Page 13 of Love at First Sight

India is incensed.

‘I don’t know how to tell her,’ I counter. ‘You know what she’s like. I love her, but she lives in her own world, has her own rules. I’m worried I could somehow lose my job over this.’

India scoffs, ‘I think you say, Hey, you know that magical date with the handsome stranger I told you about? Well, turns out, he has a girlfriend. And the girlfriend is you .’

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I always get a migraine if I don’t sleep, but this one is compounded by trying to solve the problem of how to tell my boss her boyfriend nearly cheated on her with me, without making her mad.

None of this is my fault, I can see that, but I’m in a pickle here, no two ways about it. Ali gets hurt no matter what.

At least I don’t feel sad any more. That lasted about two hours, and then I got home, stared at the ceiling all night, and got madder and madder. How do men like him get away with pulling such shit?

‘Maybe he’ll out himself as an arsehole,’ I say. ‘And I won’t have to get involved.’

India gives a hmmm . ‘There is that,’ she says. ‘To be fair. Arseholes gonna arsehole.’

‘I think you should get that printed on a T-shirt,’ I quip.

‘Plenty of women need the warning,’ she says.

We let that sink in.

‘Okay, well, I’ve got to go, I’m here now,’ I say, the house in view. ‘See you at the gym later?’

‘Yeah,’ India says. ‘Good luck.’

I let myself in and am immediately cornered by Ali in the pantry.

‘Well?’ she says, and she’s so perfect, even with coffee breath and in her pyjamas, that I wonder why on earth Cal would so much as look in anybody else’s direction, let alone mine.

Maybe he needed somebody average to pander to his charm and good looks because Ali’s charm and good looks make him feel less-than?

Could that be it? The more I ponder it, the less I have answers.

Thinking about it only leads to more questions.

‘Well what?’ I ask, popping Henry’s bagel in the toaster.

‘Vinnie!’ she says. ‘What did you think?’

‘I thought …’ I begin, but then Henry yells out, ‘Jessie! Can I do the toppings?’

I grab the jam and butter dish, and leave the pantry to get the cream cheese from the fridge.

I put down a chopping board and a couple of kids’ knives in front of Henry, and give him a wink.

When I scoot back into the pantry to get the toasted bagel, Ali has her hands open in a shrug-like gesture I take to mean: well? !

‘He’s nice,’ I say non-committally, because I’m a coward. She beams.

‘Isn’t he?’ she agrees. ‘He got on with Henry, too, and this morning when Henry came for a cuddle he said he liked him. But, you know, if you get any intel, pass it on, will you?’

‘Absolutely,’ I say, with a fake smile, before escaping to give Henry his breakfast.

‘We’ll make a start on this after school, shall we?’ I say, gesturing to the left-out Lego. ‘After languages club?’

‘Mrs Harrington says we need to save our yoghurt pots and toilet paper rolls,’ he says, by way of a reply, like talking about school has activated the part of his brain labelled ‘tell your grown-up’.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Did she say why?’

‘I think it was Nun-ya …’ Henry grins, citing his favourite joke from Disney’s Moana . ‘Nun-ya business!’ Then he dissolves into giggles, thrilled with himself for the sick burn.

I shake my head and pretend to be mad. ‘Horrid child!’ I say, joking, ruffling his hair.

‘You think I’m cute,’ Henry says, and I point at him and say, ‘Stop making such good points, you, and eat your breakfast.’

Whilst Henry is upstairs brushing his teeth, Ali broaches the topic of Cal again.

‘I need more from you,’ she says. ‘You’re the first friend to meet him. I need a proper debrief!’

I sigh, as if to indicate there’s not much more to say than he’s nice .

I don’t really think I can endorse a man who would go off and have a magical date with somebody else, but then – oh, shit.

Maybe Dad was right. Maybe Cal wasn’t interested at all and that’s why he rushed off and didn’t leave his number.

Maybe this whole ‘magical date’ is a figment of my imagination that I’ve read way too much into because I’m desperate-dot-com.

‘Why do you call him Vinnie?’ I say, pulling a face. ‘He told me he actually goes by Cal …’

‘Yeah.’ Ali shrugs. ‘But Ali and Vinnie, it works better, I think. He’s a Calvin, so I figure either/or. Plus it’s cute having a name only I call him, don’t you think?’

Only Ali could decide to rename somebody and have them go along with it.

‘You ready, Henry?’ I yell up the stairs, because I can’t have this conversation, I can’t give Ali what she wants, which is squealing girl talk and a gushing testimony about how handsome and smart and funny and wonderful her new guy is.

I have to tell her the truth. I can’t lie to her face by omission.

‘Ali,’ I say, and oh god, the way she looks at me, the way her eyes are so wide and filled with hope and, urgh, Ali when she’s vulnerable is something else.

She can really melt your heart. Honestly, if you ever watch her in something, she really does command the camera, know how to make you feel anything she decides to make you feel.

Off camera is no different. I find myself turning into a puddle. I can’t do it.

‘Yeah?’ she asks.

‘If he makes you happy,’ I say, ‘then I’m happy for you.’

‘Oh, for god’s sake,’ India says in the middle of a glute bridge at the gym. ‘I can’t believe you! I’ve half a mind to go knock on her door and tell her myself!’

‘Now, now, India,’ Rain, our instructor for the session, cautions. She’s all tiny Lycra hotpants and extreme thigh muscles. ‘It might be worth seeing how this plays out. At the end of the day, the nanny dishing out bad news is probably only going to hurt the nanny.’

‘Exactly!’ I say, switching to some band dislocates. ‘That’s what I’m saying.’

The Lunchtime Lot at the gym all know I’m a nanny for a rich woman, but they don’t know that the Ali I occasionally mention working for is Ali O’Hara, off the telly.

I’ve never signed an NDA or anything like that, but it seems prudent and generally good manners to protect her identity.

Can you imagine if somebody listened to my stories and went to the papers? The Daily Mail would have a field day!

‘The name thing is wild. I don’t know in what universe you can just rename somebody, even if it did start out as a joke,’ says Bear gruffly.

Our resident fifty-something bearded and tattooed gentleman has been listening intently as I’ve got everyone up to speed on my personal drama.

‘And what kind of a man lets that happen? I never bloody would, I can tell you that.’

I sigh. ‘I just worry for Henry,’ I say.

‘That poor little love has already had his heart broken by the divorce, which obviously couldn’t be helped – I mean, I am team whatever-makes-the-parents-happiest. I just don’t want him to fall for Cal, or Vinnie, or whatever the hell we’re going to call him, and lose him too. ’

‘You can’t take that on,’ says Zoya, a thirty-five-year-old sock designer whose products have just got stocked by John Lewis.

She’s got swishy black hair tied back in a long ponytail and an arse you could park a bike in it’s so juicy.

She collects all our bands to put away. It’s deadlift day today, and we’re lifting at 97.

5 per cent of our capacity. That’s how we train, with progressive overload.

Every twelve weeks we test ourselves on what our three-rep maximum is, and then use that as a benchmark to get stronger.

It means that this lunchtime there’s going to be a lot of grunting, because we’re shifting a massive amount of weight.

‘I know you love that little boy,’ Zoya continues.

‘But that’s his mum’s responsibility. All you can do is be there for him.

And from the way you talk about him, it’s so obvious you’re amazing with him. ’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That’s good advice, I appreciate it.’

‘Go out with Leo!’ India says, as she rolls out weights for her barbell. ‘I saw your dad yesterday, and he said Leo flirted outrageously with you at brunch or something? I didn’t quite understand, but your dad insisted I put in a good word.’

‘Ewww,’ I say. ‘Dad playing matchmaker. Cute, but also he needs to sort out his own love life first.’

‘I thought he was engaged now?’ Rain asks, keeping a watchful eye as we all start a warm-up set.

‘He is,’ India deadpans, shooting me the side-eye. She’s met Simone, and 200 per cent agrees with me vis-à-vis her awfulness.

‘She’s foul,’ I explain. ‘Like … practically half his age, in it for the money, I think. She’s just … not who you want as a stepmother-to-be.’ I shudder dramatically. ‘That’s the first time I’ve said that,’ I say. ‘ Stepmother .’

‘I had a friend at school who shagged his stepmother,’ Bear says.

‘Well,’ I reply. ‘I definitely don’t want to do that .’

After our workout, I make India come with me to Whole Foods so we can remove all of the posters she pinned up with such hope.

‘Men,’ India sighs, ripping one in two near the bananas. ‘What a disappointment.’

I pull one down near the brown paper bags for the fruit. ‘I feel like I should chastise you from generalising, but my heart wouldn’t be in it if I did.’

India looks at me and gives me a sad half-smile. ‘I do want to say, though, I know this is crap, but please don’t give up hope. You’re always saying two things can be true at once, aren’t you? Well, this can suck, and you can still believe.’

I roll my eyes.

Love is dead to me.