far end of the room. Whoever lived here clearly cared a lot about their family.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Maren said, and I noticed a hint of an accent. Clipped, European. “Tea? Coffee?”
“Just . . . a glass of water,” I said. She took a glass from a cupboard and filled it at the fridge freezer’s water dispenser, then got one for herself.
“Thanks,” I said.
She gestured for me to take a seat at the kitchen island and did the same. This wasn’t how I expected the interview to go. I noticed she was wearing a floaty navy tunic with white linen trousers, and I suddenly felt overdressed.
“Thank you very much for your application,” she said. “We were very impressed by your experience. This is clearly a vocation for you.”
It took me a moment to deduce that this was a question. I nodded and gave what I hoped was a relaxed, vocational smile.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Definitely a vocation.”
“Wonderful that you have a nursing degree.”
“Oh,” I said. “Er, yes. I thought it might . . . come in handy one day.”
“And a certificate in vegan cookery!”
I blinked. Was that on Sophie’s CV? I couldn’t remember. “Vegan cookery is something I’m very . . . vocational . . . about.”
“Fantastic!” she said, clapping her hands together. “I’m not vegan myself, though I am partial to red lentil tagine.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, unconvincingly. “Me, too . . .”
“Of course, Mr. Faraday is vegan,” she interjected, “and he intends his girls to be vegan, too.” I gave a nervous laugh. Why hadn’t I noticed the bit about being a vegan chef? Maren glanced at her watch. “Speaking of which . . . Mr. Faraday will be joining us shortly, but first I wanted to chat to you about . . . one or two matters that you should be aware of.”
She gave me a meaningful smile, and I felt acutely aware, now that I was here, that I hadn’t read the job description. It was a nannying job, and I’d assumed that meant looking after some children, or in other words lots of reading and painting and trips to the park. You see, I used to babysit regularly—albeit for my mum’s friends who were either too unconscious or preoccupied with partying to care for their kids—and I’d toyed with the idea of training to become a primary school teacher. None of my babysitting involved vegan cookery, however, or indeed anything that a nursing degree might find a use for, with the exception of the time little Bobby Fitzmaurice cracked his head open on a bong. Duct tape and toilet roll sorted him right out.
“Mrs. Faraday—Aurelia—sadly passed away a few months ago,” Maren said slowly. “Naturally the children are still getting used to the situation . . . Gaia in particular, given that she’s a little older . . . and we are trying everything to make life as easy as possible . . .”
“I’m very sorry,” I said, the gravity of her words reaching me like physical blows.
“Gaia and Coco have a nanny here,” Maren continued, “but sadly she is unable to join us in Norway during the build.”
I felt a huge amount of relief at the mention of the children’s names. This was another detail I’d overlooked. Gaia and Coco. What pretty names. It would have been disastrous if I hadn’t known their names. Poor girls, to have lost their mother so young.
“The build?” I asked.
“Tom and Aurelia bought land in Norway. They intended to build a holiday home, but during the construction period, Aurelia . . . passed.” I saw her pale eyes moisten, and I realized she must have been close to this woman. I’d spotted a photo on top of the glass cabinet in the hallway of a woman with long, wheat-blonde hair grinning at the camera with an arm wrapped around a little girl of about four. Was that Aurelia? It must be.
“Aurelia adored her girls,” Maren continued in a sad voice. “They meant everything to her. Part of the reason for the summer home was so that she could cultivate friluftsliv—”
“Oh, friluftsliv,” I said, because of course.
“—which is the Norwegian itch for the outdoors,” Maren explained. “Aurelia wished to give her daughters the kind of summers that she had enjoyed as a child, always out in nature, and connect them to their heritage . . .” She wanted to say more but suddenly couldn’t, her words winnowed by grief. She reached into her pocket for a