The Nanny (11 page)

‘You don’t seem very happy to see me,’ he observes.

‘You don’t exactly set out to make yourself welcome.’

Xan laughs. ‘You didn’t seem to mind making me welcome last time we met.’

‘I didn’t get much choice, did I?’ I flash back.

My cheeks flame. Every time I think about the night Xan sneaked into my room, I burn with embarrassment.

God knows why I didn’t just scream and throw him out.
Some guy climbs in your bedroom window in the middle of the night, Jenna, puts his hand over your mouth, climbs into bed next to
you, and you just
let him?

But there are mitigating circumstances. One, I was so relieved it wasn’t Marc trying to get a leg over, I forgot to be scared. Two, I recognized him immediately as Clare’s brother
from the photos in the sitting room. And three . . . three, he’s fucking
gorgeous
. I mean, would
you
throw Daniel Craig and Ashton Kutcher’s love child out of bed?

So instead of yelling my head off and crying rape, I tugged the duvet up to my chin so he couldn’t see the crappy old T-shirt I was wearing (and, more importantly, what I wasn’t
wearing underneath) and moved over to make room for him.

‘Why the fuck don’t you just ring the doorbell and come up the stairs like a normal person?’ I demanded.

‘It’s three in the morning,’ he pointed out.

‘Hel
lo?
’

‘Look, I had a bit of a run-in with Marc last time I was here. He found my stash under the bed – just a few Es, no big deal . . . Anyway, it seemed easier all round just to climb in
the bedroom window and lie low till he’d left for work in the morning.’

‘
My
window,’ I hissed.

‘OK, OK. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out. My ride let me down, I didn’t have any cash on me, and I didn’t feel like walking five miles home to Fulham. I
thought I’d crash here.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I’d forgotten Clare’d hired a nanny. Nice of her to give you the best guest room.’

‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ I said stiffly, getting out of bed and opening the door, ‘but I think you should go now. This is my first day and I’m sure you’re
very nice but if you don’t mind, I’d rather not get sacked or spend the rest of my life in Holloway. I’m sure you can see yourself out—’

‘I do
love
that T-shirt.’

I clapped my hands in front of my bush, flushing scarlet. ‘Please go.’

Clare’s brother unfolded himself lazily from my bed and headed towards the door. At the last moment he stopped, so close to me I could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

His hand slid between my thighs. My eyes widened with shock as he shoved his fingers inside me. His other hand found my breast, pinching my nipple hard enough to hurt.

His eyes never left mine as he found my clitoris with his thumb. I gasped as a hot bolt of lust zipped from my groin to the tips of my fingers and toes. If he’d wanted to throw me back on
to the bed and fuck me there and then, I’d have let him. And he knew it, too.

With a dark smile, he released me, and licked his fingers.

Then he was gone.

The memory triggers a sudden heat between my legs now. I bend to put the twins in their baby seats, hiding my blushes behind my hair. I’m not going to let the cocky bastard win. If he
thinks he can humiliate me again, he’s got another think coming.

I jump as Davina stalks into the conservatory. Of Xan, there’s suddenly no sign.

‘Is everything all right?’ I ask nervously.

‘Naturally. My daughter is at her commanding best. Where’s Alexander?’

‘Alexander?’

‘My son.’

‘I think he left.’

Five minutes later, Marc and Clare come back in. Clare looks OK, but you’d think Marc’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. He’s just wearing a tight white T-shirt and a
clingy pair of boxers, and I have to force myself not to check out his lunchbox. He’s nowhere near as cute as Xan, but he’s still pretty ripped. I don’t want Clare thinking I
fancy her bloody husband. I need this job.

Davina doesn’t come back to say goodbye. Marc’s still steaming when he roars out of the drive, and nearly runs Xan down as he staggers across the road.

Clearly Marc would be happy to reverse over him, but Clare makes him stop, then leaps out and helps Xan into the back of the car. She totally mothers Xan, but having met Davina, I can kind of
see why. The woman has all the maternal instinct of a flesh-eating virus. Clare may not be the perfect mother herself, but at least her heart’s in the right place.

I study Xan, passed out in the boot. It’s just as well he’s not really interested in me. It’d never work. Never mind the whole money and class thing; the boy’s a total
fuck-up.

Gently, I tuck my sweater around him.

Fuck. This is the trouble with living in. It’s like sleeping at the bloody office.

I roll over and glance at the luminous green dials. Six-ten. Jesus. I hope Clare gets up to see to them soon. I’m knackered.

I clamp the pillow over my ears. I can tell it’s Rowan. Poppy’s cries are cross, but Rowan always sounds so
lonely
.

It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain their mother favours Poppy. I don’t think Clare really dislikes Rowan; it’s more that she doesn’t seem to know how to handle him.
It’s a shame; now he’s over the colic, he’s actually a real sweetheart. He’ll lie for hours peacefully gurgling at his mobile. Poppy’s adorable, too, of course, but
she’s got a temper on her. She always seems to be thirsty. When she’s awake, she demands your undivided attention.

Shit. I can’t just lie here listening to Rowan scream.

I throw back the covers and pull on my sweats. Clare’s probably still lying dead to the world in a cloud of post-coital bliss, I think crossly. These walls are paper-thin. It’s
almost as bad as listening to your parents getting jiggy.

I’m not jealous or anything. I could get laid too, if I wanted to. It just really pisses me off when girls drop you like a snotty tissue the moment a man shows up.

This is why I’ve never lived in before. I’m never quite sure when I’m off duty. Clare loves all this girly togetherness, the two of us cooking in the kitchen, watching chick
flicks like we’re at some sort of sleepover, but she’s not, like, my best friend. I don’t want to spend every night with her. I
work
for her. Who wants to spend all their
time off with their boss?

I shuffle into the nursery and pick Rowan up.
Fuck.
He’s got the shits again; bright yellow crap has leaked through his nappy all over his sheets.

Poppy pushes herself up on her tummy when she sees me, and starts to wail.

‘Sorry, Poppy, you’ll have to wait,’ I say tersely.

I can’t put Rowan down anywhere while he’s covered in shit, so I’ve no choice but to hold him while the bath runs. Now I’m covered with shit too. I bet it bloody
stains.

I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.

I bath Rowan, dress him in this gorgeous tartan outfit I bought last weekend, and then sort out his sister. I have to bath her too, which means emptying out the dirty water, cleaning off the
lumps of shit ringing the bath, and running it again. Finally, we’re ready to go downstairs. I feel as if I’ve run a marathon already.

I’m halfway through feeding them breakfast (baby rice and formula; I’m supposed to mix it with breast milk, but Rowan won’t eat it, so let’s not tell Clare) when she
finally comes down, looking smug.

‘You’re up early,’ she says brightly.

Poppy smacks her hand in her bowl, splattering me with baby rice. ‘It’s eight-fifteen,’ I snarl, wiping cereal off my face.

Her smile fades. ‘I didn’t realize. Marc must have turned the baby monitor off when he got up for work. Jenna, I’m really, really sorry. Let me do that—’

I snatch the bowl away. ‘We’re up now.’

‘I’ll pay you overtime. Or you can take some time off instead if you like?’

I scrape the twins’ bowls into the waste disposal. Clare’s nice, she’s nowhere near as bad as Maggie Hasselbach, but she still doesn’t know how good she’s got it.
She wasn’t much older than me when she met Marc, and look at her now: gorgeous toy-boy husband, two beautiful babies, this amazing house – must be worth millions – not to mention
the sixty-grand car parked outside. It’s not fair. I’d love to get my hair done every month at Nicky Clarke, or have enough clothes to fill a whole spare bedroom.
And
she owns
her own business. She can pull a sickie whenever she bloody feels like it.

Meanwhile I clear up her kids’ shit, chop her onions, do what I’m told. You could fit everything I own into a couple of holdalls. My boyfriend’s a total loser, and I can hardly
even afford our rent. In three years I’ll be thirty, and I’ve got nothing to show for it.

The only thing I’ve got that she hasn’t is freedom. I’m bloody well going to make the most of it while I still can.

I swing round. ‘Actually, Clare, I’m going out tonight, so I will finish early and take some time off, if that’s OK.’ I don’t give her a chance to change her mind.
‘About five? It’ll give me time to get ready and do my hair.’

‘Yes, yes, of course, that’s fine. Are you going anywhere nice?’

‘There’s a new club opened in Stockwell, thought I’d give it a go.’

‘Sounds . . . fun.’

‘I’ll be back to start at seven tomorrow, usual time,’ I add, rubbing it in. ‘Don’t worry if I don’t come home before then, though.’

She’s gone by the time I come back downstairs. I call Kirsty, and then raid the larder for something edible. This is easier said than done, since Clare is the sort of person who keeps
wheatgrass smoothies and tofu in her fridge, whereas I’m more your Red Bull and frozen pizza kind of girl. But eventually I locate some doughnuts she pity-bought last week from the hospital
fundraiser, and settle down with a cup of tea in front of Jeremy Kyle. M
Y SISTER STOLE MY LOVER – AND NOW SHE WANTS A THREESOME
! Perfect.

The doorbell goes just as two bleach-blonde slappers lay claim to a bald lardarse with hair coming out of his ears.

‘I like the cinnamon frosting,’ Xan says, thumbing sugar from my top lip; ‘adds a nice touch.’

A bolt of lust shoots straight to my groin.

Xan saunters past me into the sitting room and sits down. ‘Hope you didn’t overdo the doughnuts, though. I thought we’d do lunch.’

I blink. ‘Don’t be stupid. I’ve got the twins—’

‘Bring them.’

‘No. I’ve got a thousand things to do, and anyway, I don’t think Clare would like it.’ I go back into the hall and pointedly open the front door. ‘No. Absolutely
not.’

‘Come on. You know you want to.’

‘I told you, I can’t.’

‘I promise I won’t tell.’

‘As if I’d believe
you
.’

Xan laughs and pushes the chocolate lava cake towards me. ‘You’d have a lot more fun if you just did what I told you.’

‘Yeah, and I’d end up getting arrested.’

I give in and reach for the cake fork, but before I can take a bite Xan catches my hand and turns my forearm over. Carefully, he fits his fingertips to the livid pattern of bruises circling my
wrist. ‘He’s got a firm grip,’ he comments, ‘your boyfriend.’

I pull my arm away. ‘He just doesn’t know his own strength.’

‘Oh, I think he does.’

I open my mouth to deny it. ‘The cupboard door swung back and hit me.’ ‘The phone distracted me when I was ironing.’ ‘I caught my hand in the car door.’
I’ve got so used to making excuses for Jamie, the lies automatically trip off my tongue. Last weekend, Mum remarked on a half-moon scar on my knee, and instantly I rushed to explain it away:
I was carrying some wine bottles out to the recycling bin, I slipped on some wet leaves, must have fallen awkwardly—

‘You did that when you were seven,’ Mum said, looking at me strangely. ‘You fell over the campfire at Brownies, don’t you remember?’

I busy myself with the twins now, wiping noses and cleaning hands. It’s not Jamie’s fault. I know every sad bitch who’s ever had her eye blacked by her boyfriend says that, but
in my case it’s really true. Jamie’s got PTSD, the counsellor said so. Like those soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan. He really
doesn’t
know what he’s doing when he
gets into these blind rages. I don’t think he even sees me: I just happen to be there.

That doesn’t make it OK, of course – but actually, it kind of
does
. What am I going to do, kick him when he’s down?

Xan tips his chair back on two legs. ‘He’ll break something next,’ he says laconically. ‘Your wrist, your ribs. Your neck.’

‘You’ll break something if you don’t stop tilting your chair.’

He smiles mockingly. ‘Sorry, Nanny.’

Who the fuck does he think he is? Just because Mummy lives in a bloody castle and he went to a posh school. If I’m so beneath him, what’s he doing here?
He’s
the one
who came to
me
. If he’s that bothered, he can go back to guzzling champagne with the Honourable La-di-dah Horse-Face, instead of slumming it at Pizza Express with the staff. Arrogant
fucking arsehole.

I shove back from the table. ‘It’s time I got the twins home.’

‘Wait. Don’t go.’ He thumps his chair back down. ‘Look, no more bullshit, Jenna, I promise. It just pisses me off, that’s all. I don’t know why anyone would
want to rough up a gorgeous girl like you, but it’s your business. Just tell me one thing. Forgive the cliché, but do you love him?’

Gorgeous girl.

Oh, get over yourself, Jenna. It’s a
line.

‘I can’t leave Jamie,’ I say tightly. ‘You don’t understand.’

Slightly to my surprise, he doesn’t press the point.

Instead he stands up, grabs the twins’ push-chair and throws four twenties on the table. ‘Let’s go.’

As soon as we’re outside, he flags down a taxi and hefts the stroller into it.

‘What are you doing?’ I demand. ‘We can walk home from here—’

‘You need to chill out,’ Xan says. ‘And I know just the place.’

Thirty minutes later, London lies spread beneath us. A murky haze blankets the city, the last of the day’s bleached sunshine glinting off the sluggish brown river. Viewed from the sky, far
from the traffic and crowds and noise, it all seems so much more peaceful and gracious than at ground level. London suddenly looks like the print Clare has over her fireplace by one of those
Impressionist painters: Manet, Monet, something like that. Kind of elegant and timeless.