the Sea Lane estate were individual affairs; some more subtly designed than others, but all very expensive-looking. Her room itself had a double bed, covered in a pretty flowery, very French-looking eiderdown, next to a dressing table and a wardrobe on the opposite wall. A further door led to a small, but modern, shower room.
Ellen began unpacking her case. It didn’t take long. After all, her life had only begun six months ago. If it had been Helen Matthews standing here, then there might be a whole lot more stuff to unpack. A little flutter of unease flew through her but she fought it down. She’d been safe for the past six months. The longer the time passed, the more distance she put between Helen Matthews and Ellen Newman, the safer she was. If anything was going to happen, surely it would have done so by now. She unzipped her handbag and took out the little brown bottle of tablets; they rattled against each other and the plastic bottle as she shook out one small white pill. She popped it into her mouth and swallowed, the film coating making the journey to her stomach easier. Ellen replaced the bottle in her bag, taking deep breaths, allowing the moment of fear to pass over her. She noted with satisfaction that these anxiety attacks were becoming less frequent and passing quicker. She was still safe.
An hour later, Ellen was following Carla around the house for her guided tour. The middle floor comprised bedrooms for Izzy, Donovan and for Carla.
‘I don’t stay very often,’ explained Carla. ‘I prefer to go home these days. Things to do.’
The house was immaculately kept, noted Ellen, as they trawled through the rooms. A formal dining room led off one side of the entrance hall and a large sitting room on the other. Halfway down the hall on the right was Carla’s office, which had an interlocking door into the sitting room on one side and on the other, another door, which led into Donovan’s office.
‘Donovan has consulting rooms he uses. They are over at Chichester. If he’s not there, then he’s down at the police station. I’m based either here or at the consulting rooms, depending on whether he has a clinic that day or not.’ Carla paused. ‘Did they tell you what he does?’
‘He’s a psychologist, I think they said.’
‘That’s right. A criminal psychologist for Sussex Police. Hence the reason for spending a lot of time there.’
‘Is that where he is now?’ asked Ellen.
‘Yes, they called him in earlier. I don’t know what time he will be back; these things can drag on for hours. You will probably have to wait until tomorrow to meet him.’ Carla strode down the black and white-tiled hallway to the back of the house where Ellen had first seen Izzy that morning. Ellen followed her down the corridor and into the kitchen.
Izzy was bent over a mixing bowl at the kitchen table, attempting to knead a piece of dough about the size of a tennis ball.
Mrs Holloway was standing on the other side of the table doing the same with her much larger piece of dough. She looked up as Ellen and Carla entered the room.
‘Hello,’ she said, smiling at them. Then she spoke to the child. ‘Izzy, you’ve got visitors.’ She nodded towards the doorway.
Izzy gave a quick glance in Ellen’s direction but then immediately turned her attention back to the piece of dough. Ellen sat down beside her at the table. ‘Hello, Izzy,’ she spoke gently and with warmth. ‘What have you got there? Dough? What are you making with that?’
Izzy shrugged and let the dough drop into the bowl. She began picking at her fingers. Ellen carried on, understanding that it was going to take a while before she earned the child’s trust
Ellen picked up the dough ball. ‘Eww, it’s all sticky. Look, if we sprinkle some more flour into the bowl and roll the dough around, it will stop it being so gooey. Here, you do it.’
Izzy hesitated for a moment before putting her hand into the bag of flour and taking a handful, sprinkling it into the bowl. Ellen dropped the dough ball into it. A puff of flour ballooned into the air, showering them both in white dust. Ellen made an exaggerated yelp of surprise, followed by some spluttering noises.
It had the desired effect. Izzy giggled. ‘Oh my word,’ said Ellen. ‘What a mess I’ve made.’ She wiped her hand across her face, purposefully leaving a trail of flour over her nose and her cheek. This was rewarded by more giggling from Izzy.
‘You’ve got it on your face,’ said Izzy.
‘Have I? Where?’ Ellen wiped her face, knowing full well she was making it worse.
‘There!’ Izzy laughed out loud, pointing at Ellen’s chin.
‘Here?’ More flour on her face.
‘No! There!’
The two of them were now laughing together, as was Mrs Holloway. Only Carla remained immune to the fun. ‘Don’t make too much mess,’ said Carla. ‘It will be your bedtime soon.’
Immediately, Izzy’s face fell and she lapsed back into a subdued silence. Ellen bit down the urge to say something to Carla. Now wasn’t the time, not in front of Izzy and certainly not in the first few hours of her new job.
‘Doesn’t she stay up to see her father?’ said Ellen instead.
‘Izzy needs routine,’ explained Carla. ‘Donovan likes it that way. And truth be told, the child does too. In fact, while I think about it, there’s a folder up in the nursery I should have told you about. It’s got Izzy’s routine set out. When she has her meals, how she spends her time. If you can acquaint yourself with that, then it will make the transition easier and create minimum disruption for Izzy.’
Poor Izzy, it made her sound like some sort of Stepford child. Every minute of her day planned out. Where was the fun in that?
‘I’ll have a look. It may be that I make a few changes once I get used to everything,’ said Ellen, trying to keep her voice casual.
‘Not too much. We like things to run smoothly around here.’ There was a distinctly challenging tone to Carla’s voice.
Once again, Ellen resisted the urge to argue but nevertheless, she resolved to make changes as she saw fit. Carla could take a running jump with her timetable. Ellen contemplated her new employer. Was he a stickler for routine as well? Maybe that was why the previous nanny had left; too much control? She shuddered to herself as this idea nudged painful, not too distant memories, to the fore. Control like that was never a good thing. She couldn’t help but wonder if that’s why there was no Mrs Donovan. The agency had said that the mother had left three years ago but had offered no explanation as to why. What would make a mother leave her young child? It must have been bad. Was it as bad for Mrs Donovan as it had been for herself? A slither of mistrust towards her new employer coiled itself in her stomach.
The French Marseillaise sounded out on Donovan’s phone; the tune he had specifically assigned to Amanda, his soon to be ex-wife. As he drove into Felpham village, he flirted with the idea of ignoring it. However, previous experience told him this would be futile. She would simply keep ringing. With much reluctance, Donovan hit the accept button for the hands-free kit.
‘Amanda.’
‘Donovan.’ Their usual minimalistic
