JAKE NEEDED A HOUSEKEEPER.
But not the live-in kind. The last thing he wanted was someone underfoot all the time, picking up after him, forcing him to make conversation and invading his space. The reason Jake had bought a house a few years ago was to have his own space.
After spending weeks in hospital and then another month at the rehabilitation clinic, he’d wanted nothing more than to be by himself. So he’d turned down the offers to live with relatives and bought this place in East Balmain, calling it a thirtieth birthday present to himself.
He’d thought he could make do with a cleaner coming in three times a week. And he had managed—in a fashion, even in the beginning when he’d been pretty useless, his leg still not totally healed. He’d shopped online and sent his laundry out, a routine he’d continued even after he was fully better and back working.
But it had finally become tedious, seeing to all the other chores which owning and maintaining a house involved. He loathed having to wait for tradespeople, who didn’t always turn up on time. Patience was not his strong suit.
Jake could well afford to pay someone to do everything for him. He’d already been a wealthy man before the success of his television show, so it had never been a matter of money. More of privacy.
Not that he had much privacy any more, his star having risen over the last couple of years, his every move recorded on social media and in the gossip rags.
But not at home. His home was his sanctuary, as well as his castle. So it was imperative that Jake find the right kind of housekeeper, a task which had proven to be much more difficult than he’d assumed, mostly because he simply hadn’t liked any of the women he’d interviewed for the position.
It was silly, really, given he wouldn’t have to have anything much to do with the woman on a personal basis. His brief to the various employment agencies was for his housekeeper to work only during the week, not at the weekends. She was to come in after he left for work every weekday morning, and be gone by the time he arrived home, which often wasn’t until quite late. Producing and hosting Australia at Noon consumed every minute of every weekday from morning until late afternoon.
So it shouldn’t really matter whether he liked his housekeeper or not.
But he couldn’t stomach the thought of someone he didn’t like in his personal space when he wasn’t there.
The main problem was that every woman he’d interviewed so far had been a big fan of his show. Not a crime, admittedly. But irritating. They had all been way too gushy. And way too eager.
Jake was suspicious of eager, especially when it came to women. A flaw, he supposed, common with confirmed bachelors. Still, he kept picturing them putting things about their wonderful new job and their wonderful new boss on all the social media sites they would invariably be on, complete with photos.
The upshot was he hadn’t hired any of them, and was instead waiting for another candidate to arrive, sent out by Housewives For Hire, a newish employment agency, the owner of which had fortuitously appeared on a segment of his show a few days ago.
Her agency promised to provide exactly the sort of employee he was looking for. Apparently, the women on their books were mostly housewives themselves, wanting to earn extra money whilst their children were at school.
He’d rung the lady who owned the agency the other night—her name was Barbara—explaining what kind of housekeeper he needed. He’d asked her to find him someone suitable, preferably a woman who didn’t obsessively watch his show and think he was God’s gift to women.
She’d promised to find him the right person.
So here he was, sitting in his study at five to two on a Saturday afternoon, waiting to interview Barbara’s top recommendation, but thinking to himself he was possibly wasting his time again.
This woman Barbara was sending him was way too young for starters. Only twenty-six. And a widow no less. How on earth had that happened?
Barbara hadn’t said and he hadn’t liked to ask.
Jake sighed. A car accident, he supposed. Or an illness of some kind.
At least she didn’t have children. Nothing sadder than a young widow trying to raise children alone. Nothing tougher, either.
This young woman—her name was Abby Jenkins—was apparently looking for work and wasn’t qualified for much, her very short CV showing she had left high school at seventeen to work in a fish and chip shop till she’d married at twenty, shortly after which she’d left to become a stay-at-home housewife.
A strange choice for a modern young woman. Rather old-fashioned, in Jake’s opinion. Made her sound a little odd. He didn’t fancy employing