Mr Farrier was smiling nastily. ‘That would be convenient, wouldn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It would be convenient for you if I thought that. But no. I’m afraid I’m certain I left the cufflinks here and I’m certain, therefore, that they have been stolen.’
Bex wanted to ask why ‘lost’ meant ‘stolen’, but she knew the answer: because he said so. Because he wanted to teach her a lesson. Because he wanted her out of his house and in the quickest, most unpleasant way possible. Looking at Mr Farrier’s smug expression confirmed a suspicion Bex had been nursing; if she’d kissed him back when he’d cornered her in the utility room, none of this would be happening.
‘Bex,’ Mrs Farrier said. ‘Are you absolutely sure you didn’t find them today? Maybe they slipped down behind a chest of drawers …’ She trailed off.
‘I checked everywhere I could think of yesterday,’ Bex said. ‘I didn’t see the point of looking again.’
‘Oh, well,’ Mrs Farrier said, looking relieved. ‘Have another look around tomorrow and we’ll see –’
‘No, dear,’ Mr Farrier said. ‘I don’t want a thief under our roof any longer than strictly necessary.’
Bex felt as if she’d been slapped. Thief.
Farrier was looking at her with something close to pleasure. ‘Consider yourself finished here. I will give you a week’s pay in lieu of notice.’
Mrs Farrier’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Bex knew how she felt.
‘I’ll call the agency in the morning and they’ll send round a temporary replacement,’ he was saying, as if this was a normal occurrence. Perhaps, for them, it was. How many nannies had Carly known in her short life? How many had Farrier driven away with his lecherous ways? Bex had only stayed because she knew how lucky she was to get a job with her record. She was on a strict probationary period with the agency. Besides, she hadn’t wanted to let the owner, Emily, down, not to mention Carly and Tarquin.
‘I haven’t said goodbye to Carly,’ Bex said. She looked at Mrs Farrier, the woman she had been cooking for and exchanging childcare messages with for over six months.
Mrs Farrier swallowed, not meeting her gaze. ‘I’ll tell her that you had to go unexpectedly.’
‘Can I leave her a note?’
‘She can’t read,’ Mr Farrier said in a nasty tone.
‘I’ll draw her a picture,’ Bex said, not looking at him.
Mr Farrier snorted.
‘That would be nice,’ Mrs Farrier said, looking about as uncomfortable as Bex had ever seen another human being look. She almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
After a disturbed night of sleep, Bex was still smarting from her encounter with her employers. She felt physically bruised, as if the Farriers had been using fists, not words. The image of Carly’s little face kept leaping into the front of her mind and Bex had to blink hard to stop herself from crying. She was not going to blub over a stupid job. She would get another one. She didn’t need the reference. They were horrible, small-minded people and she was better off out of it all. Perhaps she could change jobs. She wouldn’t need a reference for nannying if she went back to waitressing. Or she could go back to college, do a course in something. Maybe this would be the making of her. In five years’ time, as she was being interviewed by the paper as an amazing success story, she would say, ‘I nannied for a while, but I always knew I was destined for something greater.’
Bex showered and got dressed. She wanted, predictably enough, to phone Jon and tell him all about it. Of course, then she’d have to explain why she was so afraid of the police being involved and he’d look at her differently. Plus, she remembered her resolve of that morning. She had to move away from Jon, stop relying on his companionship.
Instead, she scrubbed her hair until her scalp tingled and used half a bottle of her favourite almond shower gel, then she stomped into the kitchen to find something to gnaw upon, something to relieve her feelings. She banged the fridge shut after a disappointing perusal and tried the cupboards. Living with her dad was okay, but as he ate everything even slightly treat-like and went shopping on a strictly once-a-fortnight basis, there were never any decent snacks left. Eating cereal by the handful while leaning against the worktop wasn’t the best coping strategy in the world, but it was better than crying on Jon’s shoulder. Saturating his shoulder would only lead to an increase in wanting, and Bex was pretty sure her system couldn’t deal with any more of that without imploding.
Her skin felt too tight and she couldn’t concentrate. The cereal was dry and she filled a glass with cold water to wash it down. What she needed was something sweet and mouth-filling. Chocolate.
Her phone rang, interrupting an elaborate fantasy she’d been constructing involving a family-size bar of Galaxy.
‘Oh, hey.’ It was Jon. Bex’s hunger disappeared and her stomach tightened with a different kind of longing.
‘I thought you’d be at work. I was just going to leave a message on your machine.’
‘I just got fired.’ Bex hadn’t meant to say it so baldly.
‘No way!’ He sounded genuinely shocked. ‘I thought you liked that place.’
‘I do,’ Bex sniffed. She wasn’t going to cry.
‘Let’s do something,’ Jon said. ‘I’ll take your mind off it.’
‘Don’t you have practice?’ Bex kicked herself. Now he’d know she’d memorised his routine. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice. ‘Nah, new singer just cancelled.’
‘Oh, hell. Sorry.’ Jon’s band had been trying to get a singer after their original line-up went kablooey. They hadn’t had much luck. Either the person was talented but flaky or they were a bad fit artistically speaking.
‘You want to go for a drink?’
‘It’s a bit early for
