it was clear that he found it difficult to be near her, and for all those two and half years she’d watched helplessly as he’d done everything for the child but give himself. It just wasn’t good enough. If he couldn’t be a father to the child, he’d have to give her a mother. And, as always, having recognised the need, she would have to organise the solution.
She gathered the files Mark had asked for and picked up her laptop, stopping in Reception to have calls redirected.
Her reflection in a framed picture of Hilliard’s most recent project warned her that her hair was escaping from the neat chignon the hairdresser had assured her would stay in place in a force ten gale.
She still needed to work on her presentation. Fortunately Mark wouldn’t notice even if she shortened her skirts to her knickers and piled on the make-up. He just didn’t see her that way. It was the one thing she had going for her.
‘Read me a story, Daddy.’
Mark glanced irritably at his daughter, who was perfectly happy now that the nanny had gone and she’d disrupted his day.
‘I’m busy, Shuli.’
She pushed the book she was holding onto the desk. It was old. Much read. ‘This story,’ she persisted.
Recognising the futility of resistance, he picked up the book. ‘Where did this come from?’
‘Jane gave it to me,’ she said. ‘I love Jane. I really, really love Jane.’
‘Yes, yes, of course you do…’ He opened the first page and saw, written in a round, childish hand, the words ‘This book belongs to Jane Carmichael’. It was one of her own precious childhood books, brought into the office to amuse Shuli on those days when he had no choice but to take her in with him. It occurred to him that maybe that was what the child had wanted all along: to see Jane. He glanced at the clock, wondering what on earth was taking her so long.
Shuli crawled up onto his lap. ‘Read it now, Daddy.’
‘Please,’ he said, automatically correcting her.
‘Please, Daddy,’ she said. And smiled. She was the very image of her mother. He could almost hear her voice pleading with him. “Please, Mark…let me go…”
The sound of a car pulling up in front of the house released him from the painful memory as, story forgotten, the child slid down and hurtled towards the door. He followed, opening it, and Shuli flung herself at Jane’s knees, hugging them.
‘You wouldn’t consider swapping jobs would you? You’d be the best-paid nanny in the county.’
‘No, thanks. Besides, she doesn’t need a nanny.’ Jane put down the files and her laptop and picked up the child to give her a proper hug. She got a big sticky kiss back. ‘She needs a mother.’ She put the child into his arms and took off her jacket. ‘I’m sorry I was so long. The traffic was a nightmare. I need coffee. Urgently.’
‘Help yourself. You know where everything is.’
She hooked the jacket over the newel post at the foot of the stairs and headed for the kitchen. Putting Shuli down, he followed her. ‘What about you?’ she asked, turning to him as she filled the kettle. ‘Coffee? Or would you prefer tea?’
‘Coffee, thanks.’
Shuli was at her knees again, and she looked down. ‘What about you, sweetheart? Do you want something to drink?’
She giggled. ‘Coffee, thanks,’ she said, imitating her father.
‘And would that be orange juice coffee, or apple juice coffee?’ Shuli giggled as Jane opened her bag and produced a wrapped chocolate biscuit finger. ‘And how about this?’
‘Is she supposed to have stuff like that?’ Mark asked.
Jane glanced up, surprised. ‘You don’t ever buy her chocolate?’
Her rebuke, mild though it was, took him by surprise. ‘Of course not. It’s bad for her teeth.’ He and Caroline had read all the books. Theirs was going to be the perfectly raised child. No junk food. No eating between meals. No sweets…‘Isn’t it?’ he asked, suddenly less certain.
‘I imagine she has a toothbrush?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ll, um, be in the study.’
‘We’ll be right with you.’
Jane placed the tray on the desk out of Shuli’s reach and then settled her at a table with a pile of paper and crayons. ‘Daddy and I are going to be busy for a while. What I’d like you to do for me is draw a picture that I can pin up in my office. Will you do that?’
‘Okay.’
‘Good girl.’ She turned and saw that Mark was watching her with a faintly baffled expression. She poured the coffee and they went quickly through the morning post. ‘I’ve dealt with most of it.’
‘As always. That’s it?’
She took a moment to compose herself. She knew what she had to say. She’d nearly missed her exit on the motor-way rehearsing her lines.
‘Not quite.’ He waited. ‘There’s this.’ Heart hammering, she handed him a broadsheet newspaper folded back at an inside page.
‘Connections?’ he queried, looking up. ‘What is this?’
He couldn’t be that dense. Or then again…‘It’s a dating column. I’ve prepared a draft advertisement for you.’
He took the sheet of paper she offered.
“‘Widower, 34, with small daughter, WLTM warm, caring woman, N/S, GSOH, for LTR.’” He looked up. ‘WLTM?’
‘Would like to meet.’ Seeing his blank expression, she added, ‘Non-smoker with good sense of humour for long-term relationship.’
‘Oh.’
‘On the day you hired me, Mark, you said I was someone who saw what needed to be done and got on with it. That’s what I’m doing now. For Shuli’s sake. I’ve written the ad for you. I’ll even filter the replies if you want me to. All you have to do is tell me to go ahead and place it.’
He glanced at the newspaper again, read some of the ads. ‘This one wants a “lady of class and intelligence for romance and precious moments”.’ He cocked a wry eyebrow in her direction. ‘Does that mean what I think it means?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ she said, absolutely refusing to blush, or to laugh, which was what he hoped she’d do. Laugh and forget it, so that they could move on to the important business of life. Work. She cocked an eyebrow back at him. ‘You can draft your own specifications if you’d prefer. Just don’t forget the LTR.’
‘Jane, please…You can’t be serious.’
‘No? Your daughter has rejected four perfectly competent, kind and caring nannies in as many months. She’s trying to tell you, in the only way she can, that she needs more.’
‘More?’
