‘And you hate those kind of adverts,’ chided Josh, who was sprawled across the foot of the bed. Running his finger down the ‘Help Wanted’ columns of the slim magazine in which the finished advertisement would be placed, he found a shining example and began to read aloud in an exaggerated baby voice.
‘Hello, my name is Bunty and ‘I am two yearth old. I need thomebody to look after me whilst Mummy and Daddy are working. We live in a big houthe in Thurrey, with a thwimming pool. You muthn’t thmoke ...’
‘OK, OK,’ said Guy with resignation. ‘So it wasn’t one of my better ideas. Maybe I’ll just put, 'Two spoilt brats require stern battleaxe of a nanny to feed them cold porridge and beat them daily.' How about that?’ Ella giggled. ‘I don’t like cold porridge.’
‘You should say, 'Widow with two children needs kind nanny',’ suggested Josh, who had been giving the matter some thought.
‘Widower,’ Guy corrected him. ‘Widows are female. Men are called widowers.’
‘I know why you’re a man,’ Ella chimed in. Josh, at the foot of the bed, grinned.
It was too early in the day for this, too. Guy, closing his eyes for a moment and mentally bracing himself, said, ‘Go on then. Why am I a man?’
‘Because you haven’t any bosoms on your chest,’ declared his daughter with an air of importance. And you don’t wear a bra.’
It was four-thirty when the doorbell rang. Berenice, the soon-to-be-married departing nanny, had taken Ella into St Ives for the afternoon on a shopping trip. Guy was busy in the darkroom, developing black and white prints, when Josh knocked on the door and informed him that he had a visitor.
‘She said it was important,’ he told Guy, his forehead creasing in a frown as he struggled to remember. ‘I don’t know who she is, but I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere before.’
Maxine was standing before the sitting-room window, admiring the stupendous view of clifftops and sea. When she turned and smiled at Guy, and came towards him with her hand outstretched, he realized at once why his son had thought her familiar yet been unable to place her.
‘Mr Cassidy?’ she said demurely. ‘My name is Vaughan. Maxine Vaughan. It’s kind of you to see me.’
She was here in his house, thought Guy with inward amusement. He didn’t really have much choice. But he was, at the same time, intrigued. Maxine Vaughan was an undeniably attractive girl in her mid-twenties. Her long, corn-blond hair was pulled back from her face in a neat plait, her make-up carefully unobtrusive. The dark green jacket and skirt were a couple of sizes too big for her and she was wearing extremely sensible shoes. It was all very convincing, very plausible. Guy was impressed by the extent of the effort she had made.
‘My pleasure,’ he replied easily, taking her proffered hand and registering short fingernails, a clear nail polish and - oh dear, first sign of a slip-up - a genuine Cartier wristwatch. ‘How can I help you, Miss Vaughan?’
Maxine took a deep, steadying breath and hoped her palms weren’t damp. She’d known, of course, that Guy Cassidy was gorgeous, but in the actual flesh he was even more devastatingly attractive than she’d imagined. With those thickly lashed, deep blue eyes, incredible cheekbones and white teeth offset by a dark tan, he was almost too perfect. But the threat of perfection was redeemed by a quirky smile, slightly crooked eyebrows and that famously tousled black hair.
He exuded sex appeal without even trying, she realized. He possessed an indefinable charisma. Not to mention a body to die for.
‘I’m hoping we can help each other,’ said Maxine. Then, because her knees were on the verge of giving way, she added, ‘Would you mind if I sat down?’
‘Please do.’ Having concluded that she must be either a journalist or a model desperate for a break, Guy gently mimicked her formal style of speech. Either way, he would give her no more than ten minutes; he was all for a spot of personal enterprise but her unexpected arrival wasn’t exactly well timed. He had work to do, phone calls to make and a nine-year-old son demanding to be taken for a swim before dinner.
He glanced at his watch. Maxine, sensing his veiled impatience, took another deep breath and plunged in. ‘Right, Mr Cassidy, I understand you’ll shortly be requiring a replacement nanny for your children. And since I myself am an experienced nanny, I’d like to offer my services.’
It was a good start, but the rest of the interview wasn’t going according to plan, she realized several minutes later. And she hadn’t the faintest idea why not.
On the surface, at least, Guy Cassidy was asking the appropriate questions and she was supplying faultless replies, but at the same time she had a horrible feeling he wasn’t taking her seriously. Worse, that he was inwardly laughing at her.
‘They’re in Buenos Aires now,’ she continued valiantly, as he studied the glowing references which she’d slaved for an entire hour to produce. ‘Otherwise I’d still be with them, of course. The children were adorable and Angelo and Marisa treated me more as a friend than an employee.’
But her potential employer, instead of appearing suitably impressed, was glancing once more at his watch. ‘I’m sure they did,’ he replied. Rising to his feet, he shot her a brief smile.
‘And it was thoughtful of you to consider us, Miss ... er... Vaughan. But I don’t think you’re quite what we’re looking for.’
Maxine’s guard slipped. ‘Why not?’ she wailed, remaining rooted to her chair. ‘I’ve shown you my references. They’re brilliant! What can possibly be wrong with me?’
Guy, enjoying himself, maintained a serious expression. ‘You’re too dowdy.’
‘But I don’t have to be dowdy,’ said Maxine wildly. She knew she shouldn’t have worn Janey’s horrible suit. ‘I’m not usually dowdy at all!’
‘OK.’ Gesturing for her to calm down, he continued. ‘You’re too prim and proper.’
I am not prim!’ Maxine almost shrieked. ‘Please, you have to believe me. These aren’t my own clothes ... I’m not the least bit proper either and I hate these shoes!’
But Guy hadn’t finished. Fixing her with his deadpan gaze, he said remorselessly, ‘And you’re a liar, Miss Vaughan. Which wouldn’t set a particularly good example to my children.
I’m afraid I can’t employ someone who is dishonest.’
