THE NEARLY-WEDS

Chapter one

I’m trying to create the air of a sophisticated world traveler but am not sure I’m pulling it off. I think I gave the game away immediately by enthusiastically testing one too many fragrances in the Duty Free, meaning I now exude an aroma pungent enough to wake someone from a coma.

I’ve also been let down by my cotton top, the one I was convinced looked like an item I’d picked up in the South Pacific – until I realized the H&M price tag was poking out.

I’m currently attempting to balance the empty packaging from my in-flight meal on top of a ludicrously-proportioned tray and an undrinkable cup of coffee without it tumbling onto my neighbor’s lap. It’s like a real-life version of KerPlunk, with every item threatening to wobble off at the slightest hint of turbulence.

Unlike the guy sitting next to me – who has tucked his freshening wipe into his empty cup and stacked the salt and pepper packets in his beef casserole container – I have ended up with a compost heap of plastic and foil debris.

‘Shall I take that for you, madam?’ asks a flight attendant, swiping it away before I can prevent a knife clattering ont to my table.

‘Whoops!’ I bluster, as she steams ahead with her cart down the aisle, nearly taking the skin off several passengers’ knuckles.

Oh God. Why am I so nervous?

Why does this all feel like such a bad idea when, a day ago, I was convinced it was my only option. I press my back into my seat and try to mentally hum that tune that was always on the radio when I was a kid and Mum was cremating the Sunday dinner.

‘I’m leaving on a jet plane . . .’

The song was about embracing new beginnings.  Moving on. Discovering a whole new world. Problem is, this sort of thing is entirely new to me.

My family have never been big on foreign travel. We had the odd package vacation to Spain or Greece, but more often stayed closer to home in the UK. I’ve never been abroad by myself before and certainly not this far: three and a half thousand miles across the Atlantic, all the way to America.

If you’d told me six months ago that I’d be making a trip like this, I’d never have believed you. Except here I am. Actually doing it. Even if I wish it was with a little more panache . . .

For the past seven years, until last Friday, in fact, I worked in a daycare center called ‘Bumblebees’. Recently, I’d been promoted to deputy manager - the youngest they’d ever had, as my mum informs anyone she meets within thirty seconds of conversation. This achievement doesn’t so much reflect ruthless ambition as the simple fact that I loved my work - a relief given that I’d dropped out of the first year of a law degree to pursue a career in early years education.

The real point is that ‘Bumblebees’ was six minutes’ walk from the house in which I grew up, twenty-one minutes’ drive from the hospital where I was born and so close to my former secondary school you could see the sports pitch from one of the windows.

I realize this sounds unadventurous for a twenty-eight year old. But I was so happy I couldn’t see any reason to venture any further. I had my dream job. A wonderful boyfriend. There were times it felt too good to be true. And, sadly, it turned out to be exactly that.

There’s a moment during the flight when I catch sight of my reflection in the bathroom mirror with an unpleasant jolt. People used to compliment my brown eyes and full mouth. Now, my most striking feature is my skin, which is so pale I look virtually translucent in this harsh light. I’ve lost so much weight lately that my jeans are hanging off me. Trust me, it doesn’t look good.

What has caused all this? Oh, what do you think?

A man. My man, to be precise. At least, he used to be that. I can now say categorically that Jason Redmond – high-flying sales rep, tennis champion, charmer of friends, parents and small children (judging by my toddler cousin, at least) - no longer answers to that description.

‘Are you flying to the US on vacation?’ asks my American neighbor, when I return to my seat.

‘Oh . . . it’s going to be a bit more than that. I’ve got a visa to work here for a year.’

‘Cool,’ he says.

‘Whether I’ll last that long is another matter,’ I say, with a smile.

‘You think you’ll get homesick?’

I can hardly bring myself to confess the answer: I haven’t even landed yet and I already am. Fortunately, a voice comes over the speaker before I get the chance to say anything.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We will shortly be making our descent into JFK . . .’

I sit up in my seat and take a deep breath. New life, here I come.

I’m sure Hollywood is to blame for this, but we Brits are so familiar with American culture that sometimes it’s hard to think of the US as a foreign country. The second I step off the plane though, I feel like I might as well be on the far side of Jupiter.

I wander round the terminal, trying not to have too helpless a look on my face, while enveloped in unfamiliar sights and sounds: accents that make my own vowels sound so British I feel like someone auditioning to read the BBC news in 1953. Language I recognize – diapers, cell phones, mommies, zip codes – but have never used myself. Half of this makes me fizz with excitement; the other is already yearning for the comfort of home.

I had an inkling of this sensation when I spoke to my new employers on the phone last week. I’m on my way to be a live-in nanny for the two small daughters of Josh and Karen Ockerbloom. The Ockerblooms run a real estate company just outside Kalamazoo, Michigan – my ultimate destination – and they sound unbelievably warm and hospitable, at pains to stress how excited they were to welcome me into their home.

On top of that, I get my own car, I won’t be expected to do chores - they have other staff for that – and they’d like me to go on vacation with them to Bermuda next month, all expenses paid. Yes, I know. Tough gig.

There’s a ping on my phone and I unlock it to find a voice message from someone at the agency I arranged all this through. She sounds almost breathless as she speaks.

‘Zoe! Slight change of plan. Do give me a ring when you have a chance. And, most importantly, before you get on your connecting flight.’

When I call her back, a long conversation ensues, during which it emerges that I’m no longer going to Kalamazoo. Karen and Josh have found an alternative nanny, someone who was with them last year and suddenly became available again after they came to an agreement about a pay rise Now, I’m being diverted to a town called Middleburg, Virginia. I can’t help thinking this change is more than ‘slight’.

I’m now going to work for a Mrs R. Miller, to look after her two children, Ruby, who is nearly six, and Samuel, who just turned three.

I grip my rucksack and tell myself this will all be fine. I’m sure Bermuda is over-rated anyway.

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