Beth Johnson, an upbeat, hardworking, single mum living in London takes
the humorous challenges of life in her stride. Her career is
fast-tracking but that’s secondary to baby Jacob – his care and
development are paramount. When her impeccably-organized childcare
routine implodes at the worst possible moment, she has no choice but to
leave Jacob with unlikely ‘nanny’, Davit Kacharava, a Georgian migrant.
Is she making an enormous mistake, letting this stranger into her
comfortable world, even if he is gorgeous? She’s drawn to Davit but he
resists, so why does she reveal to him the shocking secret that
overshadows her life? And can she face the truth – do what’s right for
herself, Jacob and Davit – before it’s too late?
Excerpt:
“Do you have any experience?” I ask Davit.
His grey eyes, like dark steel, are intent on my mouth.
I’m thinking aircraft carriers, the North Sea in winter, and all the Eastern
Bloc baddies in 24.
“Say?”
“Childcare experience?”
He thinks for a moment. “I have small brothers, sister.”
“Great.”
“Mother, father.”
“And?”
I wait. Nothing. He looks down at his boots.
“Are you a professional nanny, um, Davit? Child carer?” I
ask.
He looks up quickly, his face blank. I try again. “What
job do you do?”
“Woodcutter.”
“You cut down trees?” That would explain the massive arms
and the tan. But I’m having trouble working out the link between tree felling
and baby care.
“I cut furniture,” he says.
I look at my kitchen and imagine the cupboards, table and
chairs reduced to kindling in the flash of a wielded axe, possibly lurking in
the bag at his feet – a bag that looks like a cross between Goliath’s golf bag
and a size XXL body bag.
“Carpenter,” he says, rapping broad knuckles on my prized
little butcher’s block trolley. It rocks with fright. “I make.”
I turn to Fenella. “Fenella.” I drop the “Ms Forsythe” in
an attempt at authority. “I’m sure your childcare agency is the best in London,
but he’s a carpenter, not a nanny. And, by the way, he can’t speak English.”
“Neither can your baby,” she retorts, reaching into her
bag for a mobile phone that’s singing an aria from La Traviata. I glimpse a pack of Benson & Hedges. She ignores
the bit about carpenter versus nanny, concentrating on her phone.
“This is Trevor,” she says, “your boss,” (as if I don’t
know). “Time to go.” She ducks away, the phone to her ear. “Absolutely fine,
Trevor. We’re on our way.”
Like hell. I’m numb all over, except for a small
twisting, panicky knot in my tummy. The clock ticks on.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say.
Fenella’s eyes narrow, stretching her face to breaking
point. I fear backlash from the ponytail. She stretches out her arms, and pats
the air in front of her, like the Pope.
“Everything will be all right, Beth.”
“I wouldn’t leave my child with a stranger for one
minute!”
“Many people do.” She’s using a calm, slow, warning tone,
like she’s talking me down from a ledge.
“They don’t.”
“Oh, but they do.” She folds her arms, furling the wings.
“And they use professionals. Look at it like this. You go to a dentist you’ve
probably known for years, right?”
“Yes.”
“But, if you need specialist work he refers you to a
specialist dental surgeon and you go along happily and trust your precious
teeth to a complete stranger, who charges you like a wounded buffalo.”
She’s right. She has a point and I tell her so. But Jacob
is my human baby, not a tooth.
“And this guy is a Russian carpenter,” I point at Davit,
“not a professional child carer.”
“Georgian,” Davit growls, dipping his heavy brows at me.
“From Tbilisi.”
Fenella holds up her hands. “All right.” She inclines her
neat head. “He was installing built-in cupboards in my friend Charles
Davenport’s house in Marlborough Crescent. Charles is a heart surgeon and his
wife, Francesca, a senior partner in a law firm. A huge law firm,” she adds, as if it matters. “They had an, er, housekeeping crisis and Davit took it
all in his stride for a few days.”
“I see,” I say, although I don’t. “How old are the
Davenport kids?”
“Sixteen and eighteen,” she says, proud as you like. “The
Davenports are friends of Trevor’s too. Trevor will vouch for them.”
So what? Jacob’s weighing a ton in my arms. He’s sliding
down my front, wet now because he’s been sucking the top button of my shirt.
Davit steps forward and takes him. I hang on for dear
life, but am no match for those ginormous biceps. Muscleman Davit doesn’t
register the slightest resistance. Jacob is thrilled (you could toss him into
the lineout at a rugby game and he’d be thrilled) and he smiles and claps his
hands, and then his face goes solemn. He’s staring at Davit with round blue
eyes, reaching out, fingers stretched into a pink starfish. There’s a row of darling
dimples where his knuckles are going to be. He touches the shadow of stubble on
Davit’s cheek.
“Bub,” he says, patting, enjoying the texture.
Davit smiles, showing perfect teeth and a dimple of his
own. He glances at me and our eyes catch for a moment. I’m not thinking
aircraft carriers and wintry sea anymore, rather grey cashmere, and the warm
silver ears of the Siamese kitten that comes over the fence from next door.
I subside onto the kitchen chair. “I don’t know—”
“Come on, Beth. Let’s not be late,” Fenella says. “I’ll
drive you to the airport.”
No escape.
*****
Images of white beaches with palm trees swaying in a gentle breeze fit the idea of a romance novel better. Places readers associate with traditional honeymoon destinations seem to be the preferred setting —or part of the setting— for most romance novels. The Trouble with Mojitos by Romy Sommer. These are relaxing settings where the characters can concentrate on their relationship without the interference of nature’s whims. Granted, a storm or two could spice up the setting, but it remains a traditionally romantic setting.
