The Nanny (20 page)

‘It was just a . . . misunderstanding. I don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want you to talk about it either, Xan, or you can forget supper.’

‘We’re a very misunderstood family,’ I muse. ‘Don’t worry. “Discretion” is my middle name.’

‘And there was me thinking it was “Trouble”,’ Clare says waspishly, and rings off.

My arm twitches as I slide my phone back in my pocket, and I drop it. I try to pick it up, but the muscles of my right hand won’t seem to work properly. Cursing, I kick the phone, and it
skitters out of reach beneath my desk. I leave it there and pull open the bottom drawer with my left hand. My fingers close around the silver hip-flask. Who gives a damn if it’s not yet noon?
I need a shot of the hard stuff if I’m going to get through the rest of the day.

I’m nicely mellowed by the time I reach Clare’s around seven. I stumble slightly on the steps, just as she opens the front door.

‘Xan, are you drunk?’

I grab the railings. ‘Just warming up, CP.’

‘Sometimes,’ Clare says through gritted teeth, ‘you’re enough to try the patience of a saint.’

‘Marc home yet?’

‘Not yet, no.’

I follow her into the kitchen, where the twins are playing happily in the playpen, steadily throwing all the bricks out on to the limestone floor. Debussy is on the iPod, and I smell jasmine and
saffron. I sniff the air like the Bisto Kid. ‘Shrimp curry?’

‘Your favourite.’

I sweep her into a clumsy hug. ‘
You
are my favourite.’

‘It’d be nice if you’d remember that sometimes, and stop drinking yourself into an early grave. You know how much I worry about you—’

‘Jenna!’ I exclaim, as the woman who’s haunted my erotic dreams for the past three months comes downstairs. ‘Have you missed me, darling?’

‘I’m working on my aim.’

‘You don’t have to pretend with me. I know how you really feel.’

‘That’d explain your Kevlar vest.’

Fuck, she’s sexy.

‘Jenna,’ Clare says, ‘can you give Poppy her sippy cup?’

‘It’s a bit full,’ Jenna says, taking it.

‘She’ll be fine.’

‘Shall I empty some of the juice out first?’

‘Jenna, I
said
she’ll be fine.’

I eye my sister in surprise. She usually treats staff like visiting royalty, to prove she doesn’t think she’s better than they are. It’s the rest of us she bosses around like
serfs.

Poppy holds her cup in two fat fists, and drinks without spilling. I’m impressed. It’s more than I can manage these days.

Clare throws Jenna a triumphant look.
Now
I get it. This is a turf war. Clare may believe she’s a crap mother, but she’s still going to make sure Jenna knows who’s in
charge. To be honest, I’m kind of surprised she ever let another woman in on her territory in the first place. Davina is to motherhood as Cruella de Vil is to animal rights, but I always
figured Clare would be the Ultimate Soccer Mom. Home-made birthday cakes, hand-sewn party dresses, the whole Suzy Homemaker shebang. Whatever she does, it’s always a success. There are times
(few, admittedly) when I feel quite sorry for Marc.

Talk of the Devil. As a key scrapes in the front door, Jenna scoops the kids out of the playpen and takes them off for their baths. I admire her arse in her tight jeans as she climbs the
stairs.

Marc goes straight to the drinks cabinet in the corner of the kitchen, nodding curtly at me. ‘Can I get you anything?’

Clare grinds pepper over a saucepan. ‘I think he’s had enough.’

Cluck, cluck, mother hen.

‘Scotch works for me,’ I say.

Marc hands me a generous glass. I realize this is what passes for an apology from my brother-in-law. Fair enough. I
was
smoking weed on his sofa.

‘Good day?’ Clare asks her husband.

‘Hectic.’

‘Did you call Michael Peters? He said they couldn’t hold the job open for long—’

‘Christ, Clare. Let me get through the door before you start in, would you?’

Her lips tighten. She turns back to the simmering pan, her back rigid with righteous indignation. I love my sister to death, but she’s a hard act for us sinners to follow. Marc must get
sick of eating shit while she pitches her tent on the moral high ground. Yeah, he’s been an arse, but I reckon he’s a good bloke underneath. He loves his kids, loves his wife. He just
doesn’t have a clue what makes her tick.

You’d think a man with five older sisters would
get
women. Superficially, he’s OK: he’s great at birthday presents – Clare’s got a box full of the kind of
hard-to-find, one-off pieces of jewellery women love – and I’m guessing he doesn’t just roll over and go to sleep after a shag, but he’s fucking useless when it comes to the
hard stuff. He had six mothers fussing over him for most of his life. He’s used to dumping his problems in a woman’s lap and having her unravel them for him. Clare’s always got
him wrong. She thinks because he lets her take charge of things he doesn’t mind that she earns four times his salary and makes all the big decisions. She’s never figured out he’s
actually an old-fashioned boy who just likes Mummy running round looking after things.

Dinner is a tense affair. Clare chatters brightly about nothing, her hostess-with-the-mostest mask firmly in place. Jenna keeps her head down, literally (though on the plus side, at least this
presents me with an unchallenged view of her impressive cleavage). Marc grunts monosyllabically. If you ask me, we could all do with a few ’shrooms in the stew to lighten things up.

‘By the way, I called Hurst’s,’ Clare tells Marc, passing me the garlic naan. ‘You can take the Range Rover in on Thursday. Once they’ve had a look at it, we
can—’

‘What did you do that for?’ Marc snaps.

‘We agreed we don’t need a four-by-four in London. It’s too expensive, and we could save—’

‘And I told you I’d handle it, Clare. Let me sort it out in my own time.’

‘Every month it’s sitting outside, it’s depreciating—’

‘For God’s sake! Fine! I’ll take it in on Thursday!’

I wink at Jenna over the salad bowl. I can see why she fucked off the moment she heard Marc’s key in the door.

She pushes back her chair. ‘I’ll put on some coffee.’

‘I’ll help you clear the table,’ I offer quickly.

We clatter plates noisily in the kitchen. ‘Is it always like this?’ I whisper.

‘Pretty much,’ Jenna whispers back.

Fuck it. Divorce is the last thing I’d wish on Clare. I hate to say it, but Davina’s right. Marc’s a decent bloke, but he’s all wrong for my sister. Even a spoiled
Mummy’s boy wants to grow up sometime. Clare’s too used to doing everything for him. It’s one thing mothering me (and fuck knows, with Davina as my default option I needed it),
but you can’t keep treating your husband like one of the kids. He needs to start taking some responsibility – and she needs to
let
him.

Poor cow. She’s always had shit luck with men. First Dad dying when she was seven (any shrink will tell you that fucks a girl up for life) and then there was Guy. Dirty old bastard. I
don’t know all the ins and outs, but something happened the summer she turned fifteen. As far as I can make out, he tried it on, she slapped him down, threatened to tell Davina everything if
it ever happened again. She’s a girl of her word, our Clare. He knew she meant it.

I remember when she went to Oxford. She spent most of her three years there with a skinny asexual Indian guy who thought his legs were too thin and wore two pairs of jeans to hide them. After he
finally dumped her (for a cute blond boy), she worked her way through a succession of second-rate losers she utterly intimidated. Smart women have a knack for attracting arseholes who make it their
life’s work to demean them. Clare was so used to taking on challenges and winning, she simply didn’t know how to quit while she was ahead. She’s programmed to succeed. Instead of
cutting her losses and walking away at the first sign of trouble in a relationship, she always fought harder to make things work.

Clare slams the salad bowl down on the counter behind us, making us both jump. ‘Jenna, don’t put tomato-based sauces in Tupperware. I’ve told you before, they stain the
plastic.’

‘Sorry, I forgot—’

‘Do I have to do everything myself to make sure it’s done right?’

‘Give her a break, Clare,’ I say softly.

Clare looks like she’s about to spit out another sharp retort, but instead she deflates against the counter.

‘You’re right. I’m sorry, Jenna. It’s not you I’m upset with, you know that. It’s Marc. He needles me all the time. It’s so unfair. He’s the one
who screwed up.’

I shoot my sister a sharp glance. Clearly Jenna is familiar with all the dirty laundry in this house: literal and figurative. I sympathize with my sister, but Clare shouldn’t be telling
the nanny this stuff. It’s not fair on either of them. If there’s anyone she should be talking to, it’s her husband.

Jenna smiles neutrally, and takes the cafetière into the dining room. Smart girl. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. At least, not until you know who’s going to win.

I pick up the tray of cups and saucers to follow her. My leg gives way, and I stumble drunkenly against the kitchen island. If it wasn’t for Clare’s quick reaction, I’d have
dropped the lot.

‘Please, Xan,’ she says in a low voice. ‘Don’t drive home tonight. You’ve had too much to drink. You can stay in the spare room.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll have a coffee and I’ll be fine—’

‘You’re
drunk
,’ she snaps.

Maybe
, I think, as she stalks into the dining room.
But in the morning I will be sober, and you’ll still have a resentful, inadequate husband you can’t handle.

‘For God’s sake,’ I hear her exclaim. ‘That tablecloth was from Brussels, Marc!’

‘It’s not like I spilled the bloody wine on purpose—’

‘It never is, is it?’

Clare is mopping ineffectually at a spreading stain with a paper napkin as I walk in. Marc rolls his eyes. ‘Clearly my wife thinks I’m conducting a one-man war of attrition against
the lacemakers of Belgium.’

‘Clearly my husband thinks we’re made of money.’

‘Clearly the two of you belong in the nursery,’ I retort.

‘I have a headache,’ Clare cries, throwing the dirty napkin on the table. ‘I’m going to bed.’

‘I’ll be in my office,’ Marc says, shoving his chair back from the table.

Jenna and I stare at each other across the balled-up napkins, empty wineglasses and cooling coffee.

‘And they wonder why I’m still single,’ I say.

Jenna sighs. ‘It’s like living in Baghdad. Only not as much fun.’

‘How come you don’t just quit?’ I ask as we clear the table.

‘I love your sibling loyalty,’ Jenna says acidly.

‘I’m not saying you should.’ I pour coffee dregs down the sink and rinse the cafetière. ‘I guess I’m impressed you’ve stuck around, that’s
all.’

‘I’m planning to cash in and sell my story to the
News of the World
.’

I laugh. ‘Seriously, though. The way I understand it, it’s easier to find a rich husband than a good nanny. I bet any one of her friends would write you a blank cheque.’

Jenna is suddenly very busy putting glasses into the dishwasher.

I narrow my eyes. ‘Someone already has, haven’t they? Don’t tell me. They offered to double your money and you loyally turned them down.’

She hesitates.

‘Oh, come on. I’m not going to drop you in it. Look. Fuck the dishes. Grab a bottle of wine from the fridge and I’ll get the glasses.’

I lurch slightly as I reach up. Jenna quickly puts the wine down and steadies my elbow.

‘Guess that last Scotch went to my head,’ I grimace.

‘Guess that last
four
did.’

I open the wine, and follow her into the sitting room. ‘So. Are you going to tell me about it?’

‘You won’t tell Clare?’

‘Of course I bloody won’t. What do you take me for?’

‘One of her friends offered me a job. Like, a
lot
more money. She’s been divorced for a few years—’

‘So no getting caught in the marital crossfire.’

Jenna curls up at one end of Clare’s ridiculously expensive overstuffed sofa, and I settle down at the other. Our toes are touching. She really is lovely. Like a young Sandra Bullock:
girl-next-door wholesome, but with that subtle, and unmistakable, hint of dirty-in-bed. I like the way she’s toned down the make-up and cheap jewellery since she’s been around Clare,
too. She looks younger; classier. Though there’s nothing she can do to minimize the enormous tits. Thank God.

She holds out her glass and I pour. ‘I really like Clare, and I love the twins. But I’m fed up playing pig-in-the-middle. And I could
really
use the extra money.’

‘Who’s the so-called friend who’s trying to poach you?’

‘Olivia Coddington.’

‘Christ. That woman’s a real piece of work.’

Jenna sips her wine. ‘She made me promise to give her an answer by Monday.’

I think for a moment. ‘Look, why don’t you try asking Clare for a raise?’ I suggest. ‘Tell her the truth. Say you’ve had a better offer, and you don’t want to
leave, but you can’t afford to work for her unless she ups your salary.’

‘Suppose she fires me?’

‘She won’t. But if she does, as soon as her friends find out, you’ll have half a dozen job offers before you’ve even packed your suitcase.’

Jenna smiles, and suddenly I’ve got a hard-on the size of Nelson’s Column. As she shifts on the sofa, her T-shirt rides up, exposing a tanned, rounded belly and a cool starburst
tattoo around her navel. Her nips are like organ stops. It’s not cold in here, so I know she fancies me too. Which only makes it worse. She’s holding me off, keeping her distance, even
though I know she wants to fuck as much as I do. She’s the one in control of what happens next. It’s a novel feeling.

‘So what’s going on at home?’ I ask suddenly. ‘Why all the drama?’

‘There’s no drama—’

‘Give me a break.’

She drops her gaze. ‘Really, it’s no big deal.’

I lean forward, and run my thumb gently down the side of her neck. Looks like the bastard tried to strangle her. ‘I’d call those bruises a big deal.’