The Au Pair Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Apparently anyone can set up an au pair agency around their kitchen table. So when money gets tight, Jilly does exactly that. But she hadn’t reckoned on Marie-France, a sparky French girl who signs up for Jilly’s agency to find her father, twenty years after her own mother had been an au pair in the same town.

  Then there’s Matthew, a confused widower whose daughter has driven away a string of au pairs. Can Jilly ever find him the perfect match?

  And let’s not forget the rest of the au pair mafia including Heidi, Fatima and Antoinette who ‘likes children but not very much’.

  The Au Pair is an hilarious but truthful romp through the world of au pairs and their unsuspecting families.

  About the Author

  Janey Fraser has been a journalist for over 25 years and contributes regularly to national newspapers and magazines including the Daily Telegraph and Woman. This is her second book following The Playgroup. She has also published books under the pen name Sophie King.

  This book is dedicated to William, Lucy and Giles who, between them:

  Locked a Swiss miss in her room just before the school run;

  Preferred to play with ‘Collette’* instead of me

  (*Not her real name);

  Taught unsuitable words to all of them;

  Learned unsuitable foreign words in return;

  Got through five au pairs in two years (don’t even ask).

  This book is not dedicated to the au pairs who variously:

  Peed in my front garden;

  Ran off with a Frenchman whom I’d stupidly introduced her to;

  Refused to vacuum every day because ‘we do not do that in my country’;

  Invited all her friends round during my absence, to share my chocolate biscuits and Bombay Sapphire.

  The Au Pair is also dedicated to my husband (who isn’t allowed to have one) and all good au pairs and nice families everywhere.

  As for the others – you know who you are!

  Acknowledgements

  Unlimited gratitude to my agent Teresa Chris, my literary Godmother. Also to Gillian Holmes for her magic eye; Sarah Page for her marketing skills; Marissa Cox for her PR expertise and warm emails; and everyone at Arrow. Not forgetting Betty Schwartz and Hilary Johnson whose words encouraged me in the early days. Also the Romantic Novelists’ Association.

  Finally, a big thanks to all the au pair agencies which helped me with my research. Please note that any similarity to living characters is entirely coincidental.

  INTRODUCTION LETTER TO MY NEW FAMILY

  Bonjour!

  Je m’appelle Antoinette Malfille and I am enormously excitable about becoming au pair! I have nineteen years of age and have forever desired to visit Angleterre.

  My hobbies are clubbing and drinking. I tolerate children. I have (almost) forsaken smoking.

  I am available to work for you until Christmas as I do not pass my baccalauréat.

  I await to meet you!

  Chapter 1

  ‘I TELL YOU, Jilly, I’ll never have another one again. Never! Antoinette is a nightmare! Absolute nightmare! I specifically asked the agency for a non-smoker but before we’d even got back from the airport, she’d lit up one of those filthy Gauloise things. Then – get this! – it turns out that she’s eighteen and not nineteen like the agency told me, and the only experience she’s had with children is visiting her fifteen-year-old nephew in Lyons once a year.’

  Who’d have an au pair? It was simply asking for trouble, thought Jilly as she listened to her friend Paula pouring it all out. Frankly, she couldn’t imagine anything worse than a live-in stranger. It was hard enough living with your own family.

  ‘It’s like having another child,’ raged Paula, marching over to her enormous silver American fridge and grabbing a bottle of Pinot Grigio though it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet. ‘On her first night, she just sat there at dinner without offering to help as though she was a guest!’

  ‘Perhaps—’ Jilly started to say. Too late! Paula was steaming on.

  ‘Then she used up all the hot water for an hour-long shower. As for her English, it’s a mixture of Janet and John meets Desperate Housewives with a heavy Woody Allen Parisian accent.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘And when I asked her to take Immy to the nursery summer club – with a map that I’d drawn specially for her – she ended up at the garden nursery. Isn’t that ridiculous?’

  Not really. It was quite a tall order for an au pair to do the nursery run on her first day. Jilly was torn between the desire to be loyal to her friend and also fair to this girl who was doubtless feeling very lonely and unsure in a foreign country. ‘You were a bit worried about her introduction letter,’ she started to say but Paula waved her hand dismissively.

  ‘She was all I could get at short notice! And another thing …’

  It was no good! When her friend Paula was in full flow like this, there was no stopping her. Maybe that’s why she was so skinny – all that nervous energy.

  Lucky her! Jilly, who was constantly fighting the battle against a size 14, was always envious of anyone who could wear drainpipe jeans without looking as though a rugby ball had got stuck halfway down each thigh.

  ‘Maybe it’s my fault for getting a French one,’ continued Paula, rummaging around the dirty dish washer for a glass. ‘But it’s so difficult, isn’t it? It’s a sort of emotional pick and mix. The Germans are meant to be bossy, the Turkish have BO and the Scandinavians nick your husband.’

  Talk about generalisations!

  Paula gave a short, sharp, ironic laugh. ‘And considering Nigel and I are the one couple in twenty owning up to a sexless marriage – did you read that survey in the Mail? – I don’t fancy any competition from some nubile teenager. Especially under the same roof. You heard about Mark and Suzy, didn’t you? They’re having a trial separation. Apparently he’s met some nineteen-year-old.’

  Really? Suzy from the parents’ committee at school? Jilly didn’t know them well but they always seemed quite happy together. It just went to show that you never knew what went on behind closed doors. But as for Paula and Nigel …well, surely they were fine? Just as she and David were! Granted, her own marriage wasn’t exactly bursting with passion but it had reached that nice, cosy, comfort
able stage where the two of them would cuddle up at night, ankles hooked together, secure in their love and the family they had woven around them.

  ‘Of course you don’t need to lose weight,’ her husband would reassure her, even though her post-twin tummy was still wedged firmly between them. Yes, he loved her used-to-be-blond hair, just the way it was. And no, she wasn’t too old to have the same shoulder-length style she’d sported as a teenager.

  Even so, Jilly wouldn’t fancy having a sultry eighteen-year-old French girl in the house. Why put yourself in the line of fire, as her mother might say. Mum had very firm views on men who strayed, not to mention women who ‘gave them the opportunity’, as she put it.

  ‘I’m sure Nigel isn’t the kind to elope with an au pair,’ she started to say but Paula was off again, perched on the edge of her chrome designer breakfast bar stool, still in her sparkly silver leotard after her Zumbalatesalsa class. In contrast, Jilly was wearing a slightly too tight pair of jeans which had been clean at 6.30 a.m. but now bore an egg stain on one knee and a guilty smear of chocolate ice cream on the other. The first came from the children’s breakfast this morning and the second from a comfort-eating binge soon afterwards. The anticipation of the forth coming school summer holidays with three children to amuse always took its toll on her stomach.

  ‘I thought an au pair would be cheaper than a cleaner and a babysitter!’ Paula was getting really upset now, drumming her silicone-gel nails on the black and white kitchen island between them. ‘But she’s costing me a fortune in petrol, cheese and coffee. And she leaves her towels on the bathroom floor as though this is a hotel.’

  That didn’t sound good. ‘Have you spoken to the agency?’

  ‘Pah!’ Paula’s face was going pink with indignation. ‘When I rang to ask for a swap, there was an answer phone gaily informing me that the agency had closed down.’

  That was terrible! ‘So what are you meant to do until then?’

  ‘Sit it out, I suppose! I can hardly throw her out on the streets.’ Paula took another slug from her glass before offering her the bottle.

  ‘No thanks.’ Jilly covered the mug with its MOTHER KNOWS BEST slogan, still half full of the finest decaff. Thanks to Paula’s enthusiastic bottle waving, it was now in serious danger of becoming a coffee-spritzer.

  Paula frowned disapprovingly. ‘Anyway, when I Googled the agency, I found it doesn’t even belong to a professional association. Then I discovered through Twitter – get this! – that anyone can set up an au pair business round their kitchen table? Isn’t that awful!’

  Before Jilly had a chance to agree, there was the sound of heavy plodding down the stairs.

  ‘Shhh,’ hissed Paula with a horrified look. ‘She’s coming. Quick. Talk about something else.’

  Even as she spoke, a small sullen girl, with dark curls shrouding a heart-shaped face, marched in. If it wasn’t for the scowl, she would be gorgeous! But even with it, she was still extremely pretty in a gypsy-like fashion. Her skin, noted Jilly, hinted at a Moroccan background. She was wearing a thick black jumper and shivering in an exaggerated fashion as though there was snow on the ground instead of midsummer roses in full bloom. The distinct whiff of BO coupled with cheap-smelling perfume made Jilly feel slightly nauseous.

  Until now, she’d thought Paula was behaving like many of the rather slightly spoilt, non-working mothers of Corrywood who lived for the gym and Twitter. But now she was beginning to feel sorry for her friend.

  ‘Madame Paula.’ Antoinette’s black eyes were harsh and challenging. ‘I have changed the shits.’

  Jilly did a double-take. Did the au pair just say what she thought she had? Paula raised her hand to her forehead in dramatic despair. ‘I told you, Antoinette. You have to flush the loo twice in your bathroom. It can be temperamental. Like you.’ She added the last two words in a low voice but if Jilly could hear, surely so could the girl …

  ‘Non!’ The au pair’s voice was angry, as though she was reprimanding an employee rather than her employer. ‘I not talk about difficult toilet that does not rush.’

  ‘Flush,’ corrected Paula. ‘So … what … are … you … talking … about exactly?’ Paula enunciated each word very slowly as though speaking to a small child and at the same time, shooting Jilly a see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with look.

  Antoinette’s eyes were becoming even blacker and harder in a way that sent shivers down Jilly’s spine. This girl gave her the creeps! ‘I change the shits in the children’s rooms like you told me to.’

  Paula’s face cleared. ‘Oh, you mean the sheets!’ She gave a small cocktail-party shriek of hollow mirth but Jilly could see the relief on her face. For a moment there, both women had had visions of the au pair leaving … well … something rather nasty upstairs. ‘In England, Antoinette, we say “sheeeets” instead of … instead of “shits”.’

  Another frown. Another scowl. ‘That is what I inform you.’

  Poor Paula began to look very uncomfortable. Jilly’s heart went out to her! On the surface, her friend seemed to have it all: lovely home, children and a husband. But when you got to know Nigel better, he was (quite frankly) a bit of a lech who would hold your hands in greeting for much longer than necessary and then follow it up with a wet kiss on both sides of the cheek in an over-familiar fashion. He was also a bore, convinced that his opinions were the only correct ones. Neither Jilly nor David could stand him, although, for her friend’s sake, they had to put up with him socially.

  ‘This is my friend Mrs Collins, by the way,’ continued Paula, flushing, clearly trying to change the subject.

  Keen to help, Jilly put out her hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Antoinette.’

  The girl made no attempt to respond but simply gave her the same sullen look she had just given her employer. Oh dear!

  ‘Could you please go into the garden and look after Immy?’ said Paula as though she was asking an enormous favour. ‘She’s on the swing.’

  Antoinette shivered again. ‘But I am so frizzing.’

  ‘Then put on your coat!’ trilled Paula in an over-bright voice. ‘In England, we are great believers in fresh air.’

  It was like trying to persuade one of the children to go out and play! Surely the whole point of having an au pair was to have some help instead of adding to your work load?

  ‘OK.’ Antoinette rolled her eyes. ‘But I put her in her poshchair.’

  ‘Her what?’

  Those black eyes glittered with irritation. ‘Her poshchair.’

  ‘Do you think,’ intervened Jilly quietly, ‘that she means “pushchair”?’

  Antoinette scowled. ‘That’s what I inform you before.’

  ‘I see! Well no, actually I don’t want her in her pushchair. Immy needs to let off steam or else she won’t sleep tonight.’

  Antoinette’s eyes were fixed on her employer. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘I think you do,’ muttered Paula. She waved her hand towards the garden. ‘Out, please. No pushchair. Comprendez?’

  Sullenly, Antoinette took her shiny pink coat, which was hanging on a peg by the back door, and stomped outside.

  ’Wow,’ breathed Jilly. ‘I see what you mean. It can’t make for a very pleasant atmosphere.’

  ‘It’s not!’ Paula was pouring herself another slug of Pinot. ‘I’m almost glad when she’s out. In fact, that’s another thing. She hasn’t been here for half a minute but already she’s slinking off to English classes at the college.’

  ‘But isn’t that why she’s here?’ Jilly enquired. ‘To improve her English?’

  ‘Not,’ said Paula, glaring at her for siding with the enemy, ‘if she goes straight to bed after the nursery run, claiming that she can’t do any work because it is “the time of the month”. Then she managed to block the pipes with continental tampons and guess who had to get them out?’

  Ugh!

  ‘I haven’t even had a chance to show her where the Dyson’s hibernating. And she wants her seventy pounds a week pocket money
in advance. It’s outrageous!’

  Jilly had known Paula for years, ever since they’d met at antenatal. She’d been expecting the twins and Paula her eldest, William. They’d rubbed each other’s backs during mock labour role play. Swapped tips over stretch creams. Asked the other to be godmother to their respective children. Gone to baby signing classes together. And then moved on to Puddleducks, the lovely pre-school round the corner run by that kind but competent Gemma Merryfield who was now Mrs Balls.

  Paula’s little Immy was still there, although William, along with her own HarryandAlfie (somehow their names always came out as one), had progressed to Corrybanks, the local primary. But never, in all this time, had Jilly known Paula to be so worked up. If this is what an au pair did to you, you’d be better off without one, surely?

  ‘What’s she doing now?’ Paula nudged her. ‘I can’t look myself or it will seem as though I’m spying.’

  Jilly tried to glance casually out of the kitchen window, which faced a beautiful lawn, leading down to a copse with a wooden swing and slide ensemble from the Indulged Kids Company. (Her twins had to make do with a plank of wood suspended by a rope from their old gnarled apple tree. Still, they seemed to love it.)

  Meanwhile, three-year-old Immy – short for Imogen – was sitting at the top of the expensive slide, waving her stubby little arms at Antoinette, who was now perched on the white designer garden bench, huddled over her mobile and puffing madly on one of the forbidden Gauloises, oblivious of her charge’s predicament. Dear little Immy, who was stoutly built in the manner of her father, was always getting stuck in places. Last year it had been a small gap in the park railings and a twenty-minute wait for the fire brigade.

  ‘I think you might want to …’ began Jilly. No! Too late. Immy had somehow released her squat little bottom from the constraints of the slide and launched herself down on to the ground. Although it was difficult to hear any yells from that distance, she appeared unhurt. No thanks to the shivering shape in the bright pink raincoat who was still attached to her mobile and hadn’t even bothered looking up. She was walking back up to the house now without so much as a glance back.