I know that once I start scratching her silky soft surface, I’m gonna find something too hard to walk away from.
It’s better this way, I remind myself for the fourth time in as many minutes. Keep her at arms length. Keep it all business.
“No women,” I mutter to myself aloud, the warmth of the wine loosening my lips. “not even ones that look like that.”
14
Violet
If I didn’t have to be at the diner in forty-five minutes, I’d stay under this rain forest shower all morning. Probably all afternoon, too.
The hot water caresses my body like a friendly hug, melting away any frustration I have with my new socially inept husband.
Maybe this would be easier if he wasn’t so goddamn hot.
But I just have to accept it: it’s purely business. Like a job, almost. A year-long contract with three months spent working… abroad.
A smile rises to my lips at my own analogy. I guess it is like being abroad, because it’s so far away from my usual life.
I give myself enough time bask in my new dressing room. Pulling out my freshly ironed uniform and sitting down at the ornate dresser to pull my thick curls up into a neat bun.
I’ve been here for less than twenty-four hours, but this room already feels like a sanctuary. A safe space.
The kitchen downstairs, however, does not.
I find myself unbuttoning my top button and smoothing down the fabric of my trousers over my ass before I make my way downstairs. I’m expecting to see Donnacha at the counter again, maybe with a coffee instead of wine this time, but there’s someone else sitting in his space.
Her flame-red hair is pulled into two pigtails, her alabaster skin decorated with a smattering of freckles. When she spots me, her chubby hand drops her plastic fork.
“Hello,” I say, scanning the empty kitchen and beyond to see if I can figure out where the hell this little girl has come from.
“Hello,” she whispers back, her big blue eyes never leaving mine. “Who are you?”
“Uh… Violet. Who are you?”
“Daisy,” she says with a toothy grin, “I’m six.” Just before she scoops a fresh spoonful of eggs into her mouth, she lets out a loud gasp. “Oopsies! I’m not meant to talk to you.”
Before I can ask her why, there’s a clatter behind me, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps. “Daisy,” comes a woman’s voice. I turn around to see who it belongs to.
A pretty white girl, around the same age as me, with blonde waves pulled back into a neat ponytail. Her eyes graze over me for just a second, before she starts fussing over the little girl, scooping up her breakfast crumbs and dumping it in the trash.
“Hello,” I say a little more sourly this time. “Are you not allowed to talk to me either?”
Her shoulders sag. “Hey,” she mumbles, offering me an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry. Busy mornings, you know? I’m Coralie.” She lifts her hand, but then decides against sticking it out for a handshake.
“I’m Violet.”
“I know.” Her smile is tighter than her ponytail.
“Is this your daughter?” I’m surprised Donnacha would let his staff bring their kids to work.
But confusion flashes across her face. “Daisy? No, she’s Donnacha’s daughter.”
Her words hit me like a tonne of bricks.
Donnacha has a daughter?
Looking at the little girl through fresh eyes, it’s now immediately obvious. The bright blue eyes, the same slender nose.
Even with the ashes of this bombshell settling dust in my brain, I remember what Daisy just said.
“Who said you’re not allowed to talk to me?” I ask the little girl. Before she can reply, Coralie lifts her up in one swift motion and wraps her hand around the back of her head, shielding her pink ears.
“It’s uh, you know, nothing personal,” Coralie mutters with a small shrug. “He doesn’t want to confuse her. I’m sure you understand.”
And then she’s gone with the speed of an efficient nanny, sweeping the girl out of the room before I get my voice back.
***
“A child, Felix!” I groan, jumping out of the path of another server bustling from the kitchen to the dining area with a customer’s french fries.
He settles against the counter, his arms folded over his chest and his smirk giving me that ‘I told you so’ vibe. “Wait, so you married him without knowing he had a kid? Jesus, way to do your research, Vi.”
I swat him with the soggy dishcloth I’m wringing in my hands. “He didn’t mention it! And what’s worse, he’s told her that he’s not allowed to speak to me.”
“But why?”
“The nanny said something about it being too confusing. But I think…” my sentence trails off because I don’t know what I think. All I do know is that he’s an asshole.
A sour laugh escapes my lips. I don’t know what I expected from this little arrangement, but it wasn’t this.
“You thought what?” Felix presses.
“That maybe he’d be a little nicer,” I blurt out. “That maybe, we’d spend a little time together. I’d learn more about him…” I trail off again, this time because I’m embarrassed about exposing my mini fantasy.
Felix raises an eyebrow. “This ain’t a Disney film, girl,” he laughs.
“Yeah, you got that right,” I grumble back.
I steal a glance at the kitchen clock and toss my dish rag on the counter. “I gotta get back to work,” I sigh.
“Me too. Listen, Vi. Don’t put up with his shit. He may be paying off your debts, but he needs you more than you need him. Remember that.”
Felix’s advice settles like dust on my brain as I greet a family of four and show them to their table. He’s right.
Donnacha isn’t just doing me a favor, I’m doing him one, too. And now I know he has a daughter to stick around for, the ball is fully in my court.
15
Atlas
I cancelled my evening call-out in the hope I see her back at the house. But I’ve put Daisy to bed, drank half a bottle of 1929 Merlot Toscana, and Lianne is about to clock off for the night.
And she still isn’t home.
Sitting in my usual spot at the breakfast bar, I have one eye on the clock and the other on the front door.
Lianne absentmindedly brushes a few crumbs off the counter.
“Lianne. Did you see Violet this morning?”
“No. Why?”
I answer her question with another question. “Do you know what time she’ll be back?”
“No,” she replies, looking at me with knowing eyes. “Why?”
“Just wondering, that’s all.”
“Would you like me to call her?”
“No. Unless, you think I should?”
“Well, does she have a curfew?”
“No—”
“Well, then,” she snaps, slipping on her puffer jacket and pulling her handbag over her shoulder. “You should leave her to it. She’s a grown woman, she can come home whenever she wants.”