The Nanny (19 page)

‘Didn’t mean—’

‘Show me how much you love me,’ he whispers.

I twist round. Jamie pulls down his filthy blue sweats and boxers, and looks proudly down at his erection. Violence always turns him on. My stomach lurches. Oh God, I don’t think I can do
this.

His eyes narrow. ‘Come on, then.’

‘Let’s just . . . take our time,’ I prevaricate. ‘Why don’t we go upstairs, and you can have a shower and—’

‘I thought you said you loved me?’

‘I do, but—’

He grabs my hair, and shoves my head down between his legs. He smells rank and sour. I gag as he thrusts his cock in my mouth. If I throw up, I think he’ll actually kill me. He’s
gone way too far this time. He hasn’t just crossed the line: it’s a little dot receding into the distance.

I give him what he wants, trying not to inhale his stench. I know it’s not all his fault. He’s sick. He doesn’t mean it.

Clare wouldn’t put up with this
, I think suddenly. Marc would never dare treat her this way. She has his respect, albeit grudging, because she
demands
it.

What kind of fucking masochistic idiot am I? Instead of feeling sorry for Jamie and making endless excuses for him, I should have walked out the first time he hit me, and never looked back.

Abruptly, Jamie stiffens, then pulls out at the last moment and deliberately squirts his cum into my face and hair. I wipe it out of my eyes, feeling dirty and humiliated. He laughs nastily,
then gets to his feet, lazily tucking his spent dick into his pants.

My scars tingle. I’m not sure who I hate most: Jamie for doing this, or me for letting him.

‘Everybody, this is Jenna,’ Clare announces.

‘Hello, Jenna,’ everyone choruses.

Half a dozen groomed, no-make-up-made-up faces smile politely at me. Pearl earrings, Chanel suits, Patrick Cox driving shoes and the obligatory discreet Tiffany bling, almost to a woman.
Clare’s International Crises charity committee. What do they do, distribute designer handbags to the unfortunates of Darfur?

Clare takes my arm. ‘Come on, I want to introduce you properly.’

‘I really should see to the twins’ lunch,’ I hedge.

‘It’s OK, Jenna, they’re still asleep, and the intercom’s on. Now, Fran you already know, but this is Olivia, Poppy—’

‘The original,’ Poppy laughs.

‘Candida, Georgiana – you want to be
very
nice to her, Jenna, she has a
gorgeous
younger half-brother, Fergus, and his father’s an earl,’ Clare teases.
‘Play your cards right and you could be Countess Jenna one day.’

More laughter. Because it’s just so
hilarious
that the nanny could end up married to one of them.

‘So you’re the famous Jenna,’ one of the women – Marina? Sabrina? – drawls coolly. ‘We’ve heard
so
much about you.’

‘Clare says you’ve saved her life,’ Poppy (the original) adds. I think she’s smiling, but she’s so Botoxed up, it’s hard to tell.

‘Well. The twins are wonderful to look after.’

‘You can’t imagine what I’ve been through finding a decent nanny,’ a skinny blonde comments. ‘Especially one who speaks
English
.’

‘Did Olivia tell you what happened with her last girl, Clare? Went out to get the dry-cleaning one morning, and never came back. Just left you in the lurch, didn’t she,
darling?’

‘
Night
mare,’ the blonde confirms. ‘Tarka and I were supposed to be going to Nevis the following week, and of course we couldn’t find anyone to look after the
boys at such short notice. Can you imagine!’

Clearly these women define an International Crisis as having to take your own children on holiday with you.

Poppy winks at me, and leans conspiratorially towards Clare. ‘You’re lucky, darling. I wish I could find someone like Jenna to come and work for me.’

‘Oh, Jenna doesn’t work
for
me,’ Clare says hastily. ‘She works
with
me. We’re a team.’

I know she means well, but I wish she’d stop trying to pretend we’re friends. It’s embarrassing for both of us.

Candida opens a sandwich, takes out the wafer-thin slices of cucumber and puts the bread aside. ‘But English girls are so ex
pen
sive. Once I’ve paid Vicky, put petrol in her
car and added in overtime and health insurance and all the rest of it, she makes more than I do. You have to give them endless holidays, too, and sick days. It’s ridiculous.’

‘Candida! You can’t say that!’ Clare says, clearly embarrassed. ‘Nannies aren’t slave labour. Anyway, I’m sure poor Jenna thinks all this is very boring. I
hate to think what our nannies would say about us if they got together—’

‘Do you know,’ Candida says, ignoring her, ‘the other day I caught Vicky on the phone to Georgiana’s girl discussing her
salary
!’

‘Be fair,’ Clare protests. ‘You can’t tell me you don’t talk about your income to the other lawyers in your chambers. It’s just harmless
gossip—’

‘If that’s all it was, it wouldn’t be so bad. But it turns out,’ Candida pauses for dramatic effect, ‘Charlotte Hughes-Foster had
tried to steal
her
!’

Shocked gasps all round.

‘But Horatio and Alfie are in the same class at Ludgrove!’ Clare exclaims.

‘She came to my wedding,’ Candida says indignantly. ‘I thought I could trust her. If she’d had an affair with my husband, I might have been able to forgive her. The
man’s an alleycat anyway. But my
nanny
! We’ve been together for years! How
could
she?’

‘What did you do?’ Poppy demands.

‘Well, Vicky and I sat down and had a long heart-to-heart. We’ve been taking each other for granted, I think we both realize that now. We’d grown apart and stopped really
communicating. So we’ve decided to really work at things from now on,’ she adds earnestly. ‘We’ve set aside one night a week to spend together, so we can concentrate on each
other. I think this whole affair might be the making of our relationship.’

A loud wail emanates from the twins’ intercom. I breathe a sigh of relief and leap to my feet. No one even seems to notice me pick up the intercom and leave.

I’m tempted to spit in the organic lemonade as I pass. None of these spoiled, rich, self-obsessed women cares about the nameless girls they entrust with their precious children.
Clare’s nice, but even she forgets I have a life of my own. She hasn’t once asked how Jamie is since I came back. I don’t just walk offstage when I leave her house, and vanish
into thin air.

I’m upstairs changing Rowan’s nappy when the nursery door shuts quietly behind me. I jump.

‘Please, don’t let me disturb you,’ Olivia says, waving her hand.

‘The bathroom’s just along the hall—’

‘Actually, darling, I’m glad I’ve got you alone. I wanted to have a quiet word.’

Casually she picks up a pair of pink bootees from the changing table. ‘So sweet. Mine are both boys. I do so
long
for a little girl. The thing is, Jenna,’ she says, briskly
changing tack, ‘my current nanny isn’t really working out. I need to find a new one, and I was wondering if you could help.’

‘Well, I could ask around,’ I say doubtfully. ‘Maybe a friend of mine—’

‘Oh, no, darling,’ trills Olivia, ‘it’s
you
I want.’

I hesitate, wondering if I’ve misunderstood. ‘But I work for Clare.’

‘Obviously. And I love Clare, sweetie, I really do, but I’m absolutely desperate. I know it’s a little bit naughty, and Clare probably won’t be on speakers with me when
she finds out, but she’s done nothing but sing your praises since you joined her. You’re smart and presentable, and your accent isn’t
too
bad—’

‘I couldn’t possibly, I’m sorry,’ I say firmly.
My
accent? Cheeky bitch. At least I don’t sound like I’ve swallowed a bucket of marbles.

‘How much is she paying you, darling? Two thousand? Two and a half?’

‘I really can’t—’

‘I’ll pay you four. And I’ll buy you a car; you can keep it if you stay a year.’

Four?
Four thousand pounds a month?

‘Don’t worry, darling. My boys are very sweet, I’m not paying you silly money because they’re monsters.
I’m
the difficult one, as if you hadn’t
guessed. As long as you keep me happy, we’ll be fine.’

I think fast. I love the twins, and I like Clare, a lot; I can even tolerate Marc. This woman clearly has the moral scruples of a blood-sucking leech. She’d be a total bitch to work for,
and she might easily change her mind and sack me after a week, and then I’d be fucked.

Four thousand a month
. I could clear my debts, pay Jamie off: if he has enough start-up cash to find his own place, he might leave mine.

Put that way, it’s a no-brainer.

If there were any justice in this world, I’d wake with a splitting headache and a mean coke hangover: depression, lethargy, and the Monday-morning blues on a Thursday.
Not to mention a couple of remorseful, teary women and an angry husband/father (I’m still not quite sure how old they are) at the door.

Thankfully, the Devil has all the best tunes.

I hold out my hand to check: not even shaking.

Flipping back the duvet, I chivvy the two girls who picked me up at Mahiki last night out of bed. They totter home happily; neither asks for my number, or offers me hers. This is the beauty of
letting women make the moves: no guilt, no grief, no strings. Everybody’s happy.

By seven-thirty, I’m behind my desk in my huge new fuck-off corner office at ShopTV, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I spend the morning checking yesterday’s sales figures, chairing
the daily review meeting and touching base with the presenters and guest reps from suppliers going on air. We’re doing a big push on pearls this week, tying it in with the launch of a major
new skincare range – pearls have to be worn against the skin to keep their lustre, blah, blah. Our sales figures on the segments are down on last year, but only slightly; given the depth of
the economic shit we’re all in, I’m still in my happy place. Most people think when a recession hits it’s the luxuries women cut back on, but surprisingly, our homeware lines
suffer most. If she can’t afford a new frock, a woman cheers herself up with a nice pair of shiny earrings, and sod the saucepans.

I toss the viewing figures across my desk. I can sell anything to anyone, but it helps when I have a decent product.

My mobile rings; I check the ID, and grin. ‘I take it I’m forgiven?’

‘You don’t deserve to be,’ my sister says crisply.

‘C’mon, CP. Even you can’t sulk for ever.’

‘Don’t call me that. You know I hate it.’

Our dear departed father was Catholic. He chose Clare’s first name, but graciously permitted Davina to pick her middle one – on condition it featured in Butler’s
Lives of
the Saints
. She spent hours combing through all six thick, leather-bound volumes for the most irritating one she could find. Clare Perpetua it was.

‘So, am I off the hook?’ I ask.

‘Just because they didn’t charge you, it doesn’t mean you weren’t guilty,’ Clare says tightly.

‘Oh, absolutely. Our boys in blue never make a mistake, do they?’

A low blow on my part; but irresistible. My sister is the kind of civic-minded person who picks up other people’s litter; I’ve never seen her jump an amber light, never mind a red
one. She certainly didn’t deserve to be hauled off in the middle of the night by some Plod. As if Clare would harm her own kid! She’s more wholesome than organic apple pie. Whereas I
definitely deserve to have my collar felt. I am a reprobate, a sinner, a man without qualm or conscience. Or, may I point out, a criminal record, thanks to a talent for low cunning and a
well-connected stepfather with a guilty conscience.

Fortunately for me, Clare, fair girl that she is, doesn’t distinguish between her innocence (genuine) and mine (the thorny question of proof). I’m constantly amazed, given her level
of integrity, that she ever makes any money at all.

‘Well, never mind all that now,’ she says briskly. ‘I called to invite you over to supper, but if you’re going to be difficult—’

‘I’m the soul of amenability. But I have to ask: am I liable to have my nose punched by your charming husband?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘He threatened to, and I quote, “beat me three ways to Sunday” if I darkened his doors again.’

‘You were smoking marijuana in our drawing room!’

Clare must be the only person under forty who calls it ‘marijuana’.

‘I told you, I’m sorry. It was a misunderstanding. I thought they were menthol—’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Xan. I wasn’t born yesterday. Frankly, I don’t care what you smoke, as long as you don’t bring it into my house or involve my family and
staff.’

‘Darling, I didn’t mean to involve Jenna. I had no idea I was being tailed by the police. Though I must admit, I’ve rather gone up in my own estimation as a result.’

‘Next time they arrest you, I’m
not
bailing you out.’

‘Fair enough.’ I put my feet up on my desk, and flick an elastic band across my office. ‘Just for the record, am I to take it the small matter of your devoted spouse embezzling
your fortune has all blown over?’