Chapter Text
“Here are the daily blind items that were released on February 21st, 2017.
Number one, this one reads… this foreign-born rockstar, long thought to be a lifelong bachelor, has secretly fathered a child the public knows nothing about.”
May 05, 2016
Somewhere in LA, California
Rent was the headlights that dared to lead every decision in your life for the past coming weeks. The hours would roll by like watching paint dry when you’re penniless and unemployed, not when you’ve just gotten fired from Cha Cafe. Today, specifically, had made the grounds of Pasadena like crossing through treading waters, you were driving on your beaten-up Honda Civic on your way to a secluded neighbourhood in Beverly Crest. The call born from your tear-eyed desperation. It was a last minute plea to your friend you’d drunkenly met from a bar from the Valley, both coming from the same working-class backgrounds that both liked the same brand of cig*rettes. Now, this friend knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew a guy, so call them your guardian angel with suspiciously good strings to pull because, you’re in luck.
Drug-dealing? Robbery? a pawn to a cult in the guise of yoga, breathwork and personal transformation in Venice Beach? Not exactly…
“Babysitting?” You asked on the phone, standing up from your dusty, sweat-soaked bed. It wasn’t like you weren’t good with kids, they eat, they sh*t, they drink water, it’s nothing special, really, you put them in a trance with this multi-colored screen and suddenly they’re as quiet as the breezing leaf in July. For whom? You didn’t know, you didn’t care, the gig would be easy money, she assured. It was just gonna be a five-year-old, someone’s five-year-old. That’s easy, you’ve had your hips and arms carefully extracting nieces and nephews from your aunts during family holidays, you were built for this, for a day at least. This would be no different than a cat or a dog.
You’ve arrived at the exact address you were told, it was a private residence (as you assumed). The gravel driveway now audible as you pulled your car up a path to the far off what could be called civilization as it was entirely… secluded.
Really secluded.
Your boots crunched softly on the ground as you stepped out from your Honda. Trees enveloping the only building here. Far from the Hollywood glamour, but it didn't shy away from the subtle wealth... That was certain. Well, privacy itself is an understated status symbol nowadays. The place was a beautiful two-storey house with stone walls and terracotta roof tiles. The wraparound porch was charmingly cozy just from here; a rocking chair stayed still on the side near just by the window—which from here, had its lights on, and from there—
A figure moved.
Then, before you could even react, a young woman stepped out from the oak door as she opened it, her dark hair pulled in a bun, a tablet clutched in one hand. She wore a crisp, tailored suit—a practical jarring contrast to you, who wore nothing but a cotton shirt and thrifted jeans with questionable stains that the lady obviously noticed from the way her blue eyes gazed at the spot before she returned to gaze at your face. She approached, her heels clicking with confidence. When she spoke, you noticed the subtle lilt of something British in her words.
"You must be..." she trailed, looking at her iPad.
You finished her words by stating your name in full as you walked closer, climbing to the doorstep as you clutched your bag tighter.
That was all the confirmation she needed.
"I'm Clara Martin, Mr. Turner's personal assistant," she continued as she extended her hand, nails polished in ruby red.
"Hi, nice to meet you," you said as you shook her hand. Her blue eyes—now that she's up close—have bags underneath them. This is the first time that your employer has been mentioned; hell, you didn't even know what job he had. All you remembered is that he had a kid and he was always away.
"Will he be with us today?" you asked as she turned and went to the door. "Er… Mr. Turner?"
"No," she answered without looking, her fingers on the knob before she turned to your direction. "Would you like some tea?"
You smiled, “No, just water for me.”
Clara led the way through the foyer, heels clicking on precised rhythm of the polished marble floor. You trailed, eyes wandering around as you took in the space. The house smelled expensive, it was a different quality of air from what you’d usually have in your cramped apartment, The intricate vases was clean enough to see your own reflection, the floor-to-ceiling windows had the natural light welcome through, it truly reminded you that friday mornings can look like this. As Clara talked about the cleaning lady’s schedule, and where the bathrooms are, you let yourself get distracted from the abstract sculpture to your left, What a pretentious thing to own in a home, you thought, but then again, if you had all the money in the world, you’d probably buy something tackier.
The foyer opened into a living area, and from the corner where it didn’t mean to capture your attention, stood an upright piano, positioned perfectly to catch the morning light, the gloss from its dark color gleamed. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from it, it was practically the only thing that made Clara’s words slide off of your head. If you were correct, it was a Steinway Vertegrand. Now, you weren’t a huge music nerd, nor did you play the piano, it was just precisely the same piano your dad owned. It seemed touched, bought to use, out of all the things in this home, this seemed more real than anything else. Your eyes trailed around the room and it seemed clean, surprisingly, you’d almost forgotten you were here to watch a toddler, and the fact that the only noise you could hear right now is the assistant’s continuous one-sided conversation, you were wondering now if anything of this “babysitting” thing have been true at all. You’ve watched that horror movie doll thing before, and this seemed the beginning of that.
“...Mr Turner’s quite particular about his space.” she stated, her voice slicing through your contemplation as she gestured vaguely towards the room, which is loosely translated to: Do not touch anything.
“...and he values privacy above all else, which is why this property rather suits him.” Yeah, that makes sense.
“August—” that’s the name of the kid? “—has free rein over the most of the ground floor during the day.” She instructed, but as she droned on about the boy’s general routine: the naptimes, snack preferences, designated play areas, the directions had an almost maternal feeling around it, soft velvet against your skin. August adored playing with his plushies, he’s very active, engaging, and he’s currently fascinated with certain comic characters, she added, which felt like a plus, you asked which character it was, and she said you’ll find out eventually. You offered nothing but simple nods as your eyes took in every detail of the kitchen: the compact space had its window facing the back garden, a cozy breakfast nook in the corner had a table for two. The appliances were complete: an electric stove, a worn kettle on the right burner. A microwave on the far corner, and on the bottom was an oven just beside the dishwasher. Beside the sink was the refrigerator, with little drawings of what you assumed was the kid’s: A charming depiction of a sunday afternoon of a garden: the grass was purple, but you’d assume he ran out of green crayons, that’s understandable. The way your eyes lingered around the kitchen was caught by the assistant, but she didn’t question it. The job itself seemed straightforward enough.
She set her iPad on the kitchen counter and opened the fridge, with her manicured hands she took out a bottle of water and handed it to you. “Now, before I introduce you to August,” Clara said, her voice shifting back to its crisp, professional tone, the warmth of her voice disappearing like it was never even there before. She took her iPad in her hands as she watched you drink your water.
Clara took out her stylus.
“There’s just one last bit of paperwork to sort, a standard non-disclosure agreement. Considering Mr. Turner’s public status—” Huh? “—And the delicate nature… of well, his private affairs. It’s absolutely crucial for anyone working within the household.” Even her eyes had been devoid of its earlier softness, met yours.
Well, there it is, then.
“It’s simply to guarantee that any information you come across during your employment here is kept strictly confidential. Personal details, household routines, anything relating to August’s life or to Mr. Turner himself, remains within these walls.” she said, smiling now.
Okay, what the hell did I get myself into? You stopped drinking your water, carefully setting it aside on the marble counter, eyes unblinking as you looked at the assistant’s hands, she was opening a file in there, and she was scrolling down through the digital pages. An NDA was the last thing you’d ever expect back in the drive. LA was always full of surprises. You’ve thought of harv*sted org*ns, perhaps even a kilo of something to deliver somewhere, but an actual babysitting job, and an NDA? Public status? You were a total shut-in and didn’t read Cosmos to care enough about this.
But all of it clicked into place, the father wasn’t some ridiculous finance guy who was always travelling like you had in mind, the pristine Steinway wasn’t just a hobby—it was a lifestyle.
Mr. Turner was some classical pianist, probably from a very famous orchestra group.
Well, fuck me. It’s too late now, isn’t it? Your rent was on the line, and it wasn’t going to pay itself (not with your horrible credit score), and a last-minute profile gig didn’t seem too bad now, no matter how shady it seemed.
Clara’s tablet was already facing you while you were too lost in your own decision-making, when you’ve finally snapped out of it, you quickly took the tablet and stylus. Your eyes briefly skimmed over the legalese and dense paragraphs—desperation like tremors through your very fingers. Confidential clauses were alrighty, non-disparagement agreements were uh-huh, and penalties for breach were all sure thing. The whole point was to just keep your mouth shut, mind your business, and don’t talk about the kid, or what you see here. You shrugged, you weren’t much of a talker anyway, easier said than done.
You signed your name on the digital screen, before handing the tablet back to Clara. Her expression remained unchanged, as she looked down, her smile returned. “Splendid. Now, if you’ll follow me, August is in the conservatory. He’ll be thrilled to have a new playmate.”
The georgian conservatory was connected just beside the kitchen. It was bright, airy, and an acoustic guitar was resting silently on a wicker chair. The glass walls offered a panoramic view of the sculpted garden from outside just like what you have seen from the windows. It was a rich sight of succulents and exotic flowers—The air was warmer, humid, faint scents of coarse soil as the windows were open. Clara continued on her rundown, precised, clinical.
“Mr. Turner’s meeting concludes around six o’ clock this evening.”
Her gaze flicked to her slim gold watch on her wrist. “He should be home shortly after that, Until then, you have complete control around the house.” She then switched topic and began with the boy’s dietary restrictions, listing them like a Pediatrician on steroids. “He’s five, so mainly healthy snacks. Please do avoid excessive sugar, he’s not too keen on anything green, though, we do encourage a small serving of steamed broccoli with his dinner. Lunch is typically a turkey sandwich on wholemeal bread, crusts removed and cut into triangles. Water only, of course — no fizzy drinks. Good God, absolutely no fizzy drinks.”
The Do’s and Don’ts were next, the designated play areas, the telly screen time limits, the proper way to execute the kid’s evening bath.
“And.” she paused, stressing. “And under no circumstances… is August to leave the property without prior written consent from Mr. Turner, or myself.” she warned. “Gates are always locked, you’ll have the code but it should only be used for emergencies… we have surveillance of the whole house.” she added.
The reminders were all a flat circle, all leading back to privacy, security. This wasn’t just a usual 2 dollar per-hour babysitting, or maybe this was just your first time watching over some prodigy’s kid.
Clara was just about to venture through where the first aid kits were located when a motion erupted from behind the potted plant.
“Fear not, citizens!” a high-pitched, undeniably English voice declared, echoing through the glass room. “Batman is here!”
August, of all five years, was a tiny little thing with blonde hair and pale skin. He fashioned a miniature Batman mask, slightly skewed, covering the top half of his face, but it wasn’t enough to cover up the mischievous glint in his big brown eyes. He wore a cape, taken from what looked like a velvet curtain, dramatically following him as he skipped to a halt. His mask fell just in time and his little face was shown. Flushed pale cheeks, and a charmingly big smile for such a tiny fella, and a front tooth just yet to emerge. As he picked up his little mask, his cardboard belt creaked, with various plastic trinkets tucked into its loops had shimmied with each movement.
“August, darling,” Clara murmured, “This is going to be your new nanny. She’s gonna be the one to look after you today.”
There is certainly nothing as more excruciating than a kid’s scrutiny. August’s gaze, fixed on you, before his head tilted. “Are you Robin?” he asked, with his proper accent it made it all the more fond.
So, the family’s English then, that’s… something.
You didn’t answer, clearly you should be, but you didn’t. You were too distracted with the idea of now seeing the reason you’re here, and well, the pressure’s just being felt now.
Clara looked at the two of you, seemingly oblivious to the shared silence, she checked her wristwatch again. “Right, my apologies, but I have another pressing engagement.” She tucked her tablet and stylus close as she heads to the empty wooden bench where her briefcase was lying this whole time. “My number is on the fridge, should you need anything at all, just phone me.” She offered a final, tight-lipped smile, a professional, rather awkward, farewell, before turning and making her swift exit.
She called your name, echoing from inside.
“Good luck — you’ll need it.”
What?
You heard the main door close shut, the soft boom echoed not only from the foyer but its ominous sound led to the glass room.
“Look, Robin!” August’s voice boomed from behind you, and as you turned, he was already on the plush wooden armchair, bouncing with an enthusiasm only a five-year-old could ever experience. His small hands reached into his cardboard utility belt. With a surprisingly theatrical aim, he launched a cardboard batarang.
You didn’t even have time to dodge, but thankfully it swiftly graced to the side of your head. An almost accurate projectile as it whizzed past your ear, the sound of the weapon’s wind passing through as it clattered harmlessly against the glass wall.
Your eyes met the boy’s, and he was grinning from ear-to-ear.
Oh, no.