Page 8 of The Good Girl Effect

“Enchantée, Camille.” She seems pleased that I managed to finally remember my name, gesturing for me to follow her into the apartment.

My jaw drops even more as I take a look around and notice just how stunning it is. The ceilings soar with ornate crown molding, and large windows bathe the space in warm, natural light. Looking down, I stare in awe at the herringbone wood floors and expensive-looking rugs. My fingers drift along the back of a plush velvet upholstered sofa.

It’s a big difference from the small, boxy two-bedroom I live in.

Just then, I hear heavy footsteps from above, and I glance up toward the staircase to see someone walking by. It’s clearly a man in a dark blue suit, but at this angle, that’s all I can make out. In a flash, he’s gone.

“Was that…Monsieur St. Claire?” I mumble awkwardly.

The woman glances up toward the stairs. “Yes, but he won’t be coming down,” she answers in a rush.

“Oh.”

“Please have a seat,” she says, guiding me toward the sitting room with two oversized armchairs near a marble fireplace. I sit down in one of them, and warning sirens continue to go off in my mind.

They say that I’m going to be in trouble for even sitting down. I’m a trespasser. An interloper. I’m not supposed to be here. I only came to return a letter. And now I’m sitting in their home under false pretenses.

The last twenty-four hours of my life, I’ve been obsessing over this family. I know far more about them than they know about me, and something about that feels very wrong.

I should go, but as I sit in this beautiful room in this luxurious apartment, I can’t bring myself to leave. I’m not harming anyone. I can apply for the job. It doesn’t mean I have to take it.

The woman with the interesting name returns and hands me a clipboard with a stack of papers on it. “Fill these out, please. And then we’ll get started with the interview.”

Biting my lip, I take it from her. “Yes, ma’am.”

As I’m filling out the papers on the clipboard, I keep glancing up at the stairs, wondering if I’ll get a glimpse of the man again. Every few moments, I hear his voice, deep and muffled. It makes me wonder what he does for work. Why isn’t he the one conducting this interview?

It takes me nearly thirty minutes to complete the paperwork, which is a considerably long time to spend on something I shouldn’t even be doing. The woman and the little girl seem to have escaped into another room of the home, leaving me alone. Every time I contemplate giving a fake name or wrong answers, I choose not to. Instead, I scribble every single answer with conviction as if this is a job I actually want.

There are more footsteps upstairs, and the curiosity becomes too much to bear. Setting the clipboard on my seat, I stand up and glance around cautiously to be sure I’m alone. Then I quietly tiptoe toward the stairs.

I just want a small glimpse. I’d only like to lay my eyes on him—for reasons even I don’t understand.

If I’m caught, then I can simply claim confusion or say I got lost. Climbing up the stairs one by one, I get about halfway, and it’s high enough to just peek into the office on the left.

And there he is. He’s pacing the room and speaking, sounding frustrated and controlling. I assume he’s on the phone, but I’m not focused on his words. Instead, I’m staring at the broad expanse of his shoulders and the sharp line of his cheekbones.

He’s even more handsome in person than in the photo. But there’s a darkness in his eyes, heavy circles underneath, and new wrinkles at the corners. He’s aged, and not just by time. The effects of grief are apparent in his weathered features. His posture is rigid and straight, and I watch the way his right hand balls into a fist before releasing, over and over again.

“I’m Beatrice,” a small voice says from behind me, and I let out a startled yelp.

Spinning around, I stare at the little girl at the bottom of the stairs.

She’s standing politely with her small hands clasped in front of her. “But everyone calls me Bea.”

I open my mouth to reply, but first, I glance back up toward the second floor in time to see Jack St. Claire glaring down at me. Heat and embarrassment pulse through my veins. A moment later, he slams his office door, and I am riddled with shame for spying on him.

Taking a deep breath, I turn back to the little girl and descend the stairs toward her.

“Enchantée, Bea,” I reply with a half-smile. “How old are you?”

“I’m five. Are you going to be my new nanny?” she asks. She has on a lavender chiffon dress with pristine white tights and shiny black Mary Jane shoes. Her hair is meticulously combed with a part on the side and a matching purple bow pinned just above her ear.

“I don’t know,” I reply as I kneel down in front of her. “Can I tell you a secret?”

She nods emphatically.

“I’ve never been a nanny before,” I whisper. “I didn’t even know I was going to be applying for this job today.”