsbody. She can be whatever you want.” He wandered over to the window and looked down. Outside, a heavy rain lashed at tall buildings and pummeled the road. He listened to the water pouring off the eaves outside and pictured himself out there among the raindrops, free-falling through the air, twisting and turning, riding the currents, and then, SMASH. Hitting the ground and bursting into a billion wet pieces.
“She?”
“Yes. Her name’s Emily.” Emily, Emily, Emily. His thoughts were full of her. He cringed as he remembered how much he’d shared with her over lunch. His upbringing, his father … why had he done that? He needed to be more careful.
Nina said something, but the line crackled again and he didn’t quite catch it. “Nina? Are you still there?” Scott walked into the kitchen and leaned on the kitchen island, resting his elbows on the marble. Huge glass pendants floated above his head like planets. “Nina?”
Silence.
“I’m trying to do the right thing here,” he murmured.
Still nothing.
He bit his thumbnail, pulling the jagged edge between his teeth; it tore but got stuck at the side. He persisted and the nail came loose, blood blooming underneath.
“I know you want me to be there.” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “But we both know I can’t.”
There was a rustle, and suddenly the line was so clear he could hear every little sound she made. He heard her lips part and her tongue move; he heard the ragged rise and fall of her breath. She was crying.
“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you.”
Scott closed his eyes. Sliding his elbows over the swirling marble, he pressed his forehead into his hands and let her gratitude wash over him. That’s right, Nina, he thought. You win. Again.
But he knew he was wrong. No one could win.
They would all lose. Every one of them.
My husband stumbles backward, trying to catch the pancake, and I laugh, determined not to spoil our last few moments. I want to send him off in a good mood.
“Ha! Got it!” He teases the pancake onto my plate, where it folds into a messy heap. Frowning, he prods it back into shape.
I watch him closely. He’s just as handsome as the day we met. I love the way his tongue pokes out the side of his mouth whenever he concentrates, like it’s coaching from the sidelines. It really should have its own little hat and whistle.
“Your breakfast is served, madame,” he says in a faux-French accent, presenting the plate with a flourish. Smiling, I grab half a lemon and squeeze the juice over the pancake, adding sugar and then a handful of grated cheese, patting it all down and rolling it up into a cigar shape. He makes a face as I pick it up and sink my teeth into it. It is bliss.
“Gross,” he says, spreading peanut butter on a piece of toast. “And you call yourself a chef.”
“Nope,” I say. “Haven’t qualified yet.”
“And you never will if you keep making stuff like that. You’re abusing our unborn child, you know. It’s probably retching in there as we speak.”
“No, this is what it wants. It told me,” I say through a mouthful of lemon and cheese. “Crêpe Suzette au fromage. All the rage in Paris.”
“Is it now? I’ll have to look out for that when I get there.”
I swallow and make a sad face. “Do you really have to leave us? What if the baby comes while you’re away?”
“It’s only three nights. And that baby isn’t going anywhere. Not yet. It’s very happy in there. It told me.” He walks around the kitchen island and leans over to kiss me.
“Yuck!” I say, instantly nauseous. “Don’t come near me with your peanut-butter breath, you’ll make me vomit!”
“You can stomach lemon, sugar, and cheese, but peanut butter makes you feel sick?” He laughs and nuzzles my neck. “You’re a crazy lady.”
I bat him away, but not too hard. Funny thing is, I’ve never felt so sane. Pregnancy seems to have leveled me out and balanced my hormones instead of stirring them up. I can’t remember ever feeling so clearheaded and full of energy, which is a huge relief as I’ve been planning to come off the medication anyway. I imagine the freedom of not having to take it. I won’t have to lie anymore; I won’t have to hide the pills.
Rubbing the taut skin of my belly, I imagine the little creature inside, all curled up, floating around like a roly-poly astronaut.
“Okay, my love. My two loves, I should say. Daddy’s outta here.” He kisses my head and wraps his arms around my shoulders. Then he bends down and presses his lips to my bump. “Be good in there, little swimmer,” he says. “No parties while I’m away.”
A bubble of panic rises in my chest and pops on my tongue. “Can we come, too?” I plead, only half joking. “Give me five minutes. I’ll pack a bag and we can all move to Paris.”
He laughs. “You, pack a bag in five minutes? I’d like to see you try. And what is your thing with France, anyway? What’s the big draw? Aside from the unusual gastronomic trends, I mean.”
“I don’t know.” I press his hand against my cheek. “I’ve just always wanted to live there. Go to the markets. Sit at little corner cafés. Maybe one day set up a bed-and-breakfast or something.”
“Hmm. Well, let’s just have this baby first, hey?” He kisses my nose, my eyebrows, the tips of my fingers. “In the meantime, I’ve got to go and make some money. I’ll call you when I get to the hotel.”
I watch as he grabs the handle of his flight bag and wheels it toward the door, sucking up every movement, every inch of him, banking it for later when I’m alone. In a few moments, he will be gone, but right now he is here with me, in this house that we share, in this beautiful dreamlike life we have built together.
In the hallway, he turns back. “Why don’t you go to the movies later? Get your nails done? Treat yourself.”
I try not to react. He does this sometimes; mocks me. It’s like I test. A test I always pass.
With a final smile, he disappears through the door and his absence rushes in. The lock clicks into place and I am left with my steadfast companions: the Liberty wallpaper, the Italian espresso machine. The Armani occasional chair and the floral-print tea tray that cost almost as much as I used to make in a year.
I swallow the empty spaces, pull the silence close. I blow a heartfelt kiss toward the door, sending it skipping after my husband, and marvel at my own bubbling happiness, my phenomenal good luck.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EMILY
QUERENCIA, EMILY thought. What a beautiful word.
As the SUV passed through the black iron gates at the end of the long dirt track, she found she could hardly breathe. The colors, the smells, the two gleaming houses … a part of her, the part that had worried the whole way from London that Scott’s job offer was too good to be true, backed away with its hands in the air.
She stared, enraptured, as Yves steered the car farther onto the property. He pointed at things as they went, naming them in a flat monotone. Tennis court, basketball court, vegetable garden. Quad bikes, tree house, koi pond.
Taking the left fork around the central lawn, he parked in front of the larger of the two houses. “You will find madame in the gardens,” he said, yanking the hand brake and turning off the engine. He was out of the car before Emily could even respond, stamping away toward a stationary white utility truck half-hidden among the trees. He threw himself inside and the truck pulled away, disappearing back through the gates in a cloud of dust.
Alone, Emily turned in her seat, scanning the empty property. Eventually, she opened her door and stepped down onto soft sand; the whole driveway was covered in it, a fine white powder that squeaked under her feet. There were no signs of life anywhere. No shoes on the porch, no towels slung over chairs, no noise.
She reached into her handbag for the keys Scott had given her in Soho. The emblem on the car key matched that of the SUV. She clicked the lock button and the car made a beeping sound. Holy shit. Apparently, this enormous black machine was now hers to drive. Ridiculous, really, considering she’d never driven anything larger than a Ford Kia. Even more ridiculous: Scott hadn’t verified that she could drive.
Jangling the keys in her hand, Emily turned in circles, wondering in which particular part of the vast gardens she might find “madame.” Scott had emailed her some information about the property but hadn’t included his wife’s contact details. She pulled out her phone, wondering if she ought to text Scott, but it still wasn’t picking up any service.
Suddenly, there was a flash of movement over near the smaller of the two houses. Emily raised her hand to block the glare of the sun, scanning the front door and the windows. She took a few tentative steps, and there it was again. A streak of color behind a hedge to the left.
Emily began to walk with more purpose. “Hello?” she called.
A short, flapping thing shot into view and tore across a patch of grass, disappearing again behind the house. Emily stared. A child, she thought. A small girl with black hair running at full tilt, a too-big yellow hat flopping around on her head.
She waited.
“Hello?” she called, louder this time. “Anybody here?”
There was no answer. “Madame” must be inside.
The door of the house stood ajar. She wandered over to the front steps, craning her neck to see inside. It opened onto some kind of sitting room, full of light-toned furniture and Impressionist paintings. Thick magazines and photography books were arranged artfully on low tables next to clusters of candles bearing brand names she’d only ever seen during the occasional fantasy browse in Selfridges, and the air was filled with an exotic, flowery scent.
