The Nanny (21 page)

‘He didn’t mean—’

‘Bullshit.’

‘What the fuck do you know?’ she cries. ‘You arrogant shit! Who do you think you are? You have no idea what you’re talking about! You haven’t got a clue what
Jamie’s been through!’

‘OK. Why don’t you tell me what he’s been through, and then we can work out if I know what I’m talking about or not.’

‘He was attacked, all right? Three men jumped him when he took a short-cut across the park on Christmas Eve. He was trying to get home in time to take me to a carol concert. They raped
him. OK? They
raped
him!’

She stares at me, waiting for me to rush to apologize, to back down:
I didn’t know, how awful, God, I’m so sorry.

‘And that makes it OK for him to take it out on you?’ I say evenly.

‘Did you hear what I just said?’

‘Yes. Did you hear what
I
just said?’

‘You’ve got no right to judge him! You don’t know the first thing about it!’

‘He was raped. I get it. It sucks, but it happens, Jenna.’

‘Easy to say when it hasn’t happened to you!’

‘Ah, but it has.’

She falters. ‘You’re lying. You’re just saying that so—’

‘My mother sent me to boarding school when I was six. I was buggered for years, by every boy big enough and strong enough to yank down my trousers. It only stopped when I figured out they
liked my drugs better than my arse.’ I shrug. ‘Did I enjoy it? Not particularly. Did it fuck me up? Probably, but no more than thousands of other public schoolboys. Did I start thumping
women to feel better about myself? Of course not.’

For a long moment, Jenna says nothing.

‘He’s – he’s so scared,’ she whispers. ‘Of the dark, of crowds, everything. He thinks what happened to him makes him less of a man. I don’t know how to
help him.’

‘The only thing that makes him less of a man is hitting a woman.’

She suddenly starts to cry, choking, ugly sobs. I hesitate a moment, then pull her into my arms, trying not to notice the softness of her breasts against my chest, the clean, citrus smell of her
hair as it brushes my neck. I rub her back, struggling to channel brotherly and supportive thoughts. A little difficult to do when you’ve got a hard-on like a tent pole.

After a moment, she turns in my arms. She has the most extraordinary eyes: a vivid Irish green, shot through with hazel and gold lights. Her dark lashes are spiky with tears. I can feel her
heart beating fast beneath her thin, tight T-shirt.

Her lips part slightly. I know when a woman is waiting to be kissed.

‘Jenna?’ a voice calls down the stairs.

We leap apart as if spring-loaded.

Clare comes down to the half-landing. ‘Jenna, you have to be up early tomorrow with the twins. Don’t you think you should get to bed?’

I grab my jacket. ‘Look, I’d better go. I’ll catch you later.’

‘Aren’t you staying over?’

‘Not a good idea,’ I say ruefully.

I take the steps two at a time. Only as my feet hit the pavement do I start to breathe a little easier. I suck in a lungful of crisp night air. Normally I wouldn’t hesitate, but
there’s something about this girl. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t want to fuck her up. It’s not like it could ever be a permanent thing.

I head towards the Tube station, leaving my car parked at Clare’s house. Jenna’s got enough problems. The last thing she needs is to get tangled up with me.

‘It’s getting worse,’ the doctor tells me two days later.

‘Sugar-coat it, why don’t you,’ I say, fumbling with the buttons on my shirt.

‘I’m sorry, Alexander. I wish I had different news for you. I had hoped we’d have a little more time. As you know, once symptoms start to accelerate, there is a very definite
degenerative rate—’

‘Got it,’ I say.

A couple of years ago, when I first started tripping and stumbling, when I had trouble fitting the key in the lock and problems zipping my jacket, I put it down to too many late nights, too much
booze, too much charlie;
too much
. Then I started slurring words even when I wasn’t drunk. The muscles in my legs and arms twitched and cramped. One night I woke up choking and
gasping for breath. I told myself I’d just pushed my body too far, that all I needed was to take it easy for a bit, but deep down I knew it was something more.

ALS is a process of elimination. Basically, if you haven’t got Huntington’s, motor neurone, MS or Alzheimer’s, you’ve probably got amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.
Sometimes it’s random, a genetic mutation; but Davina says her father – my grandfather – was clumsy and often slurred his words, though she claims she never saw him drink. He blew
his brains out when she was eighteen. I think it’s a fair bet that he and I share the same fucked-up genes.

It seems I’m in good company. My nemesis is also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, after the famous Major League baseball player. David Niven died from it. Stephen Hawking has it
too.

Did I mention there’s no cure?

But I’ve got lots to look forward to. Eventually, I won’t be able to stand or walk, to get in or out of bed on my own, or to use my hands and arms. In the later stages, I’ll
have difficulty breathing as the muscles of my respiratory system weaken. Most people with ALS choke to death, usually within three to five years of the onset of symptoms. I probably have another
couple of years, if I’m lucky.

‘I’d like you to see somebody,’ the doc says, scribbling on his pad.

‘A shrink, you mean?’ I stand up. ‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’

‘You’re thirty-four, Alexander. No young man is fine with something like this. You need to talk to someone—’

Hello, vodka, this is Xan.

I take the piece of paper, since it means so much to him. As soon as I leave the surgery, I crumple it and throw it into the footwell of my car. (How much longer will I be able to drive?)

But I wasn’t lying. For some reason, I
am
fine with this. I wasn’t ever meant to grow old. Can you see me settling down with 2.4 kids and a pension plan?

The only person I really feel sorry for is Clare. It’ll break her heart. I haven’t told her; I haven’t told anyone. No need for her to find out before she has to. I don’t
drink nearly as much as everyone thinks I do. Alcohol isn’t the
reason
I trip and stumble and slur; it’s my
excuse
.

I’m sorry about Jenna, too. She’s the first girl I’d have liked to give things a shot with. Fortunately, since I’ve always been such a fuck-up with women, there’ll
be no distraught widow or fatherless babes left to mourn. Looks like my complete inability to form a lasting or meaningful relationship has done everyone a favour.

I don’t plan to go quietly into the night. I’m not going to end up a prisoner in my own body, unable to walk or talk or piss or breathe on my own.

The car jolts as I take a sleeping policeman a little too fast. Underneath my jacket on the back seat, my grandfather’s shotgun rattles.

‘Craig, please. Won’t you reconsider? This is such a bad time—’

‘That’s why I have to leave,’ Craig says firmly. ‘I’m sorry to break it to you over the phone, Clare, but you’ve hardly been here for the past few
weeks—’

‘My daughter was ill!’

‘And before that, Rowan had colic, and before that, you were on maternity leave.’ He sighs. ‘What’s happened to you, Clare? PetalPushers used to be the most important
thing in your life. These days, even when you’re here, your mind’s not on the job. I keep telling you we’re losing money hand over fist, and you just bury your head in the sand. I
grant you, it’s been much better this past month or so, but we still need to branch out if we’re going to survive. A recession is a bad time to cater to a niche market, but you
won’t—’

‘We’ve been through this,’ I interrupt tersely. ‘I’m not selling out. PetalPushers will come through this. We’ll put the expansion plans on hold for a bit,
tighten our belts, ride out the storm.’

‘It’s not going to be enough,’ Craig says. ‘Look, Clare. I’m sorry to do this to you, but to be honest, you could do with saving my salary right now anyway.
KaBloom! has offered me limited partnership, and free creative rein. They’re very interested in some of my marketing ideas.’

I pace the kitchen, twisting the phone cord around my fingers. ‘Craig, I need you,’ I plead. ‘I can’t be everywhere at once, not with seven shops. You’ve been with
me since the beginning. No one else knows the business as well as you. I realize we have very different ideas about where PetalPushers should be heading in the future, but maybe there’s room
for compromise. I’d hate to lose you. If it’s a question of money—’

‘You can’t afford to pay me any more.’

I suppress a flare of anger. This is
my
company. I know it better than I know my own children. Craig isn’t privy to everything that goes on; he has no idea of the real cause of
our financial problems. How
dare
he tell me what I can and can’t afford?

Because he’s got me over a barrel, that’s why.

‘I know what I can allow. Look, Craig. Let’s sit down and talk this through, see if we can work something out.’

‘I’ve already accepted the job.’

‘Have you signed a contract?’

‘Not yet, but—’

‘I’m coming in.’ I glance at the kitchen clock. Jenna’s running late today: she’s usually here by seven-thirty on Monday mornings, and it’s ten to eight now.
‘I’ll be there in an hour. Don’t do anything until I get there. Will you promise me that, Craig?’

‘Well . . .’

‘At least hear me out. Surely I deserve that much, after twelve years?’

He sighs. ‘I promised to go and sign everything this afternoon. You’ve got until then.’

I hang the phone back on the wall and mollify the twins with a bowl of Cheerios. Rowan stuffs them in his face with two fat fingers, but Poppy seems more interested in seeing how many she can
work beneath the waistband of her nappy. She beams happily at me, the picture of health. You’d never guess how ill she was just a week ago.

I feel sick every time I think about it. In my wildest nightmares, I never thought such a thing could happen to me. My baby lying sick in hospital, maybe even dying, while I’m dragged out
of bed in the middle of the night and hauled down to the police station to be asked dozens of stupid, pointless questions – ‘Do you ever feel jealous of your daughter, Mrs Elias? How
did you feel when your father died?’ – and all the time, all I could think of was Poppy, Poppy alone and wondering why her mother wasn’t there.

Marc should have come with me. He didn’t stay behind because he needed to marshal the troops and call Davina. He stayed because
he wanted it to be true
.

I’ve forgiven him for stealing from my company, remortgaging the house, putting the whole family in jeopardy. But I’m not sure I can forgive him for this.

I barely hear the eight o’clock news, anxiously listening for Jenna’s key in the lock. I really need to get going; it’ll take me thirty minutes to drive to the shop in Fulham.
I can’t let Craig leave now, not with everything else up in the air. If Marc and I . . . if we . . . if I can’t learn to live with this . . . I need work to stay settled. I can’t
cope with the business
and
the children on my own. Thank God I have Jenna. As long as she’s here, I can deal with everything else.

Damn it, where
is
she? She’s never been late before. I hope the wretched Tube isn’t out; the whole of London will grind to a halt and I’ll never—

The phone rings, and I grab it off the wall with one hand, liberating the ketchup bottle from Poppy’s curious reach with the other. ‘Yes?’

‘Clare, it’s Jenna—’

‘Where are you? Is it the Tube? How long do you—’

‘I can’t make it in today, I’m sorry. Jamie’s sick, I need to stay with him. I know it’s short notice, but you said you weren’t planning to go into the office
today—’

‘But I
need
you,’ I exclaim. ‘It’s really important I go into work today. Please, Jenna. I’m sure your boyfriend can’t be
that
sick—’

‘Clare, he is. I’m sorry, but there’s no one else to look after him.’