Paige and I have fallen into a routine. For reasons I still don't understand and haven't had the stones to ask, she takes a taxi to work and home. The hire car sits in the laneway, abandoned. While she's at work, I try to figure out a routine that makes sense and fail every day. The kids are fed but overtired, and the house is a bit messy when she returns. My effort is there, even if the results aren't yet.

On Monday when Paige started re-doing my hoovering job, I sat in the living room drinking my tea and texting Tejinder. When I suggested Paige's behavior was a tad over the top, he reminded me she was my boss, and then he asked me what I'd do on a building site if the manager started re-doing my bricks. Fair point. Still whinge to my mates, but I wouldn't be sat on my arse doing nothing about it. Fastest way to lose a job is to act like you don't care.

The whole thing reminded me too much of times when Immy would re-do something I'd done—thinking she'd be glad for the attempt—only to discover she'd prefer I didn't. We'd both end up in a strop which would lead to a fight about nothing. Stupidest thing. But I still think there was no point in trying if she was just going to shit on my efforts.

Bit different in a job, though. You can't just give up, or I can't, particularly with this job. If Paige sacks me, Chloe and I are bound for Tejinder's spare bedroom. My rock bottom would be having to turn up on my dad's doorstep, but Tejinder's spare room is only one step removed from that.

With those thoughts in mind, I spent the week teaching myself how to cook a few simple things with mixed results. The spag bol was decent on Tuesday, but I've made that loads of times. On Wednesday, I went with breakfast for dinner, and I fixed up a full English. Two for two. Last night, I tried bangers and mash, but the sausage was bloody awful, and the potatoes were lumpy. Not my finest. Surprised no one got food poisoning.

Now that it's Friday, we're having fish. My preference would be a proper fish and chip takeaway, but I'm skint until Paige pays me at the end of the month. Asking her to cough up the cash for yet another thing doesn't sit right with me, even if it's part of our deal. Room and board along with a wage. After consulting Tejinder, I've decided any mention of a takeaway has to come from her, otherwise, it'll look like I'm taking advantage. Fish fingers and oven chips (not burnt this time) will have to do.

Paige arrives home a little later than I expect, and I've already got the kids eating when she strolls into the kitchen with her work bag slung over her shoulder. There's a tightness to her expression, which means she's either smelled my cooking and found it lacking (impossible with fish fingers—can't go wrong) or she had another rough day at work.

Seems to be the norm. Leaves the house in the morning in a good mood and returns in a poor one. I've had jobs like that, but it was usually more about the site manager than the job itself. Brick laying is brick laying. Since she is the boss, that can't be it.

"Fish?" Paige asks. "Fish...sticks?" She eyes the pans on the stove.

"Fish and chips," I say. She doesn't seem impressed, so I add the phrase I've come to realize will win her over. "Very British. Fish on Fridays." At this point, I've decided I'll tell her anything that she doesn't like is part of British culture. Might not win her over to staying in Britain past her year, but it'll help me keep my job.

"We could have gotten takeout," she says, and she sticks her bag in a corner of the kitchen before coming to stand beside me near the stove.

Rather than getting into the ins and outs of suggesting a takeaway when I've got no money, I gesture to the mountain of chips, the fish fingers, and the fresh buns. "Ordinary fish fingers and chips, or you can go even more traditional with a fish finger sarnie, a chip butty, or a combination of the two."

"A chip butty?" She peers up at me with a hint of curiosity.

"Chips on a bun. Very English."

"I feel like you're telling me everything is very English."

"You are in England." The fact that she's sniffed out my strategy isn't good. May have to lay off the British and English comments for a day or two to throw her off. I'll gladly toss my country and fellow Brits in front of the double decker red bus if it saves my arse.

She uses a fork to poke a couple of fish fingers onto her plate and then she adds some chips. While she isn't enthusiastic, I've got enough enthusiasm for both of us. I take two buns, and I pile them high with chips. Once they're fairly level, I layer the sandwiches with fish fingers. She eyes my concoction, and she doesn't say anything, but her gaze travels the length of me.

"You're missing out," I say.

"You're not eating that without some sort of sauce, are you?"

"Bit of mayo, bit of brown sauce." I pick up the bottles beside me to show her before pouring them over the sandwiches.

She takes the bottle of brown sauce after I set it down, and she reads the ingredients. Of course she would. Tastes delicious. Likely toxic. Couldn't care less.

"Seems a bit like ketchup but also like HP sauce?"

"Don't know." I flatten my sandwich and then take a big bite. In circular motions, I rub my stomach to emphasize how good it is while I chew. "Missing. Out."

"I might be tempted," she says, "if I didn't have to eat an entire sandwich to try it."

Her comment might not be an invitation, but I'll take it as one. Reaching across the counter, I grab one of the sharp knives from the block, and I carve my uneaten sandwich into quarters before dropping one onto her plate. "Solved."

"Thanks," Paige says with a small smile. "I already feel like I got lucky with you. All the other British men I've met so far, apart from my cab driver, haven't been nearly so nice."

The sad expression on her face causes a spike of protectiveness to surge through me. Paige might be a tad uptight, but she's a good egg. To think of anyone treating her poorly makes me narrow my eyes. "The blokes at work are being a bunch of wankers, are they?"

"If wankers mean assholes, then yes." She releases a deep sigh and heads to the table. "They hate me for earning this job."

"More," Joey says from his seat, and he lifts his plate toward me.

"Finger fingers or chips, mate?" I shove my own food onto the table, and I take his plate.

"Fish," Joey says with a bang of his fork.

"Don't bang on the table," she says. "I'm actually amazed he asked for more fish. He hasn't eaten it when I've offered it to him for months."

"Nanny Ash has got the touch." I arrange the chunks of fish fingers into a car shape on the plate. When I deposit it on the table for him to see, he lets out a squeal of delight. His enthusiasm is quickly becoming one of my favorite things. I can't wait until Chloe gets to this point—though, to be fair—I could do without the meltdowns every time he doesn't get exactly what he wants.

Paige eats in silence, and I tend to Chloe while eating my not-quite two sandwiches. Since I've only known her a week, I'm not sure whether I should ask again about the blokes at work or let it go. Imogen never wanted me to help her with anything, ever. She'd relay some terrible story about work at the salon, and she'd get mad when I added my two pence or tried to offer a solution. So fucking frustrating.

Course, I wish she'd talked to me before she up and left. So, there's that.

"Did you want to talk about what's been going on at work, then?" I ask.

"I'll bore you to death," she says.

"Happy to help if I can." I keep my tone lighter than I feel. It's clear whatever is happening has given her a rough start. While my first week as a nanny hasn't been a ball of sunshine, I wake up every morning determined to do better. Every day is a fresh start. If I shit the bed the day before, I change the sheets and start over.

"I don't know why I didn't think of this. Probably because I was so excited to land the job. But there are a lot of average white males in the office who seem to feel they should have gotten the job over me."

Average white males makes me chuckle. Me in a nutshell.

"I don't know why that's funny. I've done some digging, and almost all of them haven't got the education, experience, or management ability that I have. Yet they all feel more qualified because they're British with a capital B."

"To be fair, British should always have a capital B." Likely one of the only things I learned in GCSE English was how to properly capitalize things.

"Never mind," she says with a wave of her hand. "It's not your problem. It's mine."

"Don't know," I say. "If these men are giving average white males like me a bad name, I reckon I should help take them down a notch or two."

"Oh, I didn't mean to—I wasn't saying—" She puts her head in her hands. "Sorry."

"It's alright. I've got no issues with being white and male and average." I wink at her. "It's the ones who don't realize they're average that are usually the problem on a jobsite."

"Same here," she says. "One of them in particular, Jack, is constantly trying to trip me up on anything that's region specific. I brought home all the building codes and regulations for the weekend. That's my weekend. Trying to make sure he doesn't intentionally embarrass me in a meeting. There was always going to be a learning curve, but I never anticipated these men would hate me before they met me."

"Your female employees are alright?"

"For the most part. Some of them are too interested in being part of the boys' club, but others are happy I have the job."

Chloe's bottle falls to the floor, and I pick it up to set it on the table. Then I scatter her tray with tiny pieces of fish for her to fist into her mouth. Since she's been watching Joey, she's developed a desire to feed herself more. Not that I mind, but she's gagged once since we arrived here, and it sent my heart racing. The pieces I give her are always very tiny, but I can't help the spike of panic that she might be choking.

"I've spent eight years on building sites, if you want any help getting those memorized." I toss out the offer, not really expecting her to take me up on it. Imogen wouldn't have. She'd have claimed I couldn't possibly understand, and we'd have left my offer at that.

"Would you mind?" Paige's expression lightens. "I'm a quick study, usually, but the idea of going through it all without any sort of context or reason makes me nervous the details won't stick."

"When the kids go to bed, we'll crack on with it, yeah?" I help Chloe get a piece of fish that's eluding her.

"Thanks," Paige says. "I'm not even going to ask you if you really mean it."

"Not to worry," I say. "I'm usually pretty good at keeping my mouth shut about things I don't want to do."

This earns a laugh, and I find I like the sound, one I haven't heard often enough this week. This job made me incredibly nervous after I accepted it, and there are still moments where it feels as though Paige and I are finding our feet in this house together, but I'm not as lost as I expected to be. I might not get everything right, but I'm finding, to my surprise, that I'm enjoying the effort.

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