Page 21 of Love at First Sight

‘He’s nice,’ I say non-committally, because I’m a coward. She beams.

‘Isn’t he?’ she agrees. ‘He got on with Henry, too, and this morning when Henry came for a cuddle he said he liked him. But, you know, if you get any intel, pass it on, will you?’

‘Absolutely,’ I say, with a fake smile, before escaping to give Henry his breakfast.

‘We’ll make a start on this after school, shall we?’ I say, gesturing to the left-out Lego. ‘After languages club?’

‘Mrs Harrington says we need to save our yoghurt pots and toilet paper rolls,’ he says, by way of a reply, like talking about school has activated the part of his brain labelled ‘tell your grown-up’.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Did she say why?’

‘I think it was Nun-ya …’ Henry grins, citing his favourite joke from Disney’sMoana. ‘Nun-ya business!’ Then he dissolves into giggles, thrilled with himself for the sick burn.

I shake my head and pretend to be mad. ‘Horrid child!’ I say, joking, ruffling his hair.

‘You think I’m cute,’ Henry says, and I point at him and say, ‘Stop making such good points, you, and eat your breakfast.’

Whilst Henry is upstairs brushing his teeth, Ali broaches the topic of Cal again.

‘I need more from you,’ she says. ‘You’re the first friend to meet him. I need a proper debrief!’

I sigh, as if to indicate there’s not much more to say thanhe’s nice. I don’t really think I can endorse a man who would go off and have a magical date with somebody else, but then – oh, shit. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe Cal wasn’t interested at all and that’s why he rushed off and didn’t leave his number. Maybe this whole ‘magical date’ is a figment of my imagination that I’ve read way too much into because I’m desperate-dot-com.

‘Why do you call him Vinnie?’ I say, pulling a face. ‘He told me he actually goes by Cal …’

‘Yeah.’ Ali shrugs. ‘But Ali and Vinnie, it works better, I think. He’s a Calvin, so I figure either/or. Plus it’s cute having a name only I call him, don’t you think?’

Only Ali could decide to rename somebody and have them go along with it.

‘You ready, Henry?’ I yell up the stairs, because I can’t have this conversation, I can’t give Ali what she wants, which is squealing girl talk and a gushing testimony about how handsome and smart and funny and wonderful her new guy is. I have to tell her the truth. I can’t lie to her face by omission.

‘Ali,’ I say, and oh god, the way she looks at me, the way her eyes are so wide and filled with hope and, urgh, Ali when she’s vulnerable is something else. She can really melt your heart. Honestly, if you ever watch her insomething, she really does command the camera, know how to make you feel anything she decides to make you feel. Off camera is no different. I find myself turning into a puddle. I can’t do it.

‘Yeah?’ she asks.

‘If he makes you happy,’ I say, ‘then I’m happy for you.’

‘Oh, for god’s sake,’ India says in the middle of a glute bridge at the gym. ‘I can’t believe you! I’ve half a mind to go knock on her door and tell her myself!’

‘Now, now, India,’ Rain, our instructor for the session, cautions. She’s all tiny Lycra hotpants and extreme thigh muscles. ‘It might be worth seeing how this plays out. At the end of the day, the nanny dishing out bad news is probably only going to hurt the nanny.’

‘Exactly!’ I say, switching to some band dislocates. ‘That’s what I’m saying.’

The Lunchtime Lot at the gym all know I’m a nanny for a rich woman, but they don’t know that the Ali I occasionally mention working for is Ali O’Hara, off the telly. I’ve never signed an NDA or anything like that, but it seems prudent and generally good manners to protect her identity. Can you imagine if somebody listened to my stories and went to the papers? TheDaily Mailwould have a field day!

‘The name thing is wild. I don’t know in what universe you can just rename somebody, even if it did start out as a joke,’ says Bear gruffly. Our resident fifty-somethingbearded and tattooed gentleman has been listening intently as I’ve got everyone up to speed on my personal drama. ‘And what kind of a man lets that happen? I never bloody would, I can tell you that.’

I sigh. ‘I just worry for Henry,’ I say. ‘That poor little love has already had his heart broken by the divorce, which obviously couldn’t be helped – I mean, I am team whatever-makes-the-parents-happiest. I just don’t want him to fall for Cal, or Vinnie, or whatever the hell we’re going to call him, and lose him too.’

‘You can’t take that on,’ says Zoya, a thirty-five-year-old sock designer whose products have just got stocked by John Lewis. She’s got swishy black hair tied back in a long ponytail and an arse you could park a bike in it’s so juicy. She collects all our bands to put away. It’s deadlift day today, and we’re lifting at 97.5 per cent of our capacity. That’s how we train, with progressive overload. Every twelve weeks we test ourselves on what our three-rep maximum is, and then use that as a benchmark to get stronger. It means that this lunchtime there’s going to be a lot of grunting, because we’re shifting a massive amount of weight. ‘I know you love that little boy,’ Zoya continues. ‘But that’s his mum’s responsibility. All you can do is be there for him. And from the way you talk about him, it’s so obvious you’re amazing with him.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That’s good advice, I appreciate it.’

‘Go out with Leo!’ India says, as she rolls out weights for her barbell. ‘I saw your dad yesterday, and he said Leo flirted outrageously with you at brunch or something? Ididn’t quite understand, but your dad insisted I put in a good word.’

‘Ewww,’ I say. ‘Dad playing matchmaker. Cute, but also he needs to sort out his own love life first.’

‘I thought he was engaged now?’ Rain asks, keeping a watchful eye as we all start a warm-up set.

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