Page 8 of Worth Every Risk

Maybe all my practice hasn’t honed my intuition at all, and I’m as easily influenced by appearances as the next person. Those jeans and tank top had me believing there had to be a casual, relaxed man in there somewhere. Maybe it was nothing more than wishful thinking. Either way, relying on my gut meant I wasn’t prepared to meet my employer, and that’s got to be an almost unforgivable employee sin.

“Your mother didn’t tell you?” Mrs Minter’s voice pulls me back into the tight space of the lift. Of course, they’ve spoken, but Mrs Minter doesn’t know Mum well enough to know she wouldn’t give a crap about whether someone had money or not, let alone how they made it.

“No,” I say. “She wouldn’t have considered that important information.”Was that rude?I just dismissed Mr Hawkston’s family business as though it meant nothing. “She’s been too ill,” I add quickly, although that has nothing to do with her omission.

“Ah. Yes, of course. I’m so sorry.” She’s frowns, and Lucie stares up at me, still nuzzled into Mrs Minter’s side. “Your mother is a wonderful healer. All those sessions she did for my father online… it made it all so much easier.”

My stomach drops a little. Mum told me Mrs Minter’s father died last year. She had been doing distance reiki sessions for him to help with the side effects of chemo. After he died, Mum and Mrs Minter kept in touch, and that’s how I found out about this job. I always wanted to live in London, at least for a while, and after Mum’s diagnosis, she started getting all worried about how my refusal to leave her alone meant she wasn’t going to see me live my dreams. So here I am, living the proverbial dream as a nanny in West London. Or at least satisfying my mother for a while.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, and Mrs Minter nods, giving me a sympathetic glance. Fear stirs in my belly, knowing how likely it is that people are going to be saying those exact words to me in the not too distant future.

“What’s wrong with your mummy?” Lucie asks. “My mummy’s not well either. That’s what Daddy says.”

Mrs Minter gives Lucie’s hand a tight squeeze. “Your mummy is absolutely fine, honey. Daddy’s wrong.”

Lucie’s tiny features crumple inwards, looking confused.

“My mother has cancer,” I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t, because Lucie looks even more confused, but for whatever reason she doesn't ask a follow-up question.Thank goodness.

Mrs Minter gives me another compassionate glance, but I can tell she’s holding something back, as though she’s on one side of the gulf and I’m on the other. The before and the after. I repress a shudder at the thought and focus on how thankful I am that Mrs Minter was so eager to help when she found out Mum was ill. The pay for this job is so good that I’ve already appointed a private carer to look after Mum while I’m here. And I’ve always loved working with kids, so this is perfect.

The lift stops and the doors open behind me.

“This is the fourth floor,” Mrs Minter announces.The fourth? Wow. How big is this place?

I back out with my suitcase and when we’re all out in the corridor, Lucie tugs Mrs Minter’s hand. "She does, doesn’t she?" she hisses, obviously continuing an earlier conversation.

I kneel down, fixing my gaze on Lucie’s huge dark eyes. "What do I do, Lucie?" I keep my expression open and non-judgmental. I know it sounds weird, but I always remind myself to speak with love when I’m working with kids. It sets my energy system up correctly, and the day goes much better from there. They respond better too, but then we all respond best to love, don’t we? Sometimes, though, when everything feels like shit, it’s hard to remember.

Lucie looks up at Mrs Minter for approval. She, in turn, glances down at Lucie with an appreciative smile on her face.

“Go ahead,” Mrs Minter says, and Lucie fixes her eyes on mine, more sure of herself now.

“You look like The Little Mermaid. From the cartoon. You have orange hair.”

I smile, but make sure not to laugh. I don’t want her to think I’m making fun of her. “Shall I tell you a secret?” I whisper, and she leans in, eyes wide. “I reckon it’s actually red.” I twist a strand of it around my finger and hold it out toward Lucie, who stares at it like it’s made of gold.

“I’d say it’s a mixture of the two,” Mrs Minter interjects, sounding as though she’s really considered the issue. “Reddish-orange.”

“I love it,” Lucie coos, still transfixed by my hair. “Mine is boring. It’s dark brown, like Daddy’s.”

“You have great hair,” I say, ruffling the top of her head as I stand.And so does your dad.

Damn. I kind of hate that my thoughts went right there.

When it’s apparent Lucie has nothing more to say, Mrs Minter directs me to a room at the end of the corridor.

“This is Lucie’s floor. There’s a separate kitchen up here for you, a bathroom and her bedroom. Charlie’s room is on the floor below.”

“Ah, right. And Charlie is Mr Hawkston’s son?”

“Yes. He’s sixteen. Nearly seventeen. He’ll be home for the summer in a few weeks.”

Sixteen. So he’s a decade younger than me. And his father is maybe ten years older. I wonder to what extent Charlie will be my responsibility when he’s home.

I drag my bag into my room, with its plain white walls and single bed. I’m in the eaves, so the ceiling slants harshly over the headboard. There’s a dresser, a wardrobe, and a dormer window that looks out onto the street below.

“Can I show you my room?” Lucie says, her tiny hand slipping into mine.

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