Who Loves You Best Page 4

  “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 secondhand 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 inquire why I’m leaving my previous job, or get into any of the sticky issues that always cause trouble, like whether I believe in pacifiers (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 around 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 idea 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 multimillion-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 fetuses 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 and set out an array of expensive cookies 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. 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 pretense 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 canceling my arrangements to fit in with hers. I’ve loved and cared for her kids for two years, and she throws me out like an old coat. I can’t bear the children thinking I abandoned them without a word. I sent them both goodbye presents, but I have 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 on 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 onto 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 Financial Times 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. 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 coloring.

  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 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 another cup of tea. I bought some digestives, but if you’d prefer something else—Hobnobs or—”

  “Please, Clare.” I laugh. “I’m here to help you. Another 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.

  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 f
loors, 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 onto 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 say, smiling.

  “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 the Peter Jones store.

  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 after she’s gone to so much trouble.”

  “What’s the husband like?”

  “Haven’t you met him?”

  “No, only Clare. I can’t believe 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.

  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 gotten 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 a word,” he hisses.

  Daily News, Friday,

  May 2, 1968

  SOCIETY LOTHARIO COMMITS SUICIDE

  Hugo Foster-Jones, the former Olympic gold medallist and celebrated playboy, has been found dead at his home in Oxfordshire.

  Mr. Foster-Jones, 53, who won Eventing gold in the 1948 Games and once owned a property portfolio worth millions, died from a single gunshot wound to the head. Police are not seeking anyone else in connection with the incident.

  His body was found in the early hours of yesterday morning by his daughter, Davina, 17. She is being comforted at home by friends.

  It’s the latest in a series of tragedies to strike the family. In 1953, Mr. Foster-Jones’s wife, Rebecca, was killed in a private plane crash while on a family holiday to Kenya. Mr. Foster-Jones was also injured, putting an end to his promising career. Their daughter, then two, was unharmed.

  Mr. Foster-Jones went on to build a successful business in property development. At the height of his success in the mid-sixties, he was reportedly worth fifteen million pounds. More recently, however, he suffered severe financial difficulties, losing much of his fortune.

  The funeral will be held at the Brompton Oratory in London on Thursday, May 8.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Davina

  Silly girl. The nanny is a wonderful idea, of course—attempting twins alone was madness—but what possessed her to get such a pretty one?

  As Clare is fond of reminding me, I know very little about business and spreadsheets and flowcharts; but I do know men. They have needs: especially young men. Bringing a highly attractive girl into the house at a time when—to be frank—one is hardly looking one’s best is a recipe for disaster. Particularly when the young lady in question is also keeping the man’s house and cooking his meals and looking after his babies. One never wants a husband to question what, precisely, his wife is for.

  Clare springs out of the Range Rover as Marc parks and runs up the front steps.

  “Davina, you look marvellous! So brown! Have you been away?”

  “Not really, darling.” I kiss her cheek. “Just a long weekend in Nevis, nothing special.”

  “Oh, Davina! I’d kill for a few days in the Caribbean. I hate England in March, it’s so dreary.”

  “Darling, you should have said. The Bartholomews would have loved to see you—”

  “You know that’s not an option.” She turns and ushers the pretty girl forward. “This is our new nanny, Jenna. I thought it might be fun if she joined us this weekend, and got to know the family.”

  “Lovely to meet you, dear,” I say. “Welcome to Long Meadow.”

  The girl gazes up at the house with awe. “This is all yours?”

  How sweet. One forgets.

  Marc struggles up the steps with the twins, a plastic baby seat swinging from each hand, like Jack and his pails of water. Two quilted bags are slung across his chest. He looks cross and out-of-sorts, as usual.

  I lead the way into the glass-walled orangery, where, despite the dull weather, Mrs. Lampard has set the table
for lunch. Clare insists on a place being added for Jenna—“She can’t eat in the kitchen, Davina; she’s part of the family, not a servant!”—and, worse still, brings the twins to the table when they start squalling.

  “I’m sure Jenna wouldn’t mind,” I murmur discreetly.

  The girl leaps up. “Of course—”

  “Jenna, sit down,” Clare says. “It’s Saturday, it’s your day off. I invited you to Long Meadow as our guest.”

  “I don’t mind, honestly.”

  At least somebody knows her place. How Clare runs a successful business mystifies me. One has to maintain a certain reserve with staff, and Clare has always worn her egalitarian heart on her sleeve.

  Other children bring home stray kittens and litter runts; as a child, Clare used to turn up with vagabonds from the local council estate that she’d picked up in the village and invited back to tea. Mrs. Lampard would fill them with toast and pound cake in the kitchen, and then return them to their miserable high-rise dwellings (having frisked them for teaspoons first). Clare was always devastated not to receive a return invitation.

  She thinks me a dreadful snob, I know; but it never occurred to her how unfair she was being, giving these children a glimpse of privilege they could never share.

  Jenna seems a perfectly nice girl, if a little common (gold hoop earrings and rather cheap shoes); but one doesn’t make friends with servants. Although Clare does seem a little more like her old self again now that she’s finally seen sense and hired some help. I knew she wouldn’t take well to motherhood. She’s more like me than she thinks. I did tell her.

  “Darling, you really don’t have to breast-feed,” I reprove gently, as Clare whips out a huge, blue-veined bosom. “It’s terribly nouveau. Formula is quite acceptable these days.”

  “Just because you didn’t want to,” Clare retorts.