A Nanny For Christmas. Sara Craven

was one of them.

      He was at university, reading Fine Arts, because, as he’d said, he couldn’t think of anything more useful, and Tiffany, apparently, had known him ‘for ever’.

      He was tall and blond, with blue eyes which crinkled at the corners, and a glossy Mediterranean tan acquired in the Greek islands earlier that summer. And, yes, he’d confirmed, grinning, it was all over, if anyone wanted to check. He was a marvellous swimmer, a terrific tennis player and an exuberantly sexy dancer.

      Phoebe had never encountered anyone quite like him. Up to the time of his arrival, she’d been feeling very much the odd one out. There was no one else she knew there, and everyone else seemed so much smarter and streetwise than she did.

      She was miserably aware that a couple of the girls had christened her ‘Feeble Feeb’ and laughed at her behind her back, and there had been times when she’d wondered if Tiffany was regretting that she’d ever invited her. Certainly she didn’t seem to want to spend much time with her. And, in a house virtually devoid of books, Phoebe often found herself at a loss.

      Eventually, she discovered an elaborate onyx and ivory chess set on a table in the ornate conservatory which served as an extension of the drawing room.

      She was hunched over it one day, half-heartedly working out a chess problem—and considering the more pressing dilemma of what excuse she could make to cut her visit short—when a voice behind her said softly, ‘My God, I don’t believe it. At last, a woman with a brain.’

      Startled, Phoebe turned to find Tony Cathery smiling down at her.

      ‘Black seems to be in a hopeless position,’ he went on, pulling up a chair opposite her. ‘Let’s see what I can do.’

      By the time the problem was solved, Phoebe was shyly hanging on his every word.

      That night he sat beside her at dinner, and made her join in the dancing afterwards. Phoebe could see the surprise on the other girls’ faces, and revelled in it.

      Not so Feeble Feeb, she thought joyously.

      But she was also a little nervous. Her sexual experience, apart from a few kisses, was nil. She might be dazzled, but she was also wary, unsure what Tony wanted from her.

      But Tony, oddly, seemed wary too—hesitant to push things too far or too fast between them—and she was grateful for his restraint, at first anyway. Then, as time went on, she began to wonder. To worry a little.

      She was cheered, however, when he told her there was going to be a party the following Friday evening at a house some miles away.

      ‘You are going to come with me, aren’t you?’ he asked almost anxiously.

      ‘I haven’t been invited. Besides, I said I’d go home at the weekend.’

      Tony groaned. ‘Oh, sweetheart, you can’t do this to me. Ring home. Say you’re staying on for a few days.’ He put his hand on the nape of her neck, under the heavy fall of brown hair, and stroked the slender curve very gently, making her body arch in delight.

      He put his lips to her ear, and whispered, ‘I don’t want to part with you, darling. Not yet.’

      The next day, she phoned her father, making some excuse, trying not to hear the disappointment in his voice.

      Because she needed to be with Tony. She couldn’t bear to leave either. Not before...

      Always, at that point, her mind closed off.

      She believed that Tony must want her, otherwise why would he spend so much time exclusively with her? She just wished he would show it rather more openly. Each time he kissed her, he seemed to be holding back. The caresses he offered were exciting, but fleeting too, always short of any real intimacy, leaving her unsatisfied and longing for more.

      And she had other, minor worries too. She wanted to look wonderful for Tony at the party, but she was dismally aware that he’d seen all the clothes she’d brought with her, and there was nothing sensational among them.

      So, when Tiffany had asked her casually what she was planning to wear, and she’d confessed she didn’t know, she’d found herself immediately up in Tiffany’s room, confronted with a whole range of the kind of gear that looked so terrific on the others.

      ‘Well, he certainly fancies you.’ Tiffany, lounging on the bed, wouldn’t let the topic rest.

      Phoebe tried pulling her hair up on top of her head, but it was too heavy and too thick, and kept sliding down again.

      She sighed. ‘I don’t think so.’

      ‘That’s crap. He never leaves you alone.’

      Phoebe sighed again. ‘Actually, he does. He treats me as if I was made of glass and might break.’

      ‘He wouldn’t if he saw you dressed like that,’ Tiffany giggled.

      ‘But he won’t see me.’ Phoebe tried not to sound desolate.

      ‘Of course he will.’ Tiffany sat up. ‘Y’know, your problem is that you give off the wrong vibes. The way you dress and talk and present yourself all says “hands off”, and guys like Tony pick that up. So, on Friday, you’re going to give him a signal that says “I’m available”. And I’m going to help.’

      Phoebe gave her a quick, rather shamefaced look. ‘Are you sure, Tiff? It’s just that I thought—at the beginning—that it was Tony and you...’

      Tiffany laughed. ‘Hardly. We know each other far too well.’ She contemplated Phoebe with a satisfied smile, like the cat with the cream. ‘Put yourself in my hands, and you’ll knock his eyes out on Friday.’

      Phoebe could hardly believe her own eyes when she was finally allowed to look in the mirror on Friday evening. Her own hair was concealed under a shoulder-length blonde wig, which Tiffany had purloined from her mother’s room. Her eyes were slumbrous with kohl, and her lips gleamed a deep, wicked red.

      ‘You look more like Madonna than she does,’ said Tiffany.

      Downstairs, Phoebe was disappointed to discover that Tony had gone ahead to the party with some of the others.

      ‘Whose party is it, anyway?’ she asked Tiffany, who shrugged vaguely.

      ‘Just the usual bash,’ she returned. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

      She’d expected the house to be another designer nightmare, like Tiffany’s, so North Fitton House came as a pleasant surprise. She lingered on the steps, breathing in the fragrance of the night-scented stocks which filled the stone urns flanking the front door.

      Tiffany gave her a little push. ‘Come on. There’s a hungry man waiting in there.’

      Tony’s reaction was all that she could have desired.