Meggie explained, “I mean, she loved those girls, but she never knew quite what to do with them. Even when she was alive, they would go to Cook for food and to each other, I suppose, for comfort, and his assistant usually arranged their schools and doctors’ appointments. So, you know”—Meggie looked acutely uncomfortable—“maybe they didn’t miss her quite as much as you might think.”
“And has John dated much since then?”
Meggie’s gaze sharpened and the other women exchanged knowing glances, and I backtracked quickly. “I was just wondering. Pamela said something about—”
“No,” Meggie drawled, “John has not ‘dated’ much. Why, are you interested?”
“Of course not! I just—”
“Uh-huh. I understand completely.”
“No, really, you don’t,” I protested. But Meggie’s eyes were sparkling, so I gave up. “Never mind,” I muttered.
“So! Why don’t you bring the kids over on Friday after school? We have a new litter of kittens,” she said happily.
— – — – —
I made a decision fueled by my distaste for the energetic rustling I heard in the walls every night, and allowed each of the children to choose a kitten and bring it home. “They’ll catch the mice, right?” I asked Meggie, who assured me that they would. She just never mentioned the part about them bringing the bloodied, half-dead mice to my bedroom in the middle of the night to show off their hunting prowess.
John came home unexpectedly at eleven thirty-eight on Monday night. I know exactly what time it was because I woke up abruptly to a shouted “Fuck! What the fuck?” in the hallway, and yanked my door open to see John staring aghast at Henry’s kitten, Doody, who was planted in the middle of the Oriental runner with a bleeding mouse between his paws. Every now and then the mouse would squeak and Doody would pick up the poor thing in his mouth, toss it across the carpet, and pounce again.
Henry’s door crashed open and he cried, “Good Doody! Good boy, Doody! Daddy, you have to pet him and tell him how smart he is. Doody is the best hunter of all! He caught three mice so far, and Mousy only caught one.”
“Who the fuck is Doody?” John roared. “And Mousy? What the hell is going on here?”
Katherine said reproachfully, “Daddy, you really shouldn’t swear in front of Henry. Jordy let us all get kittens! Esmeralda is my kitten, and Mary’s is called Mousy, and Jane’s cat is called—”
“I don’t give a— I don’t care what they’re called, I just want them out of here,” John snapped, his voice dangerously quiet.
Katherine burst into tears. Jane fairly flew out her door, cradling her kitten in her arms, and cried, “You can’t send Minou away! I love her!”
Henry started to cry, too, and Mary crept out of her door to press herself against Jane and whimper.
“Good God,” John said helplessly.
“Daddy hates cats,” Jane informed me.
Now she told me.
Chapter 18
WHEN JOHN SLIPPED between my sheets in the early hours of the morning, I wasn’t sure whether he planned to fire me or make love to me. His body was cool to the touch, and I remembered Meggie’s “Lord John the Icy” and smiled. Little did she know.
“That blasted kitten deliberately tried to trip me on the stairs,” he growled in my ear. “It was a bloody assassination attempt.”
“Shhh,” I murmured. “I’ll make sure the children keep them out of your way.”
“How? How? Have you ever heard the expression ‘herding cats’? There’s a reason why people say—”
“Shhh,” I said again, this time moving against him sinuously and running my hand slowly but surely down his body. John drew in his breath sharply.
I pulled off my nightgown and pressed closer to him, my naked breasts against his hard, bare chest. Automatically, John’s arms went around me, and he rolled back to pull me on top of him. “Don’t think this topic is closed,” he warned.
“Oh, no,” I assured him, and he kissed me.
— – — – —
“The cat’s tail is in the syrup,” John snapped.
“Oh, sorry, Daddy.” Katherine moved Esmeralda’s fluffy tail approximately one eighth of an inch and gave the kitten a consoling pat.
Doody wandered over and dipped his tongue into John’s tea. The kitten jumped back at the touch of the hot liquid, sneezed, and spat. “Poor Doody,” Henry cried. “Jordy, Doody burned his tongue!”
“Get those bloody cats off my breakfast table!” John roared.
I rose hastily. “Do what your father says,” I told the children, scooping up a kitten.
“It’s not fair,” Mary complained. “Mousy is sitting in my lap behaving like a little angel, aren’t you, sweetheart?” She stroked the gray kitten gently; I could hear Mousy purring from across the table.
John’s eyes softened. “Mousy can stay,” he decreed. “All the other cats, OUT!”
With the three banished kittens scratching and yowling from the other side of the kitchen door, three sulky faces returned to the table. John rose and poured himself another cup of coffee. Esmeralda’s yowls rose to a piteous shriek, and Katherine’s lips trembled.
John turned his wrath on me. “Has it escaped your notice,” he inquired, “that two of the kittens are male and two are female? Do you plan to inundate us with endless litters as well?”
I snapped back, “Has it escaped your notice that all of the cats are neutered? The shelter takes care of that.”
John grunted. “And do you expect me to arrange for their inoculations? What about a litter box? You can’t expect kittens to go outside all the—”
“For Christ’s sake, do you think I’m an idiot? The litter box is in the laundry room, their shots are up to date, and I even managed to buy them food! Really, John, I assure you—”
“And I assure you—”
Katherine interrupted, “Aunt Pamela says ‘pas devant les enfants.’ That means that you shouldn’t shout in front of—”
“I know what it means,” John growled.
He shot me a filthy look, which I returned. Really, how dare he assume I was so incompetent! I may have made some mistakes at the beginning, but I was a fast learner and took my responsibilities seriously. My research had paid off handsomely; I had hundreds of files and clippings on child care and household management in my Nannyland Evernote folder, and many of the suggestions had been worth their weight in gold. To be honest, the laminated Excel schedules hadn’t worked out quite as well as I’d hoped, but I had discovered that lists taped to the doorway were just as effective (if less aesthetic).
So now I fumed. Hadn’t John even noticed the neat piles of schoolbooks and games equipment in the mudroom? The array of healthful, easy-to-prepare foods in the refrigerator? What an ass. But then I remembered my aerobics acquaintances’ comment about Aline forgetting food, doctors’ appointments, school . . . Perhaps John could be forgiven a little for his assumptions. Just a little. I smiled sweetly at him.
In some confusion, he said, “I’ve arranged for all of you to come visit me in London at the weekend, since I can’t get away long enough to come up here. Won’t that be a treat?”
Silence. “Who will take care of the kittens?” Mary asked finally. Katherine’s huge blue eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, damn and blast,” John said helplessly.
“Maisie can come in every day and take care of the kittens,” I said. “What would you all like to do in London? Where would you like to go?”
“Harrods!” Katherine.
“The National Portrait Gallery?” Jane.
“The Apple Store!” Henry.
“Ummm . . . PizzaExpress?” Mary.
John looked taken aback. “I had thought the Victoria and Albert,” he said, glancing at me for guidance. “They have a brilliant exhibit on decorativ
e arts. Jordy could take you while I’m in meetings, and then I thought a lovely tea at Claridge’s?”
The children looked at me. I just winked.
— – — – —
John was gone that evening, so the children and I shared our usual dinner: Jane reading, Katherine texting, Henry playing games on his phone, and Mary dreamily stroking the kitten in her lap. Suddenly, Henry said, “My mummy died when I was born, and your daddy died, too. Right, Jordy?”
I hadn’t heard this line since our first dinner together. “Right,” I said uncertainly.
“We have Parents’ Day at school on Friday. Can you come?”
“Of course she can’t come,” Jane said quickly, her head snapping up. “She’s not your mummy.”
“Well, but—”
“What about your aunt Pamela?” I suggested.
Henry’s face fell. “I want Jordy to come. You’re so pretty, all my mates will be jealous.”
I was absurdly pleased that Henry found me pretty.
“She could be a yummy mummy,” Katherine put in.
“What’s a yummy mummy?”
“Oh, you know, all the mums who swan about the village in Lululemon pants and camisoles—”
“And little yappy dogs,” Jane added disapprovingly.
“Like your friend Meggie,” Katherine explained. “Didn’t you tell us she’s the aerobics teacher? Yummy mummies like her have gorgeous Aga stoves and Land Rovers and lots and lots of lovers.”
Jane went back to her book, her nose fairly twitching with scorn.
I doubted that Meggie had any lovers. But she did wear leggings and short skirts, and she did drive a “Landy.”
“Couldn’t you come?” Henry pleaded. “Please?”
So on Friday morning, I sidled into Henry’s classroom, feeling something of a fool and an imposter in my demure pleated skirt and blouse. The other mothers ranged from a gray-headed grandmotherly type in Birkenstocks and vaguely gypsyish woven skirts, to the yummy mummies the children had described. One wore Lululemon leggings and a camisole; another wore skintight J Brand jeans (two hundred and seventy-five dollars at Bloomie’s) and a clinging silk blouse with knee-high Tod’s boots (eight hundred at Bergdorf’s). Several had Vuitton bags dangling carelessly from their bracelet-bedecked wrists. I straightened up and smoothed my black Armani skirt.
The children introduced their mothers (and the one hapless father). When it was Henry’s turn, he stood up. “My mummy died when I was born. This is Jordy, who lives with us and takes care of us. Her daddy died when she was little. She says the F-word. She and my daddy yell at each other a lot.”
He sat down to amused glances from around the room. “Sounds like a proper marriage,” one woman murmured behind me, and several laughed.
— – — – —
The next morning, the children and I emerged from the train into the smoking, cavernous depths of Paddington Station. Mary, coughing nervously, pressed close to my side, and Jane took a firm grip on Henry’s hand. Katherine pranced ahead of us, fluffing her blond curls and bestowing brilliant smiles on all passersby.
Buried in the country for two months, I was surprised by how overwhelming the city seemed. Everyone was rushing; everyone was pushing; and I counted the children’s heads with crazed repetitiveness as we made our slow way across the huge station and onto the sidewalk. There I stalled.
I had expected the noise and bustle of the city to be invigorating, but I found myself a little discomposed by the sensory overload. Trucks raced past and spat up sprays of wet leaves and muck; street people seemed menacing rather than benign; sharp-elbowed passersby came at me from every angle, threatening to separate me from the oblivious children and tearing my nerves to shreds every time I lost sight of one. I wasn’t used to being responsible for others in the city, only for myself. At last, with an embarrassing sigh of relief, I spotted John loping toward us. Henry dropped Jane’s hand and ran into his father’s arms; Mary, too, drew a deep shaky breath of relief.
John met me with “I hear you were a smash hit in Henry’s class yesterday.”
“Hello to you, too.”
“The duchess rang me about an hour after your appearance. So you and I yell at each other a lot?”
“Not in front of the children,” I said, pasting a smile on my face.
“And you say the F-word? Lovely.”
“Goddammit, John, would you just stop—?” I broke off, realizing that my voice was rising and the children were grinning. “Never mind.”
“Daddy, I have to go to the bathroom,” Henry whined.
John looked horrified. “Henry, one doesn’t use the loo in a train station. It’s very nasty.”
“But Daddy, I have to go.”
I bit my lip in chagrin. Travelwithchildren.com had warned about exactly that; I should have insisted that they all use the bathroom on the train. The very British and proper Poppetsontheroad.com had suggested that one abide by “Prince Charles rules.” Apparently, the Prince of Wales once was asked what advice he would give to his sons about their royal roles. Without missing a beat, the prince responded, “Never pass up a bathroom opportunity.”
I felt almost as dumb as when I had passed on the opportunity to short Takashita, thus missing a profit opportunity of almost $10 million. I was better than this! I resolved to study my Evernotes folder again that night until I had memorized every phrase.
Henry shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
With a sigh, John took his hand and led him off, calling over his shoulder, “My car and driver are out the side entrance. Jordy, would you be good enough to escort the girls to the car?”
The more rattled John became, the stiffer he sounded. I smiled to myself. He really must be dreading that public loo.
After, as the car crept into the heavy London traffic, Henry perched on my lap and gazed about with interest. His first sights had to be disappointing; this part of London was mostly gray, crowded, and dirty in the light drizzle.
Katherine asked, “How far is it to Harvey Nicks?”
John ignored her. I said, “A couple of miles, Katherine. London is very big.”
The driver volunteered, “Lady Grey, the young lady might enjoy shopping in the Kensington High Street. Shall I set you down there?”
I flushed, Jane looked pained, and Henry snickered; Katherine raised her eyebrows at Mary in a perfect imitation of Duchess Pamela.
John said tightly, “Our nanny will accompany us to the hotel, thank you very much,” and shut the Plexiglas divider between driver and passengers with a snap.
The rest of the ride passed uneventfully as the children craned their necks and John tapped his fingers impatiently in the glacial crawl of London traffic. As we passed through Piccadilly Circus, though, the mood in the car turned to excitement. “Look at the theaters!” “Look, there’s a gigantic Virgin Music store!” “Oh my God, it’s Fortnum and Mason!” “Look, a bobby!”
John said to me sotto voce, “You’d think they’d never been off the farm before,” and I smiled back before I remembered that we were not a family, and I was most assuredly not Lady Grey. I foresaw more embarrassing moments ahead, though.
John had booked us a suite at the Ritz, since his London flat was large enough for only one. The driver drew up to the curb, and the children—who lived in a forty-room stately mansion—skipped into the lobby and proceeded to exclaim over every fixture and furnishing. The stiff-necked porter was less than thrilled to escort us to our suite as Henry danced perilously close to the tall Ming vases in the hallway and Katherine darted from window to window, trying to see Fortnum & Mason just a block away. But even Jane smiled at the sight of the huge four-poster bed. Henry exclaimed, “Look! There’s a little fridge filled with goodies and sweeties! Look, Jordy!”
John’s face, as he contemplated Henry’s excited pillaging of the twen
ty-five-dollar chocolate bars and fifteen-dollar bags of M&M’s, was truly a sight to behold. But he suppressed his emotions admirably and suggested a trip to the V and A.
“I won’t be able to stay with you,” he apologized, “I have a meeting. But Jordy can show you the decorative arts exhibit. There’s an excellent gallery devoted to ancient weaving, as well as a brilliant triptych of painted enamels from the sixteenth century.”
Even Jane looked downcast. But I made faces at the children behind John’s unsuspecting back, and after we went downstairs again, they filed obediently into the car he had summoned.
“V and A,” he told the driver. “Have a wonderful day, children! I’ll meet you at Claridge’s for tea at six.”
As the cab pulled out, I leaned forward and tapped on the window. “Change of plans. London Zoo, please.”
Chapter 19
I HAD GOOGLED “London with children” the night before. We romped through the zoo, the London Dungeon, and Harrods. The children loved the zoo, shrieked with mock terror at the Dungeon, and rampaged through Harrods like prisoners let out on a one-hour break. Brandishing the credit card that John had handed over that morning, I bought riding clothes and an elegant riding crop for Katherine and cashmere sweaters and smart black boots for Mary, Jane, and myself. Henry, displaying a grave and serious deliberation, inspected every item in the massive toy department before deciding on an iPad. Gleefully contemplating John’s expression, I signed the charge slip for £1,273 and herded the children out.
They stopped dead at a giant heap of brightly colored, variously garbed Paddington bears in the entrance hall, and in the end everyone, even Jane, carried a bear out of the store. Somewhat surprisingly, Jane chose the bear dressed as a medieval queen; Katherine’s wore a blue ball gown, of course; and Mary’s had on a tracksuit. Henry wavered for so long between the bobby bear and the robot bear that in the end I bought both and marched them out of the store. It was fun not being a mother, I decided. I could just let them do whatever they wanted.
Thoughtfully, John had provided me with my own adjoining room in the hotel, so I didn’t have to share with the girls. Around midnight, I heard the door that separated me from the suite’s living room glide open, and John strode into the room. “If the children have nightmares after that visit to the Dungeon,” he told me as he lifted the bedcovers and slipped into bed beside me, “it’s on your head.”
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