“Sure,” I said. “I’m great with kids.”

This was a lie.

“Come along, then,” I said to the little creature, who was staring at me balefully.

“Be sure to wash her hair. And put conditioner in it,” Mary said.

Somehow I got the child to take my hand and follow me up the stairs and into the bathroom. She took off her clothes willingly enough, but then the trouble began.

“Don’t touch hair,” she screamed.

“I’m going to touch your hair,” I said. “Hair. Nice clean hair. Shampoo. Don’t you want pretty clean hair?”

“Who are you?” she asked, rather sensibly, as she was naked in front of a complete stranger.

“I’m your mommy’s friend.”

“How come I never saw you before?”

“Because I was never here before.”

“I don’t like you,” she said.

“I don’t like you either. But I still have to wash your hair.”

“No!”

“Now listen, you little rug-rat,” I said threateningly. “I’m going to wash your hair and that’s it. Get it?”

I squirted the shampoo on her head, and she immediately started screaming and thrashing about like I was murdering her.

In the middle of this fracas, Rory walked in.

“Isn’t this fun?” he said. “Aren’t you having a lovely time?”

“Lovely,” I said.

“Hello, there, tiddlewinks,” he said, waving to the child.

The creature screamed louder.

“Right ho. I’ll see you downstairs, then.”

“Rory,” I said. “Do you think maybe you could give me a hand?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Bathing children is women’s work. I’m going downstairs to open a bottle of champagne. He-man in the kitchen and all that.”

“You know, I really admire you,” Mary said after dinner, when we were washing the dishes. “You’re so smart. Choosing to have a career. And not being pressured to get married. That takes guts, you know?”

“Oh Mary,” I said. She was one of those lovely Englishwomen of whom the Brits are so proud, with a beautiful oval face, clear fair skin, and blue eyes. “Where I come from, what you have is an achievement. A husband, this house, and four . . . adorable . . . children. That’s what every woman wants.”

“You’re very kind. But you’re lying,” she said.

“But your children. . . .

”

“Of course I love my husband and children,” she said. “But half the time I feel like I’m invisible. If something happened to me, I wonder if they would even miss me. I know they’d miss what I do for them. But would they actually miss me?”

Tags: Candace Bushnell Fiction
Source: readsnovelonline.net