dinner with him most evenings and watched him kiss his children goodnight. Wasn’t it?
Thankfully, Hannah was saved from answering her own question by the upbeat chirp of her phone. She abandoned her duster and trusty can of furniture polish, wiping her hands off on her old skirt and pulling her phone out of her bra pocket.
Yes, Hannah had bra pockets. She sewed them in herself. Ruth teased Hannah quite mercilessly for it, but then, Ruth didn’t wear bras at all—because, unlike Hannah, she was not in possession of a cleavage that bounced like frolicking puppies.
Ruth: Hi. This is me checking on you.
Well. How unusually thoughtful.
Hannah: Checking on me?
Ruth: You know. Making sure you haven’t been crucified by devil children or added to Nate’s secret basement collection of kidnapped women.
Hannah wondered briefly if this basement situation would involve being tied up by Nate. Then she wondered extensively if she had somehow poured crack on her cereal that morning instead of sugar.
Hannah: You saw me at Sunday dinner last week. And every week since I moved in. You do remember that, correct?
Ruth: Yeah. But I don’t see you any other time. And you’ve stopped bugging me to socialise. Not that I’m complaining.
Hannah: You socialise with Evan.
Ruth: I think you really like this job. I think you’re busy being an overachieving nanny. Either that or you really have been kidnapped and we’ve been eating dinner with Nate-Wearing-Hannah’s-Skin.
Was it strange to laugh at the thought of her boss in her skin suit? Almost definitely.
Hannah: Really, I’m good. The devil children are actually a lot of fun, and all Nate does is worry about his mother, his children, global warming, Brexit, the dying bee population, and possibly the appropriate elastic-to-cotton ratio in a pair of socks.
Ruth: …
Ruth: …
Hannah: He worries a lot, is what I’m saying here. Arguably too much to risk kidnapping anyone.
Ruth: Cool? I suppose? Do you like the job, or…?
Hannah: I love the job. It’s too easy. I feel like I’m taking advantage. All I do is play with the kids and post on my blog.
Oops. She hadn’t meant to say that blog part, but now the message was sent, and delivered, and read, and Ruth was replying, and oh dear God what had she done.
Ruth: Wait, you have a blog???? Can I see??
Hannah: Absolutely not.
Ruth: PLEASE
Hannah: I would literally rather eat one of my braids than show you my blog.
Ruth: Wowwww. You’re rejecting your own sister like this?
Hannah: Can I see your webcomic?
Ruth: That’s different. My webcomic has sex.
Hannah: IT DOES???
Ruth: Mind your business.
Hannah: YOU DRAW SEX???
Ruth: What’s your blog about?
Hannah: ISN’T YOUR WEBCOMIC ABOUT ALIENS?
Ruth: Don’t make me hunt down your secret blog.
Hannah: RUTH
Hannah: DO YOU DRAW ALIEN SEX
Hannah: I NEED TO KNOW
Ruth: …Only sometimes. Very occasionally.
Hannah: I’m telling mother.
Ruth: I propose a deal. Keep your mouth shut about my alien sex and I’ll stop asking about your blog.
Hannah: I accept.
Ruth: …You have bamboozled me again, haven’t you?
Hannah: <3
Hannah slid her phone back into her bra pocket, a silly smile taking over her face. Then she picked up a duster and set her sights on the cabinet by the door. It was probably filthy up there, right at the very top, where no-one could see. But she was nowhere near tall enough to reach it. She’d need a boost. Now, if she could just drag the armchair a little closer…
Like the excellent son he was trying to become, Nate had gone straight to his mother’s house after taking the kids to school. And had promptly been told, in no uncertain terms, to bugger off.
Apparently, Shirley’s bookclub met first thing in the bloody morning and discussed romance novels over tea and biscuits. Why they didn’t meet at night to discuss romance novels while chugging wine like normal middle-aged women, Nate had no idea.
But he was grateful to know that his mother would be surrounded by friends within the hour.
He arrived home to find his front hall disturbingly shiny and clutter-free. Hannah, quite clearly, had been here. At least twice a week, she stormed through the house, cleaning every inch with an attention to detail that was both alarming and somehow arousing. Nate had considered bleaching his own brain after it started producing images of Hannah brandishing a highly impractical feather duster, wearing an even more impractical French maid outfit.
Apparently, he had the erotic imagination of a sexless and slightly misogynistic old man.
He could hear her singing in the living room, which meant she was quite firmly in the flow of things.