The Nanny (14 page)

London girls were different. They drank beer, threw up in the street, forgot to wear knickers and bought their own condoms. I dated a bunch of them at the same time; none of them seemed to care.
Marriage and babies were the furthest thing from their minds.

Clare was in another league. I knew that straight away. The accent, the clothes – she dressed nice, but not cookie-cutter preppy – the gold signet ring on her pinkie. I’d
worked with enough London bankers by then to know that ring meant ‘family’. I nearly peed myself when she told me her mom was a Lady, even if, as she pointed out, her stepdad had bought
the title by shelling out enough cash in donations to the right government fixer. My grandfather had been a fisherman in Tyre; he’d lived and died in a one-room shack.

Dating Clare catapulted me into the same elite club as Felix and Hamish and the rest of them. In an instant, I was One of Us. And – the icing on the cake – I genuinely
liked
her. She had a plan. She was ambitious, she knew what she wanted out of life and how to get it. We had that in common at least.

The age thing didn’t bother me one way or the other. Sure, I got a kick out of hooking an older woman, but I didn’t have this whole sugar-mommy complex. She’ll be pushing
eighty when I’m seventy: so what? I grew up with five older sisters; I don’t see it as a big deal. At least, I didn’t use to. These days, the whole Clare-knows-best routine is
starting to grate. It was fine having her take charge when I was twenty-three, but I’m fucking thirty years old in a few months. She needs to let go the reins a little.

She pulls my head down now and crushes my lips beneath hers, hot and demanding. I can’t remember the last time she was this horny. I put the money out of my mind. I’m not going to
ask my bloody wife for it. I’ll figure it out myself.

I press my face into her hair, wishing, just for a moment, it was the two of us again.

‘Mrs Elias, you’ve no idea how much I’ve missed you,’ I whisper fiercely.

I yank up her skirt and shove her knickers aside, jamming my fingers roughly inside her. She squeals; I ignore her, throwing her down on the bed beside me. She unzips my pants and I pull her
astride my cock, ripping her T-shirt over her head. Her titties leak milk, and I latch on and lap it up. I love her being pregnant, feeding my kids. I loved her walking around with her huge belly:
I’ve been fucked.

She starts riding my cock, taking over again, so I flip her on to her back and drill my dick hard into her. The bedroom’s the one place I’m in charge, and I know she fucking likes it
that way.

I come inside her, hoping she’s had enough wine to forget she’s not back on the Pill yet. I want her pregnant again soon. If I had my way, she’d give me a dozen kids.

After, she curls happily in the crook of my arm. I guess she came too, then.

‘Marc? What was it you wanted to talk about?’

Christ. Why do women always want to talk
after
sex? It’s doing things ass-backwards, like putting your socks on over your shoes.

I pretend I don’t hear her. Pretty soon she’s asleep, and I stare at the luminous green figures on the clock next to my bed, knowing I have to be up again in a few hours, but unable
to switch off. Sex tonight was fine, yes, but it hasn’t wiped the slate the way it usually does for me. If anything, I feel even more pissy. Clare’s changed since she had the twins, and
not in a good way. I’ve watched five sisters have kids, and it softened all of them, even Rania, the wild child of the bunch – Christ, you should have seen her at sixteen. Jailbait. My
father was all for sending her back to Lebanon to knock her back into line. Then she met Antoine and had the boys, and she’s blossomed.

Clare’s always been controlling (Mom reckons she’s a bitch on wheels: she’s never approved of women who work), but it never really bothered me before. She couldn’t have
achieved what she has if she didn’t have a tough, steely streak. I know she could be a great mother: you can see it in the way she fusses over her flowers. I always figured she’d relax
once we had a family. You have to go with the flow where kids are concerned. Life gets messy. Rania’s three are in and out of the ER with one minor emergency after another.

But Clare didn’t even try to make it work. She simply passed the ball and brought a sub in off the bench. She’s paying someone to mother her own babies. There are times I think she
cares more about her business than me or Rowan and Poppy.

I ease my arm from beneath her head, the muscles tingling painfully as blood flows back into them. A wisp of hair falls across her face and flutters as she breathes.

PetalPushers is her real family.

For two weeks, I try to find a way out of the nightmare, but come up empty. I can’t borrow any more from the bank, I’ve already taken out a second mortgage on the
house, and no one will give me a loan this size in the current economic climate. Scared shitless, I drink myself stupid, trying to block it all out, but all it earns me is a monster hangover and a
slap-down from Clare when I make the mistake of trying it on with her.

In the end, I run out of time. When the trading floor gives you a margin call, you pay up or you’re screwed. I have twenty-four hours to find the cash, so I do what I have to, and take it
from Clare again. Where else was I supposed to get it?

It’s not like I’m having an affair, for God’s sake. She’ll never even know. I can make it back with a couple of good trades. I swear, once this is all over, I’ll
never stick my neck out like that again. I’ll settle the bet and walk away from the table once and for all.

For once I come home sober, putting my game face on as I let myself into the house. I’ve never lied to Clare, even by omission. Every night when I come home, I’m terrified
she’ll see it in my eyes.

I needn’t have worried. She doesn’t even bother to look up.

Instead, she holds out her wineglass to Jenna, who tops it up. Acid burns in my gut as I watch them from the doorway. They’ve been thick as thieves since that business with Xan a couple
weeks ago. I should’ve punched the bastard’s fucking lights out. Nobody puts my kids in danger. And as usual, Clare stuck up for him. ‘Silly misunderstanding’, my ass. If
I’d been in charge, I’d have locked him up and thrown away the key.

I pour myself a drink in the kitchen. The remnants of dinner are in the sink. I check the oven. Cold. Nothing left for me, as usual. The fucking cat gets treated better than I do.

I hear them giggling in front of that damn show like a pair of teenagers. I want to slap the pair of them. They’ve even started to look alike, Clare in jeans – I didn’t know
she owned any – and the nanny with her hair tied back in a prissy knot like my wife’s; for God’s sake, the girl’s even wearing a pair of bloody pearl earrings.

‘I’m going to take a shower,’ I say tightly.

‘Fine,’ Clare says.

I run the water as hot as I can bear it, and stand under it until I feel the tension start to drain away. A year ago, my life was pretty much perfect. I was making money hand over fist; I had a
beautiful, attentive wife, two babies on the way, a fantastic new house: life was sweet. I thought when the twins arrived there’d be no looking back. Instead, ever since that fucking cuckoo
moved in, my life’s been falling apart. I feel like a third wheel in my own home. I could lose my job and the roof over our heads if I don’t dig myself out of this hole. And if Clare
finds out I’ve borrowed against her company, I’ll lose her.

I’m towelling myself dry in our dressing room when Clare comes upstairs.

‘You didn’t have to be so rude to Jenna,’ she snaps. ‘A “hello” would have done.’

‘Jesus. Do we have to talk about the nanny now?’

‘I’m helping her put some sort of monthly budget together,’ Clare adds, as if I haven’t spoken. ‘She hasn’t got the first idea how to manage her finances.
That Cartier watch cost her six months’ salary.’

I throw my damp towel into the laundry basket. ‘Why d’you have to get involved? It’s none of our business how Jenna spends her money.’

‘She’s part of the family, Marc. She looks after our children.’

‘Your choice,’ I mutter.

Clare stares at me like I’m shit on the sole of her shoe. For fuck’s sake, what does she want from me? Who gives a damn about the nanny’s overdraft? I’ve got enough
problems worrying about my own.

‘It’s none of your business, Clare.’ I pull on a pair of boxers and climb into bed. ‘I know it makes you feel better to think of her as part of the family, but
she’s not. She’s an employee, the same as Molly and Craig and anyone else you pay to work for you.
You
decided you wanted a nanny. Don’t try to reason your guilt away by
dressing the relationship up and making it something it isn’t.’

‘
I
have nothing to feel guilty about,’ she says sharply.

‘Whatever.’

‘I just want Jenna to be happy, so Poppy and Rowan are happy—’

‘You want the children to be happy? Fantastic. Fire the nanny and look after them yourself.’

Clare spends longer than usual finishing up in the bathroom. When she gets into bed, I feel the covers tremble, and realize she’s crying.

I want to comfort her, but something holds me back.

I’m glad to see the invincible Clare Elias rendered vulnerable, like everybody else.

For the next few days, Clare leaves the house before my alarm has even gone off. I thoughtfully regard my reflection in the mirror the third morning after I wake to find my bed
empty. Something isn’t right. Clare hasn’t been herself for weeks. It’s not just the girly bonding with Jenna and chucking my dinner in the bin. I’ve been married to Clare
long enough to recognize when she’s using politeness as a weapon. She consulted me about the summer holidays, she takes my suits to the dry-cleaners and hands me my cufflinks; but when
I’ve tried to talk to her properly, she courteously shuts me down. On the couple of occasions she’s given in and we’ve fucked, I can tell she’s faking.
I’ve got to
know if she knows.

‘Jenna,’ I muse, as I walk into the kitchen, ‘is everything all right with Clare?’

She lifts Rowan out of his seat and puts him in the playpen with Poppy. ‘What do you mean?’

I spoon coffee into the percolator. I really don’t want the nanny involved, but I have to find out what’s eating Clare. If she’s found out about the money, who knows what she
might do? I don’t want to come home one evening and find she’s changed the locks on me.

‘She’s just been a bit . . . distracted . . . lately,’ I say carefully. ‘Like she’s got something on her mind. I thought she might have mentioned something to
you.’

‘Such as?’

Christ, she’s not making this easy. ‘I don’t know. Girl stuff.’

‘Oh.
Girl stuff
.’

‘Is she worried about something? At work, maybe?’

‘Not that I know of,’ Jenna says, wiping down the twins’ high-chairs. She straightens up, and looks me dead in the eye. ‘Is something on your mind, Marc?’

I blink first.

‘I know I’ve been a bit preoccupied lately,’ I say evasively. ‘I haven’t spent as much time with Clare or the twins as I’d have liked . . .’

‘They’ve hardly seen you.’

Fucking bitch.
‘Look, Jenna. I love my kids. I love my wife. I’d like nothing more than to come home at five and hang out with them at bathtime. I’d kill to take the
kids to the park or the zoo today, instead of going into work.’

‘So take the day off.’

‘It’s not that simple.’

I’m suddenly tired; I don’t have the energy to keep fighting with her. ‘Jenna, in my business, taking time off is seen as a sign of weakness. It’s a young man’s
game, and there’s no room for passengers. Particularly with the economy the way it is. You can’t imagine the pressure I’m under. Every day I go into work, I wonder if I’ll
be clearing out my desk by lunchtime. You’re only as good as your last trade. The first sign of blood in the water, and the sharks move in. They fire you on Friday, so you don’t depress
everyone. By the time Monday rolls around, they’ve forgotten you even existed.’

It’s such a relief to finally tell someone. To admit how fucking terrified I am. I could never talk to Clare like this. She despises me enough as it is.

‘Why don’t you quit and do something else?’

I laugh shortly. ‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. Work in an ordinary bank, or something?’

‘Behind a counter? Filling ATMs?’

‘Well, couldn’t you manage a branch? With all your experience—’

‘And earn fifty grand a year before tax? It wouldn’t even cover the basics.’

There’s an awkward pause. I get up and pour my coffee. Fifty grand must seem like winning the lottery to Jenna. What would she say if she knew I owed almost
two million
? It sounds
like Monopoly money, even to me.

Jenna picks Poppy up from the playpen. ‘I’m sure Clare just wants you to be happy,’ she says uncertainly.

‘Clare’s got no idea what it feels like to fail. She couldn’t begin to understand. She’s never made a mistake in her life.’

‘D’you ever feel a bit – well . . .’ Jenna hesitates.

‘Inadequate? Pathetic?’

‘No, no, of course not. I just meant . . . you must wish she didn’t have to work so hard.’

Poppy squirms fretfully in Jenna’s arms, her long dark lashes spiked with tears, and the nanny gently rubs her back. ‘Is she OK?’ I ask. ‘Her cheeks are a bit
red.’

‘I think she’s teething again, that’s all. She’s been really thirsty, and that’s always a sign. She’ll be fine by tomorrow.’

‘Clare should have stayed home—’

‘Marc, it’s fine. Babies are always teething or getting a cold. You can’t take a day off every time. Anyway, looking after them is what
she
pays me for.’

I don’t miss the snide emphasis. She couldn’t make her position any clearer:
I work for Clare, not you.
Well, she may be Clare’s new best friend, but I’m still
her husband. If Jenna doesn’t want to find herself out of a job, she’d better mend her fucking attitude.

‘I’d rather my children were cared for by their own mother,’ I say tersely. ‘They’ll be going to nursery in a year or two. The damn flowers will still be there
then.’