The Nanny
Authors: Tess Stimson
For my son
Matthew
the real writer in the family
I don’t have a favourite,
but if I did . . .
Prologue
‘No nannies,’ I pant, as the newspaper vendor spreads copies of
The Times
across the pavement behind his kiosk. ‘We made that decision before we got
pregnant.’
A freezing gust of wind slaps my wet skirts against my legs.
I grope clumsily for his stool. ‘My brother and I were brought up by nannies. Davina says I’m mad to contemplate twins without help, but what’s the point of having children if
you’re not going to look after them yourself? There’s a nice Montessori – ohhh – near us that takes them from six months, and until then I’ll work from
home.’
For nine months, I’ve fondly imagined sitting at the kitchen table with my notebooks and laptop, sifting through pictures of orchids and peonies, Bach playing on the iPod, the twins
gurgling happily in baby gyms at my feet.
‘It’s going to take a little bit of adjustment, I know that, but lots of women do it, don’t they? Juggle work and children. It just takes organization. No different from
running a company. If I can do that, I’m sure I can –
ohhhhh
.’
‘Hold on, love,’ the vendor soothes anxiously. ‘The ambulance is on its way.’
‘Don’t worry. My husband will be here soon. I’ve got hours to go yet—’
I’m assaulted by another vicious wave of pain, and feel the first stirrings of panic. The contractions are barely a minute apart. I’m not going to have time to get to a hospital.
I’m not even going to make it to the ambulance.
This can’t be happening. Not to
me
. I don’t do drama. I’m not the kind of person who gets caught out. I have it all planned. Where’s my private room, my soft
music, my TENS machine, the solicitous hands rubbing my back and warming my feet? Where’s my expensive obstetrician? Where’s my
husband
?
As if from a distance, I watch myself slide from the stool and crouch like an animal on all fours on the cold, filthy pavement behind the newspaper stand. The vendor shouts at curious passers-by
to fuck off, this ain’t a peep-show, can’t they see the lady needs some air?
A passing collie strains his leash and licks my cheek. I lift my head. It’s Christmas Eve. Fairy lights glitter like stars in the trees around Sloane Square. ‘Hark the Herald’
blares from the Tube-station speakers behind me. All we need now are three wise men and some sheep.
This isn’t the way I planned to bring a child into the world.
It’s going wrong already.
Clare
Orgasms are so tricky, aren’t they? You need just the right mood and atmosphere; one false note and it’s all over, however diligently your husband tongues your
clitoris. I’ve never really enjoyed oral sex at all, actually, but I didn’t like to say so when we first met in case it made me seem dull. And then you get stuck with it, don’t
you? You can hardly tell your husband after seven years that he’s barking up the wrong tree.
I knew I was too tense from the start, of course; but when I put something on my List, I like to get it done.
‘Darling,’ Marc says, looking up from between my labia, ‘is something wrong?’
Not that sex is ever a
chore
. I put facials and reflexology on my List too. How else could I run seven boutique flower shops in seven different parts of London and still keeps things
ticking over smoothly at home without being ruthlessly organized? It may not seem very romantic, but if more wives put sex on their lists, there’d be fewer divorces. Though I don’t
think Marc would see it quite that way.
Poor Marc. He wasn’t really in the mood tonight either: he wanted, rather keenly, to watch the ice hockey on cable (his home team, the Montreal Canadiens, were playing); but of course
it’s never difficult to change a man’s mind. They don’t need warm baths, soft music, candlelight and forty minutes of foreplay. Or even a flesh-and-blood woman, come to that.
He returns conscientiously to his task, but I’m tired and we both have to be up in five hours, so I . . . well, I exaggerate things a bit. We all tell little white lies from time to time;
imagine the scene on Christmas morning if we all said what we really thought of that hideous nest of flesh-coloured Tupperware boxes. Sometimes faking pleasure is the only polite thing to do.
After a brief interval, Marc slides comfortably inside me. I hold him close so he doesn’t pull out too soon and waste our efforts.
Three months isn’t very long to try for a baby; but I’m already thirty-seven years old. I work very hard to make sure my handsome, charming husband forgets he’s nearly a decade
younger than me; but I don’t forget.
Not for a moment.
Sex with Marc is usually very nice. So it’s unfortunate I conceive during one of our more pedestrian encounters.
My pregnancy is textbook; I know, because I read fourteen of them. They give different, and frequently conflicting, advice, but when in doubt I err on the side of caution. As I explain to Marc
(crossing my fingers behind my back): it isn’t that I’ve gone off sex, but neither of us wants to take any risks with the baby.
And then, at the thirteen-week nuchal fold scan, we discover it’s bab
ies
, plural.
Marc is delighted, of course, at this sign of his exceptional virility. Once I get over my initial shock, I quickly see the practical advantages. Two babies are scarcely more work than one;
it’s just a question of organization. Doubling up on the home-made apple purée, that sort of thing. It’s taken five years of marriage and a great deal of careful planning to
create a window in our schedules, and finances, for this pregnancy. At least now I won’t have to take time off from PetalPushers again. Marc may have wanted six children (he has five older
sisters), but two has always been my limit.
‘Darling!
Twins
?’ my mother ventures when I break the news. ‘Clare, are you quite sure that’s wise?’
‘A little late now,’ I say drily. ‘Davina, I manage nineteen staff and seven shops. I think I can take care of two small infants. I’ve researched it
thoroughly.’
‘I’m sure you could write a marvellous thesis on child-rearing,’ Davina says, gathering her summer furs, ‘but it’s not quite the same thing as actually
doing
it.’
Kettles and pots come to mind, but I let it pass. My mother has never pretended to enjoy motherhood; possessed of a maternal instinct that would make one tremble for a pet rabbit, she made a
point of not taking the slightest interest in me or my younger brother, Xan, until we were legally adults. Growing up, I understood ‘mother’ to mean a remote, impatient figure who
brushed away hugs – ‘Darling! Sticky fingers!’ – and punctured the small accomplishments of her children with verbal stilettos: ‘Sweet that you came top in Biology,
but, darling, there
are
only twenty-two of you in the class.’ I was quite sure she loved us; and just as certain she’d never have had us at all had my father not made it clear
her duty – and his fortune – required the provision of an heir.
I’ve never blamed her for palming us off on a series of nannies, of course; but from the start I was determined to do things differently.
It never occurs to me that my childcare plans are at best vague, at worst steeped in denial.
By the time I’m seven months pregnant, I’m completely prepared. Everything on my Baby List has been satisfyingly crossed off. Stair gates are installed in our
Chelsea townhouse – ‘The rug-rats aren’t even here yet and you’re corralling them,’ Marc grumbles good-naturedly – and plastic safety covers fitted to every
electricity outlet. The nursery is decorated a gender-neutral pale green with child-friendly non-toxic paints; an artist friend stencils primroses (signifying hope and youth), daisies (innocence)
and asters (tiny beginnings from which great things proceed) around the door and windows. I spend weeks researching travel systems that incorporate the maximum number of safety features whilst
providing ultimate comfort to the infant(s). The obstetrician I select (having interviewed four) dissuades me, against my better judgement, from the sleep-apnoea monitor, but I have Marc mount a
state-of-the-art video system throughout the house so I can keep an eye on the twins wherever I am.
Craig, my VP, is primed to take over the reins at PetalPushers at a moment’s notice. I finish all my Christmas shopping by November so I won’t have to rush around with two newborns
should they arrive before their due date (New Year’s Eve). My overnight bag is packed and all set to go. I’m ready.
The twins, it seems, are not.
I try to rest, as the books suggest, but I’ve never been much good at waiting. I prefer to make things
happen
. If I wasn’t so determined to have a natural birth (I’ve
read that drugs cross the placenta, making the baby drowsy and less eager to feed in those first vital bonding hours after birth) I’d seriously consider an elective caesarean. It’s so
hard to plan ahead when you don’t know your schedule.
And then on Christmas Eve my waters break as I travel the District & Circle Line, my arms filled with a massed ball of mistletoe for one of my most important clients.
I double up as a belt of white pain tightens around my abdomen. It’s so much worse than I thought it’d be. Why doesn’t anyone
tell
you?
The newspaper vendor puts his thick padded jacket around my shoulders. My teeth chatter. I can’t seem to get warm. I want it to stop. I want this to be over.
I want my
husband
—
‘Clare!’
‘Marc!’ I sob, clutching his hand.
Voices fade in and out:
‘We need to get her into a taxi—’
‘Too late for that, mate—’
Someone is talking to me. I want them to go away. I’m so tired. I could bear the pain if they’d just let me
sleep
first. If only I could rest, and come back to this
tomorrow—
‘Clare,
stay with me
,’ Marc demands. ‘When I tell you to push, give it all you’ve got.’
‘But my private room! My TENS! Everything’s arranged—’
‘Darling, our babies are coming! Isn’t this exciting?’
‘You fucking try it!’ I yell.
Marc,
sotto voce
: ‘Christ, it must be bad. My wife
never
swears.’
‘You might want to let that pass for now, mate.’
‘I could see the baby’s head during that contraction, Clare. When the next one comes, I want you to push—’
‘
Just get this thing out of me!
’
Suddenly I have a desperate need to bear down, as impossible to ignore or control as the urge to vomit. It feels like a huge iron fist is trying to punch its way through my rectum.
It
can’t be the babies
, I think stupidly,
it’s in the wrong place, I’m going to shit myself, everyone will see but I can’t help it, I can’t stop it
, I have
to push—