The Perfect Retreat

EPILOGUE




The stairs were steep, and Willow held on to Ivo’s arm as she took the first one. She felt her thin heel catch in her white lace Dior dress and she paused. Ivo bent down and unhooked it.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘If terrified means ready, then yes,’ she said, and she and Ivo took three more steps and turned to wave at the crowd.

The roar for Willow was enormous.

The Romantics, Harold Gaumont’s last film, was opening Cannes, and Willow wished he was here. He was the reason everything had turned out so wonderfully in her life.

Ivo had done the red carpet as a favour to Willow, even though he had sworn he was done with acting. She was about to be his sister-in-law, Kitty reminded him as she held out her left hand to admire Clementina’s engagement ring.

Ivo had fulfilled the prophecy in the painting his parents had given him and proposed in the garden at Middlemist on bended knee one Sunday when they arrived for lunch with Willow and Merritt.

Kitty met Ivo’s parents in London several times, and finally he had taken her to meet them at the Casselton estate. She had driven Ivo’s Volvo, having received her provisional driver’s licence, and was stunned when she drove carefully up to the house.

‘Shit, it’s a frigging castle,’ she had said, taking in the enormous stately home in front of her. It was so large it made Middlemist look like the gatehouse.

Evelyn and Perry were at the front door waiting. Kitty was nervous to meet them on their home turf, but they were just grateful that Kitty had managed to tame Ivo.

‘This is a wonderful house,’ Kitty had said, wondering if she should call it a castle.

‘Yes, Casselton Hall has been in the family since forever,’ said Evelyn easily, gesturing to the stunning Palladian architecture.

‘Now, the wedding will be here of course,’ said Evelyn. She had already planned the day in her mind, and she flung open the doors in front of them.

Kitty had gasped at the ornate room, three times the size of the ballroom at Middlemist.

‘The Great Hall,’ said Evelyn. ‘We haven’t had a wedding here for one hundred years, and now is the time I think. Don’t you think Perry?’

Ivo’s father had rocked back and forth on his feet. ‘Now Evelyn, it is their life. They must choose where they will be married.’ Ivo shot his father a look of appreciation, and Perry and he had shared a moment of mutual understanding.

Kitty turned to Ivo. ‘I don’t care where we marry, as long as we do,’ she had said, and Evelyn wiped away a little tear.

‘The future Marquess and Marchioness of Casselton deserve a proper wedding, Peregrine.’

‘What?’ asked Kitty, not believing her ears.

Ivo looked down. ‘I was going to get to that.’

‘Why yes dear, when Perry pops his clogs then Ivo inherits. Once you are married, Kitty, you will be Lady Kitty Casselton. Ivo is already titled,’ she said, looking at her son and wondering why on earth he hadn’t mentioned this earlier. Part of Perry’s appeal had been his title when she had met him thirty years before at Annabel’s.

Kitty had held Ivo’s hand as she wandered through the stunning gardens after lunch.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you had a fancypants name and title?’ she had asked.

Ivo looked ahead. ‘Because it’s a pain in the arse and I hated it growing up. It’s a hell of a house to have on your shoulders,’ he said.

‘It’s very beautiful,’ said Kitty, looking back at the view.

‘But it’s not a home,’ said Ivo.

‘It could be,’ Kitty had said. ‘A home is about love, Ivo, and we have loads of that. Anyway your parents aren’t – what did your mother say? – “popping their clogs” anytime soon, so we can stay in our lovely home courtesy of darling Harold.’

Ivo and Kitty would be married in September, and besides Kitty finding a dress – Temperley London, if you must know; white silk, goddess-style with Clementina’s lover’s eye necklace and an armful of white irises – the rest Evelyn had organised, perfectly and tastefully with a hint of tradition. Willow was to be a bridesmaid and Merritt best man.

Two weeks after Willow arrived at Middlemist unannounced, Merritt had proposed. He had asked Poppy and Lucian for their mother’s hand in marriage that morning.

Poppy, to her credit, had managed to keep Merritt’s intentions secret. It was Lucian who had insisted on asking Willow if she still had her hand on, and he had kept checking regularly.

Willow realised something was up when she went downstairs from her bath – in her perfect bathroom – and found Merritt nervously trying to light a fire, even though it was spring. The house was quiet. Too quiet. ‘Where are the children?’ she had asked.

‘Kitty and Ivo have taken them out for the evening,’ said Merritt.

Willow, in her fluffy towelling robe and socks, looked at him. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked, and he took her hand and led her to the orangery. It was dark but the full moon lit up the sky, throwing shadows into the glass room.

‘Look,’ said Merritt, pointing.

The humidity felt lovely against her face. Willow looked at Merritt. ‘What am I looking at? The moon?’ She looked up at the glass ceiling. ‘What is that smell?’ she asked, looking around. ‘It’s incredible.’

Merritt led her over to a plant with a huge white bloom. Willow put her face into it and inhaled. ‘My god, that’s incredible.’

‘It’s the Queen of the Night flower,’ said Merritt. ‘I got a sample from Venezuela. I didn’t know whether it would bloom here because it’s so cold, but it has. It usually comes out a bit later in May, but it must know you are going to Cannes soon and wanted to be open for you.’

Willow looked at the large flower in amazement.

‘I read in Clementina’s diaries that they used to have one of these in the house, and they would throw lawn parties and everyone would get drunk and wait for it to open, and they would be up till dawn. Almost like a ritual of some sort. They called it the Queen of the Night Party, and someone would sing the aria from The Magic Flute and they would recite poetry and dance. I understand it was quite decadent,’ he said to her softly.

‘All for a flower?’ asked Willow.

‘The bloom only lasts one night,’ said Merritt.

Willow held the bloom in her hand. ‘One night?’

‘Yes, so make the most of it,’ he laughed, his voice cracking a little. ‘Not out again until next year.’

‘I hope I’ll be here to see it,’ said Willow, not looking at him. She had moved back in within two weeks of arriving on Merritt’s doorstop and they had picked up where they had left off – before the fight, of course. Easy domesticity, minus the layers of dust and tension.

The children had never been happier, and Lucian had so many words that sometimes Willow wanted to tell him to be quiet – and then she remembered how long she had waited for him to speak, and she said nothing.

Janis and Alan had arrived soon after Willow had moved in, and Janis declared Merritt a keeper in front of Merritt himself, much to Willow’s embarrassment. He didn’t seem to mind. English people understood eccentricities. Merritt claimed they had to be earned; the more successful you were, the more eccentric you could be. Willow didn’t know how successful her father was in terms of English eccentricity standards, but at least Alan kept his clothes on at Middlemist, even if it was just a sarong at times.

Now they stood in the orangery and Merritt looked at Willow, his love.

‘You will be here next year, and the year after, and every night that it blooms will be the night we remember to make the most of our lives, for nothing lasts – we know that – except love.’

Willow started to cry softly, and Merritt guided her hand into the flower. She felt the cold of metal and pulled out a beautiful lotus-shaped diamond ring. It was exactly the ring Willow would have chosen for herself. Merritt slipped it onto her finger and she looked down at it. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said.

‘But there’s a catch,’ he said seriously.

‘What?’ She looked at him, fear flashing across her face.

‘You have to marry me,’ he said. ‘I know I’m a bit dull and you might get bored and I tend to get stuck on things, you know, fixated; and I can be grumpy and …’ Willow put her hands up to his face and kissed his mouth.

‘Yes, you are all those things, and so many, many more, Merritt. And I can think of nothing I would like more than to be Mrs Middlemist.’

And so she was. They were married at Middlemist at easter in the drawing room, with a party in the orangery. Everyone danced till dawn, and the world-famous opera singer Diana Damru performed the Queen of the Night Aria as a gift to Merritt from Willow.

Willow wore yellow Alexander McQueen, as a tribute to her friend who had passed away, and a smile. Kitty and Lucy were her bridesmaids, in clothes of their own choice. Lucy had allowed Willow to recommend a few designers, and she settled on a navy silk Donna Karan wrap dress, which looked lovely.

Kitty had chosen a Vivienne Westwood polka-dot strapless silk dress in a faded red and white. It made her look like a sexy fifties movie star, Ivo exclaimed, and proceeded to talk like Elvis for the whole wedding, which both annoyed and amused Kitty.

Merritt claimed in his speech that Willow was married and he was happy, but Willow protested that she was happy too, and the guests only had to look at her face to see the joy she felt.

Kerr had sent his congratulations, and he and Tori, his vegan Kabbalah yoga girlfriend, offered to take the children while they honeymooned in Italy. But Willow had said no, they were a family, and Merritt insisted they honeymoon together. The children could go over another time, or Kerr and Tori could even come there and stay in the guesthouse, Merritt had offered.

Marriage suited Merritt, and Willow enjoyed the stability. She was a good wife, but now she had money, she afforded herself a few new things. A nanny and a housekeeper-slash-cook were the first choices, and a new wardrobe from Chanel was the next.

The she had given Merritt his gift. She told him she was pregnant. A wedding night baby, she said, and he cried while she tried not to laugh at the unplugging of his English emotion.

‘I want you to know,’ he said, sitting up and composing himself, ‘I love the children like they are my own – I feel like they are my own – it’s just that I miss having a baby. Jinty told me I was ugly this morning when I asked her to finish her toast.’

Now Willow had allowed herself to laugh. ‘I will have to pull out of the action film,’ she had said, but TG was insistent they hold for her to shoot after the pregnancy.

All she had to do was fulfil her appearance at Cannes, and then she could have the rest of the year off till the baby was born.

And now they were in Cannes. She had arrived with Merritt, Kitty and Ivo. The children were safely in Janis and Alan’s hands at Middlemist, and Willow had no doubt her father would have lost his sarong and Poppy would have stories for days.

She and Merritt had a suite at Hôtel Du Cap with a view over the ocean, and they weren’t planning to leave unless they absolutely had to.

Kitty and Ivo were more excited to be there; they went to most of the parties, where Kitty met directors and producers.

‘They know me from The Romantics,’ she said. She had done as Harold had asked and had overseen the final edit of the film. She hadn’t changed much, just a tweak here and there, but the response was overwhelmingly positive and those who had seen Harold’s last cut knew Kitty had made important and significant changes that worked in the film’s favour.

‘Someone just asked me if I was free to do a documentary on champagne,’ said Kitty. ‘I haven’t even finished my course yet.’ The London Film Academy had taken her onto their editing course and she loved it. Using Harold’s equipment, she spent hours in the ivory tower, as she still called it, and played with the film and the edits.

Ivo had moved quickly into Harold’s house, now Kitty’s, and they were so in love it was sickening, as Kitty said to Willow.

Ivo was happy at Harold’s, writing and musing. He was born to be an academic, he decided, and he had been commissioned to write another art book, this time on J M Turner.

So Kitty was dragged from gallery to private house to gallery searching for paintings, and Ivo, with his incredible nose for a mystery, actually unearthed two supposedly lost Turners.

His new moniker in the art industry was Ivo the Discoverer, and soon he was loaded with requests for books and art projects. He didn’t miss acting – he hadn’t done it enough to miss it, he told Kitty – but he still liked to dress up, mostly at home with Harold’s hilarious costumes. He and Kitty would play like children until Ivo, inevitably, turned it into something more lewd.

Not that Kitty minded. Life with Ivo was fun in and out of bed, and she was practising reading and writing with someone who loved her even when she couldn’t quite manage. What else could she ask for? she thought, as she watched him on the steps with Willow.

Her friend, her sister-in-law, and once upon a time, her boss. Kitty didn’t like to think back to those days; they were all different people back then, she thought.

Ivo waved to her from the steps and she smiled and blew him a kiss. Willow looked for Merritt, and Ivo pointed him out to her. She made a face and then smiled at him and he laughed. He laughed a lot these days; at the children, with Willow, at Willow and her attempts to become the next Nigella Lawson in the kitchen, and mostly at himself.

At the top of the steps Willow and Ivo paused and they both looked for a moment to the sky.

‘Harold would have loved this,’ said Willow with a little tear.

‘He would have indeed,’ said Ivo next to her.

And somewhere up there, Harold, sitting between Alfred Hitchcock and Stanley Kubrick, was loving the red carpet at Cannes.

‘I do love a happy ending,’ Harold said to Alfred, who nodded his agreement.

‘Wouldn’t it be nice if it were all as simple as in the movies?’ said Alfred.

‘Oh, but it is,’ said Stanley mysteriously. ‘It is.’

And the three directors in the big sky laughed together. Perhaps they were directing all along, they thought.

‘And now we have Fini,’ said Harold.

‘Not yet,’ said Alfred. ‘What will they call Willow’s baby?’

‘Harold,’ he said proudly.

And so it was.





The Retreat at Home




Not everyone can head off to a super expensive weekend retreat to restore the mind, body and soul.

With this in mind, I recommend you plan the weekend retreat at home.

It is possible to do this, even for a day if you’re organised and committed.

Step one – Let those closest to you know this is what you will be doing. Ask them to respect what you need to do for yourself. If you share your home with kids and partners, ask them to honour your space and rely on each other for the day or weekend.

Step two – Clean your house or the space you will be retreating into. The last things you want is to be trying to ‘Zen out’ and worrying about the dust on the side table. Change your bed sheets.

Step three – Stock your fridge with healthy food and snacks. Nourish the body and the mind.

Step four – Buy yourself some treats. Nice magazine, a scented candle or bubble bath or all three if you can afford it.

Step five – Organise an ‘at home massage’ if you can or give yourself some lovely indulgent facial treatments like a mask or a body scrub.

Step six – Unplug your online world. Don’t check emails or voicemails. If a true emergency occurs someone will come and inform you.

Step seven – Take a walk and take out the headphones of your iPod. Be present in the walk, look at the world around you and open your perspective.

Step eight – Do something creative or if you don’t feel confident, read a real book.

Step nine – Watch gentle movies or try a yoga DVD. Try meditating or at least relaxing for a period of time.

Step ten – Go to bed early and turn off the alarm for the morning. Let your body find its natural sleep rhythm.

Reading this back, I have to say, this all sounds really quite nice! I know what I’ll be doing soon …

Taking care of your self is so important, especially when times are tough. When you give yourself the time to ‘just be’ in the world, you will be surprised at what comes up. Write down your thoughts and see what needs to be given attention.

It’s okay to retreat every once in a while. There are so many demands on our lives and we put such heavy expectations on ourselves that a little time out is helpful to recharge.

Stay present and know you are worth investing in.

Kate

x





Acknowledgements




Thank you to my editor Sammia Rafique, for ‘getting’ my work and then polishing it with no irritation to me whatsoever.

Thank you to Fiona Michel and Emma Assaad for being my first readers and giving me their precious time and their friendship. ‘You complete me.’

Thank you to my clever friends Jacquie Byron, Kylie Miller, Jonah Klein and Stef Boscutti who all have helped me professionally and personally. You’re the tops, the lot of you.

Thank you to good friend Pippa Lambiase who guided me on speech disorders and treatment for children. You’re a good egg Lipsy.

And to lovely David, and gorgeous Tansy and Spike – thank you for everything.





Chance




Kate Forster




Which outfit would be more appropriate for Kerr’s return? Willow Carruthers couldn’t decide. The Isabel Marant top and jeans worn with bare feet definitely gave her that sexy Mother Earth vibe. On the other hand, the Victoria Beckham crepe wool dress sent a strong message that, sure, she might look uptight, but she was ready and willing to be unbuttoned the minute her husband arrived home. Willow was struggling with this dilemma when a small blonde head peeked through the VIP change room curtains at Harvey Nichols.

‘I is hungry,’ moaned two-year-old Poppy, her pixie face crumpling.

‘Poppy, please, you just ate a banana and some rice crackers! Give me a minute. Go and sit down,’ Willow hissed, silently cursing the powers that be who had decreed that padlocking a child into their pram – or designer pusher, in this case – was bad parenting. She poked her head out of the curtain and saw her angelic-looking son Lucian pulling at a thread in his navy J. Crew jumper. It had slowly unravelled as he walked around the store, as if Luce had planned on leaving a yarn trail, a crafty Hansel without his Gretel.

Willow sighed and turned back to the mirror. Without conceit, she approved of what she saw there. She was often described as a classic beauty. Willow’s body was trim and toned from a relentless regime of Pilates, a strictly no-carb diet and from running around after her two children with no help whatsoever – something pretty much unheard of in her circles. Most of the women she knew employed not one but two nannies for each child. One for the day and one for the night. But not Oscar-winning actress Willow Carruthers. In fact, her passionate belief in the importance of raising her own children had been widely reported.

Right now, though, as she watched Lucian walking off, lost in his own thoughts and his yarn-pulling fervour, and Poppy rolling around the carpet tangled in a dusty-pink cashmere wrap worth hundreds of pounds, Willow questioned the strength of her conviction.

‘Is there anything else I can help you with today, Ms Carruthers?’ asked the pert personal shopper from the other side of the curtain. ‘There’s a lovely Lanvin leather coat here that would look marvellous on you.’

‘No thank you to the leather coat, but do you mind taking my children away?’ Willow spoke through a small gap in the curtain, wincing as she caught sight of Lucian attempting to tug the cashmere wrap off the head of a now screeching Poppy. ‘A long way away.’

The girl laughed. Willow put her head right out, using the curtain as a makeshift toga, and flashed her a dazzling smile.

‘Really, it’s terribly important that I have some space to think about my outfit. Surely there must be someone here who can keep them amused?’

The girl looked Willow in the eye. She was used to dealing with the demands of the rich and famous. Just the day before she had helped a future mother-of-the-bride from Texas into three pairs of Spanx. It was so traumatic that she had renamed the underwear Sp-angst and had required an emergency manicure to fix her broken nails.

‘I’m so sorry, Ms Carruthers, but we don’t offer childcare,’ she murmured, keeping her eyes locked on Willow’s.

The private shopping area of Harvey Nichols could offer Willow a five-star meal from the restaurant upstairs, champagne or coffee, even a manicure while she reclined upon a sofa in the viewing area as the assistants dazzled her with the latest, and most expensive, fashions. But, yet, there was no one to help her on the childcare front. Luxury was bullshit sometimes, thought Willow. Luxury would have been Maria Von Trapp arriving with songs, strudel and the skills to tame the kids.

Willow’s mega-watt smile vanished, but she shrugged and ducked back behind the curtain to dress. Moments later she emerged seemingly unruffled. She snapped off the thread from Lucian’s now ruined jumper, and left the tangle of navy wool for the girl to deal with.

‘I’ll take both,’ she said coolly, walking past the girl to scoop up Poppy, who was still screaming at the injustice of a world set on separating her from the overpriced cashmere wrap. ‘And we’ll take this also.’

The girl nodded, unsurprised. She was used to seeing such extravagance, where a cashmere wrap could become a proxy security blanket.

Willow tried not to sigh with impatience as the girl wrapped each item carefully in tissue. Clearly she had no idea what it was like to shop with children. Willow handed over her credit card and signed the receipt with the rapid scrawl of a woman who’d had plenty of practise signing her name. It wasn’t just on credit card receipts either. Five years after her last film, Willow Carruthers was still regularly pursued for autographs, and when she and Kerr had got together, her profile had risen even higher. Being married to a rock-star will do that for you.

‘Go on, hop in the pusher, Pops,’ she cajoled, but Poppy just laughed at her with a mischievous look on her face that reminded Willow of Kerr, and ran off from the personal shopping area into the general womenswear department, dragging the cashmere wrap behind her.

Willow didn’t know whether to be charmed or annoyed, but before she could decide, she was hit by a tidal wave of nausea.

‘Poppy, stop! Come back here,’ she cried weakly, but it was too late. Poppy collided with a mannequin that toppled and fell on her, plaster limbs snapping as it crashed onto the cold marble floor.

Poppy’s roar reminded Willow of the sound of the crowd at Wembley during Kerr’s stadium tours. She rushed to the tangle of limbs, both real and manufactured, trying to swallow the bile in her mouth, and hauled Poppy up by the arm. Willow was aware of the eyes of other shoppers upon her and sent a quick prayer to a God she had never believed in that no paparazzi were in the store.

‘I told you not to rush away from me, young lady,’ she admonished in hushed tones.

Poppy gave up and allowed her mother to put her into the pusher while Lucian stood by patiently.

‘You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Luce?’ Willow said to her silent son as they headed downstairs to the exit. He was three now and still not speaking, but she had read that Albert Einstein didn’t speak till he was four; perhaps Lucian was going to be a genius.

Outside the store, some local paparazzi were lurking, trying to catch a celebrity out on a shopping spree. Willow adjusted her sunglasses, holding Lucian’s hand tightly as she pushed Poppy’s stroller through the little mob.

‘Willow, Willow, been shopping, is it? How are you then? How’s the kids?’ the paps called, all fake-friendly as they snapped away, hoping to catch her at an unflattering angle.

‘Fine, thanks.’ She smiled, cool but polite. It wasn’t smart to rile the paps, much better to have them on your side. But she wouldn’t be stopping. She might be in the public eye, but there was no way she wanted her children exposed to the bullshit circus of celebrity gossip.

This was part of the reason she had stayed in London. Her children weren’t all over the ‘Hollywood babies’ blogs, and they didn’t make regular appearances in the Out and About pages of People either. The fact that Kerr refused to be photographed as a family made the children even less interesting to the magazines. They were generally left alone now that Hugh Grant and Sienna Miller had fought back to make the paparazzi calm the hell down, especially since the News of the World scandal had broken.

Willow knew she was being followed by some of the paps. She turned and called to the one closest.

‘You know Tamara Ecclestone was in there shopping, don’t you? I think she has a new lover.’

The photographers ran back towards the shop and Willow smiled as she walked away. She had few illusions. Willow and the kids might make a small piece in the Daily Mail, but a shot of Tamara, the current It Girl in London, with a new lover – that would make the front cover of every glossy in the country.

As they walked up Kensington High Street Willow saw a small café and had an overwhelming urge for a coffee, though she wasn’t usually a coffee drinker. She found she wanted, no, needed, one now. She pushed open the door and ordered a coffee and babychinos for the children.

She unstrapped Poppy and let her sit on a chair. When the drinks were delivered, Poppy greedily spooned the froth into her little mouth, while Lucian nibbled on the marshmallow that came with his drink.

Willow stirred a sugar into her coffee, another abnormality, and took a sip. The warm liquid filled her empty stomach and allayed the queasiness inside her.

A heavily pregnant woman edged into the seat at the next table and Willow smiled at her swollen belly.

‘How long to go?’ she asked.

‘Three weeks,’ the woman said wearily.

‘Your first?’ Willow had adored being pregnant, and Kerr had seemed to like it too. He’d told her he had never found her sexier than with her heavy breasts and constant demands to be touched.

‘Yes,’ said the woman as she took a sip of water. ‘It’s horrifying to think this will have to come out, it seems technically impossible.’

Willow laughed. ‘I know but somehow we manage it. The power of women, huh?’

‘Or epidurals,’ she said as another woman approached her table and sat down, glancing over at Willow before doing a double take.

Willow could feel her brief moment of anonymity, of being just another mum, disappearing as the pregnant woman learned from her friend who Willow actually was. They both turned to stare, examining her from head to toe with frank curiosity. Willow finished her coffee quickly and stood up, putting a thankfully unprotesting Poppy back into the stroller and helping Lucian off the wooden chair.

‘Good luck,’ she said to pregnant woman, who looked up to thank her, turning bright red now that she knew who Willow was.

As Willow left the café she realised most of the patrons would now be humming with the news of who had just been in. She sighed. Sometimes she thought it would be nice to be just another ordinary mum going about her business in London. Then again, she reflected, as she pulled out her mobile phone from her oversized Gucci tote and dialled her driver to come and pick them up, she had a rock-star husband and a life most women could only dream of.

Poppy had fallen asleep in the pusher. Willow gently transferred her into her cot, made Lucian his favourite lunch – a cheese sandwich – and parked him in front of Thomas the Tank Engine while she went upstairs to prepare for her reunion with Kerr.

Kerr had been on the road with the band for months. Since they’d had the children Willow rarely went to visit him on tour, but six weeks ago she’d flown out with Lucian and Poppy to meet Kerr in Italy. She was worried. He had been avoiding her calls, and though he said he was busy and tired, she sensed something more was going on and she needed to see him. Willow was determined not to let her marriage become just another failed celebrity union.

Willow might not be on screen any more, but she was in the gossip magazines regularly and she knew she had a reputation to uphold. She was the perfect stay-at-home mother, always looked amazing, and refused to give up on her marriage or appearance just because she got the rock-star husband.

What the people who read those trashy magazines didn’t understand, Willow thought, was that you had to work harder when you and your husband were famous. Being apart so much of the time, the girls constantly throwing themselves at Kerr, the endless comparisons people made between the wives in the band and which wife was the hottest – it was all so stressful that sometimes Willow wished she could just go away for a while to a place where she didn’t have to worry so much about what people thought.

She had heard the rumours that Kerr was cheating on her, but there was nothing concrete, so Willow tried to ignore the growing slivers of discontent she felt when she was around him. When she remembered that all-consuming passion she and Kerr had felt when they met, how they had declared their love and she had fallen pregnant with Lucian so quickly, it felt like an amazing dream. Like most dreams, though, such passion had proved difficult to sustain in reality.

Willow stood in her huge dressing room with its powder-blue carpet and white walls. So many clothes, she thought as she hung her new items up in the wardrobe. Her hand lingered on the butter yellow sundress she’d bought in Rome with Kerr. It wasn’t a designer piece, but wearing it made her feel sexy, and Kerr had seemed to think so too, pushing her up against the hotel window ledge and f*cking her from behind as they gazed out over the city of Rome one long, lazy afternoon.

As Willow peeled off her clothes and unhooked her bra, she noticed the veins on her breasts and how tender they were to touch. She remembered her earlier nausea and her inexplicable desire for a coffee – suddenly she knew. She felt a rush of delight as she pulled the gauzy sundress down over her head. The dress was the perfect thing to wear when she told Kerr the news. Now she was even more excited about him coming home.

Just thinking of him now made her skin tingle and she pulled her immaculate blonde hair out of its sensible ponytail and let it fall loose over her smooth bare shoulders. She stared at herself in the mirror and knew she had never looked better. She smiled at her secret. Even though Kerr had told her he didn’t want any more children, Willow was convinced she could persuade him to change his mind.

Humming, she went into the bathroom to apply make-up to her already flawless face.

Kitty Middlemist sat on a bench in Hyde Park and watched the people passing. She liked to watch things. People, television, movies, the birds in the sky, a spider making a web. Kitty could spend hours sitting back and observing her world.

She was good at watching, she had told her school careers counsellor when asked about her skills. The counsellor had huffed and said that unless Kitty planned to be a movie critic or a peeping Tom, there wasn’t much scope for watching as a job.

Kitty had thought about becoming a film critic, but when she realised she would have to write long essays, she put that thought to rest.

What jobs could she do? Some kids grew up with an innate sense of what they wanted to become, or their teachers and parents pointed them in the direction of the things they excelled at. But Kitty hadn’t been told, and nor had she found out for herself.

Her older brother Merritt had found his purpose and no little fame as he travelled the world helping to restore historic gardens, like the one he and Kitty had grown up with at their crumbling ancestral home, Middlemist. But Kitty had nothing to do – no obvious skill or calling. Since she had arrived in London, she’d spent hours wandering the streets, looking at shops and people. She had little money to spare after paying rent and little to occupy her besides watching the television that came with her dingy furnished bedsit.

Coming to London for work after she and Merritt had locked up Middlemist had seemed like a wonderful idea, until she arrived. Now she was tired and wanted to cry or sleep most of the time.

The sun warmed the top of Kitty’s black bobbed hair and she closed her eyes, trying to think of things she was good at. Nothing sprang to mind. A model? She laughed to herself, acknowledging that her short curvy body was the opposite of a model’s. Maybe she could be an artist’s model, they liked big boobs, didn’t they?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a child crying. She opened her eyes and saw a distressed, little curly-headed girl.

Kitty stood up and walked to the child. ‘Are you lost, little one?’ she asked gently.

The child looked at her horrified. ‘I’ve lost Anna.’

Kitty reached down and took her hand. ‘You know people always come looking for lost children. I think we should just sit here in the sunshine and wait for Anna, she’s bound to come along soon.’

The child dutifully came and sat next to Kitty on the seat.

‘I’m Kitty. What’s your name?’

‘Nancy.’

‘What a gorgeous name,’ said Kitty and the girl smiled a little.

‘Is Anna your mummy?’

‘No, she’s my nanny.’ Kitty saw Nancy’s eyes fill with tears.

‘It’s okay, I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.’

They sat quietly for fifteen minutes, Kitty chatting and amusing Nancy as best she could with stories and a daisy chain. Kitty was sure that any minute some stressed and desperate young woman would come bursting into view, frantically searching for Nancy.

‘Well, I don’t know where Anna’s got to,’ Kitty said finally, standing up and stretching. ‘Let’s go look for her. Do you remember where you were, Nancy?’

‘Yes, I was feeding the ducks.’

Kitty smiled. ‘Okay then, let’s start by the pond.’

Nancy held her hand as they walked down the path towards the pond.

‘There she is!’ cried Nancy and Kitty squinted to see a girl about her own age sitting on a picnic blanket and talking on the phone.

‘She’s using my phone that Mummy gave me,’ Nancy said sadly. ‘It’s supposed to be for ’mergencies.’

Nancy ran up to Anna and jumped on her back. ‘Ouch, get off! I’m on the phone,’ Anna said crossly and the little girl toppled onto the grass.

Kitty frowned. ‘Hello, are you Nancy’s nanny?’

‘Yes, I am. What’s it to you?’

Kitty nodded, and then looked at Nancy. ‘Do you ring your mummy often?’

Nancy shrugged.

‘Would you like to ring her now?’

Kitty snatched the phone off Anna and spoke into it. ‘Sorry, emergency.’ Then she handed it to Nancy, who carefully selected Mummy from the list of contacts.

Anna stood up, scowling. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘Your job actually,’ Kitty said. She heard Nancy say hello to her mother and gently took the phone from her hand. ‘Hello, my name’s Kitty and I’m at Hyde Park with your daughter. She was wandering about lost. When we finally found Anna, she was gabbing on the phone, didn’t even know Nancy had gone. I just thought you should know.’

Anna’s mouth was opening and shutting like a goldfish as Kitty listened to Nancy’s mother. ‘Of course, no problem. We’re in the Italian Gardens. Absolutely. I’ll be here,’ Kitty said.

She looked at Anna. ‘Nancy’s mother says you’re no longer needed and she’s on her way. I’ll wait here with Nancy until she picks her up, thanks anyway.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Anna yelled.

Nancy moved closer to Kitty and took her hand.

‘I can, I did and I have,’ Kitty said firmly.

When Nancy’s mother arrived she insisted on giving Kitty fifty pounds for her trouble. Deep in thought, Kitty watched Nancy leave the park with her obviously stressed-out working mother.

Kitt wondered why she found it so easy to stand up for small and vulnerable creatures yet so hard to do it for herself. As a child Kitty had rescued badgers and baby foxes and rabbits. She had protested about hunting and fought her father on his plan to drain the lake, killing all the fish.

What would her life have been like if she had had someone to fight for her like she had just fought for little Nancy?’

And then it came to her. This was something she could do. She could be a nanny. She wouldn’t need to do anything but care for kids and she could probably fudge her way through the rest. How hard could it be?

Kitty went straight back to her bedsit and looked up the numbers of local nanny agencies. She registered with three of them. They weren’t very helpful, though, all telling her she needed a driver’s license and some previous experience. She wanted to tell them about Nancy, how she had saved her from potential harm, but instead she had just meekly thanked them for the advice.

Defeated, she lay on her bed and looked at the cracked ceiling, her hopes wilting like the daisy chain around her neck.

Apparently, nannying was harder than it looked.

Kerr had only been back in the house for twenty minutes and already he was causing a ruckus. Willow was shocked to find his powerful voice with its strong Scottish accent grating on her nerves.

She had hoped he’d arrive home in a good mood and that they could have a moment in their bedroom so she could tell him about the baby, but Kerr had stormed about the house, bitching about the lack of airplay for the band’s new album.

‘It’s not bloody fair,’ he said picking up Poppy and swinging her around by her arms.

Poppy had just had cheesy pasta and orange juice for dinner, and Willow wondered if Poppy’s food was preparing to resurface. Willow didn’t have to wonder for long though.

‘F*ckin’ hell, Poppy,’ Kerr yelled as Poppy threw up over his shoulder and onto the carpet.

He handed a now crying Poppy to Willow saying, ‘Bugger this, I’m going downstairs.’ He thumped down to his basement studio.

With a sinking heart Willow comforted Poppy, wishing she hadn’t given her housekeeper the day off as she scooped the sick into the Alessi dustpan.

Once the carpet was clean and the children were settled in front of Mary Poppins on Blu-ray, Willow walked downstairs to find Kerr sitting at his recording console. The sound of his first hit played through the Bose speakers and Willow was transported back to the Hollywood Bowl and the first night she had seen Kerr.

He was unlike any man she’d known, with his roughness and attitude. He had physically fought a particularly persistent photographer who had trailed them on their first date. Although Willow didn’t condone the violence, part of her had found it thrilling the way Kerr had smashed the man’s camera and told him to ‘leave us the f*ck alone’. Kerr didn’t care what he looked like back then, he was just himself. Now he was all designer jeans and arrogance.

He looked up and saw Willow smiling ruefully as she walked towards him. He held out his hand.

‘Sorry, Will, I’m a bit stressed,’ he said.

She took his hand and guided it up under her dress as she slid onto his lap. She knew what would calm him down. ‘Welcome home, Kerr,’ she told him, kissing him deeply and feeling him grow hard beneath her. He tugged the thin straps of her dress off her shoulders and cupped her breasts, stroking and squeezing them until Willow moaned.

‘Such great tits,’ he said, lowering his head to run his tongue around each nipple.

He’d always been a sucker for breasts, Willow thought, arching her back and grinding herself against his bulging cock. Kerr’s hands were now under her dress, pulling at the fly on his jeans, ripping aside her lace thong. She reached down and guided him inside her and she heard him groan.

‘Willow, baby,’ he said in her ear. As Kerr’s song continued to play on loop in the background, they f*cked, first on his chair, then with Willow perched up on the console, just like old times.

It was fast and fun, like it had been in Rome. Willow smiled with satisfaction as Kerr came inside her, groaning into her shoulder.

‘God, I needed that,’ he said as he slid out of her, immediately pulling his underwear and jeans back up. ‘You know you’ve never been sexier, babe.’

Willow took a deep breath. There would never be a better time. ‘Well, you know why that is, don’t you? Kerr, I’m pregnant.’

Kerr stood frozen on the spot. ‘What? Pregnant? You can’t be.’

‘But I am,’ she said, her voice faltering. ‘And I – I hoped you’d be pleased.’

‘Pleased? You’re joking, right? Willow, we can’t have another baby.’ His face paled.

‘Why?’

‘I thought we’d at least talk about it first.’ He shook his head. ‘This isn’t what I want.’

‘But we can afford it, we’re married, we love each other … what’s the problem? It’s not like I have anything else to do,’ she said, a reminder that he was the one who’d wanted her home with the kids, not out making movies.

Kerr swallowed and looked away. ‘I don’t want another child, Willow. I’m sorry, I just don’t.’

Willow felt sick again. The quiet finality in his voice made her panicky. ‘Kerr.’ She put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Please, we have to talk about this.’

He spun around and grabbed her wrist tightly. ‘No, Willow, we don’t. The two we’ve got are already too much for us. Look, I love them. But I don’t remember signing up to play happy families. I’m a muso, I’m out on the road half the time. And I need you to be there for me. But you’re not, are you? You’re always home with the bloody kids!’

‘I can get a nanny,’ Willow said, her eyes filling with tears.

‘You can get whatever you want, Willow, but I’m telling you now, if you do this, you’ll be doing it alone.’ He dropped her wrist. Willow was shaking as she stared at Kerr’s red face and dilated pupils. Was he on coke again? she wondered.

Before she could say any more, Kerr turned and left the studio, thumping back up the stairs. Moments later Willow heard the front door slam. Hot tears of shame fell down her face. What about what she wanted? When did Kerr ever ask her that? He made all the decisions, from her not working to the art they put on the walls.

She walked up the stairs and through to her perfect family kitchen. But we aren’t a family, Willow thought, as she watched Kerr back his gleaming silver Bentley out of the garage. Not really. And we won’t ever be unless Kerr grows up. But he’d be back, he had to come back, didn’t he? Willow knew she had to make a choice. She wanted to have a baby, not be married to one.

One thing was for sure, though: she wasn’t going to do it alone.

‘Yes, hello?’ Kitty said into her prepaid mobile phone.

‘Ah, hello. This is Joanna Whatley Smythe from the Belgravia Nanny Agency. I’m looking for Katinka Middlemist.’

Kitty rolled her eyes at the sound of her own silly name. ‘Kitty, I prefer Kitty,’ she said.

‘Right. Well, are you available for an interview this afternoon?’

‘Yes, sure, of course,’ said Kitty excitedly.

Finally, someone had seen her application and didn’t mind her not being able to drive.

The woman gave Kitty the address and time and Kitty listened carefully, keeping the details in her memory.

‘The client has two small children, and it’s a live-in position, is that a problem?’

‘Not at all.’ Kitty thought about her horrible bedsit, where the hallways smelt of semen.

‘And just one more thing.’

‘Yes?’ Kitty waited for the guillotine to fall.

‘She’s very famous. You’ll have to sign a privacy agreement when you arrive.’

‘Okay,’ said Kitty, momentarily too shocked to ask who the person was.

It was more fun to guess anyway, she thought later, as she washed and blow-dried her hair. Was it Elle Macpherson? she wondered as she put on her stockings. Or maybe a Royal, she thought, not that she was impressed by Royals. Titles and stately homes meant little to Kitty. A title didn’t pay the electricity bill. Perhaps it was Charlotte Church? She had children, didn’t she? Kitty wondered as she zipped up her dress and put on some lipstick.

Kitty’s mind was filled with celebrities as she slipped her feet into her shoes and picked up her bag and coat. As she walked out of the bedsit she passed two men arguing loudly in the grimy street, and then nimbly sidestepped some dog shit on the pavement.

The woman’s voice from the nanny agency rang in her head: ‘It’s a live-in position, is that a problem?’

No, not at all, Kitty thought as she hailed a taxi. She didn’t have time to waste and she didn’t want to be late, she reasoned as the taxi drove her though the city. Besides, she had the money Nancy’s mother had given her in the park. Eventually they stopped in front of an elegant white three-storey house with a tall iron fence.

Kitty pressed the button on a speaker with more confidence than she actually felt. She wished Maria Von Trapp would come and sing her the song about confidence from The Sound of Music. Kitty had always loved that scene and she lifted her head the way Maria would have done, plastering on a beatific smile.

‘Yes, who is it?’ she heard.

‘Kitty Middlemist. I’m here for the interview.’ Kitty said into the intercom as a tiny camera on the other side of the gate adjusted its angle to focus on her. She smiled and gave a little wave.

The gate clicked and Kitty pushed it open. She walked up the steps to the large yellow front door.

There was the sound of a lock being undone and then the door swung open. Kitty found herself face-to-face with a beautiful and shockingly familiar woman.

‘Hello, I’m Willow Carruthers.’

Kitty put out her hand.

‘Kitty Middlemist. I’m here about the nanny job.’





About the Author


Kate lives in Melbourne, Australia with her husband and two children and can be found nursing a laptop, surrounded by magazines and talking on the phone, usually all at once. Kate is an avid follower of fashion, fame and all things pop culture and is an excellent dinner party guest who always brings gossip and champagne.

To find out more about Kate visit www.kateforster.com or find her on twitter @kateforster.