And besides, I don’t need Daisy seeing another failed relationship.
“I think you’re in love…” Oisin practically sings. He might be reaching 30, but he sure as hell still acts like a child sometimes.
And as a typical older brother, I can’t help but bite. “Fuck off, dickhead,” I snap, “haven’t you got a job to do?”
He rolls his eyes and sighs, before striding across the room to pick up his leather jacket. “Sure do, bro.”
Before he leaves, he raises his hand and winks. “Tell my new sister-in-law I say hello, alright?”
“Suck it.”
* * *
The rest of the day goes by in a blur of knocking on doors and plucking viscous-looking items out of my toolbox. No matter how many teeth I pull or knee caps I smash, my heart isn’t in it.
I can’t stop thinking about her. About that goddamn apartment she’s in.
I’ll get her out of there as soon as I can, I vow to myself, taking a hammer to Mr. Riley’s right hand for the second time in as many minutes.
As soon as it hits 6pm, I’m saying my goodbyes to the team and I’m out the office door.
I don’t fuck around with overtime on Wednesdays. If I haven’t finished with a target, I’ll leave them tied up to their radiator until Thursday morning.
I keep a steady eye on the clock of my dashboard as I power through downtown traffic. By the time I pull into the underground car park of my Upper East Side penthouse, it’s only 6.15pm.
I’m not joking when I say I don’t fuck around with Wednesdays.
I can already feel my mood lifting as I give a polite nod to the elevator operator, even asking him how his day was. He can’t seem to hide the surprise on his face as he tells me it’s going very well.
Guess I’m not the most talkative of residents.
I barely make it through the front door when I feel her clumsy hands wrapping around my legs.
“Daddy!” Daisy shouts, quickly followed by a gasp from Coralie, her nanny.
“No, no, no,” she whispers, her neat ponytail bobbing up and down as she runs down the reception hall to pick my daughter up by the waist. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bryne. We’ve been making macaroni necklaces, her hands are covered in glue.”
Her face flusters as she eyes the sticky mess on my grey Armani trousers. “Don’t worry about it,” I reply, taking my daughter from her and nuzzling my face in her soft red curls. “You’re free to go.”
She says her goodbyes to Daisy and makes a swift exit.
I’m a busy man, and I hate having to rely on a babysitter for 12 hours a day. I try to work from home as much as possible… but that can only happen when I’m doing paperwork. I can’t exactly kidnap debtors and chain them up in the spare room next to my daughter’s nursery just to be closer to her.
So I try to do what I can. I usually have breakfast with her and take her to school most days. But Wednesday is the one day I make sure I’m not working late, so we can hang out, have dinner and watch a movie.
My ex-wife has her every other weekend, but I get the impression she wouldn’t have Daisy at all if she could get away with it. Weekends, according to Olivia, are meant for brunches and shopping sprees, all paid for by the divorce settlement. And that’s pretty hard when you have a six-year-old hanging ‘round your ankles.
“Look, daddy,” Daisy shouts, running into the living room to retrieve her macaroni masterpiece. She’s really into all things creative at the moment. Things that happen to be incredibly messy.
I follow her into the living room and try not to sigh as I see the damp patch on the Persian rug under the coffee table. I can only imagine a terrified Coralie frantically scrubbing at the mess before I got home.
But my annoyance turns to pride once Daisy shoves her chubby palm under my nose, holding her latest creation. “It’s a bracelet,” she beams.
“Wow,” I reply, taking it from her and tying it around my wrist, along with the other four from last week. “That’s amazing. Thank you, sweetie. I’m building up quite a collection.”
She chatters about her day and who her new best friend in her class is as we make our way into the kitchen. I sit her on the counter and begin pulling open drawers and cupboards, only half listening to her rambling on, with the rest of my brain wondering what we can concoct for dinner.
I bypass the prepared meals the chef always leaves for us, because every Wednesday, we cook together. It’s our thing.
And every Wednesday, I’m reminded that I can’t cook to save my fucking life.
“Well done, baby. I’m so glad you have a good day in school.” I twist open the spaghetti container, just like I end up doing every Wednesday. Pasta with a jar sauce and a whole lotta cheese always seems to do the trick.
As I balance Daisy on my hip so that she can stir the sauce with her clumsy fist, I can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness. This is the type of thing she should be doing every day with one of her parents, at least. Coralie is a great nanny, but she’s exactly that — a nanny. A paid member of staff who clocks in and out and, although I’m sure she’s very fond of my daughter, she’s only really here for the paycheck.
But when I think about my ex-wife, I realize that everyone in my life, apart from my brother, is here for the paycheck. And soon, Violet will be, too.
The pasta is so soft it starts to disintegrate as I’m plating it up, but finished with a heap of cheese, it’ll fill a hole. We settle down on the sofa to watch Beauty and the Beast for the third time this month, and I laugh as Daisy smacks her lips as if she’s eating a Michelin star meal.
You can always count on your kids to be your biggest cheerleaders, I guess.
As Belle wanders through the streets singing that goddamn song I’ve heard so many times that it now haunts me in my sleep, my mind goes back to Violet, my soon to be wife.
I imagine her sitting here with us, curled up on the sofa singing along to all the Disney songs with Daisy. When she finally nods off before the credits, I put her to bed as Violet pours out a glass of wine, and we sit on the sofa and talk about our lives.
I quickly snap myself out of the ridiculous scenario.
It’s just business. A transaction. So calm the fuck down.
Daisy’s head nuzzles into my armpit, a sign that she’s getting sleepy. I ruffle her curls and stroke her freckled cheek. How will she react to having another person in the house? I hate the idea of her getting attached to someone new… only for them to disappear in three months.
Well, she’s used to the staff. We have enough of them, after all. She loves her nanny, the chef and the housekeeper, but she understands that they go home at the end of the day. I guess I’ll just have to tell her that Violet is a member of staff that won’t be going home. And that to keep away from her.
Yeah, that’ll work.
When she starts quietly snoring, I turn off the TV and gently lift her up over my shoulder. I duck my head to get into her glittery pink bedroom and tuck her in. My lips brush her soft forehead as I whisper goodnight.
She’s my world. The only female I need in my life.
And there’s no way in hell she’ll be getting a stepmom anytime soon.