Phoebe Morgan - The Babysitter

‘I’m not hungry,’ she says, and I watch the hem of her silky dress fall to her ankles as she stands up and leaves the table, disappearing behind the sliding glass doors of the villa.

After a few seconds, music starts – she’s turned on the Sonos system in the downstairs basement, blasting angry, loud music that sets my teeth on edge. The house is two storeys, with the basement in reality forming two bedrooms and another bathroom. Emma and Maria are sleeping down there, while Callum and I are on the ground floor, level with the swimming pool. There’s an en suite leading off from our room, a power shower and fluffy white towels. Expensive soap and hand moisturiser that smells of geranium.

Callum sighs, the sound familiar. Maria blows out her breath, the worry evident on her face. She’s had the same facial expressions since we were teenagers, all those years ago now. More years than I’d like to count, to be honest. I turned forty-four in the spring. Still, I’ll always be her younger sibling. That’s something, I suppose.

I take an olive from the little black pot on the table, feel the oil slick on my fingertips.

‘Change of scenery hasn’t helped with the mood swings, then,’ Callum says wryly, raising his wine glass to his lips, and I shrug my shoulders, swallow the olive. He smiles at me, his teeth white and his eyes crinkling. That handsome look that I know so well.

‘We’ve been here less than twenty-four hours. Let’s give her a chance.’ My voice sounds calm, measured.

It isn’t how I feel inside. But then, I’ve got good at keeping my feelings to myself lately. I’ve had to, after all. Secrets are becoming my forte.

We finish the meal, and then with still no reappearance from Emma, move onto the comfy chairs on the veranda and open another bottle of wine – red this time, five euros in the local supermarket on our way over here. Callum’s mood has perked up; he is becoming more jovial, his arm around my waist, his voice loud in my ear. I try to relax into his touch, but it’s hard.

‘I was thinking I’d take you to see Rouen in the morning. I can unload the car of all the junk I brought over so that we can all fit,’ Maria is saying, a cardigan wrapped around her shoulders now as the temperature cools. I roll my eyes; ‘junk’ – the contents of her car are probably worth thousands judging by the rest of the house. Not for Maria the delights of IKEA – the pieces she brings over are each carefully selected, the best she can afford.

We took a taxi from Caen Airport, but Maria in her own car is by far the best driver, able to navigate the narrow French roads with much more ease than either of us. Although she lives in England, just down the road from us in Woodbridge, she comes out to the villa all the time, and every summer she spends a few weeks here alone. By car, the journey is less than six hours. The locals in the village recognise her, at least. ‘They always ask me why I haven’t got a man,’ she told us earlier tonight, laughing, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. ‘They ask me when I’m going to bring un petit chou to visit them all.’

‘They obviously don’t know you that well then,’ Callum had said, grinning at her, and she’d laughed again, the sound echoing over the hot red tiles, but the tone of it didn’t quite ring true. I wonder if she could be more lonely than we think. I’ve tried to discuss it with Callum, once or twice, but he’s never very interested. I think she was seeing someone more seriously for a while, a man from her work, but she was always very cagey about it and I never got very far in my questioning.

‘Rouen in the morning would be lovely,’ I say now, waiting for Callum to agree. Since we’ve been out here, there has been something off about his mood, but I can’t work out if I’m just imagining it. There is a nervous energy, a pulse of unease that began on the flight earlier today. He has never been an anxious flyer, but this time he was on edge for the whole hour, his eyes darting around the plane, his fingers tapping on his phone until an air hostess told him to stop. I smiled at her after that, and ordered a glass of wine. Emma stared out of the window the entire time; I could hear the tinny beat of the music coming through her headphones. Callum bought her expensive ones – he’s never been able to say no to her. Well, he’s never been able to say no to anyone except me. That’s why people love him. The ultimate yes-man.

‘Callum,’ I say, ‘wouldn’t that be great? Maria’s offering to take us to Rouen. I’ve always wanted to go, actually. See the cathedral, the churches.’

He glances at her quickly, but it’s too dark for me to see the expression on his face.

‘Yeah,’ he says at last, predictably, ‘I’d love that. I’m sure Ems would too. Thanks, Maria.’

She inclines her head, then stands. ‘More wine, S?’

She’s always called me S, ever since we were small, as though saying my full name is a little too much for her. My glass is almost empty; I hadn’t realised.

‘Yes please,’ I say, and she moves away, back into the light of the house, her shadow tall and willowy in the darkness. Her hair is a dark brown waterfall, whilst my own is beginning to be tinged with the odd grey. I wonder if it’s time for me to start dyeing it, if Maria would admit to doing hers. I know she does, I’ve seen the packets in her bathroom cabinet.

‘Isn’t it great to get away from it all?’ Callum says to me when she’s gone, throwing his head back against the cushioned headrest, staring up at the stars. It’s dark now, the only light the glow from the house and the shimmer of a couple of antimosquito candles. His body language has become more relaxed as the evening has gone on; either that or it’s the alcohol working its magic.

‘Mmm,’ I say non-committally, smiling at him as he points out Orion’s Belt, the saucepan, the North Star.

He pulls me closer, lightly kissing me on the forehead, and lets out a sigh of contentment. ‘I feel free here,’ he says suddenly, ‘really free’. The kiss feels like a stamp; I’m his property, after all. To have and to hold.

His phone, jammed against my hip, buzzes with a message.

‘God, this must be the only spot in the whole place with a reception!’ he says, and I turn away as he looks at it, fix my gaze on the bright lights in the distance, wondering how long we’re going to carry on pretending. One more night? One more week? One more year? I don’t know how much more I can take.

Ipswich, Suffolk

3rd August: One week earlier

Caroline

I miss you, I type out, then watch as the letters slowly erase themselves under the firm grip of my thumb. How are you? I write instead, which is better, but not perfect, and then I hit send before I can think about it any more.

I promised myself I wouldn’t be like this. Promised I’d keep away. For my own sake. I know what he is now, I know what he made me do. The awfulness of it. But it’s a Sunday morning, and I’ve got that particularly horrible, deep in the gut sort of loneliness beginning to form, snaking its way up my stomach and into my throat. The glasses of wine last night didn’t help either; I’m going to stop drinking, properly this time; I’m going to stop being dependent on both booze and Callum Dillon at the exact same moment. God, I’m pathetic. Why are bad habits so hard to break?

My phone buzzes and I leap for it, but it’s just Jenny, asking if I want to come round to hers for a meal with her and her husband tonight. My fingers tighten around the phone. No, Jenny, I don’t want to come for a meal in your posh house and watch as you and Rick coo over your brand new baby. I don’t want to stare at your fridge full of wedding invitations, your sweet little high chair, or your giant Smeg fridge. I don’t need any confirmation of how full your life is compared to mine.