“Lunch,” I answer, cutting up Holly’s, the youngest Russell, into small pieces. She’s just turned four, and a total hurricane. Then there’s Arthur, the middle at five, who seems to take immense joy in correcting my English at every opportunity. He’s hailed as the creative one of the three siblings. He acts and sings everything he says and does.
So, basically, Mrs. Russell was permanently pregnant for three years. And now, her husband’s new PA is providing light relief and looking after her boisterous army of kids whenever she so desires. And today she so desires to go Christmas shopping. I’ve been in the job for a month. This was most certainly not in the job description. In the past few weeks, I’ve cooked dinner and fed their kids more nights than not. It’s not long-term, according to Mr. Russell. And my help is much appreciated, apparently. It’s the time of year, so he says. Parties to attend and fun to be had. That’s all good and well, but it’s Christmas Eve, my parents are due to arrive in a few hours, I haven’t bought one present, put up a tree, or prepared the guest room for them. I’ve been too busy being a skivvy to the Russells. But what am I going to say? No? To Mr. Pete Russell? The man can open endless doors for me in the world of journalism.
“We usually have a sandwich for lunch,” Petal mumbles. “And a lot earlier than this.”
I grit my teeth. “There’s no bread. We’ll call this an early dinner.”
“Well if it’s dinner, where’s the vegetables?” Petal pipes up again. “Mum says we have to have vegetables with every meal.”
“Then Mum should be here to cook for you.” I smile sarcastically but immediately chastise myself for it. She’s a kid. It’s not her fault her parents are selfish arseholes. “Eat up,” I order them all gently, grabbing my phone off the counter when it rings. “Mum,” I sigh, despite trying not to, as I walk across the kitchen and start collecting up the toys scattered everywhere.
“Hello, Shannon darlin’.” Her soft Irish accent soothes me, and I need soothing. “I have an update for you. We’ve just docked.”
I smile. I’ve had an update every hour since she woke up this morning. “Good crossing?”
“A bit choppy. Your dad got seasick.” She chuckles. “He’s spent the past eight hours looking green.”
“You should have flown. It’s an hour, and Dad wouldn’t be green.”
“You know your father. He can’t get comfy on those plane things. And it ain’t natural for us to be thirty thousand feet in the air. Is the tree up? You know your dad likes a good tree.”
“Of course,” I lie.
“Turkey ready?”
“Just prepared it.”
“And you got the sausage meat so Dad can make his special stuffing to stuff the bird?”
Now that I have done. “Check.”
“Marvelous. Finished all your chores?”
I drop a few Lego bricks into the toy trunk and look across the kitchen, where three children are all eating quietly. “All my chores are done.” Another lie, but I don’t want her to worry. Come hell or high water, I’ll have everything ready for their arrival, and I’ll have gifts for all, too. On that note, I glance at the huge station house clock on the bare brick wall in the Russells’ kitchen. Three o’clock. The stores close in two and a half hours, and Mrs. Russell gave me her word she’d be home by two thirty. I’d booked this afternoon off to do Christmas stuff, not babysit. “So looking forward to seeing you, Ma.”
“You, too, darl—” She’s cut short by a loud yelp, and I dart my eyes to the kids at the table. “What was that?” she asks, and I cringe. Ma wasn’t best pleased when I told her I’d helped out once or twice with my boss’s kids. She said I’d be a skivvy before I knew it. And I hate that she was right.
I stare in horror as Petal points at Holly. “Shannon, look what she did.”
“Shannon,” Ma asks down the line, “is that a child shouting I hear?”
“Might be,” I squeak. “Ma, any idea how to get a marble out of a kid’s nostril?” I rush over and take Holly’s fork from her hand as she pokes at her nostril with her finger. “Stop, you’ll push it up more.”
“You’re looking after his kids again?” Ma asks, obviously shocked, and a bit disgusted, too. “The feckin’ nerve those people have. Where the bloody hell are they?”
“Work emergency.” Yet another lie, and before I can spill more, I say, “Ma, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.”
“Aye, ya will.” She huffs a few times and then hangs up, understandably pissed off. She struggled enough when I left Ireland two years ago . . . and for a man. A man who dumped me for a leggy blonde with killer boobs and a brain the size of a pea. Now Ma’s struggling with the fact that I haven’t returned to my homeland after my life went tits-up because of that arsehole. But there are more opportunities here for me. More chances to climb the ladder.