I’m completely immersed in creating some social media graphics that are sensual yet classy, in keeping with Alchemy’s beautiful brand, when a guttural fuck from Zach has my head and the heads of our colleagues jerking up. He’s been deeply odd all day—twitchy and almost haunted. He can barely look me in the eye.
But I know grief comes in cycles. And, alongside the grief factor, he has the daily grind of single parenting two little girls. So I’m cutting the guy some slack.
‘Everything okay?’ Gen asks, concern written on her face. I suspect it’ll be a while before she, Rafe and Cal stop being Zach’s fiercest protectors.
He looks momentarily aghast at having stolen the limelight. ‘Yeah. No, not really. I’ve got that gala tonight and Ruth’s just texted to say she can barely stop puking long enough to get her head out of the toilet bowl.’
I grimace. I’m assuming Ruth’s the nanny, and I’m slightly ashamed that my next thought is to wonder if she’s young and hot.
‘Oh shit,’ Gen says. She looks at her watch. ‘Was she able to get them from school?’
‘Sounds like it. But she says she’s going to have to lie down. Fuck.’
‘What kind of gala is it?’ I ask tentatively, because I’m sure the last thing Zach needs on a Friday night is a sick nanny and a black-tie commitment.
‘It’s a massive cancer fundraiser,’ he says absently, his hands moving over his phone keyboard. ‘I’m speaking—I have to be there. Fuck.’
Oh dear God. Socially awkward as he may be, this guy knows how to hit me smack in the ribs. He’s amazing. He’s planning on getting up on stage and sharing his grief with a ballroom full of people so he can do his bit to raise the funds needed to eradicate this fucking disease.
He fucking slays me.
The words are out of my mouth before I can register them.
‘I’ll look after the girls.’
That gets his attention. He looks up from his phone and gapes at me.
‘No.’
‘Excuse me?’ I say, affronted, because right now I’m this guy’s best hope. ‘They know me and they like me. And I’m not totally incompetent.’
‘Aren’t you planning on being at Alchemy tonight?’ he says, and I swear I want to slap the snark straight out of this guy’s tone. I take back every nice, sympathetic thought I just had about him.
‘Er, no,’ I retort. ‘I was planning on chilling, actually. But I’m happy to look after your girls. They’re adorable. And it sounds like you’re in a pickle, so I’m delighted to help.’ I smile sweetly at him.
Oh, the air is clear up here at the summit of Mount Moral Superiority.
I can tell that, for whatever reason, Zach’s trying to drum up any solution for tonight that doesn’t involve me babysitting his girls. And I can tell the moment he comes up short, because his shoulders slump in defeat.
‘Are you sure?’ he asks weakly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
‘I’m sure.’ I nod decisively, then backtrack. ‘Depending on where you live, that is.’
‘I’m in Holland Park. But I don’t—’
I cut him off in relief. ‘Oh, Holland Park’s fine. That’s easy. I’m in Notting Hill.’ I’m basically next door to him. I’m pleasantly surprised by this cool factor—I was expecting him to live somewhere hopelessly family-tastic and a huge schlep away, like Wandsworth or fucking Wimbledon.
Still, it’ll be odd being in Zach’s actual home. The house where, presumably, he lived with his dead wife. The guy is so aloof. I can’t imagine him vegging at home and watching Netflix in a t-shirt and jogging bottoms.
Damn my mind. That thought leads me straight, no detour, to pondering whether he goes commando at home and whether he packs a trouser anaconda in his jogging bottoms, à la the equally delicious Jon Hamm or Henry Cavill.
Hmm. Babysitting just got interesting.
Zach’s palatial home is on uber-exclusive Lansdowne Crescent, no less. Just how much money are these guys raking in at Alchemy? Is there, like, a secret casino buried on the floor beneath The Playroom? Or is the entire gig a money-laundering enterprise? Because this is ridiculous.
It’s one of those bad-ass, white-stuccoed villas, and it’s wider than a lot of the other houses on the street. Wide enough to have not one but two huge Georgian sash windows on the upper ground level next to the front door. On a street that’s well-maintained, this house is a standout. It’s immaculate. The path and steps are gorgeous pale sandstone. They look brand new.
The front garden features dark green square wooden pots with tidy bay trees, white flowers and a discreet water feature. There isn’t a leaf out of place. The green and white theme continues on the window boxes that sit on the generous white sills. The door is black and glossy with chrome hardware so shiny I can check my reflection in it.
Either Zach works through his grief with topiary scissors and silver polish, or he has a fleet of staff. If he can afford this pad in this location, my guess is the latter.
I ring the doorbell, suddenly feeling nervous. The guy is chilly enough at work, and he was downright bizarre today. He couldn’t have made his discomfort at tonight’s babysitting solution clearer. I suspect, given his circumstances, that this beautiful home is his sanctuary, and he’s about to let the annoying and overly talkative young colleague he barely tolerates crash his peace.
I square my shoulders. Fuck that. I’m doing him a favour, after all. He’d better bloody well be grateful.
There’s a volley of barking from inside before Zach answers the door, and all thoughts of jogging bottoms and trouser anacondas go plain out of my head, because he is in a tux.
Holy
Fucking
Christ
Almighty.
His brand of sharp, nerdy, conservative dressing does it for me at work, I have to admit. Even if my type is usually more overtly playboy. I’m a sucker for a hot European in Gucci loafers and no socks. What can I say? I’m deeply fucked up.
But Zach French in a tux is quite simply breathtaking. Especially a bespoke tux that enhances his broad shoulders so well and tapers so beautifully down his long legs. That gorgeous skin of his has held onto its Italian tan. His hair, which can get pretty messy at work, given the amount of time he spends clawing at it while he crunches numbers, is slicked away from his face, letting those baby blues do all the talking. Even if what they’re saying is I deeply resent having to allow Maddy anywhere near my home and children.
I have to say, the whole effect is very patrician. Positively Kennedy-esque, actually. And nothing makes my lady parts happier than the whiff of a guy who’s outwardly well bred, well educated, and old money, while inwardly being dirty as fuck.
Ergo Zach as a Kennedy is a fantasy I’m happy to entertain.
His gaze flicks quickly over me before he looks away. He’s used to seeing glammed-up Maddy, but tonight I’m in yoga pants and my favourite Taylor’s Version sweatshirt. I see zero point in trying to impress a guy who didn’t bat an eyelid at last night’s fabulous LBD.
Anyway, I’m here to entertain his daughters, not try to seduce him.
Norm emerges, looking reassuringly pleased to see me, and sticks his nose straight in my crotch. I bend to grab his jowls and squish them, because he is seriously fucking cute. ‘Who’s my favourite boy?’ I coo. ‘Norm is!’ I’m attempting to get his enormous face out of my pussy when Zach nudges him away.
‘That’s enough, mate,’ he tells him.
I hold my head high and sashay through the doorway as he steps back.
‘You look very…’ Fuckable. ‘Dapper.’
‘Thanks.’ He looks down, brushing a palm self-consciously down his pristine satin lapels. ‘Wish I didn’t have to go. Thanks for stepping in.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ I survey the hallway. Nice.
I swear to God, if this guy was in any way looking to get back on the horse, he could get laid so easily tonight. All he’d have to do is stand there looking like that, and talk about losing his wife and single-parenting his little girls, and everyone with a vagina would make a rugby scrum to comfort the hot widower with the sad blue eyes.
What a shame he’s still broken-hearted.
‘What’s your favourite song of Taylor’s?’ Nancy asks as I apply primer to her face. She has an adorable little lisp, so song comes out more like thong. I lugged my entire skincare shelf and makeup case here on the assumption that a mutual makeover session would be a fun icebreaker. But, as it turns out, my sweatshirt was all the icebreaker I needed.
Because as soon as Zach’s girls saw the logo and identified me as a fellow Swiftie, we were instant besties.
‘Hmm.’ I cock my head. ‘Probably Don’t Blame Me. Though my favourite one to sing along to is definitely Love Story.’
‘Sponge?’ Stella asks. She and her sister are wearing identical White Company pyjamas. They’re white with sprigs of old roses all over them. They’re beyond adorable. I wish they did them in adult size so Belle and I could get a pair each.
I miss our sleepovers.
Anyway.
‘Yes please.’ I hold my hand out.
‘Love Story is Daddy’s favourite too,’ Nancy says dreamily, and I snort as I pump a tiny amount of foundation on my hand. These kids have skin I would literally kill for, but they’re determined to have the Full Monty tonight.
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah,’ Stella confirms. ‘We always play it in the bath. Daddy punches the air when the key changes.’
Right. I can never un-know that about my grumpy boss. I wonder when I can get Love Story pumped through the speakers at work. It would be priceless. I’m now imagining Zach singing along to Taylor at his desk, raising his arm into a slow, sly air-punch in the manner of Jesse at the end of Pitch Perfect when the Bellas are singing Don’t You Forget About Me.
Clearly these two could be a mine of excellent information on Zach.
I was pretty confident the girls and I would get on fine this evening. After all, they seemed comfortable with me when we met on Rafe’s roof terrace. What I wasn’t prepared for, stupidly, was the overwhelming number of family photos involving Zach, the girls, and their late mother.
Claire.
I also wasn’t prepared for her to be quite so beautiful. Which is stupid, because Zach is ridiculously attractive. Obviously he would have had a hot wife. But she was gorgeous, with her blonde, shoulder-length hair, and the big brown eyes she handed down to her daughters, and a cracking smile. The photos all seem candid. I don’t see a single posed professional shot. They’re snaps from holidays and Christmas and what look like normal days in the park.
Normal until they stop forever.
Looking at the photos of them all, she seems so real. You’d never walk into this house and guess that the beautiful mummy in the family photos was gone, her body God knows where and her soul… I don’t know. Here?
God, is she watching us right now? Is she hovering here in the massive white kitchen, thinking who the hell is this girl and what is she doing with my kids?
‘I’m not after your husband,’ I attempt to telegraph silently to her. ‘Even though he’s hot AF. I’m just here to help him out, okay? Don’t come and, like, haunt me, or anything.’
It’s messing with my head. Not the prospect of her ghostly presence, but the fact that she was here one minute and gone the next. I mean, how the fuck are Zach and his two little daughters supposed to accept that? How are they supposed to live with it?
There must be a million ramifications for their family, big and small. Who’s going to buy the girls their first bras? Zach? Who’ll show them how to use a sanitary pad? Talk them through how to insert a tampon? I know there are all shapes and sizes of families out there, but to have had this—the fucking dream, the Happy Ever After we all aspire to—and then for it to be smashed to pieces in front of your eyes?
It’s unbearable, that’s what it is.
I watch Stella and Nancy in silent awe as they delve happily into my makeup bag. They’re like pigs in shit. Nancy lines up my foundations, counting them as she goes.
‘Why d’you need five?’ Stella demands.
‘Oh. Well.’ I point at each of them in term. ‘Um, this one is my everyday one. It’s light and dewy. This one is more matte—it’s a heavier coverage one, for when I have a breakout.’
‘What’s a breakout?’ Nancy wants to know.
‘Spots.’
She peers at my face. ‘You don’t have spots.’
‘No, not now I don’t. But I do sometimes, and this one helps to hide them. That one there’s a satiny finish for night-time, and this one isn’t really a foundation. It’s more of a tinted moisturiser.’
‘My mummy only wore makeup for work and parties,’ Nancy says matter-of-factly. ‘She didn’t wear it at the weekend.’
I swallow. It’s so wonderful to see them talking openly about their mum, to see all the photos around the house that remember her and celebrate her. But God does it tug at the heartstrings to hear these stunning little girls speak about her in the past tense.
It’s not fucking fair.
‘Well,’ I say brightly, ‘it looks like your mummy was very pretty, so I bet she didn’t need much makeup.’
‘You’re very pretty, too,’ Stella tells me.
I smile at her. ‘Thank you. And none of us should need makeup to feel pretty. We’re all great just as we are. But sometimes it’s fun to add a little sparkle. You know?’
I hold it together until it’s time to put them to bed. They sleep in the same room, in identical twin beds. Stella tells me that Nancy has a separate room, but that they’ve slept together since their mummy died.
‘That bed was supposed to be for when I had sleepovers.’ She points. ‘But it’s okay, because Nancy doesn’t want to be alone.’
I nod. I don’t trust myself to say anything. Of course she doesn’t fucking want to be alone. She’s lost one half of the adult team who she presumably thought were immortal.
‘But we always wake up in Daddy’s bed.’ Nancy giggles before clamping a little hand over her mouth, hiding the huge gap where her two front teeth used to be. ‘We go in there in the middle of the night.’
I tickle her and recover my power of speech enough to ask, ‘Do you, indeed?’
‘Yep. We make a Daddy sandwich. That’s what we call it. We’re the bread, and he’s the filling.’
‘I bet you’re the most wriggly bread ever,’ I tell them.
‘We’re definitely the kick-iest,’ Stella agrees.
I read them a story, Claris in Paris, which is about a Dior-and-Chanel-clad mouse and is so fabulously illustrated that I’m tempted to buy a copy for myself. I spritz both their pillows with a bottle of Chanel No.5 at their request. It was their mother’s perfume, and apparently her scent helps them sleep.
I mean, what am I supposed to do with that information?
How am I supposed to process it?
It fucking breaks me to see those two little girls snuggling down next to the scent of their late mother. To know that their comfort comes in the shape of olfactory memories and not their mum’s arms around them.
I can’t deal.
I just can’t.
After hugging them both as hard as I can, I head back downstairs. Ruth, the nanny, hasn’t made an appearance. Zach mentioned she had a self-contained flat on the top floor and would probably stay up there, which suits me. I need to be alone to get over this ache in my heart.
I make myself a mug of ginger tea in the immaculate kitchen (he definitely has a fleet of staff) and head through to the comfy sofa in the book-lined den, which is cosier than the enormous living room, where I collapse and attempt, unsuccessfully, to lose myself in a mindless stream of social media.
My head flops against the back of the sofa.
No wonder Zach is broken.
