The Nanny (28 page)

‘That bitch! I hope you spread the word.’

‘She won’t be welcome in rather a lot of holiday homes in Provence this summer, certainly. Do you remember when we all avoided friends we thought might be after our husbands? Now
it’s the nanny poachers we worry about.’

‘How much did you have to pay Jenna to stay?’

‘More than I can afford.’ I frown as Fran lights up a cigarette; she gives an apologetic smile, but doesn’t stub it out. ‘I wouldn’t mind quite so much if she was a
bit, well, grateful. But she’s been really off with me all week. You know how she can get when she’s in a mood.’

‘She’s Mother Teresa compared to bloody Kirsty,’ Fran says darkly.

‘It’s my own fault. Davina warned me not to try to be her friend. I just didn’t want to be one of those horrible uptight bosses that nannies complain about all the time. Maybe
I did blur the boundaries a bit. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been
quite
so relaxed . . .’

Fran sucks hard on her cigarette. ‘We all do it, darling. We’re so terrified they’ll leave. I give in to Kirsty far more than I ever did Rod. We’re like battered wives.
We should form a support group.’

‘It’s just got out of hand, Fran. I didn’t mind at first, sitting down for a bit of a chat in the morning when the twins were napping. I thought it was good to build up some
kind of rapport with her. But now, she thinks that if I’m home, that entitles her to stop pretending to work so we can both settle down for a cup of tea and a good natter. She even gets all
narky when I ask her to do something, like take the twins on a play date.’ Crossly, I bat cigarette smoke away. ‘It’s not like she’s a guest. I am actually paying her to do
a
job
.’

‘Oh, dear. The honeymoon’s really over, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Darling, next you’ll be telling me she doesn’t understand you.’ She licks her thumb and finger and pinches out her cigarette. ‘Look, the romance has worn off,
that’s all. If you were married, you’d be at the stage where you slump in front of the TV in your old dressing gown and have sex once a month. The magical aura of the heroine who
rescued you from a lifetime of shit and nappies has faded. It happens to us all. Next you’ll be bickering over cleaning up the kitchen or how much time she spends on the phone to her
boyfriend.’

‘So what am I supposed to do? Buy her chocolates?’

‘That’s up to you. The point is, now you have to decide if you want to stick with each other for better or worse, or get divorced.’

‘I know which Marc would rather,’ I sigh.

‘Talking of which, why on earth didn’t you ask him to come home and let you in? He’s got his own keys, surely?’

I smooth my skirt over my knees. ‘I tried to call him, but his secretary said he’s gone to an important meeting and couldn’t be reached. Anyway, I’d rather not drag him
all the way back home on a fool’s errand.’ I hesitate. ‘He’s been rather . . . tricky . . . to deal with lately.’

Fran says nothing.

‘I think we just need to spend a bit more time together,’ I add defensively. ‘What with the twins and work, we’ve barely seen each other for weeks. I can’t remember
the last time we sat down and
talked
.’

‘Quite the domestic triangle you have there,’ she says lightly. ‘What with the stroppy nanny and tricky husband.’

‘Scylla and Charybdis,’ I sigh.

‘As long as Jenna’s the rock, and Marc’s the hard place,’ Fran quips.

‘Don’t even get me started on – oh! At
last
!’ I leap up as the locksmith’s van draws in to the kerb. ‘I’ll get a spare set cut for you, Fran,
so we don’t have to go through this again.’

‘Just give me Marc’s,’ Fran mutters, scrambling to her feet.

I pretend not to hear.

‘Of course I’m sure it was her,’ I hiss into the phone. ‘I know what my own nanny looks like!’

‘What were they doing?’

‘What do you think they were doing, Fran? I just told you, she was kissing him! She had her tongue down his throat. And no, I don’t think she was giving him the kiss of
life.’

I hear the click of her lighter. ‘As long as he doesn’t get her pregnant.’

‘It’s not funny! The twins were there!’

‘I think they’ll survive the trauma.’

‘But she’s my nanny!’

‘And he’s your brother. It’s a bit complicated, I agree, but it’s hardly the end of the world. It’s not as if he’s going to marry the girl. Xan’s not
the type to marry
any
one.’

This much, at least, is true. ‘Well, at least I know now why she’s been so stroppy recently,’ I snap. ‘As Davina would say, she’s getting ideas above her
station.’

‘Clare Elias, don’t tell me you think your mother’s
right
?’

‘Of course not,’ I say uncomfortably.

I’m not a snob. I’m not! I’ve always thought of Jenna as my equal. In many respects, she’s a lovely girl: honest, loyal, practical and organized. Just the sort of girl
Xan needs, in fact. I wish he
would
meet someone and settle down; it’d be the making of him. It’s just . . . not
Jenna.

I can’t help it: the thought makes my hackles rise. I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t mind Jenna being my equal when it’s my choice. But the idea of her as my
sister-in-law . . . with as much right to walk into Long Meadow as me . . .

I grip the steering wheel. How
dare
she? I invite her into my home, I treat her as a friend, and she repays me by seducing my brother. What kind of message does she think this is
sending the twins? Not to mention the fact that she went behind my back. I took her shopping, I lent her money for a new dress, I even did her hair and make-up! She must think I’m a complete
fool. I thought I could
trust
her. How could she be so devious?

I turn into Kensington Church Street and begin the search for a parking space. For once, the gods are smiling on me: another Range Rover pulls out of a large space close to the restaurant and I
nip quickly into it, to the annoyance of a virtuous hybrid coming the other way.

Spotting Jenna in a heavy clinch with my brother had one upside: it distracted me briefly from my nerves.

I stop walking. I don’t know why I’m here.
What was I thinking?

I look down at my unfamiliar high heels, the clingy wool dress that Jenna persuaded me into buying at the sale last week – ‘body-con’, she called it – the beaten-silver
bangles on my wrists. It’s not the kind of outfit I’d normally wear, though I have to admit it’s younger and sexier than anything else I own. But I have no business looking young
or sexy. I shouldn’t have worn this dress, or these ridiculous heels. I shouldn’t have spent an hour on my make-up this morning, or had my legs sugar-waxed specially at the salon.

I shouldn’t have come.

I make up my mind to get back in the car and leave, to call him with some excuse about work or the children; but somehow, almost against my will, I find myself heading not back towards the car,
but into the restaurant. I push open the glass door, and give my name to the painfully cool girl at the restaurant lectern, smoothing down my dress yet again as she leads me over to his table.

He stands as I approach, but to my immense relief makes no move to kiss my cheek, or even shake my hand.

‘I thought you’d changed your mind,’ he says.

‘I did,’ I admit. ‘Several times.’

Cooper nods shortly, as if confirming my right to dither.

‘I can’t stay long,’ I warn.

He glances around the restaurant, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. ‘Do you want to stay here?’ he asks brusquely.

I chose this smart Kensington restaurant because it’s vibrant and busy, a place to see and be seen in. There was to be no question of a small, discreet Italian restaurant in an unfamiliar
part of town. Any number of my friends were likely to be lunching there. I had my explanation ready: I was meeting Cooper for lunch, to thank him for his help over Poppy, for persuading Ella to
look at our case. There was nothing underhand or secretive about it.

But Cooper looks as out-of-place as a wolf in a cage of parakeets. He doesn’t belong indoors, in this kind of gilt-and-gingerbread setting. There’s something wild and elemental about
him. In his plain, fine-knit grey sweater and jeans, he makes all the other men in the restaurant, dressed in their expensive suits and flashy watches and hand-stitched brogues, look somehow effete
and immature.

I don’t actually like it here, I realize. It’s chic and stylish and the food is amazing. I’ve been here a thousand times. And I hate it.

‘No,’ I say, my heart lifting with the unfamiliar freedom of being honest and pleasing myself. ‘I don’t want to stay here. I want to go to the park.’

He pushes past the waitress, ignoring her outraged protests. I follow him outside, tripping in the stupid shoes, trying to keep up with his long stride.

Cooper stops suddenly. ‘Take them off. They’re not you.’

If Marc had said that, I’d bristle with indignation. Instead, I meekly slip off my heels and stand on the dusty, dirty pavement in my bare feet. Cooper isn’t being arrogant.
He’s not telling me what to do. He’s simply stating a fact. The heels
aren’t
me. The fashionable restaurant isn’t me. The designer clothes, London, Marc’s
shiny glittery rich friends, the expensive car, the nannies and cleaners and gardeners: none of it is me.

We turn into Kensington Gardens and I savour the whisper of cool grass between my bare toes. We walk across the park, past children shrieking with laughter, towards the Orangery and Kensington
Palace. For perhaps ten minutes we stroll without speaking, my heels swinging in my hand, and I realize with a sense of mingled shock and relief that I barely know this man, but would follow him
anywhere. It has nothing to do with love, or even lust.
Trust
. I trust him. For the first time in my life, I can relax my guard. I know this is someone I don’t have to care for or
worry over or look after; someone who will take care of
me
.

‘You sent me camellias,’ I say, as we reach the edge of the grass and rejoin the path. ‘To the Victorians, that meant, “My destiny is in your hands.”’

Cooper stops. He digs his hands in his pockets, ducking his head so that I can’t see his face.

‘I came to England,’ he says, ‘to see a woman. She . . .
possessed
me. I can’t explain. I didn’t know if I loved her, or hated her.’

Ella.

Abruptly he starts walking again. We veer left, towards the Round Pond, its brackish grey waters reflecting the overcast sky. Cooper is silent for so long, I think he’s forgotten I’m
even here.

He stops by a bench and sits down, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. I sit beside him, leaving a careful space of green slatted wood between us.

‘I didn’t realize it until I came here, but it wasn’t really about her,’ he says. ‘A long time ago, I gave up something I cared a great deal about for my brother. I
don’t regret it. I’d do it again. But my brother was the sort of man who didn’t care very much about anything.’ He smiles wryly. ‘In a good way. He was laid-back.
Live for today.
Everyone loved him. No one more than me.’

I think of my own brother, his reckless disregard for consequences, for the normal ties of love and friendship and family, his easy, careless attitude to life.

‘People can only do that when someone else takes on their share of responsibility for them.’

Cooper glances at me in surprise. ‘Yes.’

‘I envy my brother that,’ I sigh. ‘I know I’m too uptight. I want to control everyone, everything. I didn’t ask to be this way. But someone has to be the
responsible one.’

‘Have you ever let anyone else try?’ Cooper asks.

I open my mouth, and close it again.

‘I never let Jackson grow up,’ Cooper says. ‘I’d gotten so used to taking care of things. I never taught him how to take care of himself.’

‘But – when he married—’

‘If your brother got married, would you stop worrying about him?’

I shake my head.

‘Ella was the one thing Jackson ever cared about. He gave up everything to be with her: his country, his job. Children, too: she refused to have any. And then she threw it back in his
face.’

I pick up a scrap of stale bread on the ground, breaking it into pieces and throwing them, one at a time, to the ducks.

‘I thought I was angry with her, but it was Jackson I couldn’t forgive.’

He lifts his head and looks directly at me for the first time. His cobalt eyes blaze with intensity. ‘I didn’t hate her. I think I knew that all along. And when I met you, I knew I
hadn’t ever loved her, either.’

My mouth is suddenly dry. My stomach swoops and soars, as if I’m riding a rollercoaster. The backs of my knees and neck prickle.

‘I’m going back to the US tomorrow,’ Cooper says, ‘and then on to Afghanistan for a feature I’m writing. I don’t know when I’ll be back in the UK. I
would never want you to . . . betray—’

‘I couldn’t,’ I whisper; knowing in that second that, oh, I
could
.

I stay at work as long as I can, putting off the moment when I have to return to reality; to Marc. I won’t leave him, of course. There was never really any question I
would.

I shut myself in my office, and look up the number of a marriage counsellor my GP recommended, the last time I saw him for my headaches. I make an appointment for 28 June; a cancellation, the
receptionist tells me. I don’t ask if the couple reconciled, or divorced. I put the phone down wearily, feeling as if I’ve just had a capital sentence commuted to life imprisonment.

I’ve made the right decision
, I think as I drive home. Marc and I have two young children whose happiness depends on us finding a way around our problems. We owe it to them to do
everything in our power to succeed.
This is your life
, I tell myself.
For better or worse.

I let myself into the cold, dark house a little after eight. For a moment, I wonder where everyone is, and then I spot a sliver of light beneath Marc’s study door.