Sara Craven - A Nanny For Christmas

She believed that Tony must want her, otherwise why would he spend so much time exclusively with her? She just wished he would show it rather more openly. Each time he kissed her, he seemed to be holding back. The caresses he offered were exciting, but fleeting too, always short of any real intimacy, leaving her unsatisfied and longing for more.

And she had other, minor worries too. She wanted to look wonderful for Tony at the party, but she was dismally aware that he’d seen all the clothes she’d brought with her, and there was nothing sensational among them.

So, when Tiffany had asked her casually what she was planning to wear, and she’d confessed she didn’t know, she’d found herself immediately up in Tiffany’s room, confronted with a whole range of the kind of gear that looked so terrific on the others.

‘Well, he certainly fancies you.’ Tiffany, lounging on the bed, wouldn’t let the topic rest.

Phoebe tried pulling her hair up on top of her head, but it was too heavy and too thick, and kept sliding down again.

She sighed. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘That’s crap. He never leaves you alone.’

Phoebe sighed again. ‘Actually, he does. He treats me as if I was made of glass and might break.’

‘He wouldn’t if he saw you dressed like that,’ Tiffany giggled.

‘But he won’t see me.’ Phoebe tried not to sound desolate.

‘Of course he will.’ Tiffany sat up. ‘Y’know, your problem is that you give off the wrong vibes. The way you dress and talk and present yourself all says “hands off”, and guys like Tony pick that up. So, on Friday, you’re going to give him a signal that says “I’m available”. And I’m going to help.’

Phoebe gave her a quick, rather shamefaced look. ‘Are you sure, Tiff? It’s just that I thought—at the beginning—that it was Tony and you...’

Tiffany laughed. ‘Hardly. We know each other far too well.’ She contemplated Phoebe with a satisfied smile, like the cat with the cream. ‘Put yourself in my hands, and you’ll knock his eyes out on Friday.’

Phoebe could hardly believe her own eyes when she was finally allowed to look in the mirror on Friday evening. Her own hair was concealed under a shoulder-length blonde wig, which Tiffany had purloined from her mother’s room. Her eyes were slumbrous with kohl, and her lips gleamed a deep, wicked red.

‘You look more like Madonna than she does,’ said Tiffany.

Downstairs, Phoebe was disappointed to discover that Tony had gone ahead to the party with some of the others.

‘Whose party is it, anyway?’ she asked Tiffany, who shrugged vaguely.

‘Just the usual bash,’ she returned. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

She’d expected the house to be another designer nightmare, like Tiffany’s, so North Fitton House came as a pleasant surprise. She lingered on the steps, breathing in the fragrance of the night-scented stocks which filled the stone urns flanking the front door.

Tiffany gave her a little push. ‘Come on. There’s a hungry man waiting in there.’

Tony’s reaction was all that she could have desired.

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