A Very Accidental Love Story. Claudia CarrollЧитать онлайн книгу.
I have enough guilt of my own to deal with at being apart from her, without having it flung into my face by someone who I’m employing? And at premium rates too, I might add?
‘Tell you what, I have a suggestion Elka,’ I say, evenly and deliberately locking my voice into its lowest register, which I’ve learned is absolutely the best way to deal with any confrontational situation. And I should know, having been through more than a fair few in my time. ‘Is it too much to ask that you just get on with your job, let me get on with mine and then this evening when I’m home from work, we can discuss this calmly, at a more appropriate time. Come on now, what do you say to that?’
But madam’s in no mood to listen to reason.
‘I say to all the other nannies, you have no husband, you have no boyfriend, no man, instead you are married to your work.’
And … bam.
‘Excuse me, what did you just say?’
‘… all other children I know each has each mother and father, but not Lily. She only have mother. So the mother need to be here for her more. Much, much more.’
Okay, now that feels exactly the same as a hard wallop across the cheek and hurts so much it momentarily stuns me. So of course, the second I come to, I snap right back at her, the way I seem to snap at everyone these days. But there you go, that’s what deep, ongoing exhaustion and off-the-scale stress levels will do to you.
‘Elka, I made it perfectly clear to you from day one that I was a single parent,’ I tell her crisply. ‘I don’t have a problem with it and neither does Lily, but if this is some kind of issue for you, you really should have said so before now.’
‘Single parent need to spend more time with kids, not less.’
Okay, so now I’m fuming, feeling like smoke is physically puffing out of my ears, cartoon-like. Because she’s hit my weak spot square-on, with all the accuracy of an aircraft bomber. Yes, I’m a lone parent and yes, there can be huge disadvantages to that. But deal with it, is my attitude.
The subject of Lily’s father is one that’s not up for discussion. Not now, not ever.
And when I think of the amount of money I pay Elka every month – and all for what? So she can stand here, pass judgement on my life and make me feel about two inches tall? So she can spend all day playing with a little girl who’s not even three years old? Does she think that I wouldn’t jump at the chance to stay home all day and be a full-time mum? Doesn’t she realise how it’s like a stab in the chest every time I have to kiss Lily’s little strawberry-blonde head of curls goodbye? Or, worst of all, when I have to listen to the innumerable voice messages she leaves on my phone when I’m at work, in her angelic little baby voice, all with the same unvarying theme? ‘I miss you Mama. When are you coming home?’ There are times when all I want to do is hug her and hold her and tell her not to bother growing up, it’s not worth all the hassle. Just stay like this, stay my little girl forever.
Doesn’t anyone realise how gutted I am that I seem to be missing out on so much of her? Missed her taking her first baby steps, missed her saying her first words … I’m never there, I’m either in a meeting or writing an editorial or chairing a news conference; always, always, working. And of course I went into single parenthood with both eyes open; I knew massive life changes would be involved. Which is why I hired a live-in nanny, plus two back-up childminders in case of emergencies. Hired them – and then subsequently had to accept all their resignations, one by one like ducks in a row, for exactly the same reasons Elka is now citing.
But come on, in my defence, how was I supposed to know with all the redundancies at work in the past two years that my workload would effectively double? Anyway, I think, furious with exhaustion now, what does Elka think I’m putting in all these ungodly hours for anyway? Only to keep myself sane, while giving my little girl the best life that I possibly can. Hardly my fault that I can’t be in two places at once – not with the hours I’m expected to put in, and certainly not with my contract up for renewal in six months. Not now. Apart from everything else I have to worry about, now there’s trouble afoot at work, you see, though it’s not normally something I articulate out loud.
Trouble by the name of Seth Coleman, managing editor of the Post.
Ah, Seth Coleman. Where do I begin? He hasn’t even been in the job that long; he was headhunted from The Sunday Press when his predecessor at the Post left. Who by the way was a gorgeous, preppy, easy-going guy I strongly suspect I drove out of there and who I now miss more than my right hand. His official reason for quitting was for ‘work/life balance’, and to be perfectly honest, who could blame him?
Anyway, when pressed officially as to my opinion of Seth, I smile curtly and acknowledge his fine leadership qualities and firm grasp of the newspaper business, always adding that he’s never anything else than a consummate professional, at all times, always.
But when I’m standing in the shower, which is about the only place I get any kind of private time to myself these days, I will name-call Seth Coleman as the sleaziest, most hypocritical b**locks on the face of the planet, with a thin, slimy, greasy head of hair, and pockmarked, boiled-red skin, whose total absence of neck gives him more than a passing resemblance to Barney Rubble. Oh, and with an ego the approximate size of Saturn’s fifty-seven moons. Represents just about every trait that I despise in the male sex and even manages to discover a few new ones along the way. Patronising to my face, but behind my back, I know right well that he’s deeply resentful of working for a woman. And with my seven-year contract up for renewal in the next few months, even the dogs on the street seem to know that his greedy eye is now firmly focused on the big prize.
A classically mean-spirited man, he’s also someone who keeps a mental tally of all my losses in work, diligently measuring all my shortcomings, rather than any of my gains. For starters, he’s been busily spreading rumour after rumour about me and they’ve all filtered back; that I’m slipping, that ever since I had Lily I’m not the firebrand I once was, that I’m not living and breathing the job like I used to. And I know, just know without being told, that he’s just biding his time, waiting for me to crack, and so therefore I can’t.
So I do what I have to do. Go into work and act the part of the bossiest boss that the world of big bossy business could ask for. Do exactly what I’m programmed to do. And it’s tough and getting tougher by the day, even though my job defines me; it’s who I am and not for one second could I consider doing something less stressful.
But having said all that, the brightest part of my day isn’t when I sign off on the next issue of the Post, it’s seeing the little strawberry-blonde head of an almost-three-year-old sleeping like an angel when I get home, cuddled up in her bed with her favourite teddy bear beside her. And I’ll gaze at her adorably freckled pink little angel’s face and whisper to her that I love her so, so much and that one day we’ll have proper time to be together.
Then I do what I always do; collapse into bed and try to lock away the guilt that feels like heartburn every time I realise the one single thing that has the power to kill me on the inside; the only time I seem to see my baby girl these days is when she’s sleeping.
But back to Elka, still spitting fire and venom at me on the upstairs landing.
‘Lily is beautiful little girl,’ she spews, ‘and I will be sad to say goodbye to her, but the hours you make me work are crazy. Crazy! And they making me crazy too!’
‘Really sorry about this,’ I’m forced to interrupt, unable to take much more, But ‘I’m going to be late for work. Could we please discuss this later?’
‘I not finished! I know my entitlements too. My other friends tell me you must give me P45 with full salary entitlements paid up front before I leave.’
Interesting, I think wryly, grabbing my car keys. Elka’s grasp of English is so weak she can barely get by in the supermarket and yet her vocabulary freely encompasses quite scarily impressive phrases like ‘P45 with full salary entitlements paid up front’?
‘Elka,’