JACQUI MOORE peered through the low, swirling cloud,
intent on keeping her precious car on the lane snaking
between dry-stone walls that were much too close for
comfort, and wished, not for the first time that day, that
she was better at saying no.
"It's just a flying nanny job, Jacqui. A piece of cake for
someone as experienced as you."
"I'm not a nanny, flying or otherwise. Not any more."
"A couple of hours, max," Vickie Campbell continued, as if
she hadn't spoken. "I wouldn't ask but this is an
emergency and Selina Talbot is a very special client."
"Selina Talbot?"
"Now I have your attention," Vickie said, with
satisfaction. "You know she adopted an orphaned refugee
child?"
"Yes, I've seen her photograph in Celebrity..."
"We supply all her staff."
"Do you?" Jacqui jerked herself back from the brink of
temptation. "So why doesn't she have one of your wonderful
nannies to take care of her little girl?"
"She does. At least she will have. I've got someone lined
up, but she's on holiday —"
"Holiday! Now, there's a coincidence. You do recall that
you asked me to drop by on my way to the airport..." she
laid heavy emphasis on the word airport '...since I was
passing the door anyway. You had something for me, you
said," she prompted. 'Oh, yes." Vickie opened her desk
drawer and handed her a padded envelope. "The Gilchrists
sent it."
Jacqui took the envelope with its Hong Kong postmark and,
heart beating like a drum as she tore it open, tipped out
the contents. The supple silver links of the bracelet
curled into her palm. A card fluttered to the ground.
With a feeling of dread she picked it up, turned it over
and read the message.
"Jacqui?"
She shook her head, blinking furiously as she bent over
her bag, pushing it out of sight. Unable for a moment to
speak.
"What is it? Did the Gilchrists send you a keepsake?'
Unable to tell her exactly what the Gilchrists had done,
she said, "Something like that."
Vickie took it from her. "Oh, it's a charm bracelet and
they've started your collection with a little heart. How
sweet." Then, "It seems to be engraved," she said, holding
it closer to the light and squinting to read the tiny
words. "I really must get my eyes tested, but I think it
says..."...forget and smile..."." She frowned. 'What does
that mean?"
"It's a quotation from Christina Rossetti," Jacqui said,
numbly. ""Better by far you should forget and smile, Than
that you should remember and be sad.""
"Oh. Yes... Well. I see." Then, gently, "Maybe that's good
advice."
"Yes," she said. 'I know how much it hurt to lose her,
Jacqui. She'll never forget you. Everything you did for
her."
Jacqui knew exactly what she'd done. That was why she
could never take the risk again.
"Do you want me to fasten it for you?"
And because it would have looked odd if she'd stuffed it
away out of sight with the card that had come with it, she
allowed Vickie to fasten the chain about her wrist. Then,
because she had to get out of there, she cleared her
throat and said, "Right, well, if that's all, I'd better
be getting on my way."
"Don't rush off. Your plane doesn't leave for hours."
Vickie smiled. One of those full-blooded, come on, I
understand that you were upset, but it's time to move on,
smiles. "And, since you're flying by a no-frills airline
from some airport in the back of beyond, you undoubtedly
need the money. You haven't worked for months."
"I haven't worked for you for months," she
corrected. 'Which was quite intentional. But I have been
working as a temp in a jolly nice office. Regular hours,
no weekends and the money isn't bad, either."
Vickie rolled her eyes in a give-me-strength look, not
fooled for a minute.
OK, "jolly' probably overstated it. 'They've asked me to
stay on," she said. "Permanently."
"It's not even as if you'll have to put yourself out,'
Vickie continued, treating this statement with the
contempt it probably deserved and completely ignoring it.
Jacqui had done a very good job for her temporary
employers, doing all the dull, repetitive jobs that no one
else wanted and doing them well. She'd hated every minute
of it, but it was her penance and for six months she'd
punished herself. But it hadn't helped. She was going to
have to try something different and maybe her family were
right, a couple of weeks on her own, with no pressures,
would give her time to decide what she was going to do
with the rest of her life. 'You practically pass the
house," Vickie persisted, crashing into her thoughts and
forcing her to concentrate on the immediate problem. But
then she hadn't attracted all those crème-de-la-crème
clients by allowing herself to be put off at the first
obstacle.
"Is that so? The motorway runs right through Little
Hinton, does it?"
"Not exactly through it," she admitted, "but it's a very
minor diversion. The village is no more than five miles
from the nearest exit."
"Five? Would that be as the crow flies?"
"Six at the most. I can show you on the map."
"Thanks, but I'll pass."
"OK, OK, I'll be totally honest with you —"
"That would make a nice change."
"I'm counting on you." Oh, help... "Selina Talbot will be
arriving at any moment and it could be hours before I can
find someone else to do this for me."
"If you go in for Machiavellian subterfuge, Vickie, you
should always have a back-up plan."
"Please. It's only a little job and you wouldn't want to
leave a small child here, in my office, bored to tears,
would you?"
She pressed her hand over the chain on her wrist until it
dug in painfully. "I could live with it," she
said. 'Whether you could is another matter."
"Please, Jacqui. I've got meetings, interviews —"
"And an office full of your own staff —"
"Who are all fully occupied on vital work. Just drop
Maisie off at her grandmother's house and then you can
head for the sun and spend the next two weeks without a
thought for the rest of us slaving away in the cold and
rain."
"You think you can make me feel guilty?" she enquired,
with every appearance of carelessness.
The holiday hadn't been her idea. It was her family who
kept insisting that she needed a break. Not that she
needed telling. She had to face herself in the mirror
every morning. Vickie, she suspected, thought she knew
better and had manufactured this 'crisis' purely for her
benefit. It was about as blatant a piece of in-atthe-deep-
end amateur psychology as she'd ever witnessed and it
would serve her right if she walked out and left her
lumbered with a spoilt brat causing chaos in her well-run
office.
"I'll pay you double —"
"That is desperate."
" — and when you come back," Vickie continued, as if she
hadn't spoken, "we can have a little chat about your
future."
"I don't have a future," she declared forcefully, cutting
her off before this whole thing got completely out of hand.
She'd only agreed to come into the office on her way to
the airport because it gave her the perfect chance to tell
Vickie face-to-face that she must remove her from her
books once and for all. Finally. Irrevocably. Put a stop
to the tempting little job offers that she kept leaving on
her answering machine.
At least in Spain she'd be safe from these sneaky little
raids on her determination.
"Not as a nanny," she said as she headed for the
door. 'I'll send you a postcard —"
Vickie leapt to her feet but before she could fling
herself between Jacqui and freedom, Selina Talbot swept
in; tall, golden and clearly worth every cent of the
millions of dollars she earned as a supermodel. The
fortune she was paid as the face of a famous cosmetic
company.
Maisie, her six-year-old adopted daughter — familiar from
endless full-colour 'happy family' spreads in lifestyle
magazines and the object of Vickie's unsubtle strategic
planning — was at her side.
The little girl was not wearing the wash-and-wear clothes
any sensible nanny would have dressed her in for
travelling. Instead she was togged out in the full fairy-
princess kit: a white, full-skirted voile dress with a
mauve satin sash, opaque white tights and satin Mary
Janes, the perfect foil for her beautiful chocolate-dark
skin. A sparkly tiara perched on top of her jet curls
completed the picture. Only the wings were missing.
One of her hands was in fingertip contact with her mother.
From the other dangled a small white linen tote bag on
which the words 'Maisie's Stuff' had been appliquéd in the
same mauve satin as her sash.
The designer's logo embroidered in the same colour
suggested that the outfit was a one-off creation for his
favourite model's little girl.
Most small girls of her acquaintance — and she'd known
enough to be certain of this — would have been crumpled
and grubby within five minutes of being dressed in such an
outfit.
Not Maisie Talbot. She looked like an exquisite doll. One
of those collector's editions that was kept in a glass
case so it wouldn't get spoiled by sticky fingers.
Most children faced with the prospect of being left in the
care of complete strangers — and once again Jacqui had
plenty of experience as a flying nanny to back up her
theory — would have been clinging tearfully to their
mother at this point.
Maisie remained still, silent and composed as Selina
Talbot air-kissed her daughter from about three feet above
her head and — having acknowledged Vickie's introduction
to 'Jacqui Moore, the very experienced nanny I told you
about" by the simple expedient of handing over the
matching white holdall that contained her daughter's
belongings — departed with an unnerving lack of maternal
fuss.
A tug of something very like compassion for this doll-
child slipped beneath Jacqui's defences; a dangerous urge
to pick her up and give her a cuddle. The impulse was
stillborn as Maisie's dark eyes met hers and, with all the
poised hauteur of her mother on a Paris catwalk, warned
her not to think of doing any such thing.
Then, having firmly established a cordon sanitaire about
her person, Maisie said, "I'd like to go now, Jacqui." And
headed for the door, where she waited for someone to open
it for her.
Vickie Campbell mouthed the words 'please' as Maisie
tapped her foot impatiently and Jacqui was sorely tempted
to walk away, leaving Vickie to deal with the fallout. It
wasn't Vickie's mute appeal that made the difference. She
just couldn't bring herself to reject a child who, despite
her cool, in-charge exterior, seemed very much alone.
And she was practically passing the door. 'You owe me,
Vickie," she said, surrendering, helpless in the face of
this two-pronged attack.
"Big time," Vickie replied, with a grin that had better be
of relief. "Come and see me when you get back and I'll
have the kind of job waiting for you that will make you
drool."
Aaah... She'd nearly fallen into the carefully set trap.
Once money had exchanged hands... 'On second thoughts,
have this one on me," she replied. Then, giving her full
attention to her unexpected charge, she said, "OK, Maisie,
let's go before my car gets clamped."
"Is this it?" the child demanded, unimpressed, as they
reached the street and she was confronted by a much
cherished, but admittedly past its best, VW Beetle.
"This is my car," Jacqui agreed, opening the door. 'I
never travel in anything but a Mercedes." At which point
she began to understand Vickie's anxiety not to be left
alone with Miss Maisie Talbot for any length of time.
"This is a Mercedes," she said, briskly. 'It doesn't look
like one."
"No? Well, it's a dress-down-at-work day." Maisie's little
forehead wrinkled as she considered this outrageous
statement. Then she asked, "What's a dress-down-at-work
day?"
It was too late to wish she'd kept her mouth shut.
Something to bear in mind, though, next time she thought
of being smart with a six-year-old.
"It's a day when you're allowed to go into work wearing
jeans instead of a suit," she explained.
"Why would anyone want to do that?"
"For fun?" she offered. Then, because Maisie's idea of fun
was dressing up, not down, "OK, well, sometimes, to raise
money for charity, grown-ups pay for the pleasure of
wearing whatever they want to work. Wouldn't you like to
wear your princess outfit to school instead of your
uniform and raise some money for a good cause at the same
time?"