9. Scaredy-Cats

A delicious smell rose from the apple pie on the table. Never before had I seen one so mouth-watering, with a crisscross crispy golden crust. Elizabeth and Camille had worked on it the whole morning, together in the kitchen, while the other two and I had been wrapping presents in Manon's bedroom. When I went for a cup of tea and found mother and daughter laughing their heads off about who knows what, I must've stood there gaping at them for minutes before they spotted me.

The moment Elizabeth had registered me, she stopped, acting like it'd never happened and she'd actually been frowning all the time.

It'd confused the shit out of me.

"I thought you couldn't cook," I'd said, noticing that there weren't any instructions lying around, just a bag of flour and sugar, raisins, a carton of eggs, apple pieces and peels, and all sorts of spices: cinnamon and clove and stuff I didn't recognize.

She'd looked around like she hadn't noticed she was making a pie from scratch and cleared her throat. "Yes, that's right. But this is my mom's recipe; I know it by heart." And she'd turned to Camille, telling her to add some more cinnamon.

Right now, she was frowning again, sitting on the patio sofa with Ari by her side, talking earnestly to the other guests around her. This morning, I'd figured I was going to have to make myself scarce — it was Camille's birthday, after all, and I was only the nanny — until Ari had come running into my bedroom, asking what was taking so long and saying they were all waiting for me. A warm and fluffy feeling had settled at the bottom of my stomach, and it hadn't left since.

I gulped down another forkful of apple pie. This was so far from the sugary mush I was used to — apparently unfrozen and microwaved supermarket pie was incomparable to the real thing. And to think I could've gone on living my life, declining all apple pies ever offered to me, never discovering what a treat it could be. Sensing someone watching me, I looked up to find the girls' grandmother staring at me with her mouth contracting like she'd just bitten into a lemon. Oops. Looks like I was going to have to take smaller bites.

Mrs. Miller still hadn't looked away, and it dawned on me that she was actually trying to talk to me. Her hair was dyed a rich auburn, though her skin was stretched and wrinkly, making it impossible to guess her age. She cleared her throat. "I thought the nannies from your agency were required to wear a uniform."

My mouth was still full, preventing me from answering. I had no idea what to say to her anyway; fancy people like her had always made me nervous. Especially when they apparently disapproved of my rainbow top and dungarees.

"If you've finished with that pie," she said then, in a tone that made it clear I wasn't allowed to eat even a crumb more, "please collect my son's present from the car. It's heavy." She held out her wrinkled hand, the key to her Audi swinging from side to side.

I swallowed the last bit and took the keys. A little baffled, I got up from where I sat and set off for the driveway, the warm, fuzzy feeling disappearing with a pop. Was this what I was here for? Collecting gifts, doing the dishes later? Sure, I'd helped miss Schneider make drinks and carry plates, but even Elizabeth and the kids had done that. This was the first time since I'd started to work here that I felt like a servant.

Of course, the trunk of the gleaming silver car opened automatically. There, taking up all the space, sat a rectangular box the size of a dog house, wrapped in pink paper with kittens, a card stuck to the top. From dad to my darling Camille, it said. Mm. Wonder if he picked it out himself, all the way from France. With a sigh, I placed my hands on the sides and tried to lift it.

It wouldn't budge.

I wrapped my arms around the back, attempting to drag it towards me. It didn't move. Not one single inch. Seemed like heavy had been an understatement. How was I supposed to carry this all the way to the backyard with my limping leg?

"I'll do it," another voice said, and I startled, turning around quickly.

Elizabeth had followed me. She was eying the gift with her lips pressed tightly together, her brows furrowed. Her make-up was flawless as ever, thick mascara lengthening her already long lashes, dark earthy eyeshadow making her brown eyes pop out, and subtle lip gloss that somehow hadn't been messed up by her eating a slice of apple pie. She was wearing a satin maxi dress with a slit down the side, showing off one of her smooth, pale legs — surely, no one had any business looking this good at a kid's birthday party. I'd wondered if she'd wanted to attract the attention of one of the male visitors, men in dress shirts with shiny watches and a grey streak in their hair, only she'd barely acknowledged any of them all afternoon.

"Are you sure?" I asked, as her suede heels sank deep into the gravel. How was she even still standing?

She only nodded, bending down to unclasp the straps — was she going to take them off? My jaw slacked as she put her bare feet down on the ground. Surely, all those small stones must hurt like hell? And it was a long way back to the yard. "You take these," she said, kicking the shoes towards me. Without another word, she lifted the package, her toes curling into the gravel to catch a grip, and managed a few steps.

"Elizabeth, are you out of your mind? Come on, put it down, we'll ask one of those dudes to come and get it."

She gritted her teeth and walked another four steps. "Just lock up," she said, panting like she'd been running a marathon. A trickle of sweat dripped down her neck, disappearing between her boobs.

"Elizabeth—"

"Do you want to keep your job?" It didn't come out as sharp and edgy as usual, but that was only because she needed all her energy not to fall over or maybe even to not cry out in pain.

"Yes, of course, but this is madness. You could hurt your feet!"

"Just shut up."

"But—"

A pair of brown eyes glared at me from over the pink present, sparking ferociously. At that moment, she seemed kind of crazy, a suppressed scream flickering in her irises. "Leave it, and you'll be off probation."

I stared at her. On the one hand, I couldn't let her go on like this, straining herself for no reason at all. On the other, I really did want to keep my job. It was the best I'd ever had. "Alright," I said, "but I'll be walking behind you in case you fall."

She huffed and attempted another few steps. "I'm not one of the kids."

"Well, with the way you're acting, you're not far off." It spilled out before I could help myself, though luckily for me, she was too busy keeping upright to sneer at me. She was wobbling in place, and quickly, I darted forwards to push against her back. Slowly, with me thinking this was insane and her panting heavily, we made it to the edge of the yard, where she sat the present down and clutched the top of the fence, trying to catch her breath.

"This is far enough, don't you think?" I said.

She nodded, unable to talk, her hair stuck to her forehead. There were so many things I wanted to say, yet I kept them all to myself, offering her her shoes. She slid her feet inside them, her formerly pristine nail polish chipped and cracked in some places, dirt under the edges. It was a wonder she wasn't bleeding.

"Next time..." she started, then winced, her face screwed up in pain, her lips shaking, and I wondered if it was physical or mental agony that had come over her, or maybe both. "Next time Mrs. Miller asks, pretend you're with the agency, alright?"

"Why—"

She swatted my question away before I could finish it. "Go get Cami." I wanted to protest — this wasn't normal behavior — only she added, more persistently: "Go."

Like a good dog, I left to collect the kids. Although it was Camille's gift, Manon was the most excited, running out before me. She was already tearing her dad's card from the box, and her eyes shone as Camille gave her permission to read it aloud. "Okay, this is what dad writes," Manon said, sending her mother a dark look before starting to repeat more of the same hollow phrases I'd seen on her cards. Mr. and Mrs. Miller had joined us as well, though I was sure I was the only one who saw Elizabeth gasp for air, turning her head away for a second as if her fierce iciness had melted along with her immaculate appearance.

The girls ripped off the wrapping paper, me having to hold back Ari because she almost acted like the gift was hers.

Holy shit. I scratched my hair, looking at a box that supposedly contained a white battery-operated convertible big enough for Camille to sit in.

I got my first car at twenty years old. Camille was getting hers on her fourth birthday.

"Oh, how sweet of Connery!" Mrs. Miller exclaimed, unearthing her iPhone from her leather handbag, while Mr. Miller silently helped the kids to unpack the mini convertible. "What a wonderful dad you girls have."

Before long, Camille was sitting in it, gripping the wheel tightly, her eyes wide. Her sisters were explaining how the car worked, with the help of their grandpa. Everyone was watching them — everyone but me.

Elizabeth's cheeks had gone as white as the clouds in the sky, her chest heaving up and down rapidly as she reread the birthday card in her shaking hands. All of a sudden, it was easy to imagine her crying, easy to picture tears running down her face, blurring her mascara and eyeliner. What was she thinking about? Did she regret cheating on him, like she'd told Manon?

"Are you okay?"

I couldn't remember ever having spoken to her like this before, soft and concerned, and it seemed it took her by surprise as much as it did me. She took a shaky breath, nodding quietly. "I'm fine. My feet hurt."

No shit. I could've told her that. I looked at her, and she looked back, silently warning me not to ask. And I wasn't going to. Not yet, anyhow. "Am I off probation now?"

Her eyes widened in surprise, like that was the last thing she'd expected. "Yes. I suppose so. You've..." She didn't finish her sentence, throwing a glance at Camille, who seemed to be refusing to start the car.

"Well, in that case..." I turned to her, wondering why on earth I threw myself in front of the lioness again and again. "I know this isn't about your feet."

"How smart of you." No doubt she meant to snap at me, only there was a tremble to her voice that took the edge off. She shook her head, her gaze fixed on her youngest daughter, handing me the birthday card. Though we couldn't hear what Camille was saying, her voice was high and loud, obviously scared. "He doesn't even know her," she muttered, and hurried towards the kids, kneeling down to help Camille out of the car.

No, he obviously didn't. I'd only been here for a month, and I would've never bought her something like this, the little scaredy-cat she was. In fact, I'd given her a pizza cooking set at the worth of twenty dollars, and she'd already asked me six times when we were going to use it. Elizabeth had given her countless amounts of stuff, but most of it had something to do with the kitchen— cupcake decorations and kid's knives and a simple cookbook.

It seemed that, no matter what I'd thought when I'd first started working here, she did, in fact, know her own kids.