The Nanny (10 page)

‘Craig,’ I say, suddenly distracted, ‘is that baby’s-breath over there?’

He dodges in front of a bench of bleeding hearts. ‘No.’

‘Yes it is – wait. Are those
ferns
?’

‘Of course not— Oh all right. Yes.’ He flings his arms wide in dramatic fashion. ‘Yes, I bought in baby’s-breath and leather-leaf ferns, I’ve bulk-ordered
forced roses, I’ve been selling ’mums, I’ve sinned,
mea culpa
, shoot me now!’

I gape in astonishment. ‘Craig, what on earth is going on?’

He deflates and plops on to the ripped stool behind the till. ‘Look, darling, I know it’s blasphemy, it goes against everything we believe in, but we’ve been losing money hand
over fist recently. It’s not just the odd discrepancy, it’s by the bucket. I didn’t want to worry you while you were on leave, so I’ve been cutting the odd teeny corner here
and there.’

‘What kind of corner?’ I demand.

‘Chartreuse flowers and ornamental amaranths are divine, of course, but it’s such a niche market. People
like
baby’s-breath and ferns and roses—’

‘The niche market is what we
do
!’ I exclaim. ‘Craig, you
know
that.’

We’ve never built our inventory around workhorses like carnations and ’mums. We have an aesthetic; either our customer base buys in to that, or they go elsewhere.

I glance around the shop. This is where PetalPushers started; of all my shops, this tiny Fulham one is my favourite. Little more than a grown-up kiosk, it’s filled with interesting,
quirky, old-fashioned flowers dancing in buckets that spill on to the pavement outside. Right from the beginning, I was determined to keep things organic. No forced flowers from Sun Valley growers
or truckloads of Dutch tulips. Instead, I saddled myself with a terrifying bank loan, bought a few acres of land and, with the last of my seed money, planted my favourite flowers and rented this
shop. I sold what I grew, and bought from other small gardeners like me. I kept my inventory seasonal: larkspur and poppies in spring, mistletoe and holly in winter. It’s taken twelve years
and a lot of hard work, but I’ve earned my reputation as a high-end, boutique florist. It’s all about the flowers. White callas, deep purple hyacinths, parrot tulips, all crammed into
crystal vases, their stems cut short to focus on the blooms. Our signature bouquets are monochromatic and simple, using no more than one or two varieties of flowers. I’ve never gone after the
mass market. I wanted to play to the high-net-worths. Our arrangements are expensive, but worth it.

I don’t understand the reluctance to spend money on flowers ‘because they’re only going to die’. How long will a fancy meal last? One of my bouquets will bloom for ten
days and lift your spirits every time you see it. There’s beauty even in a decaying rose.

‘Why are we in such trouble?’ I ask Craig suddenly. ‘The last quarter’s accounts were healthy enough.’

‘We’re in a major recession. It’s hurting everyone—’

‘We cater to the high end of the market. Our clients aren’t hurting that much.’

‘We’ve got a lot of competition. Another supermarket opened just round the corner last month—’

‘We’re not competing with inexpensive mass-market flowers. We’ve never chased pennies on a bloom. It can’t have made that much difference—’

‘I don’t know,’ Craig shrugs crossly. ‘I just look at the bottom line.’

I shush him as a customer enters. Normally I’d let Molly, the Fulham manager, serve him, but I like to spend a few hours every week or so working on the floor at one or other of my shops.
It keeps me grounded and in touch with my client base.

‘How can I help?’

‘Flowers,’ he says shortly.

Too angry for a funeral. Or a lover, unless he plans to beat her to death with the calla lilies. His brooding, bitter intensity fills the room like smoke.

I hesitate, and then move towards a bank of glorious pink peonies.

‘Not those. She has enough secrets.’

I glance up in surprise. Not many people know the Victorian language of flowers; certainly not – I hate to sound like Davina – an American. From the Deep South, judging by his mellow
accent.

‘Yellow tulips?’ I hazard.

‘Hopeless love and devotion? Hardly. Nor abandonment,’ he says drily, as I reach for a small crystal bowl of anemones.

Craig is agog. ‘What did you have in mind?’ he asks breathlessly.

For a long moment, the bitter American says nothing.

‘Lilies,’ he says finally. ‘Lilies and jasmine.’

Innocence and good luck. Somehow, I don’t think he means it as a compliment.

Under his sardonic gaze, I deftly pull together a bouquet, weaving the jasmine through the lilies in a tight, crisp arrangement.
This
is why I love my shop, my job. These flowers
won’t be thrust into someone’s hand, sniffed cursorily, jammed into a vase and forgotten. They will become part of someone’s story.

I watch the American curiously as he pays and leaves without another word.

I feel sorry for her, whoever she is.

It’s ten to six by the time I get home, thanks to a security alert on the Circle Line. I expect Jenna to be champing at the bit, wanting to get ready, so I’m
slightly surprised to find the house in near-darkness. She must have popped out for a minute.

I hesitate by the drinks cupboard in the kitchen, then pour myself a very small gin and tonic. I’ve never really liked drinking alone. It feels . . . sordid, somehow.

I kick off my shoes and tuck my feet up under me in a squishy armchair by the unlit fire. I’m exhausted, but it’s a satisfying weariness, born of hard work rather than quiet
desperation. I don’t know how I ever thought I could look after the twins myself. I’m just not cut out to be a hands-on mother. That doesn’t mean I love them any less, does
it?

I pull a folder out of my leather satchel and flip it open. I don’t know why our profits are suddenly down, but I refuse to sell out to the fern-and-carnations brigade who’d be just
as happy with a cellophaned bunch of weeds from the garage forecourt. Craig means well, but I created my business for customers who understand the importance of working
with
nature, who
know that stepping out of season, forcing flowers, goes against the order of things; customers who know that flowers mean so much
more
, like that strange, angry American.

I must have fallen asleep, because I’m startled by a car alarm sounding outside in the street. I jolt awake, knocking the file on to the floor, and glance at the clock. Eight-fifteen!
Where on earth is Jenna? And the twins?

I stem an instant gut surge of panic. She’s probably gone to see a friend, lost track of the time, the traffic—

She doesn’t answer her mobile. I call four times, growing more and more concerned. Davina is right. How much
do
I know about this girl? She’s only been here a few months.
Any
thing could have happened—

Don’t be ridiculous. This is
Jenna.

I ring Fran, suddenly remembering that Jenna knows her nanny, Kirsty. They could have gone off together, forgotten to call.

Except that Kirsty hasn’t heard from Jenna, even though they were supposed to be meeting an hour ago.

‘It’s nearly nine,’ Fran says carefully. ‘I’m sure everything’s fine, Clare, but maybe you should call Marc if she’s not home soon. She’s a
responsible girl, but something could have happened—’

‘Like what?’

‘Well. She might have got lost—’

‘Of course she isn’t lost! This is London, not the Black Forest! Why isn’t she answering her phone? Something’s wrong, Fran. I’m going to call the
police.’

‘Maybe you should,’ Fran admits.

Marc’s left the office, and his mobile goes straight to voicemail. He’s probably stuck on the bloody Tube himself. And Jenna still isn’t answering.

I grab my keys and run out to the car. I’m not calling the police to be fobbed off with a patronizing pat on the head. I’m going down to the station in person. I’ll
make
them pay attention.

To my surprise, the police take me seriously straight away, which alarms me even more. Fighting tears, I tell them everything I know: it’s pathetically little. Jenna could describe the
intimate details of my life: she’s met my friends, my family, she could tell you a thousand things about me, down to the perfume I like and the kind of knickers I wear; but I still know next
to nothing about her. The policewoman assigned to interview me seems pleasant, but I don’t miss the flash of exasperation when I admit I don’t know the address of Jenna’s flat. I
don’t even know if that’s her real name. She could vanish off the face of the earth with my children, and I’ve got no way of tracing her.

I ring my mother, just in case, but of course Jenna’s not there. ‘I told you,’ she says tartly. ‘I warned you. She’s probably run off to Morocco with your husband.
He’s a lot nearer her age than yours, it does happen—’

‘Marc hates hot weather.’

‘He’s
Arab
,’ Davina retorts, ‘of course he—’

I hang up. In thirty-seven years, I’ve never put the phone down on my mother, but for once I refuse to listen to her ugly nonsense.

There’s a commotion from somewhere within the station. I look up, and Jenna is there, struggling to get a double buggy I’ve never seen before through the gap next to the
sergeant’s desk.

I swoop on my children, lifting them bodily within the push-chair. I’m sick and sobbing with relief. There’s no room for anger or questions right now.

Xan wanders through behind Jenna, answering most of them by the mere fact of his presence. I should have known he’d be involved in this; whatever
this
is.

He’s drunk, of course.

He staggers slightly, and a policeman behind him catches his arm. I realize, without real surprise, that he’s in handcuffs.

‘Hi, Clare,’ he calls cheerily. ‘Did you know Marc’s cheating—’

And passes out on the floor.

‘Marry me,’ Xan says.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

He leans out of the window and slows the car to my pace. ‘Come on a date with me, or I’ll drive into that tree.’

I ignore him and keep walking towards the house, switching Rowan to the other hip. Behind me, Xan revs the engine of his stupid red American sports car. I give Rowan a clean dummy. I’m not
playing Xan’s silly games. I learned a long time ago: you don’t shit on your own doorstep.

I nearly drop the baby at the deafening crunch of metal behind me.

I whirl around. Xan’s Mustang is wrapped around the base of a large oak tree at the bottom of the drive. I scream as a branch snaps and falls on to the bonnet, spearing the broken
windscreen and missing him by inches.

In the next field, a bull bellows.

He kicks open his door and staggers from the car. ‘Damn, it’s so much easier when they say yes.’

‘Fucking psycho,’ I gasp.

The bull bellows again, and lurches towards the broken gate. Xan leans against the wreck of his car and calmly lights a cigarette, laughing as I back nervously towards the house. I want to run,
but I’m terrified the bull will chase us. Shit, I wish I hadn’t put Rowan in red this morning.

I run into the conservatory where we had lunch. ‘Excuse me, Lady Eastman—’

Clare jumps. Her face is white and tense; clearly she and her mother have been getting into it while I’ve been gone.

‘Please, Jenna, no need for that. “Davina” is perfectly fine—’

Xan abruptly breezes past me, blowing me a kiss over his mother’s head. ‘Oh, don’t go all democratic now,’ he tells her, his eyes on mine as he brushes his lips against
her cheek. ‘Not after you’ve had Guy pony up millions for that title.’

‘Alexander. How lovely.’

‘Hello, Mother.’

He throws himself carelessly into a chair, staring pointedly at me. I blush furiously, wishing he’d stop. Someone will notice.

Davina pours him a cup of tea, which he ignores. ‘I didn’t expect you this weekend.’

‘What can I say? I felt the need to nestle in the bosom of my family.’

‘Have you met Jenna?’ Davina asks. ‘Your sister’s new nanny.’

‘A pleasure.’

There’s the alarmed sound of shouting outside. Shit. The bloody bull. ‘Lady – um, I mean, Davina . . .’

She fixes her cold blue gaze on mine. ‘Be careful, dear. He’s every bit as dangerous as he looks.’

You could cut the air in here with a knife. I listen to them bicker. Mum and Dad sometimes have blazing rows, and I’ve been known to add my fair share of drama, but we never fight like
this. As if we actually
hate
each other. What a fucked-up family.

‘. . . dear God, will someone
please
tell me what all that noise is?’ Davina exclaims.

‘I’ve been trying to,’ I mutter.

Davina flings open the french doors. The bull’s bellows echo across the lawn, accompanied by shouts and the sound of splashing. Fuck, I hope it doesn’t come charging in here.

Clare thrusts Poppy at me and storms off after her mother. I juggle the two babies, wondering what the hell is going on.

Xan opens a cupboard and pulls out a bottle of whisky hidden at the back, then refills his silver hipflask. He settles himself back in his chair, lifting his feet on to his mother’s crisp
linen tablecloth.