The Nanny (5 page)

‘Clare,’ I prompt gently. ‘Was there anything you wanted to know about
me
?’

She stares blankly, shredding a tissue. I don’t get it. I already know from Annabel that Clare Elias is a mega-successful businesswoman who owns a load of fancy flower shops, and yet
it’s like she’s gone about the most important decision of her life absolutely blind, jotting down names from hand-scrawled ads pinned up on gym bulletin boards next to notices for
second-hand treadmills and unwanted gerbils.

It’s obvious she hasn’t a clue what to ask me, so I give her a brief history of my previous jobs, while the babies magically – alleluia! – fall asleep in my arms.

Thankfully she doesn’t have the experience to enquire why I’m leaving my previous job, or get into any of the sticky issues that always cause trouble, like whether I believe in
dummies (better than thumbs) or smacking (yes, but only to stop small hands from getting burned on stoves). Clearly I’ve already scored highly on the Bonding With Baby section of our show. I
usually hate it when the children are brought out and I’m expected to demonstrate some amazing facility with kids. It’s like a bizarre mating ritual, where two animals are thrown
together: interested parties gather round to watch, wondering if they’ll take to each other.

‘Would you like me to put the twins down in the nursery?’ I ask. ‘Perhaps you could show me my room afterwards.’

‘Your room?’

Oh, fuck.

‘I understood this was a live-in position,’ I say carefully.

‘That’s not – we didn’t – I’m sure I told the girl at the agency . . .’

I’ll kill Annabel. She’s totally set me up.

Clare wrings her hands. ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider . . .’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say truthfully. ‘I really do need a live-in job.’

‘No, no, I understand.’ She hesitates. ‘Maybe we can sort something out. The house is certainly big enough. We’ve got five bedrooms. It’s just – well, my
husband wasn’t too keen on the whole nanny thing, to be honest. I’d planned to work from home for six months, then maybe send the twins to the Montessori . . .’

Christ. Poor cow. She really doesn’t have the faintest what she’s let herself in for.

I’ve met so many new mothers like Clare. Intelligent, successful women who’ve handled their entire lives brilliantly up to now. They make lists and schedules, they run vast research
projects and orchestrate multi-million-pound deals over the phone. They write their Christmas cards by the end of August, and have inheritance tax plans and private pensions and pre-nups. When they
get pregnant, they put their foetuses down for posh private schools and spend hours online researching Bugaboos and organic baby food. They think broken nights won’t bother them, because
they’ve ‘pulled all-nighters’ at work dozens of times before. They expect to sail through pregnancy, pop out a baby and pick up the threads of their lives with a cute new
accessory as if nothing more significant has happened to them than the purchase of a new car.

Then the baby arrives.

Clare looks shattered and bewildered, like a disaster victim. She can’t believe what’s happened to her. She isn’t turning out to be the sort of mother she thought she’d
be, and she’s panicking. She’s petrified she’ll fuck it up. And she probably will. Some women just aren’t meant to be mothers.

‘Please, Jenna, please take the job,’ she begs. ‘You can live in, whatever you want. And I’ll – I’ll double whatever you’re earning now!’

‘Clare,’ I say. ‘When would you like me to start?’

Two weeks later, I’m given the kind of reception my mother would reserve for visiting royalty. Clare’s made some disgusting fancy tea that tastes of cigarettes (I
don’t have the heart to tell her I’m a PG Tips kind of girl) and set out an array of expensive biscuits on a plate. The twins are nowhere to be seen – ‘Marc’s taken
them for a morning walk, I thought you’d like a chance to settle in first’ – so Clare shows me to my room, then tactfully withdraws so I can sort myself out in peace. There are
fresh flowers on the windowsill (perk of her job, I guess) and a basket of Lush toiletries on the chest of drawers. She’s even fanned the latest issues of a selection of magazines on the
bedside table. I’m surprised she hasn’t had the fluffy white bathrobe in my en-suite shower monogrammed with my initials.

I plunk on the edge of my double bed – crisp white linen, still with knife-edge creases from the cellophane – and struggle with the lump in my throat. I’d almost rather
I’d been thrown in the deep end with the twins, to take my mind off my misery.

They say you don’t know someone till you divorce them. First Maggie begged me to stay, ‘for the sake of the children’; then, when I admitted I’d already found someone
else, she dropped all pretence at friendship.

‘You selfish
bitch
!’ she screamed. ‘How can you do this to me? After everything I’ve done for you! What’s this woman got that I haven’t?’

‘It’s not you, Maggie. It’s me—’

‘Don’t expect a reference! I don’t want you in my house another minute! Get out! Go on,
get out
!’

She wouldn’t even let me say goodbye to Galen and Tati. Never mind the countless times I’ve bailed her out, working overtime for free and cancelling my arrangements to fit in with
hers. I’ve loved and cared for her kids for two years, and she bins me like an old coat. I can’t bear the children to think I abandoned them without a word. I sent them both goodbye
presents, but I’ve no way of knowing if Maggie has passed them on.

Leaving Jamie this morning was gut-wrenching too, in a different, unhealthy, way.

‘I can’t cope without you,’ he pleaded, as I packed my suitcase. ‘Please, don’t leave.’

‘I’ll be back at weekends,’ I said uncomfortably.

‘It’s not the same. I don’t want to be on my own. If you love me, Jenna, you’ll stay.’

I hefted my bag on to the floor, hating how impatient his neediness made me feel. ‘It’s because I care about you that I’m leaving.’

There’s a tentative knock now at my bedroom door. Clare nervously puts her head around the jamb. ‘Marc’s back. I wondered if you’d like to come and say hi.’

I’d have preferred to meet the husband before I took the job, but I wasn’t exactly in a position to be picky. If he turns out to be a groper, I’ll just have to deal with it. At
the end of the day, it’s Clare I’ll really be working with. You barely see the father, as a rule.

Marc Elias looks up from his
FT
and smiles politely. ‘You must be Jenna.’

‘Darling, don’t be rude,’ Clare murmurs, throwing me an apologetic smile. ‘Come on, get up and say hello to Jenna properly.’

‘I wasn’t being rude,’ her husband says irritably.

‘Please, Mr Elias, there’s no need—’

‘I’m late for work anyway,’ he mutters, tossing his paper aside.

Fuck, he’s tall. And
young
: more my age than Clare’s. I glance at her with new respect. Props to her. He’s not at all what I expected. I thought she’d be married
to some bald rich banker, not a hot stud muffin like this. I can certainly see where Poppy gets her gorgeous Italian colouring.

He doesn’t give me a second glance as he stalks out of the room.

‘Sorry about Marc.’ She twitches as the front door slams. ‘He stayed late specially this morning to see you, but he’s normally at work by seven-thirty and he gets a
bit—’

‘It doesn’t matter, really. Where are the twins?’

‘Down for a nap. Why don’t you get unpacked, and I’ll make us both a cup of tea. Do you take sugar? Milk? I bought some digestives, but if you’d prefer something else,
Hobnobs or—’

‘Please, Clare,’ I laugh. ‘I’m here to help
you
. A cup of tea would be great, but after that, I’ll take over, OK?’

‘Yes, yes, sorry, I didn’t mean to interfere.’

‘You’re not interfering,’ I reassure her.

I unpack my clothes – jeans, T-shirts, fleeces: nothing that will be ruined by baby puke and frequent washing – and join Clare in the large, airy kitchen at the back of the house. It
looks like a spread from a lifestyle magazine, with its limestone floors, maple cabinets and glowing granite work surfaces. Vases of fresh flowers are scattered along the counters, and gleaming
copper saucepans hang above the kitchen island. A couple of big, squishy red armchairs look out on to the small paved garden. Clare is sitting in one of them, the twins playing happily in their
bouncers at her feet.

‘We look like we belong in a magazine,’ Clare acknowledges ruefully. ‘Trust me, this isn’t par for the course.’

‘You don’t seem to need me at all,’ I smile.

‘We do, we do – oh, Jenna, please don’t change your mind—’

‘I was just teasing. Hey, Rowan,’ I add, reaching forward as the baby squirms in his rocker, ‘how are we doing? Is the sun in your eyes?’

Clare reaches for her son at the same time. In that moment, both of us stretching towards the baby, my left sleeve slides back.

She stares at my scars, while I stare carefully at the baby.

‘This pot of tea is getting cold,’ she says, standing up. ‘I need to add more hot water.’

Later, when I tell Clare I’m taking the babies for an afternoon walk, she asks if she can come with us. ‘They might get upset,’ she explains. ‘They
haven’t really had a chance to get used to you yet.’

There’s a little tussle over the pram when we get outside.

‘Sorry,’ Clare says, embarrassed, ‘force of habit. You push.’

We walk side by side in careful silence towards Sloane Square. I can’t tell if she’s nervous about trusting me, or just can’t bring herself to hand over her babies yet. She
wouldn’t be the first new mother to feel guilty about wanting to rush back to work. If they were mine, there’s no way I’d let another woman take my place.

The twins are both fast asleep by the time we reach Peter Jones.

I touch Clare’s hand as it rests possessively on the hood of the pram. ‘I think we’ll be fine from here,’ I tell her gently.

She hesitates. I smile encouragement, and she reluctantly lets go. With a brief wave, I turn and push the twins towards the King’s Road.

I feel her watching me until we’re swallowed up by the crowd.

I’d planned to go out with Kirsty this evening to let off steam and sink a few vodka-tonics, but while I was taking the twins for their walk Clare whipped up a
four-course gourmet meal in the kitchen ‘to celebrate your first day’. She lays the dining table for two: ‘Marc’s working late; I’ll leave him something in the
oven.’

‘Be careful,’ Kirsty warns, when I call to cancel. ‘Boundaries, remember.’

‘It’s just this once,’ I whisper back. ‘I can’t turn her down now she’s gone to so much trouble.’

‘What’s the husband like?’

‘Haven’t you met him?’

‘No, only Clare. I can’t be
lieve
you’re working for Fran’s best friend! Talk about small world.’

‘Yeah, well, I guess it’s not really that surprising. These rich women with nannies all know each other.’ I put on a Princess Anne voice. ‘Oh, yah, dahling, we must meet
up at Ascot. Got to dash, the Palace is on the other line. Mwah! Mwah!’

‘You sound just like Fran,’ Kirsty giggles. ‘So, what’s he like then?’

‘Mr Elias? Grumpy. Cute. Young. Just my type, actually.’

‘Jenna . . .’

‘Oh, relax,’ I say crossly. ‘What do you take me for? You know that’s not my style.’

I have a thing about married men. As in:
not ever.
Partly for the sisterhood, partly out of common sense: a man who cheats with you is bound to cheat on you, sooner or later. Leopards
and spots and all that.

‘Reckon he’s a player?’ Kirsty asks, reading my mind.

I remember my first impression: despite allowing for Marc’s bad mood, they just don’t seem to belong together. It’s not even an attraction of opposites; they simply don’t
fit
.

‘I don’t know. He must be at least ten years younger than her. What d’you think?’

‘I think you need to be careful,’ she says again.

Clare relaxes over dinner, and not just because of the wine. She acts like a weight’s been taken off her shoulders by my mere presence. It never fails to amaze me that women who can manage
a hundred staff without blinking an eye can be totally thrown by one small baby (or in this case, two). What
is
it they find so scary?

Her husband’s still not home by the time I go to bed. I crawl beneath the 400-count Egyptian sheets, wondering if he’s really working late. I hope to God he’s not having an
affair. I don’t want to get caught in the crossfire. I’ve known friends who were nannies for couples who split, and it’s not pretty. You end up part surrogate spouse, part
therapist and part whipping-boy, and you’re paid for none of them. Both sides expect you to choose their corner, when all you really care about is the kids.

I’m woken several hours later by the sound of a baby crying. I bolt upright, listening alertly, but the house is now silent. I wait several minutes, and hear nothing but the radiator
muttering in the corner. I relax against the pillows. Clare must have got up to see to the twins herself.

Suddenly I’m aware of someone else in the room.

A hand covers my mouth.

‘Don’t say another word,’ he hisses.