Page 9 of Dr. Single Dad

“Then you’re going to be left on your own with a three-day-old baby.”

Frankly, I’ll take a baby-eating lizard looking after Guinevere over doing the job myself. “I agree, I need to find someone today, but this woman isn’t it. The next one will be better.”

“There isn’t a next one,” Jacob says. “Nathan said you’d seen six out of seven.”

I scan the coffee table and start going through the CVs I printed out. “I’m sure there are a couple more.” I grab the ranking table I devised last night, listing the candidates in the left-hand column and the fifteen qualities I’m looking for along the top. Each candidate is given a score out of ten in each category, leading to an overall possible score of one hundred and fifty. Six candidates in, and no one’s scored above a twenty-five. There’s only one space left.

Jacob is right—the pig wrestler is the last candidate of the day.

“Of course you have a spreadsheet.” Jacob snatches the paper out of my hand. “Twenty-five?! That’s ridiculous.” He shakes his head. “I’mgoing to score the candidate who just arrived. If she gets over one hundred, you have to hire her. You can’t just interview nannies for the rest of your life.”

“You’re not picking Guinevere’s nanny. That’s my job.”

“A job you’re not doing, to be fair,” Vincent says.

“High standards aren’t a bad thing.” The woman who just arrived—I check my table to confirm it’s Eira Cadogan—is an absolute no-go as far as I’m concerned. If she’s prepared to turnup to an interview covered in mud, how on earth am I going to be able to live with her?

“High standards are fine,” Vincent says. “Impossible standards aren’t.”

I push my hands into my pockets, uncomfortable with how familiar this conversation feels. Over the years I’ve had it with teachers, my father, professors. Most of the time it’s been entirely hypocritical, coming from people who are just as perfectionistic as me.

“Come on,” Jacob says. “We’re here to help you get a sense of perspective. I promise we’re not going to put our niece in danger. We want what’s best for her.” He gives a sideways nod at the door. “Let’s see this woman. Give her a chance. She might be great for you and little Gwinnie.”

I resist the urge I have to growl at the nickname.

I poke my head into the hallway, but there’s no sign of her. “Where is she?” I ask. Vincent and Jacob just look at each other.

“Maybe she overheard us and left. Probably thinks you’d be a nightmare to work for,” Vincent says. “Not sure how she got that idea.”

She can’t still be in the loo. Covered in mud and suffering digestive distress? That’s a bridge too far. I head down the corridor and find the loo door closed. Bowel issues,of course. I roll my eyes. That’s it. There’s absolutely no point in even having a conversation with this woman.

A sweet singing voice trills down the corridor. I’ve never heard the temporary nanny sing, but I think I remember that music is supposed to be good for babies’ brain development. I follow the sound to Guinevere’s makeshift nursery, determined to ask whether it might be prudent to switch from a jaunty lullaby to Mozart, only to find a no-longer-mud-caked Ms. Cadogan holding Guinevere over her shoulder, singing to her.

She catches sight of me and her already wide smile deepens.

“You have the most beautiful daughter.” The mud has gone from her cheek and she’s taken off her coat. Her hair isn’t exactly tidy, but she’s less disheveled than she looked when she came to the door. “She’s just precious.” She lays Guinevere back in her cot, now fast asleep, the crying stopped.

The temporary nanny bustles back into the room. “Sorry, sir, just had to go to the toilet.” She peers at the baby. “She’s sleeping?”

Eira smiles. “Of course. That song will put any child to sleep.” She narrows her eyes, but they still…kinda…sparkle. “It’s my secret weapon.” She winks at me. “Shall we?”

For a split second I wonder what’s she’s talking about, and then I remember she’s here for an interview.

“I hope you don’t mind, but my brothers are going to join us. They have more experience with this kind of thing.”

“It’s not a problem,” she says, floating past me as if this is her house and she knows exactly where she’s going.

The four ofus settle in the sitting room, Eira by the window on the Barcelona chair, while the three of us sit opposite her on the sofa. Eira is handling the questions well. She doesn’t seem intimidated by the three of us and volleys the answers to our questions back to us like she’s Markéta Vondroušová.

“Your background is very impressive,” Vincent says. “What’s been your favorite job?”

She smiles. “There hasn’t been a job I haven’t enjoyed, but I suppose I like the ones where I feel I’m helping the most. I’ve been in some positions where I’m one of four nannies working around the clock, seven days a week, and I never feel like I have the same impact as when I’m the only nanny.”

“Four nannies?” A slither of panic lodges itself in my chest. Should I have more than one nanny for Guinevere? A weekend nanny sounds like a good idea. I haven’t thought that far ahead.

Vincent reaches for his coffee and manages to send mine flying all over the coffee table.

“Shit,” he says, holding his hand under the table, waiting to catch any drips on the carpet.

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