Until You're Mine by Samantha Hayes Page B

wonder?
    ‘We’re not at all busy,’ I say, feeling slightly sorry for her. I pat the empty space on the sofa, and when she tentatively sits, I glance at James with a slight widening of my eyes that only he would notice.
    No smoke without fire
, something my mother always used to say, flashes through my mind.
    ‘What’s bothering you?’ I’m suddenly struck by the thought that, after only two days, she’s going to hand in her notice. I hadn’t considered that she might leave us.
    ‘Nothing’s bothering me, exactly. It’s just . . .’
    ‘Would you like me to leave you two to talk?’ James suggests.
    ‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you put the kettle on?’
    James nods and marches out, grateful for the reprieve.
    ‘Just what?’ I ask Zoe, picking up her tentative thread again.
    ‘I’m not sure how to put this. I guess asking you outright is the best way.’
    Zoe picks at her clipped nails. Her hair scratches around her neck in thin tufts. If I were her mother right now I’d tuck it behind her ears and gently push a finger under her chin to lift her head. I’d stare into her milky grey eyes and fathom what was wrong before she even knew it herself. I’d pull her close, hug her, make her realise that I’m there for her, whatever she was going to ask.
    ‘It’s about the weekends.’ Her words are gossamer thin.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Well, I don’t know how you feel about . . . it’s just that it would be really useful if . . .’ She bows her head further.
    ‘Zoe, I don’t bite.’
    Finally, she lifts her head and stares at me square on. Her jawline is neat and petite, as if sculpted with fine fingers. Her cheekbones echo the precision of her face; they in turn give way to those misty eyes. She looks as if she has permanent tears just waiting to drop.
    ‘I don’t really have anywhere to go at the weekends.’
    I try to figure out what it means, but before I can, I’ve already answered. ‘Then you must stay here.’ It was the gush of relief that she wasn’t handing in her notice, despite my suspicions, that made me say it.
    ‘Really?’ Her chin lifts higher and her eyes brighten. There’s a glimmer of a smile.
    ‘Yes,’ I say, more hesitantly now, realising I should probably have asked James first, especially after what I just accused her of. But I’m certain he won’t mind. Besides, he’s away again very soon and it was him who was keen for me to have home help in the first place. ‘Is everything OK, Zoe?’ I feel I have to check. Despite the interview, her CV and references, it strikes me that I actually know very little about her home life.
    ‘That’s so kind of you.’ She nods gratefully. ‘And everything is fine. It’s just that . . .’ Again, she looks so sad, so pained, so unsure of me.
    ‘What, Zoe?’
    ‘I have some issues with the person I’m living with.’ She pauses and thinks. ‘
Was
living with, I should say. We’ve had some problems and it’s not working out. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you.’
    ‘A break-up?’
    Zoe shrugs, and I realise that by hiring domestic staff I also take on their personal lives. ‘Kind of,’ she says. ‘Some things are impossible to work out.’
    And for some reason, she stares longingly at my pregnant stomach.
    *
    I’m lying on our bed, exhausted. I’ll disappear to the spare room soon enough, but for now, I know I’ll never sleep. James is lying beside me, almost asleep, and I need to talk. He’s barely listening.
    ‘I can’t say it was creepy exactly,’ I tell him. ‘But almost.’ I prod his shoulder a little.
    I’m lying on top of the covers in my tent-like flowery nightie and a thick robe that only just reaches round my middle. James often jokes that the last time he saw me naked was when my waist was a neat twenty-seven inches. I hope I’m back to that size again next time he comes home. The women in our antenatal yoga group are always comparing stretch marks and girth