Clusterf*ck Page 12

  Oliver enters the kitchen and Darcy leans into him, still totally in love. “Tell us what you know about Rachel?”

  He shrugs. “Nothing much. Luther’s her guardian, and now he’s taking care of her.”

  Darcy grabs his shirt and pulls him close. “Guardian, dear husband, sounds totally Victorian. You’re holding information. I insist you share.”

  He laughs, kisses her, then pulls out of her hold and goes to the fridge for a beer. “I’m just going down to the jetty to check the boat,” he says.

  Everyone, it seems, is dodging questions today.

  “He knows something,” Darcy says. “Leave it with me. I’ll get it out of him.”

  19 ~ LUTHER

  “This is Waitapu.” I’ve stopped at the lookout above the township to give Rachel her first look at her new home town.

  “Where’s the rest of it?” she asks.

  “What do you think is missing?”

  “Big buildings. And houses. It doesn’t look like many houses there. Will there be kids for me to play with?”

  She’s been pretty quiet on the drive down. There were heartbreaking tears when we left Auckland, but I promised Rachel we would phone Jean as soon as we reached Waitapu. “There are lots of kids to play with. In the summer you can learn to surf, and we’ll find you a pony to ride.” I’m pulling shit out of the air as fast as I can because that little lip of hers is quivering again.

  She looks up at me and two big blobs of tears are balanced on her eyelashes. When she blinks they start their slow roll down her cheeks. “I don’t feel happy,” she says. “What will happen to me when you go to your office? Grandma never went to the office.”

  “Ginger will look after you. And you know what? She’s a lot more fun than I am.” She looks totally unconvinced, but nods as she wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

  “So, we better get back in the car because Ginger’s made dinner for us.”

  “Is that a real name?”

  I’m wrestling with the restraint on her seat but she elbows me out of the way and clips herself in like an expert.

  “Well, her real name is Virginia, but we all call her Ginger.”

  “What shall I call her?”

  “You can call her Ginger, too.”

  “Okay.” Her thumb slips into her mouth which is something new, and probably some sort of warning light if you’re a child psychologist, which I’m not.

  “Or, you can call her My Ginger.”

  Her thumb slips out with a little pop. “Like My Luther?”

  “That’s right.”

  The thumb goes back in and she seems to ponder this idea during the drive to Ormidale, but for all I know, she could be plotting how to walk back to Auckland. I’m feeling stressed, and sorry for Rachel, so when Ginger appears just as the garage door closes I want to hug her.

  I do the introductions, and Ginger crouches down to Rachel-height and shakes her hand.

  Rachel studies her as if she’ll be tested on it later, then says, “You have the same color hair as me.”

  “I do. And I think that means we’re going to be really good friends. Are you hungry? I’ve made dinner, and something special for dessert.”

  I watch the pair of them disappear before I start unloading Rachel’s bags. I can hear them chattering in the kitchen as I make trips up and down the stairs. It gives me a feeling of optimism before I realize this, too, is temporary for Rachel. I still have to hire a permanent nanny.

  When I find them in the kitchen, Rachel’s standing on a stool beside Ginger who is showing her how to make gravy for the chicken she’s roasted.

  Rachel sees me and climbs down. “Are we going to phone Grandma? She’ll be worried about me.”

  “She’s not going to worry, Rachel, because she knows you’re safe with Luther and me,” Ginger explains. “But I’m sure she can’t wait to hear from you.”

  I take an iPad from the counter and open it up. “Come and sit on my knee and I’ll show you how we call Grandma.” When the call connects and Rachel sees her Grandma’s face, she claps her hands and squeals. I have younger sisters, but I’d forgotten the high pitch they operated at as children.

  Jean is brave through the entire call and I can tell that Rachel’s concerns have been eased simply by seeing Jean’s face and hearing her voice.

  “I’ve been helping My Ginger make the gravy for dinner. Come and say hello to Jean, My Ginger!” she calls.

  Ginger crosses the kitchen and says hello and pretty soon I’m able to ease myself away and leave the girls to it. In my study I check calls and emails. The house is alive with voices, and the smell of Ginger’s cooking. I’ve lived alone for years and this is going to take some adjusting to. Particularly being around Ginger constantly. I head to the cellar and choose a bottle of wine to go with dinner. By the time I get to the kitchen, Rachel is sitting at the island eating her meal.

  “Big day and she’s fading fast,” Ginger explains. “By all accounts, you don’t want kids getting overtired. It messes with their personalities.”

  “This is yummy,” Rachel says, “but not this,” she adds, ushering a brussel sprout to the edge of her plate.

  “I want you to try a piece dipped in gravy,” Ginger suggests.

  Rachel presses her lips tight and shakes her head.

  “What’s your favorite food on the plate?” I ask.

  “Chicken.”

  “Okay. Hand me your knife and fork.”

  I take a piece of chicken, add a tiny piece of the hated vegetable, and swirl it in the gravy. “Open up.”

  Rachel makes a face.

  “What’s for dessert?” I ask Ginger.

  “Marshmallow ice-cream, fudge sauce and little Princess sprinkles.”

  Rachel’s eyes go wide and she sucks in a huge breath. “Wow.” She looks at me. “Okay, I’ll try it.”

  I hand her the fork and she shoves it in her mouth, chews fast and swallows.

  “Next time, try to be a sparrow rather than a seagull,” I tell her.

  She giggles for way too long.

  “Tired,” Ginger says.

  “Yup. Tired.”

  From there, we rush her through dinner and dessert, then take her upstairs to show Rachel her bedroom. There are lots of gasps because, I guess to a little girl, it looks impressive.

  “I had my shower this morning because Grandma said we’d be late tonight.”

  “Okay,” Ginger says. “Let’s clean your teeth and wash your face, and get you ready for bed.”

  “Can Luther read me a story?”

  “Sure I can,” I tell her.

  “Before that,” Ginger says, “I’ll show you my bedroom next door so that if you get worried in the night, you can come and find me.”

  Luck seems to be on my side because by the time Rachel’s in bed with her toys arranged exactly how she likes them, she’s heavy-eyed and yawning. I’m only halfway through the story when I see she’s fallen asleep. I watch her for a while, but that sleep’s genuine so I tiptoe from the room.

  Ginger has dinner ready by the time I make it back downstairs, and I open the wine. The food is fantastic. “You’re a great cook, Ginger. I hadn’t really thought out the whole nanny thing, but I’ll increase your wages for cooking duties.”

  She waves her hand. “You’re paying me more than enough.”

  “Never undersell yourself. Personal cooks cost a fortune.”

  “And they’re probably professionally trained. Rachel’s a lovely child, Luther.”

  “I’m sure she’s not always this good, although Jean’s done a great job of raising her. What do you have planned tomorrow?”

  “She can help me unpack her clothes. I can take her to play on the beach. A bike ride to show her around, then I’m rostered on for the holiday program art class up at the school in the afternoon. You said she liked painting, so she should enjoy that.” Ginger puts her knife and fork down and twirls her wine glass by the stem. “I need you to explain to me about her pare
nts,” she says. “If Rachel raises it, I need to know how to respond.”

  I slow my heart with a mouthful of wine. “Nothing to explain,” I say. “Her mother’s dead, and her father’s an asshole who vanished. Rachel thinks they’re both dead. She knows I’m her guardian, and she thinks Jean is her real grandma.” I chew another mouthful of food. “Best chicken I’ve ever eaten,” I tell her as I swallow.

  She nods and tucks her hair behind her ear. Although I shouldn’t, I find that move wildly provocative. For some reason, watching her mothering Rachel stirred something in me. I’m sure I’ll get used to it and it’ll lose its power but tonight, after the stress of today, I need some sort of release.

  Ginger catches me watching her and I don’t know what she sees there but she looks quickly away.

  “Thanks for helping me out,” I say, because I mean it and I’m sure I’d have made a hash out of things tonight if Ginger hadn’t been here.

  “It’s what you pay me to do,” she says, firmly showing the boss/nanny card.

  “I know. But you did a great job.”

  “Thanks,” she says, pushing her plate to one side. “So, what do we do now? I mean, I’ll clean up the dinner things, but do you want me to disappear after that. Shall I go to my room, or …?”

  “No, hell, treat the house as your home. Do whatever it is you normally do after dinner.” Shit, that came out all wrong. I wasn’t trying to be dismissive with her, but on the other hand, we aren’t a family and, fuck, I don’t know what I’m doing here, and I always know what I’m fucking doing. The sooner I get a proper nanny and get Ginger out of the house, the better because if I go through the last few times I’ve been alone with her, I haven’t been able to keep my hands to myself.

  Tension in the kitchen is rising and the looks we exchange are becoming increasingly long. Ginger’s wearing jeans and a tight sweater. I don’t know why I think tight because it’s just a fucking sweater, but as she moves around the kitchen all I can do is imagine my hands on her.

  I can’t just sit here so I start stacking the dishwasher and even though the kitchen is huge, we keep bumping into each other.

  “Sorry,” Ginger mutters for the third time. “I’m still getting used to where everything is around here.”

  “Yeah, me too. I only moved out of the boathouse a week ago.”

  Ginger’s wiping the counter tops and I’m standing here getting hard because how much would I love to pin her there, pull down her pants and eat her for dessert? Or just fuck her to ecstasy? I mean, why am I dicking around here? I want to fuck her. She wants me to fuck her. I’ve avoided her for years because…

  I can’t even finish that thought. Rachel’s upstairs, and I stand by my promises.

  “I’ve got work to do,” I say. “I’ll be in my study if you need me.”

  “I don’t even know where that is,” Ginger mutters without looking at me.

  Good. That means I can go to my study and forget about working up a fantasy of Ginger coming and finding me, kneeling on the floor under my desk and taking my cock in her mouth. The house is big, but not so large that she’d get lost wandering along corridors searching for my study. But I get the idea she’s not the type to snoop.

  In my study I pour myself a large scotch, pull out all Rachel’s paperwork and check I have everything, hoping like hell I’m right about Ginger not being snoopy.

  20 ~ GINGER

  I go to the small sitting room where there’s a normal-size television as opposed to the monstrosity in the home theater. On offer is the buffet of one hundred channels of nothing I want to watch, but I flick around for a while, unable to settle. Unfortunately, Luther seems to have returned to ogre-mode which fills me with self-doubt.

  I don’t want to feel as though I’ve been conned, but I can’t help heading in that direction. Maybe all he ever wanted was a temporary nanny, and he’s been pretending to be attracted to me so that I’d agree to fill in. Perhaps that’s the real reason why he won’t actually fuck me, and whatever I’ve been reading into his recent change of heart is completely wrong.

  No, I don’t want to feel conned but when you have a mother as manipulative as mine, it’s hard not to be suspicious.

  Luther remains in his study which I guess is along the hallway. When a late edition of the news starts playing I switch off the television and make my way to bed. Whether I’m being manipulated or not, there’s a sweet girl upstairs who needs me to be bright and energetic for her in the morning.

  I steal into Rachel’s bedroom as I pass the door. A soft night light casts a creamy glow across the room. I can’t help tucking the comforter back around her shoulders and sliding her arm beneath it even though she’s probably pushed it off because she’s hot.

  We do have the same color hair, I think, leaving the room and pulling the door closed.

  ***

  Lucky I’m an early riser because it’s still dark when I feel soft fingertips brushing my cheek.

  “Are you awake, Ginger?” she asks in what can only be described as whisper-shouting complete with a fine spray of spittle. Her face is so close to mine I’m surprised our eyelashes haven’t tangled.

  “I am now, sweetie.”

  “Good, because I’m hungry,” she says.

  “Go back to your room and put your dressing gown and slippers on and I’ll come and get you. We’ll go down to the kitchen and make breakfast.”

  She skips out of my room and I haul myself from bed, pull on leggings and a sweater and go to the bathroom. I tie my hair in a knot, give my face a quick wash then collect Rachel.

  I’m making toast when Luther shows up. He’s cheerful, asking if we all slept well.

  “I’m just making coffee,” I tell him, rescuing toast before it burns. I’m still getting the hang of the toaster settings. I make him an espresso and when I turn to give him his coffee I get the full force of Luther in a suit, shirt unbuttoned at the neck waiting for a tie. I love his scent, but I also love this other scent of shaving foam and cologne. His hair is wet from the shower, and tousled like he rubbed it with a towel and it came out fantastic.

  He’s sitting alongside Rachel and she’s running her fingers over his chin. “You shaved off your whiskers. It feels smooth and soft.”

  “Do you approve?” he asks.

  “Oh yes,” she says. “Ginger, do you like Luther with his whiskers, or no whiskers. Come and touch his cheeks. They’re soft.”

  Dear god, save me from her innocence. “I like him either way,” I say, almost dropping the coffee in front of him.

  “But which do you like best?” she asks.

  Hell. “Um, I like his whiskers.”

  “But you haven’t touched his cheek. Come and feel it.” The kid is tactile, and she’s still stroking his jaw.

  Luther’s sitting there with a bemused look on his face. “Yeah, come on, Ginger.”

  “I’m sure it’s soft, sweetie,” I say, ignoring Luther altogether. “Tell me what you’d like on your toast. Honey, peanut butter, or Vegemite?”

  Rachel rolls her eyes. “You have to feel his face, Ginger, before you decide.”

  “Yeah, Ginger, I won’t bite,” Luther adds.

  Of course that brings to mind the time Luther did bite, and how nice it felt, and, damn, now my face is burning.

  “Luther says facts are all that matter,” Rachel says, one finger air-tapping every syllable as if she’s teaching a rhyme.

  I shoot Luther a look. Really? She’s five. Luther’s nodding back at me. “You need to base your decision on fact, Ginge, not speculation.”

  Rachel beckons me to their side of the island, and I scowl at Luther as I walk towards him.

  “Very smooth. Lovely,” I say as I approach, my hands hanging at my sides, doing my best not to take them anywhere near his face.

  “You have to touch him, Ginger,” Rachel says, seizing my wrist and taking my limp fingers to Luther’s cheek. She drags them over his warm skin. Yes, it’s smooth. Yes, it’s morning and I hav
en’t managed to construct my anti-Luther forcefield yet, so I’d actually prefer my lips on his cheek than my fingers.

  “I think you’re right, Rachel. Smooth is best,” I say, hastily moving back to my place near the toaster.

  “I told you, Luther,” she says, before shouting at me, “Vegemite toast.”

  “Please,” says Luther.

  “Please,” mimics Rachel.

  Please, someone, save me.

  “Can I fix you some breakfast, Luther?” I’m surprised how normal my voice sounds.

  “I’m good, I have a breakfast meeting in twenty minutes. Another coffee would go down well, though.”

  I deliver Vegemite toast to Rachel who has her head down, drawing a picture. Luther stands too close to me as I make him a second espresso and I close my eyes as the machine gurgles.

  “So, you like me clean-shaven, huh?” he asks in a low voice.

  “I was humoring Rachel. How you groom is none of my business.”

  He laughs. “The keys for your Audi are on the hook up there. Is there anything you want me to show you?”

  “It’s a car, not a rocket. I’m sure I can manage.” I don’t mean to be bitchy to him but I’m annoyed with myself for having handled the shaving thing so badly.

  “Okay.” He tosses the coffee I hand him to the back of his throat, swallows and shudders. “I’d keep you on just for your barista skills, you know?”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  He skirts around the island to say goodbye to Rachel. “Be a good girl for Ginger, and I’ll see you at dinnertime.”

  They kiss, he winks at me, and leaves.

  Once I see him drive out the gate I’m able to breathe again.

  After breakfast I help Rachel shower. She dresses herself competently and stands quietly while I braid her hair. So far, this is easy. We unpack her bags, filling the drawers with neatly pressed clothes, then Rachel asks to go to the beach. The track we take meanders past the boathouse and I do my best to block all thoughts about that night I spent there with Luther.

  The beach is wild, surf crashing on the shore. Rachel runs in circles with her arms outstretched, chasing seagulls. Finally, her energy’s burned off and she walks with me, stopping to pick up shells. When we reach the rocks that cut off the headland from the main beach we turn back. At low tide, we can skirt around the base, but the surf is smashing over them right now and I’d prefer Luther here to tackle climbing them with Rachel.