I feel totally inadequate as I scroll through pictures of smiley girls with long shiny hair cooking vegetable risottos, bouncing balls in the garden, or dressed up in judo kit. No wonder Minnie has tantrums. It’s because no one’s doing martial arts or making sushi with her. All this time, I’ve totally deprived her. Suddenly making jam tarts in the kitchen with Mum seems totally lame. We don’t even make the pastry ourselves, we get it out of a packet. We have to hire an Ultimate Nanny, as soon as possible.
The only thing is – tiny point – do I want some shiny-haired girl dancing around the place in her tight jeans and sushi-making apron? What if she and Luke really hit it off? What if he wants ‘martial arts’ lessons too?
I hesitate for a moment, my hand hovering over the mouse-pad. Come on. I have to be mature here. I have to think of the benefits to Minnie. I have to remember that I have a loving, faithful husband, and that last time I thought he was playing away with a shiny-red-haired girl whose name I won’t even deign to remember (you see, Venetia? That’s how little you mean to me), I’d got it all wrong.
Plus, if the nanny is really sexy and swishy-haired, I can arrange her hours so Luke never sees her.
Seized by determination, I fill in the form and press ‘Send’. This is the answer! Bring in the experts. The only person I’ll have to talk round is Mum. She’s not keen on nannies. Or day-care. Or even babysitters. But that’s only because she watches too many Real Life Dramas about evil nutcase nannies. I mean, not every nanny can be a stalker impersonating a dead woman with the FBI on her tail, surely?
And doesn’t she want her grandchild to be accomplished and well balanced? Doesn’t she want Minnie to be a success of tomorrow?
Exactly.
I head downstairs and find Suze with Luke and Tarquin in the sitting room. There’s an empty coffee pot and a massive mound of paperwork on the table. They’ve obviously been hard at it.
‘You have to think of Shetland Shortbread as a brand,’ Luke is saying. ‘You’re sitting on something that could be a huge global success, but you need to raise its profile. Find a story, a personality, a USP, an angle. Establish your brand values.’ He looks all fired up and enthusiastic, the way he always does when he can see potential in a new project.
Tarquin, on the other hand, looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
‘Absolutely,’ he says nervously. ‘Brand values. Ahm … Suze, darling, Luke’s been terribly helpful. We can’t thank you enough.’
‘Really, it’s nothing.’ Luke claps him on the shoulder. ‘But you need to sort yourself out, Tarquin. Build an effective business team, strategize, and go from there.’
I stifle a giggle. Even I know that Tarquin isn’t the strategizing sort.
‘I’ll read those contracts for you and give you my take on them.’ Luke picks up his BlackBerry. ‘I know your people have approved them, but as I said, I think you can do better.’
‘Really, Luke,’ protests Tarquin feebly. ‘You’ve given me far too much time and expertise already …’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Luke shoots him a brief smile and switches his BlackBerry back on.
Tarquin’s bony face is growing flushed. He shoots an agonized glance at Suze, twists his hands and clears his throat.
‘Luke, I know you have your own company,’ he suddenly blurts out. ‘But I’d be delighted to offer you a job. Business manager of the entire estate, all my concerns. Any salary. Any terms.’
‘A job?’ Luke looks taken aback.
‘Oh, yes!’ Suze claps her hands with enthusiasm. ‘Brilliant idea! That would be amazing. We could provide accommodation, too, couldn’t we?’ she adds to Tarkie. ‘The little castle in Perthshire would be perfect! I mean, not nearly as nice as your house in Maida Vale,’ she adds loyally. ‘But as a second home?’
‘Any terms?’ says Luke slowly.
‘Yes,’ replies Tarquin after only a moment’s hesitation. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’ll do it for 60 per cent of all gross revenues,’ Luke shoots back.
There’s a stunned silence. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is Luke seriously considering giving up Brandon Communications to run the Cleath-Stuart estate?
Would we live in a castle?
Oh my God. We’d be a clan. We could have our own tartan! Hot pink with silver and black. It would be the ‘McBloomwood of Brandon’ tartan, and we’d do Scottish dancing and Luke would wear a sporran …
‘I … ahm …’ Tarquin glances wildly at Suze. ‘Ahm. That seems … reasonable …’