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  Dedication

  For my two little princesses, Lexi and Laya. I thought I knew what love was, and then I found out for real. True love means not only forgiving someone for washing your iPhone in the bath, but also thinking it’s kind of cute.

  Big kisses to my angels.

  Susanna Quinn xxx

  1

  Oh my god. Did that really just happen?

  My heart is pounding as I run down the stairs, two at a time, jumping four steps at the bottom and landing with a slam on the shiny wooden floor.

  Ugh. I can’t believe Mr Carmichael just did that. I think of his hand sneaking around my waist and shudder.

  Yuck, yuck, yuck.

  Poor Helen Carmichael. I mean, okay, she’s one of those women who spends more time worrying about her makeup than her children. But no one deserves a husband who tries to touch up the nanny.

  I hear creaky footsteps on the attic staircase, and turn to see Mr Carmichael hurrying towards me. His short, fat body bulges in his designer business suit, and his clipped grey hair glistens with gel.

  He has a sort of whipped puppy look on his face, and his eyes beg me to keep quiet.

  ‘I’m going to tell your wife what you just did,’ I say, heading towards the master bedroom. ‘She deserves to know.’

  ‘Now you just wait a moment young lady,’ says Mr Carmichael.

  I ignore him and go into the bedroom.

  I see Helen by her mirror, spraying herself with perfume from one of those old-fashioned pumps. She’s so beautiful. And young. It’s weird to think that her and Mr Carmichael actually sleep together. People are always mistaking them for father and daughter.

  ‘Mrs Carmichael. Helen.’ I suck in a deep breath.

  Before I can finish my sentence, Mr Carmichael storms into the bedroom, pointing a shaky finger.

  ‘Thief!’ he shouts.

  ‘What?’ My eyes widen.

  ‘I … just caught Sera stealing,’ says Mr Carmichael, all red-faced. ‘From Rebecca’s bedroom.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ I shake my head. ‘That’s a good one, Mr Carmichael. A really good one.’

  ‘She … I caught her with her hand in Rebecca’s piggy bank,’ Mr Carmichael stammers.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I shout. ‘I’ve never stolen anything in my life. The only person putting his hands anywhere was you.’

  Helen looks from me to Mr Carmichael, then back to me again.

  Her eyes meet mine and I know that she can guess what just happened. But the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me she won’t take my side. That would mean the end of her nice, safe life with all her jewellery, clothes and trips to the opera.

  ‘Perhaps there’s been some misunderstanding,’ she says softly, her hand trembling as she puts the perfume bottle down on her dressing table.

  ‘She needs to go,’ says Mr Carmichael, putting his hands on his pudgy hips. ‘Right now.’ There’s sweat on his face.

  ‘This is crazy!’ I put my hands on my hips too. ‘You touch me up while your daughters are sleeping, and now you want to fire me?’

  I turn to Helen. ‘I would never, ever steal from anyone. Let alone a little girl’s piggy bank. I love your girls. You know that.’

  Helen won’t meet my eye. She glances up at her husband, and then quickly looks away. I notice her hands are still trembling.

  ‘We’ll work out your pay with the agency,’ she says, still not meeting my eye, her words just a whisper.

  ‘You don’t have to be scared of him,’ I say, my voice a little softer now. ‘You know I’m telling the truth.’

  But … of course she’s afraid of him. Without this marriage she has nothing, and we both know it.

  ‘Please,’ I beg. ‘Don’t take me away from those girls. I love them and they love me.’

  ‘We’ll find them another nanny,’ says Mr Carmichael, in his squeaky, piggy voice. ‘One with real qualifications.’

  ‘God!’ I throw Mr Carmichael a glare. ‘What have qualifications got to do with how much I love your girls? You couldn’t care less about your daughters, could you?’

  My eyes find Helen Carmichael’s again, and I see hers are filling with tears.

  ‘If you leave now,’ says Mr Carmichael, ‘I’ll make things easy for you. No bad references.’

  I turn around. ‘I’ve been with those girls for over a year. What will they think if I just disappear one night? No goodbye. Nothing.’ My voice is all high and shaky, and I know I’m losing it.

  ‘If you leave right now, I won’t make your life too difficult,’ says Mr Carmichael.

  Helen picks up her perfume bottle again and fiddles with it.

  ‘But if you make trouble, I may have to file a report,’ says Mr Carmichael. ‘Think about that. How will you find another job with a mark against your name? You don’t have any qualifications, do you?’

  ‘I … ’ My words falter. Mr Carmichael is right.

  I don’t have any qualifications – or at least, not official ones. I left school at sixteen and didn’t go to college. I get hired on my references – which are great. Or at least, they were.

  ‘And don’t you have a younger sister to support?’ says Mr Carmichael. ‘It would be a shame if she had to leave that fancy dance school of hers.’

  I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them again, the world spins a little.

  Oh bloody hell.

  He’s right. I can’t get a black mark against my name. I need a good job. It’s as simple as that.

  ‘Let me say goodbye to the girls, then.’ I say. ‘You owe them that at least. If not now, then tomorrow. Let me call and say goodbye properly.’

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow we’ll think about—’ Mr Carmichael begins, but Helen cuts him off.

  ‘Of course you can,’ she says. ‘You can call them as often as you like.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, feeling a cold tear slide down my cheek.

  Helen puts a hand on my arm. She glances at her husband, then looks back at me. ‘I’m sorry Sera. I’m so sorry.’

  2

  When I get back to the houseboat that night, my heart is beating like crazy. Me and my sister live on a canal boat near Camden Lock. It’s damp and small, but it’s home.

  I can’t bear to think about Rachel and Rebecca waking up tomorrow morning without me there. It makes me feel sick. I love those girls so much. The thought of hurting them like this …

  And how on earth am I going to get a job at such short notice? To say I need the money is an understatement – my little sister and I are barely coping as it is, and that’s with me working full-time.

  Sure, the canal boat is kind of free to live in, thanks to my brother and his friends in all the wrong places. But Wila’s school fees are massive. Every month it’s a struggle to pay them.

  My little sister Wila has what you call a natural talent. She’s the most amazing dancer, and a few years ago she won a place at the Prince Regent Ballet School in West London.

  Which is terrific.

  Except that the fees are crazy expensive. So expensive that most of the time all we eat is canned chicken soup and cream crackers. But it’s a small sacrifice.

  Thousands of girls would kill for a place at that school, and if Wila completes the
course, she’ll have opportunities that no one in our family has ever had.

  I’ll be damned if I let this chance slip away from her.

  The boat rocks as I throw my bag down on the saggy old sofa.

  I put my head in my hands.

  Oh shit, shit, shit. What am I going to do?

  I hear Wila’s light, pretty little voice call out from the damp bedroom we share: ‘Pheeny? Is that you?’

  ‘It’s me, Lala.’ I press my palms against my eyeballs, take a deep breath and try to slap a smile onto my face. ‘Just back from work. Did school go okay?’

  ‘You’re home early.’ Wila comes dancing into the tiny living area, turning a little pirouette just before she reaches me. ‘I had a good day today.’

  Sometimes Wila feels a little out-of-place at school because she’s a day girl. All the other girls board full-time, but we definitely can’t afford that when the fees alone are such a struggle.

  I throw my arms around her and pull her into a hug. ‘That’s good.’

  Sometimes I do worry about Wila. She’s young for her age, both in looks and personality. It doesn’t take much to make her burst into tears.

  ‘Pheeny, something’s wrong, isn’t it?’ Wila looks up at me with her big, blue eyes. She has the perfect ballerina’s face, like a little pixie. And cool ashy blonde hair that she wears in a tight, high ballet bun, tied with a pink scrunchie. She was born to be a dancer, really.

  Sometimes I think it’s amazing we’re sisters. We have the same elfish looks, with our pointy little noses, chins and ears, but I have flaming red hair and burning browny-gold eyes – so different to Wila’s milky colouring.

  Our personalities are different too. Wila is sweet as candy, whereas I can be spiky as hell if anyone messes with the people I care about. But then, I guess we do come from different dads.

  ‘I’m fine Lala, just a busy day that’s all. Nothing for you to worry about.’

  Wila steps back, cocking her little head.

  Uh oh.

  She’s doing those psychic eyes again – the ones that see right through me.

  ‘Something is wrong,’ she decides.

  ‘No. Really. It’s … just been a long day, that’s all.’

  ‘You can tell me, Pheeny. I am sixteen you know. An adult, practically.’

  I laugh. ‘I think you’ve still got a few years to go, little dancer.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she says. ‘Or I’ll just keep guessing until I figure it out.’

  I sigh. ‘I just had a little trouble at work today, that’s all. I have to move jobs. But I’m going to get that all sorted out. We’ll be okay. I’ll get another job. An even better one.’

  But God knows how …

  3

  ‘There has to be something.’ I put my elbows on Sharon’s desk, and rest my cheek on my hand. My red hair falls forwards onto a mess of paperwork.

  Sharon is my agent. Most nannies have an agent. That’s how we get work. Sharon rubs shoulders with rich families, and then introduces me to them and takes a cut of my wages. She’s also my friend, too. One of my best friends.

  Sharon shakes her head. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  I sigh and cup my other cheek.

  Sharon’s light brown eyes look me over with love and concern.

  We’re sitting in her garage right now, which she uses as an office. It has cold concrete walls, smells damp and is chilly all year round. It’s winter now and it’s freezing.

  She has a little electric radiator burning away, but it doesn’t make much difference.

  ‘Please,’ I beg. ‘There has to be something. I’ll do absolutely anything. The worst possible place, I don’t care.’

  Sharon’s kohl-rimmed eyes flick up to the ceiling, and she purses her scarlet-red lips. She’s obsessed with the eighties, and most of the time looks like someone from Dallas. Her hair is short and frosted, and every top she owns has shoulder pads.

  ‘Mmm …’ Her eyes drift over my shoulder to the closed-up garage door. ‘Well. I suppose there’s always …’

  ‘Sharon?’

  ‘Hang on,’ says Sharon, turning to her computer. She tippy taps on the keyboard. ‘They haven’t requested a replacement, but … we’ve always sent them one before.’ She frowns at the computer screen. ‘And someone’s just left. So I suppose …’

  ‘Suppose?’

  ‘I suppose we could try … there’s always Mansfield Castle.’

  4

  I feel my feet shuffling under the desk. ‘Mansfield Castle?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ says Sharon uneasily.

  ‘Sounds all right,’ I say. ‘I’ve never worked in a castle before.’

  Sharon taps her fingernails against her lip. ‘I send a new girl up there every week, pretty much. And within a few days she phones me in tears, begging to leave.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘The little boy there. He’s … difficult.’

  I smile. ‘There’s no such thing as a difficult child. Only adults who aren’t understanding enough.’

  Sharon nods. ‘And then there’s the boss …’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Um … he’s …’

  ‘Sharon!’ My smile gets wider. ‘You’re blushing.’

  ‘Am I?’ Sharon fans her face with her hand.

  ‘The boss is what?’

  ‘Well, he’s … very … sort of strict. I mean he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. He doesn’t have a lot of patience with girls who can’t handle Bertie.’

  ‘And you’re blushing because?’

  Sharon sighs. ‘Okay, and he’s gorgeous.’ Her face and neck are going red too, now. She clears her throat. ‘I mean, he’s a very attractive man. His name is Patrick Mansfield. Lord Patrick Mansfield, actually. Have you heard of him?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not quite the sort of circles I move in.’

  Sharon leans towards me. ‘I think some of the nannies got the hots for him during their placements. For all the good it did them. Lord Mansfield doesn’t have a lot of time for women.’

  ‘You mean he’s gay?’ I say.

  Sharon laughs. ‘Hardly. He’s one of the UK’s most marriageable men, according to Catwalk magazine. Women throw themselves at him. But he’s something of a man’s man.’

  ‘Oh really?’ I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘He writes a survival blog. They read it on the radio sometimes. About how to survive in harsh climates. He sleeps rough in the woods and kills animals with his bare hands. That sort of thing. And of course, his winning gold in the Olympics has made him something of a celebrity.’

  ‘He won gold in the Olympics? What was his sport?’

  ‘Shooting.’

  I mull this over. ‘And no one has stayed more than a week so far?’

  Sharon shakes her head. ‘No one. And it’s not just the younger girls. I’ve sent some really mature ladies up there, and they’ve packed their bags within days. One lady quit within a few hours.’

  ‘What can be so awful about a job that you’d quit within hours?’

  ‘Like I say. The boy there is difficult.’

  ‘And like I say, there are no difficult children,’ I say. ‘Only difficult parents. So Patrick must be the difficult one.’

  ‘Patrick Mansfield isn’t Bertie’s father.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s his uncle. Patrick’s younger sister, Anise, had Bertie when she was very young. So Bertie has been passed from place to place his whole life. And this winter, he’s ended up with Uncle Patrick.’

  ‘It sounds like he needs some love,’ I say. ‘And Patrick Mansfield – well, I’m sure I can handle him. You know me. I’m not the kind of girl who falls head over heels for someone just because they’re good looking and have a few quid in the bank.’

  ‘He’s really very gorgeous, you know,’ says Sharon, her eyes drifting back to her computer screen.

  ‘I think I can handle that too.’

  ‘The pay is good,’ says Sharon. ‘Double that of our usu
al placements. And even when girls leave, they’re paid for the whole month. But … there’s something else, too.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Mansfield Castle is a long way away. And I know your younger sister lives with you … ’

  I feel icy fingers replace the good feeling I had moments ago. ‘How far? North London? Further?’

  ‘Much further. Mansfield Castle is in Scotland.’

  5

  As I ride my motorbike back to Central London, I’m deep in thought. Weaving in and out of mid-morning traffic, I’m back in Camden before I realize it.

  When I reach Camden Market, I hop off my bike and park up.

  ‘Hey Sera!’ calls out Tony, one of stallholders.

  ‘Hey Tony,’ I reply, giving him a wave. ‘Have you seen Danny?’

  Tony comes bouncing out from his stall. ‘Yep. He’s back there. Are you okay? You look … tired.’

  ‘Just life, I guess.’ I smooth down my hair and pull my sheepskin jacket tight around myself, shivering in the January wind. The icy ground crackles under my cowboy boots.

  ‘I got some herbal relaxation if you want it,’ says Tony.

  I smile. ‘You’ve known me long enough by now Tone. You shouldn’t be doing that stuff so early in the morning. You’ll get yourself a habit.’

  Tony laughs, coughing a little. ‘I already got myself a habit.’

  ‘Is Danny okay?’

  ‘The police came by earlier.’

  ‘Uh oh.’

  ‘They’ll catch him one day. But not today.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘That sounds like Danny. He’s got nine lives and then some.’ I pass through the crowds, treading on cigarette ends and crushed beer cans, and trying not to breathe in the hash smoke floating around the market.

  My brother Danny shivers behind his market stall, wearing his usual uniform of slouchy ripped jeans, woolly jumper and army jacket. He’s smoking a rolled up cigarette.

  ‘Seza!’ He grins, showing his white teeth. He’s good looking, my brother, but his teeth are all chipped and they always look like they’re going to leap out of his mouth. ‘Shouldn’t you be working?’

  ‘I lost my job,’ I say. ‘Do you know anyone who’s hiring?’