by Fiona Neill
At the time it had seemed an inspired idea. He had borrowed a long black skirt, apron, and scarf from the Greek cook. Ali persuaded the twins to dress up in traditional Greek costume, no small feat, given this involved short pleated skirts and long white tights. The rest of them wore black trousers and shirts.
Foy had one arm around Tita, who stood unsmilingly beside him, and the other around Hester. Her husband, Rick, was nowhere to be seen. The twins sat at their feet, holding a jar that contained a couple of dead crickets. At the end of the line, beside Jake and Izzy, stood Bryony and Nick. Nick was pulling Bryony toward him, away from the rest of her family, toward a couple of chickens that had wandered into the scene. Poor Nick, thought Ali. He never stood a chance. Beside the photograph was a picture of a bottle of Foy’s olive oil. And beside that a photo of Foy’s boat, The Menace, moored at the rocky beach at the foot of the estate.
“Classic Chesterton Family Extra-Virgin Olive Oil,” the label on the bottle read. Underneath, in smaller lettering, it said: “Superior-category olive oil, obtained directly from olives and solely by mechanical means. Acidity 0.1–0.8%.”
“With all this publicity I could sell the olive oil on eBay for a fortune, don’t you think, Ali?” Foy demanded. “Our current notoriety probably lends it a certain cachet.”
“Stop worrying about money, Dad,” Bryony chastised. “Nick will take care of it all.”
“If what they’re saying about him is true, then he could go to prison,” said Foy.
“He’s got a good lawyer,” said Bryony, “and the FSA has a bad track record on prosecutions. Don’t believe everything you read.”
“If he didn’t do it, then why has he done this disappearing act?” asked Foy.
“He’s not in his right mind,” said Bryony, fixing Foy with a steely gaze that made her look just like her father. “And he thinks that they’ll go away if he’s not around.”
Her hand pointed toward the window and the other side of Holland Park Crescent, where the posse of journalists and paparazzi congregated almost every morning.
“When did you last hear from him?” Foy asked.
“A couple of days ago,” replied Bryony vaguely.
“Do you know where he is?” Foy asked. Bryony shrugged her shoulders.
“His disappearance has become the story,” said Foy, echoing exactly what Ali was thinking.
“I want to listen to the news,” said Bryony, ignoring her father. She switched on a television that had been brought into the dining room from the kitchen after Malea had left. Bloomberg News immediately appeared on screen. A business reporter who had come to their last Christmas party was talking about the bank where Nick worked. Bryony and Foy moved closer to the screen. Bryony turned up the volume, warning Foy and Ali to stay quiet.
“Liquidity crisis . . . Shares slump twelve percent . . . jittery investors . . . exposure to subprime . . .” Ali had overheard enough conversations under the Skinners’ roof over the past year to know none of this was good and that somehow it related to Nick.
“What’s she talking about?” Foy questioned Bryony, pointing at the television screen.
“There’s rumors that PIMCO has stopped trading with Lehman’s,” Bryony said.
“Who?” said Foy.
“The world’s biggest bond company won’t touch Lehman’s,” said Bryony flatly.
“What does it mean?” Foy asked.
“It means they’re fucked,” said Bryony.
Ali moved closer to Bryony and Foy. This was surely the moment where the glassy-eyed reporter would finally reveal to them exactly what Nick was meant to have done. But by the time Ali reached Foy’s elbow the reporter had moved on to talk about some improbably named American mortgage companies that were running out of capital. Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae. They sound like a couple of porn stars, thought Ali.
“This could be good,” said Foy hopefully. “It could divert attention from Nick.”
“Or put him in the eye of the storm,” said Bryony. “Remember, he still works for Lehman’s.”
“Did you know the word ‘credit’ comes from the Latin for ‘to believe’?” Foy suddenly said. “I wonder if Nick knew that.”
2
Felix Naylor was waiting at a table in the corner of the café. He was early, which Ali saw as a sign of aggression rather than politeness. He wanted to get the upper hand. He looked up as Ali approached and gave a quick smile, putting his newspaper down on the floor and pulling out the seat beside him. There was music playing. Noah and the Whale.
The café was full of students. It was a good choice, thought Ali. She knew from experience that there was no more self-absorbed group than a bunch of undergraduates. No one would have any interest in them. And with his T-shirt, jeans, and artfully scruffy hair, Felix blended in with everyone else in a way that would have been impossible for someone like Nick.
Ali sat down and glanced around her. The person opposite was examining a text message and asking his friend whether the fact the girl had signed off with a couple of kisses meant more than if she had used just one. And was it significant that the kisses were in uppercase. The friend was indifferent. He didn’t want to get involved in a plotline that had obviously been discussed too many times before.
At the next table a couple were earnestly discussing whether Robinson Crusoe was a symbol of individualism that led to the rise of capitalism. “Did you know that in his book of travels around Britain, Daniel Defoe wrote about how two hundred ships sailing from Great Yarmouth sank in the Devil’s Mouth?” she wanted to ask. “And that Robinson Crusoe was wrecked off the coast of East Anglia on his first voyage? It could have been his inspiration.”
A couple of years earlier she would have unself-consciously joined in this discussion. Now it felt incredible that she could ever have been part of it. She put out a hand on the table to steady herself, grateful for the heavy oak surface that spoke of steadiness and longevity, both attributes missing in her own life at the moment.
It was difficult leaving the house, because as long as she was inside, Ali felt there were incontrovertible truths about her life. She was both loved and in love. She was indispensable. She was witness to an event of historic importance, or at least she was unwittingly immersed in a news story that had captured the national mood. And yet as soon as she set foot outside the front door this was replaced by a sense of vertiginous uncertainty, because she could just walk away from it all and no one would follow her or even notice her absence.
“Did anyone tail you?” Felix asked, sensing her agitation but mistaking its cause.
“I’m just the loyal nanny,” Ali said, and shrugged. “They’re not really interested in me.” Then, as an afterthought, she added, “Thankfully,” in case it sounded as though she was resentful about the lack of attention. In fact, an enterprising tabloid reporter had walked down the street with her, pressing her for information about what was going on behind the closed doors of Holland Park Crescent. But she had followed Bryony’s instructions and kept her head down and her mouth shut, and eventually he had given up.
Felix hadn’t said anything on the phone about why he wanted to see her. Ali assumed his agenda was self-serving. He was a journalist. She was a source. She even suspected that he might have been responsible for removing the photograph that had appeared in today’s paper. She had read enough tabloids over the past month to know that anyone associated with the Skinners was potentially corruptible.
The personal trainer who had come to the house every day for the past two years had sold a story about Bryony’s beauty and health rituals, including quarterly coffee enemas and chemical peels. Malea had been interviewed in a piece about the life and style of bankers’ wives that failed to mention that Bryony had a successful career of her own. Instead it focused on the weekly deliveries from Net-a-Porter, the decorator who arrived e
ach month to paint over finger marks on the walls coated in un-child-friendly shades of off-white, and the fact that Bryony had spent more than a thousand pounds in the Portland Hospital on a photograph album of the twins just after they were born. Thankfully the unnamed live-in nanny who acted as the children’s tutor warranted just a sentence at the end.
Then there was a feature in a weekend magazine that quoted “a family friend” describing the Skinners as “an accident waiting to happen.” All families were an accident waiting to happen, Ali had thought, as she skim-read the piece. There were insinuating anecdotes about parties attended by Jake and Izzy where there was underage sex and conspicuous drug consumption. There was a photo of Izzy at her thinnest, and yet again the one of Jake smoking dope in the garden of his Oxford college. The alleged “family friend” also suggested that Nick had an eye for younger women. In the next sentence it mentioned how one of his closest friends had an affair with the twenty-seven-year-old nanny who looked after his children. Foy was described as a “party animal,” which was a euphemism for a multitude of sins.
“How’s Bryony?” Felix inquired.
“She’s okay.”
“And the children?”
“It’s obviously difficult, but they are fine.”
“You know that Bryony is an old friend of mine?”
“I know that you went out with her before she met Nick.” A waitress came over and brought Ali a cup of tea.
“I introduced her to Nick.”
“I think I knew that.”
“I want to talk with you openly, Ali,” said Felix, looking serious.
“I’m not for sale.”
“What do you think I want from you?”
“I think you want to pump me for information that you can use to sell more copies of your newspaper,” said Ali. “I think you want to use your relationship with the Skinners to further your own interests and make a fast buck along the way. Or you’re going to try to persuade me to sell my side of the story to the highest bidder.”
“I’m not Max Clifford,” Felix protested, stirring his own tea so vigorously that it slopped over the side into the saucer and splattered the front of his T-shirt. He didn’t seem to notice. “I don’t do those kind of stories. I cover financial news, the economy, business, the stock market. I work for a broadsheet, not a tabloid.”
“It was your newspaper that had the photograph of them dressed up in Greek costumes that I took in Corfu,” said Ali accusingly. “You’re all the same.”
“I didn’t steal that photograph,” said Felix. “Lots of newspapers had it.”
“Then how do you know it’s missing?” Ali accused him.
“Because Bryony told me,” he said. “Look, I know it’s difficult to know who to trust at the moment, and I’m not asking you to trust me. What I want to know is if I can trust you.”
Ali looked up and frowned at him. He had one of those perennially youthful faces where it looked as though a toddler had etched in the wrinkles as a jokey afterthought. His cheeks were ruddy, alcohol rather than fresh air, Ali thought, and he had an almost girlish bow mouth the same shade as his cheeks. His face was embarrassingly open, as though he retained a childlike innocence that made it impossible to conceive of him doing anything duplicitous. It was as if he had been designed to be as unthreatening as possible. As someone used to being the keeper of other people’s secrets, Ali recognized a kindred spirit.
“This isn’t a ploy. I’m not that complicated. If I was more Machiavellian I might have ended up marrying Bryony,” he said, reading her mind. “It’s because I still care about her that I’ve asked you to meet me.”
“I’m not sure how I can help.”
“Do you understand what is going on? Do you understand the nature of the accusations against Nick?”
“I think he’s been accused of corruption and his finances are being investigated by the Financial Services Authority, and it all has something to do with what’s going on with all those banks at the moment.”
“A good summary.” He paused. “Do you know that there are all sorts of rumors about Bryony and Nick swirling around London? There are people digging around for stories. Looking for corpses.”
“What sort of stories?”
“They’re trying to build a picture of how all this could have happened. Do you have any theories? What could have led a man to make such a catastrophic series of judgments that were so contrary to his essentially cautious nature? Did you notice anything was wrong? Did he seem imbalanced in any way?” Ali rested her elbow on the table, hand on chin, adopting her most thoughtful pose.
“Nothing ever feels quite right when you move in with someone else’s family,” she began. Felix put up his hand.
“That sounds like a well-rehearsed response. If you can’t give me more than that, then I might as well leave now. Do you understand how serious this all is?”
“Look, sometimes you think things are odd for the wrong reasons. What I mean is that your instincts are right but your conclusions are wrong. Also, you have to remember that I come from a very different world, so the things that I found strange might be perfectly logical to someone from their background.”
“I want to be completely candid with you, Ali, because you are the only person in a position to help here.” The furrows in Felix’s face deepened until he looked so anxious that Ali thought he might be about to cry.
“What’s wrong?” Ali asked.
“They’re saying that Nick wasn’t acting alone.”
He stared at her intently, and Ali realized that he was looking for answers to his question in her expression.
“What do you mean?”
“The initial investigation has thrown up some interesting leads suggesting that Bryony must have been involved, too. Nick had access to information that only Bryony could have known. Do you understand what this means?”
“Not really.”
“It means that Bryony will become a suspect. If she is found guilty then she could also go to prison.” He leaned forward and gripped her arm. “I don’t believe she would have done anything so reckless.”
“I’m not sure how I can help.”
“Tell me everything, Ali. Tell me everything that you observed living with the Skinners. Even details that you think might be insignificant. I’ll try and piece it together, and perhaps even if Nick goes down, then Bryony at least will be saved. We can meet up a couple of times a week and you can give me your side of the story.” He paused again to allow her to absorb his request. “There’s one other thing that you should know. There are people suggesting that you and Nick were involved. That you clouded his judgment, that she helped him as a last-ditch attempt to salvage their marriage.”
Ali opened her mouth to speak, but it was as though his words had winded her. She moved her lips, but no noise came out.
“You don’t need to justify yourself to me. I just want you to know that you need to watch out. You’re no longer seen as the innocent bystander. You’re fair game, and I’m one of the few people who can protect you.”
He got out a notebook and a tape recorder from his pocket.
“Shall we start now?”
3
August 2006
The job was advertised in the back of The Spectator. Hidden among the classifieds. Discreet typeface. Possibly Times New Roman. No elaborate borders.
Modern-day Mary Poppins required to take care of needs of busy professional London family. Must have university degree. Clean driving license. Desire to travel. Experience working with children desirable. Loyalty, discretion essential.
Ali Sparrow sat at the dining room table of the Skinners’ London home, rereading a photocopy of the advertisement that Bryony had left there, trying to find meaning in the order of the list of requisites. As she read, she twisted her hair in
to knots, preoccupied that there might be hidden clues she might have missed. She shifted awkwardly, crossing and uncrossing her legs, aware that the gray wool skirt she had borrowed for the interview from her much shorter flatmate was riding toward her thighs, causing the backs of her legs to stick uncomfortably to the leather surface of the chair. Trying to imagine what attributes the Skinners didn’t want in a nanny, she pulled the hem back down to her knees, glanced down at her black shirt, and did up the top button. “No bunny boilers. No cleavage. No anorexics.”
She pulled a mirror out of her canvas handbag and checked her face. She had dyed her hair chestnut a couple of days earlier, and she hardly recognized herself. Her eyebrows now looked too pale by comparison. She licked a finger and smoothed them down in an effort to darken them a couple of shades. Dying your hair before an interview might make you look as though you had something to hide, Ali decided. In general, however, she liked what she saw. The hair matched her almond-shaped brown eyes and contrasted well with her windburned skin.
She thought of her friends’ advice late last night as they shared a cheap bottle of wine around the table of their flat in the center of Norwich. Rosa was still trying to persuade her to join Sugar Daddies. She had shown Ali the website, hoping to convince her that sleeping with a successful middle-aged man for £500 every couple of months was somehow less demeaning than working as a nanny.
“Sometimes they just want to take you out to dinner,” Rosa said. “Of course, they’re old enough to be your father, but generally they’re generous and kind. If you don’t find them attractive, you don’t have to go through with it. You’re in total control of the situation.”
They had a fierce, wine-fueled argument about whether selling your body for sex was an acceptable postfeminist solution to the problem of tuition fees. Rosa, who had dated two men the previous year, believed it was.
