Page 27 of All the Forbidden Things
Billie
Ikiss Amelia’s head throughher mop of soft blonde curls and turn to leave her bedroom just as the gate-alarm sounds to alert me someone is coming through them.
Michael and Carmen have only been gone a couple of hours, so I’m not expecting them home anytime soon . . . but, considering the volatility of their relationship lately, who knows what might have transpired between the two of them in that time.
I hear the crunch of gravel on the driveway and head towards Oliver's bedroom at the front of the house so I can take a look out of the window. I spot Michael’s Mercedes in front of the house, the driver’s door still open.
“Now what?” I whisper as I exit the room, making sure to close the door behind me.
I’ve been working as a live-in nanny for the Bosworth's for a little over two years. Their children, Oliver, who’s eight, and Amelia, who is three, are great kids. Their parents, not so much.
The first few months I worked here, their relationship appeared okay but then things deteriorated rapidly. The shouting, screaming, and smashing of things is a common occurrence, and if it weren’t for the kids, I’d have left months ago. They don’t hold back on the venom they spit at each other when the children are around. All of the “I hate you’s” and the “fuck off and die’s” are taken in by little ears.
I’ve had to load them into the car and escape with them on more spur-of-the-moment trips to the mall, cinema, park, or zoo than most kids get in a lifetime, purely so they don’t have to witness the vicious demise of their parent's marriage. No child should have to witness their parents ripping the shit out of each other, especially these two. And when alcohol is involved, things escalate to a whole different level between them. The arguments become violent, and the hate and vitriol they spew at each other is shocking. I wish they’d just divorce, separate, or at least seek counselling, but there’s a lot of money involved, so the first two options will likely never happen.
Michael is some top-dog Hollywood producer, and Carmen is a former Mexican television star. They’ve been married for around ten years, this being Michael’s third go around, which is probably why he’d rather live in Hell than divide his assets again. So, he’s been staying later and later at the “office,” and staggering about the place absolutely smashed whenever he is home.
Carmen’s not innocent in all of this, though, and I swear she gets off on antagonising Michael, especially after she has a few bottles of her favourite Pinot inside her, which has become a pretty standard occurrence by lunchtime most days. She’s singlehandedly keeping Robert Sinskey’s vineyard in business, and that is another reason I haven’t yet handed in my notice; how do I just walk away and leave these kids to the utter chaos that is their home life?
A beep sounds as Michael enters the key code into the security system, followed by a loud bang that I can only assume is the heavy oak front door swinging open and slamming against the wall behind it.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mumbles.
His keys clatter loudly, and I’m almost certain he’s dropped them onto the tiled hallway floor. I close my eyes, my sense of sound heightened, as I listen for the sound of Carmen’s heels following behind him, or even her voice, but there’s nothing.
The event they attended this evening was for one of her many charities, and I’m assuming they’ve argued, and he’s left without her.
Great!These two don’t argue quietly, especially if alcohol’s involved, and if they kick off tonight, they’ll wake the kids, and I’ll end up with them in my bed.
I have my own one-bedroom apartment attached to the side of the house with a separate entryway from the drive. There’s also a short corridor that leads to a doorway off the landing of the main house, allowing me quick access to the kids’ bedrooms and vice versa.
Moving to the top of the stairs, I listen to Michael below, moving around and mumbling to himself. I’m torn as to whether I should move the kids to my bed now.
Michael’s phone rings, and I step back out of view from the hallway and listen. There’s silence for a few seconds before he speaks . . .
“Where the fuck am I? I’m at home, that’s where the fuck I am … Why the fuck would I? Just so I could watch your drunk ass flirt with every goddamn man in the place? …
“Oh, is that right? Well, you stay and have your fun. I’ve got eyes on you, sweetheart, and they’ll be taking notes and reporting your every fucking move back to me. I know how you’ve been spending your Wednesday afternoons and who you’ve been spending them with.”
His words are slurred, his voice loud, letting me know not only is he drunk but that he’s also very pissed off.
“Yeah? Can you prove that?” Michael continues. “Go fuck yourself, Carmen, or better yet, give your twenty-year-old boy-toy a call and give me even more evidence of your whoring ways before I serve you . . . Watch me, you’ll be getting nothing.”
There’s a short pause, during which time, Michael steps into my line of sight. He’s a short, stocky man, and if Wikipedia is accurate, he’s about to turn fifty-five, but I would have picked him as closer to sixty. His hair’s completely grey and receding to the point where only the back of his head has hair.
He sways on the spot and almost snarls at whatever’s just been said to him on the phone, “Fuck you, Carmen. Fuck. You.”
Michael throws his phone, but, before it lands, I turn and rush to Oliver's room. I shake him gently until he wakes and explain that we’re going to my apartment. I help him up onto his unsteady legs and guide him to Amelia’s room. She’s a tiny little thing, so without rousing her, I lift her into my arms and carry her to my apartment.
I’ve only just got them both settled in my bed when there’s a loud banging on the door, which leads from the main house. My stomach lurches, forcing my heart to feel like it’s somewhere in my throat, where it pounds loudly. Moving silently back towards my door, I double-check that I slid the deadbolt across after I brought the kids to my room.
“You’ve got my kids in there, Billie, open this fucking door,” Michael demands from the other side.
I have absolutely no idea what to do. I’ve never been alone in the house with him when he’s been in this state, and right now, I’m terrified.
Drew, the Bosworth’s driver-come-security is who I usually call when things sound as if they’re getting out of hand, but he’s off this weekend.
The door bangs again, and I jump, my hand covering my mouth in an attempt at hiding the squeal I let out. Remaining pressed flat against the wall, I back away from the door, grab my phone from the kitchen counter, and go into my bedroom.
