The Nanny (7 page)

‘Don’t bite your nails, darling,’ I murmur. ‘Ugly habit.’

‘It’d be different if you needed to work, Clare. But I’m earning enough now, we could manage for a bit—’

‘I need to work for
me
,’ Clare pleads.

I really don’t understand my daughter at all.

‘Oh, Christ,’ Marc laughs, leaping up. ‘He’s puked all over me! Jenna, would you mind holding him for a moment?’

‘But that’s a new shirt,’ Clare complains. ‘It cost a fortune.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I just need to sponge it out, it’ll be fine.’

He disappears to clean up. I don’t miss Clare’s sour expression as she glances Rowan’s way. How ironic, that Marc should take so naturally to fatherhood. It must be his Arab
genes. They’re very big on family in that part of the world, I understand. At least as far as boys are concerned.

I knew as soon as Clare brought Marc home that it was going to be a disaster. Oh, he’s definitely very charming. Good at handling women – that’s five older sisters for you. But
not the one for Clare. Absolutely the wrong choice.

Have you noticed how certain sorts of girls – Italians, for example – bloom early? By the time they’re twenty-eight, no matter how pretty they were at fifteen, they’re
overblown and spent, already turning into their mothers. Genetics, you see. Some young men seem so liberal and open-minded at twenty; but by thirty their genes have won out and they’ve
reverted to type. Just like their fathers and grandfathers before them, they expect dinner on the table when they get home and a wife who runs around picking up their socks. Marc may adore his
children, but I have a feeling he won’t expect to do the dirty work – the
women’s
work – involved in actually raising them.

Nothing wrong with that, of course. Except that Clare was never the type to play Jane to his Tarzan. The gulf between them is widening every day. Opposites may attract, but they seldom last.

Clare wouldn’t listen, of course. Kept insisting it was his age and family background that bothered me. (Well, I wasn’t
thrilled
, especially after I had a private detective
do a little digging, but that’s not the point.) It’s a question of compatibility. There are reasons we do better when we stick to our own sort.

I don’t hold Marc’s family against him; I don’t have a racist bone in my body, and he is Christian, at least. But he comes from a very different culture. Marc may have grown up
in Canada himself, and he’s perfectly civilized. But when push comes to shove, blood will out. Clare’s simply storing up trouble for herself.

Jenna stands up now, cradling Rowan affectionately. ‘Why don’t I go and give him a bottle?’ she asks Clare. ‘It’ll give you a chance to get Poppy
settled.’

‘But it’s your day off.’

‘Clare,’ Jenna says firmly, ‘this isn’t the kind of job where you watch a clock. I’m sure there’ll be times things will work the other way. Now please stop
worrying. I’ll settle him down, and everything will be fine.’

It’s quite clear who’s in charge in
this
relationship.

It’s easily done. Far too many new mothers make the mistake of not clearly laying out their expectations of Nanny in the beginning. They’re so desperate to be
liked
. But a
relationship that is tentative and ill-defined only leads to trouble. You can’t undo familiarity.

‘You can’t let her take over like that,’ I tell Clare. ‘I realize she’s only trying to help, but that’s not the point. She needs to know who’s
boss.’

‘Davina, this isn’t
Upstairs, Downstairs
. It’s the twenty-first century. Jenna and I are a team—’

‘She
works
for you,’ I correct. ‘She isn’t here out of the goodness of her heart, or because she wants to help you. She may love your children, but it’s a
mercenary kind of love, and it certainly doesn’t mean she loves
you
. She’s not your friend. She’s here because you’re
paying
her.’

Clare looks hurt. ‘It’s not like that. Things are different these days. I’ve told you, we’re a
team
. And anyway, I’m quite used to dealing with staff,
thank you, Davina. As I’ve told you. I’ve been running a very successful business for years.’

‘Hardly the same thing, darling. You must admit you have a tendency to fraternize with domestics—’

‘“
Fraternize
”? God, Davina. How very Orwellian of you.’

I pin Clare with a hard look. ‘How much do you really know about this girl? Those scars on her arms, for instance. The sprained wrist. If she’s involved in an unsuitable
relationship, you don’t want the chaos spilling over into your life. And you need to consider Marc in all of this.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He seems very quiet, Clare. And he looks very tense. It can’t be easy for him, having to get used to a stranger living in his home. It doesn’t give him much privacy. Men like
to retreat from the world. Their home is their castle, don’t forget. You want to be very careful he doesn’t start to feel left out. It’s hard enough to get used to sharing you
with the twins—’

‘He wanted a baby as much as I did!’

‘Rather more, I suspect.’

‘And whose fault’s that?’ She shoves back her chair; I wince as it scrapes against the antique tiled floor. ‘I’ve had to learn everything about being a mother from
scratch, out of books, because I certainly haven’t been able to learn from
your
example! All you’ve ever done is undermine and criticize me, and that’s on the odd
occasion you’re not ignoring me altogether! Yes,’ she shrieks, as I point tactfully towards Poppy, ‘I can see my daughter is crying! I have eyes in my head, Davina! I may not be a
perfect mother, I may in fact turn out to be an utterly dreadful one, but unlike you, at least I am
trying
!’

I stare at her in astonishment. I can only assume it’s her hormones. I wasn’t a ‘hands-on’ mother, as they say these days – such an appalling expression – but
I love both my children, naturally; as adults, as
individuals
. One would have thought that far more satisfactory than a reflexive emotion based on animal instinct and shared DNA.

I pour myself a glass of water, pleased to note that my hand doesn’t tremble. ‘Really, Clare. I don’t know where
that
came from.’

She sucks in a breath. ‘No,’ she says tightly. ‘I don’t suppose you do.’

‘What
is
that dreadful noise outside? Mrs Lampard really should see to it. And some more tea, I think—’

The door opens. ‘Excuse me, Lady Eastman—’

‘Please, Jenna, no need for that. “Davina” is perfectly fine—’

‘Oh, don’t go all democratic now,’ a voice drawls behind me. ‘Not after you’ve had Guy pony up millions for that title.’

‘Alexander,’ I say, proffering a cheek without turning. ‘How lovely.’

‘Hello, Mother,’ says Alexander.

If Clare takes after her father, then I suppose I must claim Alexander as mine.

Women love him; in the beginning. By the time it ends, as it inevitably does – whether ‘it’ is a few days (sometimes), a few weeks (usually) or a few months (once) – they
have run the full gamut of Shakespearean emotion, from infatuation, through devotion, obsession and jealousy, to end in hatred and despair. One poor child threw herself, like Ophelia, into the
river; taking her homage to the Bard a little too far, I feel.

Alexander knows the lethal effect he has on women. With disingenuous insouciance, he washes his hands. ‘I never lie,’ he protests. ‘I always
tell
them I’ll
leave.’

Which is precisely the attraction, of course.

I rather admire his amorality. He is at least honest. I despise hypocrisy; to my mind, the greatest sinners are those who affect to be saints. Alexander parlays his charm into success both in
bed and in business without pretending to do good for anyone but himself. Not that he intentionally sets out to do harm either; sheer idleness, if nothing else, keeps him neutral. He is the
consummate survivor in every respect – and yet somehow I can’t imagine him growing old.

‘I didn’t expect you this weekend,’ I reprove, as Alexander flings himself into a chair.

‘What can I say? I felt the need to nestle in the bosom of my family.’

He’s staring intently at the nanny. It’s an expression I’m familiar with.

‘Have you met Jenna?’ I ask, watching him carefully. ‘Your sister’s new nanny.’

‘A pleasure,’ he says blandly.

The girl blushes furiously. Alexander has been on the premises a matter of minutes; such a response is quite an achievement, even for him.

Oh, but he is charming, my son. A fallen angel. Long-limbed, graceful, careless, with thick dark hair and ice-blue eyes as glittering, and warm, as diamonds. That he is so clearly damaged seems
merely to draw the moths closer.

‘Lady – um, I mean, Davina . . .’ she flusters.

‘Be careful, dear,’ I tell the girl lightly. ‘He’s every bit as dangerous as he looks.’

Alexander reaches inside his jacket for the silver hipflask he inherited from his father. He’s already quite drunk, although only those closest to him would know it. The slight shake of
his hand and the glaze in those blue eyes betray him.

The drinking started when he was fourteen. At first, he confined it to school holidays and exeat weekends; within a year, we were receiving letters from the school. There was an ugly incident
with another pupil when he was sixteen, a broken nose and allegations of assault; with typical carelessness, Alexander merely said the boy had had it coming. Guy visited the school and made a
substantial donation to the library, and the matter was quietly dropped.

The drunkenness could be overlooked; the drugs were taken more seriously. Guy’s money exculpated Alexander from the joints he was caught smoking, but nothing could excuse the cocaine he
was discovered selling the week after his seventeenth birthday.

After some persuasion, the school agreed not to make it a police matter, but Alexander was immediately expelled. Guy cut off his allowance and refused to reinstate it unless Alexander sorted
himself out. To our lasting surprise, he responded by going out and getting himself a (legitimate) job.

ShopTV could have been founded with Alexander in mind. Everything he touched turned to gold. By the time he was twenty-five, he was head of marketing; now, at thirty-three, he’s running
the network with one hand tied behind his back.

Which leaves the other free for all sorts of mischief.

‘Where’s hubby?’ he asks me, never taking his eyes off Jenna.

‘Guy had business in London,’ I say shortly.

‘Of course. Big sister wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

‘Xan . . .’ Clare says warningly.

‘You’re a guest in my house, Alexander. Kindly remember – oh dear God, will someone
please
tell me what all that noise is?’

‘I’ve been trying to,’ Jenna sighs.

I fling open the french windows on to the terrace. Mrs Lampard is running across the croquet lawn with an athleticism I’d thought decades behind her. In the distance, Lampard and two of
the groundsmen are yodelling as if at a rodeo. Bellowing animal grunts sound from behind the topiary, and there is enough splashing from the pool to drown a herd of elephants.

‘
Alexander
,’ I demand.

‘Bit of an altercation with a tree,’ he says, tipping his head back to drain his flask.

I sweep outside. As I round the corner of the house, I see Alexander’s imported red Mustang wrapped around the ancient oak tree at the bottom of the drive. The force of the impact has
knocked down the adjoining split-rail fence; the old five-bar gate swings crazily from its hinges.

Of the bull normally in the field behind it, there is no sign.

Mrs Lampard picks up her skirts and runs past me. Behind me, Alexander laughs.

I will kill him
, I think grimly as I stalk towards the pool.
That animal is worth a fortune. If it has to be turned into rump steak, I will personally see to it that Alexander is
barred from every pub and bar in Oxfordshire.

Marc, shirtless and muscular, is in the swimming pool, up to his waist in floating shit. The bull is flailing in the deep end, panic having loosened its bowels to devastating effect. The stench
is overpowering. Marc has managed to catch hold of its rope halter, and is attempting to lead it towards the shallows. I remember he grew up in Quebec: farmboy country. Lampard and the groundsmen
yell support, and I realize my first impression was correct: this
is
a rodeo.

Clare pushes me out of the way. ‘Lampard, go to the far end and make as much noise as you can,’ she yells. ‘Drive it towards the steps.’

Marc clearly has the situation under control, but Clare kicks off her pumps and throws her husband another rope, yelling instructions. Marc ignores her and patiently draws the bull towards the
shallows, doing his best to calm it. The groundsmen whip its flanks, and with another mighty bellow the bull finally lurches up the steps and on to dry land.

‘Make sure that car is moved before my husband gets home,’ I tell Lampard, and once more go in search of my son.

The nanny is in the orangery, the twins asleep in their baby seats at her feet. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asks, rocking gently.

‘Naturally. My daughter is at her commanding best. Where’s Alexander?’

‘Alexander?’

‘My son,’ I say impatiently.

‘I think he left.’

She’s lying. Oh, Alexander may have disappeared, leaving, like the Cheshire cat, just his grin; but she’s lying about something. I can always tell.

Something about this girl doesn’t quite add up. Clare won’t have noticed: she’s never learned to judge books by their covers. No doubt my daughter is paying the girl far too
much, but even so, how can a nanny afford a (genuine: I know these things) Cartier watch? And I realize some women delight in caring for small children, immune to the dribble and soul-destroying
tedium, but conscientious though Jenna clearly is – one can tell from the professional way she handles the babies – I don’t pick up the burning need to nurture that one might
expect to find in a girl who’s chosen proxy mothering as a career. She’s too bright to be satisfied with a life of building Lego and wiping small bottoms.