The Nanny (16 page)

By the time my husband comes home, Jenna and I have eaten, and I’m already in bed. I listen to him stumble around downstairs, cursing as he smashes into something. I hear glass breaking,
and feel a spurt of anger. Isn’t it enough that he’s been playing Russian roulette with our home, without turning into a bloody drunk as well?

He finally lurches upstairs and clambers into bed. Whisky fumes roil my way as he leans over me and runs a sweaty hand over my haunch. I lie still, hoping he’ll think I’m asleep and
give up.

‘Clare?’ he whispers loudly. ‘Are you awake?’

I keep my breathing slow and even.

He clumsily grabs my breast. ‘Ow!’ I yelp, slapping his hand away.

‘Are you awake?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I missed you,’ he slurs. ‘You’re my best friend, Clarey, do you know that?’

‘Yes,’ I sigh, pushing him away.

His hands are more insistent now. ‘I love you. I just want a cuddle, tha’s all. Not too much to ask, is it? At th’end of a very long day.’

‘Marc, I’m really not feeling very sexy right now—’

‘You’ve never looked more beautiful,’ Marc pants.

Men always say that, don’t they? When what they mean is:
I really
, really
want sex right now
, and frankly, who looks at the mantelpiece when they’re poking the
fire?

I’m a conscientious wife. I make sure Marc and I have sex every weekend, even if I’m not in the mood (and find me a woman with young children who wouldn’t prefer an extra hour
of sleep). If I’m feeling reckless, I’ll even throw in a quickie in the shower on Sunday morning. It’s usually enough to keep him sweet the rest of the week, but on the odd
occasion Marc asks for snacks between meals, I never say no. Once we get going, I enjoy it (Marc is a skilled and thoughtful lover) – although, if I’m honest, not quite as much as the
latest
Times
best-seller. Sex just isn’t the driving force it used to be. It’s not Marc; it’s a woman thing.

But right now, even if my husband weren’t breathing sour fumes in my face, or fumbling my nipples like they’re volume controls, or prodding an unappetizing semi-flaccid penis against
my thigh, I wouldn’t feel particularly inclined to accommodate him. Right now, I’m too angry even to fake pleasure.

‘No, thank you, Marc. Sweet of you to offer,’ I add politely, ‘but actually, I’d rather not.’

I have a meeting with a grower in Islington at seven the next morning. I leave home before anyone is up, relieved not to have to face Marc over the breakfast table. It’s
becoming a strain coming up with things to talk about without invoking the pink elephant in the room. I keep waiting for him to come and tell me what he’s done, but his solution to the
problem seems to be to go out and get roaring drunk, then come home and make a move on me.

He’s such a child sometimes. He reminds me so much of Xan. I remember when Xan was about five: he cut off all the heads of Davina’s roses, and then panicked and tried to sellotape
them back on. Marc was just trying to put things right the only way he could think of. He’s a fool, not a bastard. If I didn’t truly believe that, I would have left him.

I race home to see the twins at lunchtime, but to my disappointment, they’re sleeping. ‘Stop worrying,’ says Jenna, ‘they haven’t forgotten who you are. Go and get
your highlights done, we’ll be fine, really.’

So I go to Nicky Clarke and sit reading
Harper’s Bazaar
and drinking cappuccino and feeling dreadfully guilty for paying someone to look after my babies while I go off and do
something so frivolous. A nanny is almost excusable when I’m working flat out to save us from bankruptcy, but how can I justify this?

Though my hair does look
great
, I think as I hand over my credit card (trying not to notice the total), and in my business, like any other these days, image is everything.

I put my wallet back in my bag and notice I’ve a missed call on my mobile.

Four of them.

‘She was fine until about an hour ago,’ Jenna says. ‘I put them both down for their naps, and went back when I heard Rowan crying. Poppy was just lying there,
like this.’

My baby is limp in Jenna’s arms, her eyes half-closed and rolled back in her head. She’s so pale she looks carved from wax. I want to be the one to hold her, but I’m terrified
to touch her (
Bad mother
, a voice says inside my head) in case I make things worse.

‘Is it the vaccinations?’ I demand. ‘All that publicity about the MMR—’

‘They haven’t had MMR yet. This was just their third dose of DTP. Neither of them has had any reaction to the first two.’

I didn’t know that. I even went with them to their last appointment and I’ve no idea what vaccinations the doctor gave my babies.

Ever since the twins were born, all I’ve done is wish them away. ‘Please stop crying, so I can get some sleep.’ ‘Can you take them, Jenna, I have to work.’ How
could sleep or work be more important than spending time with my children? It’s not as if this pregnancy was unwanted or unplanned. I
chose
to have a baby. I love the twins.
What’s wrong with me, that I spend all my time trying to escape them?

I deserve to lose a child. It’s karma. I wished one of them dead, and now . . .

‘Where’s the damn ambulance?’ I pace towards the window. ‘It’s taking too long. I think we should drive her to the hospital ourselves—’

‘We have to wait for the ambulance, Clare, we can’t risk getting stuck in traffic.’

‘She could have died, while I was off getting my hair done. I should have been here. I didn’t even hear the phone—’

‘She’s not dying, Clare,’ Jenna says firmly. ‘I know this is hard, but you need to calm down. She’s going to be fine.’

‘And you
know
that, do you?’ I shout.

‘Yes,’ Jenna says stoutly.

She’s pale, but composed. I force myself to take my cue from her.

‘I can hear sirens,’ Jenna says suddenly.

I pick up Rowan and we run down the front steps as the ambulance double-parks outside, squeezing between parked cars with the babies held aloft like precious bundles above floodwaters. Jenna
passes Poppy to the paramedics, who whisk her into the back of the ambulance out of sight.

I don’t even notice Marc standing on the pavement in shock until he grabs my arm.

‘Clare! What the hell is happening?’

‘It’s Poppy,’ I say, shaking him off. ‘She’s sick, we don’t know what’s wrong with her, we’ve got to get her to hospital. Thank God you’re
home, you can look after Rowan. He seems fine now, but if he starts to—’

‘No!’ Marc roars. ‘For God’s sake, Clare,
Jenna
can stay home and look after Rowan! Poppy’s my daughter too! I’m coming with you!’

I don’t have time to argue. I give Rowan to Jenna, and clamber into the back of the ambulance. My heart constricts at the sight of my precious baby on the stretcher, a miniature oxygen
mask already strapped to her pale face. It actually
hurts
my chest. I can’t lose her. I can’t. I close my eyes and pray to what I hope is a forgiving God.
I’ll be a
better mother, I’ll spend every minute with them. Please don’t take her.

One of the paramedics reaches across me to shut the door. ‘Sir,’ he tells Marc, ‘if you wouldn’t mind following behind in your car—’

‘Like hell,’ Marc snarls, and forces his way in after me.

I’m sick with fear, but the paramedic smiles pleasantly at me as if we’re off on a sightseeing tour. His zip catches on a blanket; he swears as he nips his finger freeing it. A phone
number is scrawled in biro on the back of his freckled hand.

I watch him pull out a clipboard and laboriously start to fill in details. His pen runs out, and he scratches it in the margin, then shakes it several times, and tries again. It still
won’t write, so he begins a painfully slow search of his pockets for another pen. I want to scream at him to hurry,
hurry!
My baby could be dying, and he’s looking for a
biro!

Finally, he finds a pen tucked into the seat pocket beside him, and starts to ask me questions. Is she on medication? Any allergies? Any history of seizures? I tell him about the vaccinations,
wishing Jenna was here. I don’t know if Poppy’s been off her food the last few days. I don’t know if her nappies have been normal recently. I don’t know what normal
is
.

‘I don’t know,’ I say again, close to tears, when he asks me how long Poppy’s lips have been cracked like this. I hadn’t even noticed.
How could I not have
noticed?

‘Why don’t you know?’ Marc demands suddenly.

‘I’m sorry. Jenna didn’t mention—’

‘You’re her mother!
You
should know!’

We arrive at Accident & Emergency, and I answer the same questions again for the triage nurse. Poppy is whisked to a cubicle, and once more I go through the same question-and-answer routine
with the junior doctor who examines her. By the fifth time of repetition, to another more senior doctor and then a paediatric consultant, I’m struggling to hide my frustration. I don’t
want to upset anyone. I want them to think I’m a good mother. I want them to approve of me, even though my five-month-old daughter is lying semi-conscious on the bed with – how did I
not notice this before? – small but definite bruises on her neck and arms.

It’s Marc who erupts again, leaping up from his metal chair and kicking it across the cubicle. ‘Enough with the fucking questions!’ he yells. ‘When is somebody going to
do
something?’

‘Marc,’ I soothe, glancing nervously towards the cluster of doctors outside the curtains, ‘I’m sure they’re doing their best—’

‘Don’t you read the damn newspapers?’ he shouts. ‘I’m not having my daughter turn into another damn statistic! This bunch of quacks need to get off their sweet
asses and figure out what’s wrong with her, or there’s gonna be a few more patients around here!’

Fury boils in my chest. How does this stupid, macho posturing help? Marc should be calming
me
down, reassuring me and telling me everything’s going to be OK. Instead, he’s
behaving like a frightened teenager and adding to the chaos and confusion. If I have to look after him, who is left to look after me?

I tug his arm. ‘Marc, please. You’re making things worse.’

‘Worse? How can they be any fucking
worse
?’

One of the doctors detaches from the group. ‘Mr Elias. Mrs Elias,’ he says firmly. ‘We can’t treat your daughter until we know what’s wrong with her, so we’re
doing some tests to find out. Believe me, we want to help her get better as much as you do—’

‘She’s got a fucking name!’ Marc bellows. ‘She’s called Poppy!
Poppy!
’

‘What tests?’ I ask.

‘Everything we can think of until we come up with an answer. I realize this is a very difficult time, Mrs Elias, but if you could try to bear with us,’ he adds, as a nurse gently
takes my shoulder. ‘We just need to get a few more details from you. Don’t worry, we’ll come and get you as soon as we know anything. Mr Elias, you can stay with me.’

I look uncertainly at Marc. ‘Go on,’ he snaps. ‘I’ll look after her.’

‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ the nurse asks, leading me to a small, private waiting room with worn brown and orange carpet tiles and hard, utilitarian plastic seats. Torn posters
peeling from the walls exhort vigilance against meningitis and flu.

‘No. Thank you,’ I add politely.

The questions are the same, but this time there’s a subtext I can’t quite read. It’s almost as if she’s trying to catch me out.

‘So,’ she says finally, ‘your daughter was with your nanny today, is that right?’

‘Jenna,’ I supplement.

‘Jenna. How long has she been with you?’

‘Since the twins were eight weeks old, so about three months.’

‘And you haven’t had any problems with her?’

‘What sort of problems?’

The nurse taps her pen against her notepad. ‘Anything unusual you might have noticed about her behaviour. Mood swings, emotional outbursts, that sort of thing.’

‘No . . .’

‘Drinking? Drugs?’

‘Of course not! Look, what is—’

‘Any sign of cutting or self-harming? Bulimia, anorexia, anything like that?’

I push away the image of the faded scars criss-crossing Jenna’s arms. ‘No, nothing. She’s wonderful, the twins adore her. I checked all her references. I’d trust her with
my life.’ My voice rises. ‘What exactly are you trying to say?’

‘Just routine, Mrs Elias. Nothing to get upset about. So, apart from the nanny, Jenna, only you and your husband have had access to your daughter?’

‘Yes. Well, Marc’s at work most of the time, he only really sees them at weekends—’

‘I see.’ She scribbles something else down on her pad, and gets to her feet. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you that cup of tea?’

‘Please, can I just see Poppy now?’

‘Let me find out how she’s doing. Someone will be in to see you shortly.’

I shred a tissue in my lap. I know what the nurse was getting at; I read the papers. It’s called Munchausen’s by proxy: when someone gets attention through a sick child. They think
Poppy’s ill because someone is deliberately making her sick. It’s got to be the mother or the nanny, that’s what they’re thinking.

Jenna would never hurt the twins, and obviously I didn’t.

But I’ve been so tired recently – so worn down – sometimes I can’t remember what I had for breakfast. Supposing I had . . . an
impulse
. . .

The door opens. I throw myself into Marc’s arms, desperate for reassurance. He strokes my hair awkwardly, and then holds me away from him. ‘Come on, Clare. Pull yourself together.
This isn’t going to help anyone.’

The senior doctor who spoke to us before follows Marc into the room. He gestures to us to sit down, but doesn’t take a seat himself. D
R
G
ARDNER
is embroidered in navy thread over his left breast.

‘Your daughter’s doing much better,’ he says, without preamble. ‘She’s regained consciousness, though we’re keeping her sedated for the moment. Obviously
we’re admitting her to Intensive Care for the time being. She’s on an IV drip, and she’s being closely monitored. As soon as we find out anything more, we’ll let you
know.’