Phoebe Morgan - The Babysitter

‘Come in, come in,’ she says, letting go of me and gesturing inside the house. She’s wearing a long cream cardigan and turned up jeans, effortlessly mumsy. I’ve known Jenny since university, but the woman in front of me is almost unrecognisable from the girl I used to share halls with in Leeds, the girl who’d go out in a tiny dress with a WKD in each hand and too-high heels on her feet. No, that Jenny has well and truly vanished.

‘Wine? Tea? Gin? What can I get you? Eve’s sleeping, thank God.’

Eve .

‘Wine please,’ I say, forcing myself not to check my phone for the fiftieth time since this morning. Callum hasn’t replied to my how are you? even though the cruel blue ticks on WhatsApp make it obvious that he’s read it. I follow Jenny into the house, my eyes taking in the shiny silver-framed pictures on the walls, the photos of baby Eve in various outfits – swaddled in blankets Eve, wrapped up for snow day Eve, Halloween Eve, her tiny face poking out of a pumpkin costume. My heart seems to close in on itself, like a tightening fist.

‘Caroline, hey.’ My heart sinks as I hear Rick’s voice, and then he’s in front of me, smiling widely and bending to kiss me on both cheeks. The French way. France. Callum’s holiday. No.

I push the thoughts away and accept the large glass of wine Jenny is holding out to me, my fingers gripping it tightly. It’s not that I don’t like Rick, exactly, it’s more that together with Jenny, the pair of them represent everything I haven’t got. Everything I am a million miles away from having, because of how stupid I was.

‘I’m so glad Eve nodded off before you came!’ says Jenny, her back to me, bustling around with the fridge. ‘Really, it’s a miracle. It’s been so hard to get her down recently, hasn’t it, Rick darling? The terrible twos, starting early. Just our luck!’ She laughs, the sound high and tinkling, and I feel the words stab into me like tiny poisoned arrows. You don’t know how lucky you are.

‘Have a seat, Caro,’ Rick says, and I sit down on one of their high, fashionable stools. They had a breakfast bar installed just before Christmas, part of their house renovation. It must have cost them a fortune.

‘I’ve got fresh pasta,’ Jenny tells me, and I smile at her.

‘Sounds great.’

The wine tastes weirdly sweet, too warm in the August air.

‘So how are you, Caro?’ Rick asks, smiling at me. His teeth are very white; perfectly so. ‘What’s been going on? How’s the illustration game?’

I smile back, forcing myself to try to stay in the moment, not to think about Callum.

‘It’s great,’ I say, ‘really great, actually. Lots of work coming in. I’m doing a children’s book right now.’

‘Ah, well, send it our way when it’s done! We want to get Eve reading as early as possible, don’t we, Jen?’ He glances over at her, rubbing his hands together as though the idea of starting a child reading early is his own version of reinventing the wheel.

‘We certainly do!’ she says, coming to sit down next to me at the table, a glass of wine in her hand, smaller than mine. Sensible Jenny. Her rings glisten under the lights. I remember the day she and Rick got engaged; she posted a picture on Facebook of her hand, fingers splayed, diamonds glittering. Thank God I’d had my nails done , the caption said. Thank God indeed, I thought sourly.

‘And, so, tell us!’ Jenny leans closer to me. I almost want to laugh, it’s so quick. They’ve managed to get any interest in my work out of the way in under a minute. Now onto the good stuff. My love life. The bit we’ve all been waiting for. I take another gulp of wine, feel it slide easily down my throat.

‘How’s the dating going?’

Jenny’s put a little bowl of olives out on the table between us, and I watch as Rick pops one into his mouth – green and fat. His teeth close around it, like those of a wolf.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘I haven’t really done too much lately, I—’

‘Oh, Caroline!’ Jenny gives a mock-sigh, throwing both her skinny little arms up into the air. ‘You promised, this year, this was the summer you were really going to give it a go. Didn’t you!’ She nudges her husband. ‘ Didn’t she, Rick! You were there. You remember.’

‘You did indeed,’ he says, grinning at me, reaching for another plump olive.

Underneath the table, I dig my nails into my thigh with my free hand, feel them make an indent into my skin. I hope it makes a bruise.

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