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Less than three weeks later, I was standing on Carn Bridge station platform, surrounded by more cases and boxes than it seemed possible for one person to carry.

When Jack came striding up the platform, car keys jangling in his hand, he actually broke into a laugh.

“Christ, how did you get all that across London?”

“Slowly,” I said honestly. “And painfully. I took a taxi, but it was a bloody nightmare.”

“Aye, well, you’re here now,” he said, and took my largest two cases, giving me a friendly shove when I tried to take the smaller one back off him. “No, no, you take those others.” “Please be careful,” I said anxiously. “They’re really heavy. I don’t want you to put your back out.” He grinned, as if the possibility was so remote as to be laughable.

“Come on, car’s this way.”

It had been another glorious day—hot and sunny—and although the sun was beginning to sink towards the horizon and the shadows were growing longer, the gorse was still popping audibly as we drove silently through the wooded lanes and moorland roads towards Heatherbrae. The house, as we drove up the drive, was even more beautiful than I had remembered, basking in evening sunshine, the doors flung open and the dogs running everywhere, barking their heads off. It suddenly occurred to me, with a little jolt, that I would presumably be in charge of the dogs as well as the kids, when Sandra and Bill were away. Or maybe that was Jack’s job too? I would have to find out. Two children and a baby were in my comfort zone. A teen as well, I could just about manage. At least, I hoped I could. But add in two boisterous dogs, and I was starting to feel a little overwhelmed.

“Rowan!” Sandra came running out the front door, her arms outstretched, and before I was fully out of the car she had enveloped me in a maternal hug. Then, she stood back and waved her hand at a figure standing in the shadows of the porch—a tall man, balding slightly, with close-shaven hair.

“Rowan, this is my husband, Bill. Bill—meet Rowan Caine.”

So this—this was Bill Elincourt. For a moment I couldn’t think of what to say; I just stood there, awkwardly conscious of Sandra’s arm around me, not sure of whether I should break away from her grip to go and greet him or— I was still frozen in indecision when he solved the issue by striding towards me, sticking out his hand and giving me a quick, businesslike smile.

“Rowan. Good to meet you at last. Sandra’s told me all about you. You have a very impressive résumé.” You don’t know the half of it, Bill, I thought, as he picked up one of the cases from the boot and made his way back to the house. I took a deep breath and prepared to follow, and as I did, my hand went nervously to my necklace. But this time, instead of tracing its familiar grooves, I slipped the pendant inside the neck of my shirt, and hurried after them.

Inside the kitchen we had coffee, and I sat nervously on the edge of one of the metal breakfast stools while Bill quizzed me about my qualifications, feeling on edge in a way that I never had when Sandra had interviewed me. I wanted . . . I don’t know. I wanted to impress him, I suppose. But at the same time, as he droned on about his punishing schedule and the difficulties of recruiting staff in the Highlands, and the inadequacies of his previous nannies, I increasingly wanted to shake him.

I don’t know what I had imagined. Someone successful, I guess. I had known that from the advert and the house. Someone fortunate—with his beautiful kids and accomplished wife and interesting job. All that, I had taken for granted. But he was so . . . so comfortable. He was padded—every inch of him. I don’t mean he was fat, but he was cushioned, physically, emotionally, financially, in a way that he just didn’t seem to grasp, and it was his very ignorance of the fact that made it even more infuriating.

Do you know what it’s like? I wanted to shout at him, as he complained about their gardener who had left to take up a full-time teaching job in Edinburgh, and the home help who had broken the £800 waste disposal unit in the sink and then run away because she couldn’t face telling them what she’d done. Do you understand what it’s like for people who don’t have your money, and your protection, and your privilege?

As he sat there, holding forth as if there was nothing in the world so important as his inconsequential problems, Sandra gazing adoringly into his face like she was happy to listen to him drone on forever, the realization came to me, painfully. He was selfish. A selfish, self-centered man who had barely asked me a single personal question—not even how my journey had been. He just didn’t care.

I don’t know what I had expected to feel when I met him—this man who hadn’t bothered to interview a woman he was planning to leave his children with for weeks at a time—but I hadn’t expected to feel this level of hostility. I knew I had to get a grip on myself, or it would show in my face.

Perhaps Sandra saw something of my discomfort, for she gave a little laugh and broke in.

“Darling, Rowan doesn’t want to hear about our domestic travails. Just make sure you don’t go putting cutlery down the grinder, Rowan! Anyway, quite seriously, all the instructions are here”—she patted a fat red binder at her elbow. “It’s a physical copy of the document I emailed you last week, and if you’ve not had a chance to sit down and read it yet, it’s got everything from how to work the washing machine, right through to the children’s bedtimes and what they do and don’t like to eat. If you’ve got any concerns at all, you’ll find the answers here, although of course you can always ring me. Did you download Happy?” “I’m sorry?”

“Happy—the home-management app. I emailed you the authorization code?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, the app, yes, I downloaded it.”

She looked relieved.

“Well that’s the main thing. I’ve set up your Happy profile with all the permissions you’ll need, and of course it stands in as a baby monitor, though we’ve got a regular one for Petra’s room as well. Just in case, you know, but the app is very good. What else . . . oh, food! I’ve done you a menu planner here”—she pulled out a loose sheet from a plastic wallet on the first page of the binder—“which is full of stuff they’ll eat fairly reliably, and bought all the ingredients, so you’re absolutely set for the first week. Plus all the passwords are in there for Waitrose online and so on, and here is a credit card for any household expenses. The statement comes direct to me and Bill, but obviously do keep receipts—a quick snap on your phone is fine, you don’t need to keep the physical bit of paper. Um . . . what else . . . I expect you’re full of questions?” She said the last in a slightly hopeful tone, though I wasn’t completely certain whether she was hoping I would prompt her or hoping I’d say no.

“I did read the email,” I said, though in truth, since the document was about fifty dense pages, I’d only skimmed through the pages. “But it’ll be brilliantly helpful to have a printout of course—it’s always so much easier to flick through a physical copy. It was impressively comprehensive. I think I’ve got a handle on everything—Petra’s routine, Ellie’s allergies, Maddie’s . . . um—” I stopped, unsure how to phrase what Sandra had called her daughter’s explosive personality. It sounded as though Maddie was quite the handful, or could be.

Sandra caught my eye and saw my predicament, and gave a little rueful smile that said, Yup.

“Well, yes, Maddie really! Rhiannon is staying at school this weekend for end-of-term celebrations. She’ll be coming home next week, and I’ve sorted out her lift and everything so you’ve nothing to worry about there. What else . . . what else . . .” “I don’t think we completely sorted out when you’re leaving,” I said tentatively. “I know you said in your email that you had the trade show coming up next week—when does it start, exactly? Is it next Saturday?” “Oh.” Sandra looked taken aback. “Did I not say? Gosh, that was a bit of an oversight. That’s the . . . um . . . well, that’s the only issue really. It is Saturday, but not next Saturday, this one. We leave tomorrow.” “What?” For a moment I thought I hadn’t heard properly. “Did you say you’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Yeess . . . ,” Sandra said, her face suddenly uncertain. “We’re on the twelve thirty train, so we’ll be leaving just before lunch. I . . . is that a problem? If you’re not confident about coping straight out of the box, I can try to reschedule my early meetings . . .” She trailed off, and I swallowed.

“It’s fine,” I said, with a confidence I didn’t completely feel. “I mean, I’d have to hit the ground sometime; I really don’t think it’ll make much difference whether it’s this weekend or next.” Are you mad? a voice was screaming inside my head. Are you crazy? You barely know these children.

But another part of me was whispering something very different—Good. Because in a way, this made things considerably easier.

“We can play it by ear,” Sandra was saying. “I’ll keep in touch by phone—if the children are too unsettled, then I can fly back midweek perhaps? You’ll only have the little ones for the first few days, so hopefully that’ll make the transition a little bit easier . . .” She stopped again, a little awkwardly this time, but I was nodding. I was actually nodding, my face stiff with the effort of holding in my real feelings.

“Well,” Sandra said at last. She put down her coffee cup. “Petra’s already in bed, but the girls are through in the TV room watching Peppa Pig. I don’t want to delegate my last bedtime with them to you completely, but shall we do it together, so you can get a feel for their routine?” I nodded and followed her as she led the way through the darkened glass cathedral towards the concealed door to the TV room.

Inside the blinds were drawn, the floor was still carpeted with scattered Duplo and battered dolls, and two little girls were curled up together on the sofa, wearing flannel pajamas and clutching soft, worn teddy bears. Maddie was sucking her thumb, though she took it swiftly out of her mouth as her mother came in, with a slightly guilty jump. I resolved to look that one up in the binder.

We perched on the arms of the sofa, Sandra fondly ruffling her fingers through Ellie’s silky curls while the episode wound its way to the close, and then she picked up the remote control and shut down the screen.

“Oh, Mummeeeee!” The chorus was immediate, though slightly half-hearted, as if they didn’t really expect Sandra to acquiesce. “Just one more!” “No, darlings,” Sandra said. She scooped up Ellie, who wrapped her legs around her waist and buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. “It’s super late. Come on, let’s go up. If you’re very lucky, Rowan will read you a story tonight!” “I don’t want Rowan,” Ellie whispered into the crook of her mother’s neck. “I want you.”

“Well . . . we’ll see when we get up there,” Sandra said. She hitched Ellie into a more comfortable position and held out her hand to Maddie. “Come on, sweetie. Up we go.” “I want you,” Ellie said doggedly as Sandra began to climb the stairs, me trailing after her. Sandra gave me a little eye roll and a smile over her shoulder.

“I tell you what,” she whispered to Ellie, though deliberately loud enough for me to hear. “Maybe you’ll get a story from me and a story from Rowan. How does that sound?” Ellie made no reply to this, only dug her face further into Sandra’s shoulder.

Upstairs the curtains on the landing were drawn, and I could see the dim pink light of Petra’s night-light filtering across the carpet. Sandra supervised tooth brushing and the loo while I made my way down the softly carpeted hallway to Maddie and Ellie’s doorway.

There they were—two little beds, each bathed in the soft glow of a bedside light—one pink, the other a kind of dusky peach. Above each one was a collection of framed prints—a baby footprint, a scribble just recognizable as a cat, a butterfly made out of two chubby handprints—and tangled around the frames were strings of fairy lights, giving off their gentle illumination.

It was picture-perfect—like an illustration from a nursery catalog.

I sat gingerly on the foot of one of the little beds, and at last I heard feet and whining voices, swiftly hushed by Sandra.

“Shh, Maddie, you’ll wake Petra. Come on now, dressing gowns off and into bed.”

Ellie jumped into hers, but Maddie stood stonily for a moment, regarding me, and I realized it must be her bed I was sitting on.

“Do you want me to move?” I asked, but she said nothing, only folded her arms mutinously, got into bed, and turned her face towards the wall, as if pretending I wasn’t there.

“Shall I sit on the bean bag?” I asked Sandra, who gave a laugh and shook her head.

“You’re fine. Stay there. Maddie takes a bit of time to warm up to people sometimes, don’t you, sweetie?” Maddie said nothing, and I wasn’t sure I blamed her. It must be uncomfortable hearing herself discussed with a stranger like this.

Sandra began to read a Winnie the Pooh story, her voice low and soporific, and when at last she finished the final sentence, she leaned over, checking Ellie’s face. Her eyes were closed, and she was snoring very gently. Sandra kissed her cheek, clicked off the lights, and then stood and came across to me.

“Maddie,” she said very quietly, “Maddie, do you want a story from Rowan?”

Maddie said nothing, and Sandra leaned over and peered at her face, still turned to the wall. Her eyes were shut tight.

“Out like a light!” Sandra whispered, a touch of triumph in her voice. “Oh well, your rendition will have to wait until tomorrow. I’m sorry I didn’t hear it.” She kissed Maddie’s cheek too, drew her covers up a little, and tucked some kind of soft toy under her chin—I couldn’t see what exactly—and then clicked off her light as well, leaving just the glow of the night-light. Then she gave a last glance at her sleeping daughters and made her way to the door, with me following behind.

“Can you close the door after you?” she said, and I turned, ready to do so, glancing back at the little white beds and their occupants, both in shadow now.

The night-light was very soft and too close to the floor to show much except for shadows around the girls’ beds, but for a moment, deep in the blackness, I thought I saw the glint of two little eyes, glaring at me.

Then they snapped shut, and I pulled the door closed behind me.