house in the Highlands. Mum and Dad co-run the family architecture practice.
ABOUT YOU: We are seeking an experienced nanny, used to working with children of all ages, from babyhood to teens. You must be practical, unflappable, and comfortable looking after children on your own. Excellent references, background check, first aid certificate, and clean driving license are a must.
ABOUT THE POST: Mum and Dad work mainly from home, and during those periods you will have a simple eight-to-five post, with one night a week babysitting and weekends off. As far as possible we arrange our schedule so that one parent is always around. However, there are times when we may both need to be away (very occasionally for up to a fortnight), and when this occurs, you will be in loco parentis.
In return we can offer a highly competitive remuneration package totaling £55,000 per annum (gross, including bonus), use of a car, and eight weeks’ holiday a year.
Applications to Sandra and Bill Elincourt, Heatherbrae House, Carn Bridge.
I remember it nearly word for word. The funny thing was, I wasn’t even looking for a job when it came up on my Google results—I was searching for . . . well, it doesn’t really matter what I was looking for. But something completely different. And then there it was—like a gift thrown into my hands so unexpectedly I almost didn’t catch it.
I read it through once, and then again, my heart beating faster the second time, because it was perfect. It was almost too perfect.
When I read it a third time I was scared to look at the closing date for applications—convinced I would have missed it.
But it was that very evening.
It was unbelievable. Not just the salary—though God knows, that was a pretty startling sum. Not just the post. But the luck of it. The whole package—just falling in my lap, right when I was in the perfect position to apply.
You see, my flatmate was away, traveling. We’d met at the Little Nippers nursery in Peckham, working side by side in the baby room, laughing about our terrible boss and the pushy, faddy parents, with their fucking fabric nappies and their homemade—
Sorry. I shouldn’t have sworn. I’ve scribbled it out, but you can probably see the word through the paper and, God knows, maybe you’ve got kids, maybe you even put them in Little Plushy Bottoms or whatever the fashionable brand was at the time.
And I get it, I do. They’re your babies. Nothing is too much trouble. I understand that. It’s just that when you’re the one having to stockpile a whole day’s worth of pissy, shitty bits of cloth and hand them back to the parent at collection time with your eyes watering from the ammonia . . . it’s not that I mind exactly, you know? It’s part of the job. I get that. But we all deserve a moan, don’t we? We all need to let off steam, or we’d explode with frustration.
Sorry. I’m rambling. Maybe this is why Mr. Gates is always trying to shut me up. Because I dig myself a hole with my words and instead of knowing when to stop, I keep digging. You’re probably adding two and two together right now. Doesn’t seem to like kids much. Freely admits to frustration with role. What would happen when she was cooped up with four kids and no adults to “let off steam” with?
That’s exactly what the police did. All those little throwaway remarks—all those unedifying facts. I could see the triumph on their faces every time I dropped one, and I watched them picking them up like bread crumbs, adding them to the weight of arguments against me.
But that’s the thing, Mr. Wrexham. I could spin you a web of bullshit about what a perfect, caring, saintly person I am—but it would be just that. Bullshit. And I am not here to bullshit you. I want you to believe that—I want it more than anything in the world.
I am telling you the truth. The unvarnished, ugly truth. And it is all that. It is unpolished and unpleasant, and I don’t pretend I acted like an angel. But I didn’t kill anyone. I just fucking didn’t.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to swear again.
God, I am messing this up so badly. I have to keep a clear head—get this all straight in my head. It’s like Mr. Gates says—I should stick to the facts.
Okay then. Fact. The advert. The advert is a fact, right?