by Fiona Neill
“What did he do?” Ali asked.
“Every time Bryony’s father came to visit, he mounted a dirty protest,” Nick said, and laughed. “There was some suspicion by the dog psychologist that I’d trained him to do this. But no evidence was ever uncovered to substantiate those claims.” He laughed again. “He was particularly fond of shitting in my father-in-law’s shoes. The more expensive, the better.”
“Why did he do it?” Ali asked, her curiosity overcoming her reticence.
“The therapist blamed it on us,” said Nick, “as his parents. He even wanted us to do family therapy with the dog. That’s when we opted for residential care.”
Ali half wondered whether he would be having this conversation with her if he didn’t know about her sister’s history. She quickly decided she was being paranoid and that Nick Skinner was simply trying to put her at ease.
“It looks like a beautiful wedding,” Ali spluttered, pointing at the photograph she had just put down.
“We got married in Greece,” Nick explained. “Bryony’s father bought a house in Corfu years ago. We go every summer. Have you been to Greece?”
“No,” said Ali.
“Well, you will when you start the job,” said Nick. Then he fell silent, as though unsure what to do next. “How did the interview go?”
“It hasn’t really happened yet,” said Ali.
“I read your file,” said Nick awkwardly. “Very impressive. Did Bryony tell you what we’re looking for?”
“We didn’t really get that far,” said Ali. He signaled toward the table, and Ali followed him back. She noticed that her cigarettes had fallen on the floor beside her chair.
“I’m a smoker,” confessed Ali.
“So is Bryony,” Nick said, smiling, “but she won’t admit it to you. She thinks that I don’t know.” He sat down opposite her, removed his tie, and opened up the top two buttons of his shirt. Then he slowly turned his head to each side a couple of times to stretch his neck. There was something vulnerable about seeing him slowly expose himself in this way. The clavicle where the shoulder bones met just below his throat, a fine down of chest hair, and the remnants of a summer tan slowly revealed themselves to her. Ali was used to boys in T-shirts and jeans. Her tutor at university occasionally wore a shirt but never a tie.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Nick asked when he realized Ali was staring at him. Ali felt herself flush with embarrassment.
“I thought I should de-suit to look less formal,” said Nick good-naturedly. “But I’ll put the tie back on if it’s too unnerving.”
She was relieved when Bryony came back into the room and seemed unsurprised to find Nick sitting at the table opposite Ali. She shook her BlackBerry triumphantly in the air.
“Good news?” Nick inquired.
“Nothing I can talk about,” said Bryony firmly. “Let’s just say I’ve done a good trade. Closed down one story, and they’ve taken the bait on another about a Russian oligarch who’s on the lookout for a football team. You must be a lucky charm, Ali Sparrow.” Bryony smiled warmly. She was carrying a plate of scrambled eggs that Ali assumed qualified as breakfast, but instead of heading back to the table she put them down beside the dog.
“He loves the way Malea cooks them,” she said, ruffling the dog’s fur. “Leicester is one of life’s true eccentrics. Do you like dogs? We just assume that people will fall for him immediately.”
“Mostly,” said Ali, as Leicester jumped down from his silk throne and, with one eye still on Ali, consumed the scrambled eggs.
Bryony sat down beside Nick. She pulled out a couple of hair ties, and her fox-red hair fell around her face, semi-obscuring her dark, brooding husband. Ali half shut her eyes. It was like looking at the sun coming out from behind a cloud. Bryony glanced down at her watch, a gesture that convinced Ali that she was going through with the rest of the interview only out of politeness. Then her phone rang again. This time Bryony ignored the call. Instead she rapidly began to describe their four children.
“Jake is almost eighteen. He’s in his last year at Westminster. He’s lazy. But with the right attention he could do very well. He needs to be pushed.” She made a fist with her hand to underline this point. “He’s strong-willed and articulate, so we need someone capable of organizing him. More stick than carrot, if you know what I mean.” Ali didn’t. She did a quick calculation in her head and worked out she was only four years older than Jake. She was about to point out that this might inhibit her authority over him, but Bryony had already moved on to his younger sister, Izzy.
“Even though she’s three years younger, Izzy is very focused,” she said with approval. “She’ll ask you to test her on stuff and let you know if she needs help, but she’s fairly self-disciplined. You need to watch the biscuits. She’s at that age where you don’t want to lay down any excess fat. She’s a very talented cellist, and you’ll need to help encourage a good schedule for practice. She needs an hour a day. She plays in a quartet at school.” Bryony paused to catch her breath, and Nick smiled encouragingly at Ali from the other side of the table. He showed little inclination to add anything to the conversation.
“The twins are five. They’ve spent a lot of time with each other, and I want to try and encourage them to live life a little more separately. They’re identical and a bit too codependent. They’ll be going to school five days a week from September. You’ll need to take them, pick them up, and then get them to all their activities. You’ll organize playdates, help them refine their pencil grip, and monitor piano practice.”
“Their pencil grip?” Ali repeated inanely.
“Handwriting, spelling, that sort of stuff,” said Bryony, waving her hand as if to bat away the question. She leaned forward toward Ali. “I believe that every moment of the day represents a learning opportunity for them. When you’re in the car, put on Radio Four or Classic FM, read quality literature to them at night, write any words they don’t understand on the blackboard in their bedroom. And I’d like you to do twenty minutes of maths with each of them every evening. It’s essential to maintain a regular schedule.”
Bryony continued to talk about the twins without referring to them by name. She said that they had developed a tendency to start and finish each other’s sentences, that they were obsessed with Thomas the Tank Engine in a non-autistic way, and that they showed some skill on the football pitch. She wanted them to develop their own friendships and go separately to friends’ houses.
The objectivity of Bryony’s appraisal struck Ali. She tried to imagine her own mother giving such a detached assessment of her own children.
“Jo has a low threshold for boredom and sometimes self-medicates with drugs, which causes severe mood swings. Jo has a very short-term approach to life, which makes it difficult for her to plan for the future. Jo is a risk taker who finds it difficult to accept the consequences of her actions. There is an inverse correlation between Jo’s behavior and that of her younger sister, Ali. Ali has suffered from the disproportionate amount of attention paid to Jo. Ali feels an excessive sense of responsibility toward her sister and would benefit from a period of separation from her family, to find herself.”
Her mother would never be capable of such dispassionate analysis. She would get bogged down in anecdote or diverted by the swell of emotion that now accompanied most conversations about Jo.
Bryony’s version of motherhood appealed to Ali because it was less emotive. Bryony represented the possibility of having children without totally losing yourself in the process. It was not a version that was familiar to Ali.
“I can see that you got eleven GCSEs and top grades in your A-levels,” said Bryony, pushing a piece of paper toward Nick, who glanced down the page and gave an appreciative whistle of approval. “So you’d obviously be able to help the children with schoolwork. We both work long hours, so this is a priority.”
“Latin?” questioned Bryony. Ali nodded.
“Apart from babysitting, do you have any experience with children?” Bryony asked.
Ali started to explain how, as part of a program to reduce teenage pregnancy, girls at her school had all been given a fake baby to look after for a day. The doll was programmed to cry if it wasn’t fed or its nappy wasn’t regularly changed. She had proven to be totally responsible.
“What about the other girls in your class?” asked Nick.
“One of them dropped the doll off the end of the pier by mistake, and another was already pregnant and it made her lactate,” said Ali, pleased to find a verb that was suitably scientific.
Nick and Bryony stared at her in silence for a moment. “We’re not familiar with this program,” Nick said finally, and smiled. Bryony looked nonplussed.
“We’d also expect you to help organize our domestic life for us,” Bryony said, trying to pull the interview back to familiar territory. “Anything from birthday parties to collecting dry cleaning, getting the car serviced, and buying clothes for the children. Would you be happy to do that?”
“Sure,” said Ali enthusiastically.
“Do you have any questions for us?” Bryony suddenly asked. Ali muttered something about driving in London being a very different prospect from driving in Cromer.
“You can use Addison Lee,” said Bryony.
“Is he your chauffeur?” Ali asked. Nick and Bryony laughed, and Ali felt herself blush again.
“It’s the name of a taxi company,” Nick explained. “We have an account with them.”
This was what she remembered of the interview years later. There were no questions about how to recognize the symptoms of meningitis or what to do if a child was choking. Both were questions Rosa said her mother always asked a new nanny.
Instead there had been more talk about Ali’s ability to schedule the lives of four children and of the hours she would be expected to work. She compared it to revision timetables for exams and they reveled again in her academic qualifications. The Skinners liked the facts that she would be able to help the children with schoolwork and that she was a strong swimmer. They agreed that it was unfortunate that she didn’t ski, but then neither did three of the other applicants for the job. Ali pointed out that cooking might be a problem, and they explained that they had a Philippine housekeeper, Malea, who took care of most of the meals and cleaned the house. Nick had joked that she seemed to be talking herself out of a job. Ali responded by saying that she wouldn’t be able to commit to spending more than twelve months with them. There was more laughter as Ali unwittingly proved their point.
Then they said that if she agreed to an extra six months they would pay her a bonus worth two terms of tuition fees. It would mean that Ali wouldn’t return to her course the following academic year, but she didn’t hesitate as she agreed to their terms. It was just eighteen months of her life, Ali argued.
“Is there anything more you want to know about me?” Ali asked. She thought of a recent discussion with Rosa about how everyone had three significant events that defined their character for better or worse. Rosa cited her mother’s alcoholism, the way she moved school every four years because her father was in the forces, and how her younger sister had stolen her boyfriend.
“I am a good person who has done a bad thing. I once helped my sister score heroin. I don’t inhale,” Ali had told Rosa. These three had come to mind straight away and then just as quickly been forgotten.
“Obviously you’ll have to sign a confidentiality agreement. And we would like you to agree to cancel your Facebook account. We are a family that values its privacy,” said Bryony. “Is that a problem?”
“Not at all,” said Ali, ignoring their invasion of her privacy.
“And if you have a boyfriend, we’d prefer you to stay with him,” said Bryony.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” said Ali firmly.
“Then I think that we’ve covered all the ground,” said Bryony, efficiently organizing papers until the file that said “Nanny No. 6” was on the top of the pile. “How many families are you choosing between?”
“Sorry?” said Ali in confusion.
“How many other interviews are you doing?”
Ali was unsure what to say. She glanced from Bryony to Nick and saw that he was holding up three fingers away from his wife’s field of vision.
“Er, three,” said Ali.
“Your room would be on the fifth floor, across the landing from the twins and round the corner from Izzy,” Bryony said. “It’s got a wonderful view over the garden, and there’s a small kitchenette and sitting room. The only downside is that you don’t have an en suite. I hope this isn’t a big problem.”
“Not at all,” said Ali, who didn’t want to tell them she had never had her own bathroom.
“And we have a busy social life,” said Bryony, looking up from her list. “So you’d sometimes need to be around in the evenings to help look after the children. We used to have a weekend nanny, but it’s too disruptive, so we’re looking for someone who can do everything.”
“Great,” said Ali.
4
September 2006
“Olio Chesterton,” Foy Chesterton called out in a singsong voice as though he was manning a market stall. “First press. Extra-virgin. Get Malea to use it to make a stifado.” He stood on the bottom step of the stairs that led from the raised ground floor down into the kitchen on the lower ground floor until he was certain that everyone was looking at him, and then triumphantly removed a bottle of murky liquid from a beach basket.
Improbably for London in September, Foy was wearing a pair of muddy-brown shorts, a perfectly ironed short-sleeved shirt, and deck shoes with ankle socks. His calves and thighs were tanned and hardened from two months of playing tennis every day in Corfu, his face as dark and wrinkled as one of the olives picked from his farm. When he stepped into the kitchen, Foy instinctively stooped, as tall men do, and then quickly unfurled again. The huge room didn’t seem big enough to contain his energy. The twins surged forward to greet him, and clung on to his legs like limpets. He didn’t flinch.
“Where’s Cerberus?” he boomed. On cue, Leicester barked from the garden, furiously throwing himself against the glass door as he realized he was excluded from the festivity inside.
“Thanks, Dad,” said Bryony, stepping forward to take the olive oil from his hand. “Maybe we should save it? Does olive oil have vintage years? Does it improve with age?” She quickly kissed him once on each cheek.
“Like me, do you mean?” said Foy, bending down extravagantly to pick up a twin under each arm. “You should drink a spoonful of that stuff every day so that your bones grow as strong as your grandfather’s,” he told them as they tried to wriggle free. Making suitable noises of disgust, Hector and Alfie buried their noses into his neck and ruffled his soft, gray hair until it stood on end.
“Do you have something for us?” they pleaded. He unceremoniously dropped them on the floor, slapped his pockets, and shrugged his shoulders.
“I forgot,” he said dramatically. He noticed Izzy standing by the kitchen table and gestured for her to come forward. Like a magician, he pulled out a brightly colored sarong and matching bikini from the basket and threw it toward her in a high arc over the twins’ heads. She caught it as it fluttered between her outstretched hands. The twins took advantage to make for the bag, but Foy caught them and held them aloft, laughing as their little legs hopelessly pedaled in the air.
“For my most beautiful granddaughter,” he said dramatically.
“Thanks,” said Izzy cautiously. Izzy glanced at the bikini long enough to see that the top and bottom consisted of little more than bits of string with four triangles attached. She stuffed the bikini inside the sarong and
made a careful ball until it was small enough to hide behind the toaster. Even in the heat of the Corfu summer it had been difficult to persuade her out of jeans and long-sleeved T-shirts. When she swam in the pool she wore a conservative black swimsuit and a top. It was ludicrous to consider she would ever wear something so skimpy. She rubbed her tummy, loathing the plump childish contours, and breathed in until she could feel her ribs. Then she relaxed again and began reciting one of the mantras she had found on a pro-anorexia website: “Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.”
“What else do I have in here?” asked Foy, rummaging in the bag and pulling out a chess set carved from olive wood. “Where’s my cleverest grandson?” Jake lazily raised a hand from where he was sitting at the kitchen table. Foy pretended not to see him. So Jake stood up and went over to collect the chess set. Foy pulled him close and ruffled his long hair, muttering something about how he was looking forward to being taught how to play by his oldest grandson and how pleased he was that he had been tipped for Oxbridge by his school.
“Pull your trousers up, Jake,” he called out as Jake slouched back toward the kitchen table. Jake made a perfunctory gesture, grabbing the belt loop at the back, but the trousers immediately slumped back down to reveal his underpants.
“Big oversight, Tita! We didn’t get the twins anything,” Foy called upstairs for his wife to come down. Tita slowly emerged. She came down the stairs cautiously, with a sideways step, holding firmly onto the banister because she had recently developed a fear of falling. She hadn’t told anyone this, and people sometimes mistook her slow, dignified descent down stairs and across rooms for imperiousness.
On the floor by the bottom step, the twins feverishly searched in the bag at Foy’s feet, their faces growing redder as the tears pricked. They pulled out an unread copy of The Telegraph, a packet of photographs, and a swollen copy of a novel by John Grisham that had spent too much time getting wet beside the swimming pool. They ignored their grandmother, who was carrying an identically shaped package under each arm.
