by Fiona Neill
“Don’t tell Mummy,” Ali told Hector and Alfie. “Otherwise we won’t be able to do this again.” They nodded seriously. Ali turned to Katya again.
“How did you meet Mira?” she asked.
“On the journey from Ukraine,” she said.
“You must have been very young,” said Ali.
“Seventeen,” said Katya. “But I am an older and wiser woman now.”
“Were you on the same flight?” said Ali. Katya smiled.
“We came overland, Ali,” she explained, giving Mira a nervous look. “It was a long journey. There was a lot of time to get to know each other. I was in trouble. Mira helped me.”
“Would you like to meet up with us at the same time next week?” Mira suddenly asked.
“I’d really like that,” said Ali immediately. It would be good for Hector and Alfie, and it would be good for her. They would all be less lonely.
“And the twins can come and play with Thomas and Leo,” said Katya.
“That would be great,” said Ali. “They don’t often get asked to go to anyone else’s house.”
“I’m cooking dinner for everyone this weekend,” said Katya. “Would you like to come, too?”
“Nick and Bryony are going away,” explained Ali. “Another time. Maybe I can cook for you.”
“Can you cook?” asked Katya.
“Actually, no,” Ali said with a laugh. The talk of food reminded her that the Skinners were throwing a dinner party that evening and that Bryony would be arriving home early.
“Shit,” she said, looking down at her watch.
“Shit,” the twins repeated, as she hurried them out of the café and searched for a cab. It would have been quicker to catch a bus home, but Bryony didn’t like the twins’ using public transport.
• • •
When they arrived at Holland Park Crescent, Bryony was too busy worrying about a couple of guests who had canceled at the last minute, and a wine waiter who had called in sick, to preoccupy herself with Ali’s violation of the afternoon schedule. As she closed the front door behind them, Ali overheard anxious voices rippling from the drawing room.
“It leaves a big hole in the seating plan,” Bryony said. “We built the party around them. I really wanted him to meet Felix so that he could assure him about Northern Rock being on target to meet analysts’ forecasts so that we can avoid any nasty pieces about how the U.S. housing market could be contagious.” Nick was on speakerphone. Ali heard him swear under his breath.
“Politicians are so fucking unreliable,” he muttered. “Piss-poor judgment, if you ask me. We’ll be around long after Blair’s star has bloody well fallen. They’re all a bunch of cunts.”
The twins looked at Ali, wide-eyed.
“What does ‘politician’ mean?” asked Alfie eventually. Ali smiled with relief and whispered a brief explanation.
“He was really apologetic,” said Bryony. “Something’s come up. He got called back in to write a speech for tomorrow. It’s probably got something to do with Blair’s announcement at conference.” She paused for a moment. “I was wondering whether we should invite my mother and father instead? They won’t mind filling empty seats, and the wife of the private equity guy wants to buy a house in Corfu. They can talk olives together.”
Nick groaned.
“Look, if I can put up with the Wilbrahams, then you can put up with Foy and Tita,” Bryony deftly negotiated. Why invite people you don’t like to dinner? wondered Ali, as she hung up the twins’ coats in the cloakroom adjacent to the drawing room. Why go to all that trouble for people Bryony would avoid if she saw them on the other side of the street? Although, of course, to judge from the van parked outside with “Dinners of Distinction” painted on its doors, Bryony wouldn’t be doing the cooking. Or the washing up. Or even pour a glass of wine. Ali picked up the internal phone and called downstairs to ask Malea if tea was on the table or whether she should bathe the twins first.
“Ali, is that you?” Bryony called from the drawing room. “Can I have a quick word? Send the twins downstairs to Malea.”
Ali removed her shoes and went into the room. Bryony was sitting at the small table beside the window. A file labeled “Dinner Party 10/06/06” sat beside her. Two BlackBerrys flashed messages. A woman sat at her feet doing a pedicure, efficiently buffing nails and pushing back cuticles.
“Would you be an absolute star and step into the breach?” Bryony asked.
“I’m very flattered, but I couldn’t possibly hold a conversation,” said Ali. Bryony laughed so loudly that the pedicure was momentarily halted.
“I didn’t mean at the dinner table,” said Bryony, “although you’d do a lot better on the latest literary news than I would. I wondered if you would mind acting as wine waiter for the evening. You only need to do red.” It was an order dressed up as a favor, Ali decided.
“Sure,” Ali said, and smiled, relieved rather than offended by Bryony’s proposal.
“I’ll pay you, of course. Malea can put the twins to bed. You could probably do with a night off.”
That was certainly true. Getting Hector and Alfie to bed involved more rituals than a Russian Orthodox wedding. The water in the bath had to be a certain level. She had to locate identical pajamas, then these had to be hidden from Bryony beneath dressing gowns because she didn’t like them wearing the same clothes. She had to read Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? by Dr. Seuss three times and couldn’t miss a single word, because Hector and Alfie noticed immediately. The gap between the curtains had to be exactly right, and Ali had to lie on the bed between them until they went to sleep. She had tried and failed to break this last habit, finally giving up when the twins revealed that every nanny they could remember had done this.
“What happens if your mum and dad put you to bed?” she had asked. They had looked at her blankly.
So later that night, Ali found herself standing discreetly in the corner of the dining room, holding a bottle of red wine swaddled in a stiff white napkin waiting to refill glasses.
She wore a black pencil skirt and white shirt loaned to her by Bryony. Her hair was pulled off her face. On the other side of the room stood another wine waiter, a Latvian boy who looked far too young to be living in London without his parents. He helpfully raised an eyebrow at Ali whenever he noticed an empty glass. His kindness made Ali’s eyes water, but it might have been the smoke from the scented candles.
The other waiters had just finished clearing away a starter of crab risotto and were now serving veal paupiette with onion jus. The crab reminded Ali of home. She wondered whether it had come from the potting grounds fished by her father, although this year had been the worst season he could remember. She remembered his favorite spots: Back High Hole; Cistern Hill; Foulness shoal, for early summer, then Brown’s Ledge later in the season. He always knew the best places, where the water had a bit of color and a lot of movement. “Crabbing’s a waste of time when the sea is sheer as piss,” he used to tell her.
The female guests, apart from a woman sitting next to Nick, pleaded anything from migraine to lactose intolerance to avoid eating a full plate of food. So the risotto was hidden under lettuce leaves. Did women in London ever eat? Ali wondered. At least it meant there would be plenty of carrot and white chocolate fondant pudding left over.
There were ten people at the large circular table, including Bryony, Nick, Tita, Foy, and Sophia and Ned Wilbraham, a small but stocky man with sharp features and cold eyes. If anyone recognized her, no one gave anything away.
Then there was the man who owned a private equity company and his wife, a superthin blond woman who could have been anything between twenty-five and fifty-five. Downstairs, Ali heard the waiters and waitresses place bets on whether she was the first, second, or third Mrs. Gressingham. Ali knew from discussions over the seating plan that the w
oman sitting beside Nick used to work in the City and now advised the government on banking regulations. She had come alone.
The only guest who might genuinely qualify as a friend was Felix, who had come straight from work to take his place between Tita and Bryony. Ali recognized him immediately from the wedding photo in the drawing room. He sidestepped into the room, shook hands with Nick, amid effusive apologies for his tardiness, and congratulated him on a deal that had just closed. Bryony didn’t bother to stand up, so Felix hovered by her chair for a little longer than was comfortable while she gave him access to her right cheek, where he planted a slightly sloppy kiss. He reminded Ali of a faithful Labrador, grateful for the occasional patronizing pat on the head and tolerant of the odd kick in the ribs.
Ali knew from Foy that not only had Felix gone out with Bryony for more than a year at university, he had also introduced her to his old school friend, Nick Skinner, at a party after they left Oxford. Allegedly Felix had gone to this party with a ring in his pocket, intending to ask Bryony to marry him.
During one of his late-morning visits to Holland Park Crescent, Foy had given an extended version of the drama, using language so flowery that at one point Ali had to bite her lower lip to stop herself from laughing. “Felix had vituperated Nick for his legerdemain” was the most memorable line.
Foy described their relationship as a “coup de foudre,” because within a week of their first encounter, Bryony had abandoned Felix. She was bowled over by Nick’s confidence, his charm, his “protean nature,” and all the “accoutrements” that went with his lifestyle as a successful banker. Foy couldn’t resist adding that perhaps Nick reminded Bryony of him. They were married a year later, and she was pregnant with Jake within a couple of months.
Felix went abroad for three years, working for the Financial Times in Washington. He came home with an American girlfriend, whom he “virtually jilted at the altar,” Foy breathlessly explained. He had remained friends with Foy and Tita, and confessed to them that no one matched up to Bryony. Whether this was true or not, it had seeped into family mythology so that even Ali now viewed Felix with pity. It was an account that was convenient for both Nick and Bryony, because it diminished Felix in Nick’s eyes and allowed Bryony to remain friends with him.
Ali observed him now. He was a little pasty-faced, as though he didn’t see enough daylight, and his eyebrows were arched in a way that made him look permanently surprised by life. But despite his bumbling self-effacement and penchant for telling stories against himself, he quickly emerged as the most intelligent and likable person at the table. He had an endearing habit of looking at Bryony whenever he thought she wasn’t watching. It was a gesture that reinforced his canine credentials.
Occasionally, he apologetically left the room to deal with a phone call. Ali heard him in the hall running through last-minute changes to a story when she went downstairs to fetch another bottle of red wine.
“The deal will definitely be announced on Monday morning,” he shouted into the phone. “I’ve just had confirmation that the lawyers will wrap it up over the weekend so that the stock doesn’t move.” There was silence as someone responded. Then Felix spoke again. “It’s the biggest M-and-A property deal this year. My sourcing is impeccable. In fact, I’m having dinner with them.”
Foy was flanked by Bryony and Mrs. Gressingham. During the main course, he had given Mrs. Gressingham invaluable advice on buying a property in Corfu, including the name of his lawyer, the best place to buy furniture, and an insight into the rhythms of the olive harvest. He had even offered to have her to stay for a couple of days during her next trip to scout properties. By pudding, however, Ali knew that he had drunk more red wine than anyone else round the table. As the chocolate fondant was served he turned his back on Mrs. Gressingham and leaned toward Sophia Wilbraham to stare leerily down the front of her dress, muttering something through wine-stained teeth about how he was glad to see the Wilbraham cleavage had been passed down to the next generation.
“Do you like dinner parties?” he addressed Sophia’s breasts.
“Of course,” she answered. “I enjoy cooking.” Bryony narrowed her eyes at the obvious barb.
“I think dinner parties are what couples do when they stop having sex,” Foy declared loudly.
Overhearing this comment, Tita immediately turned toward Mr. Gressingham to question him about his job. What was private equity? How did they decide whether a company was worth buying or not? How long did they keep the company before it was sold? Mr. Gressingham, relieved and flattered by the diversion, gave a long-winded explanation of how he identified potential businesses and made them more profitable by borrowing more money cheaply. Tita listened carefully.
“Don’t you sometimes worry that this urge to buy businesses to make them part of something bigger and make more and more profit every year just makes the people working for them feel smaller? I always think of our gardener in Corfu. He has a small family business landscaping holiday homes. He could probably make more money if he expanded, but he is perfectly happy with the status quo.”
“I’m in the business of trying to make the world a richer place, not a happier place,” replied Mr. Gressingham. “The way property prices are rising, we’ll all need to earn a lot more money to help our children buy homes in London. You can’t really live on less than two hundred fifty thousand pounds a year.”
Ali heard herself gasp and saw Nick glance over at her. He gave Ali a quick, tight smile.
“I read something in The Telegraph today that said working women are responsible for the rise in house prices,” chipped in Sophia.
“What on earth do you mean?” asked the woman from the Treasury who was sitting next to Nick. Sophia looked taken aback by her intervention, because the comment was intended to make Bryony squirm. But it was too late to backpedal.
“It said that if two parents work there is more money available to spend on housing, and that this has fueled the housing boom,” she explained.
“I read that piece,” said Foy excitedly. “It was the one that said that one in five women think mothers who work are bad mothers and that working mothers think stay-at-home mothers are idle. No wonder Bryony and Hester don’t see eye to eye.”
“The truth is that children are a twenty-year project, and so is a career, and there is an essential incompatibility for women in reconciling these two important strands of their life,” said the woman from the Treasury, sounding a little as though she was delivering a speech. “And housing inflation is a problem in many countries where women aren’t represented in the workplace.”
“Like Iceland?” suggested Sophia.
“I’m thinking about moving my money to one of those Icelandic accounts,” said Foy. “Six percent interest if you put it in Icesave.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Nick.
“All I know is that if you love your job, then you have to keep going,” said Bryony in a conciliatory tone. “I never had any desire to have a career break or set up my own business icing cupcakes.”
Mrs. Gressingham remained silent during this conversation. Her face was so Botoxed that Ali couldn’t read her expression.
“Did you manage to find a decent new nanny?” She leaned toward Bryony across the gap left by Felix, who had left the room again to take another call. “I remember you were looking at the end of the summer.”
“Our concierge agency came up trumps,” said Bryony. “She started a couple of months ago, and we all love her. She’s English, fresh out of university, so she can deal with all the homework. And she’s got endless patience with the twins.” Ali stepped uncomfortably from one foot to the other, staring at her shoes as she felt her face turn the same color as the bottle of wine in her hand.
“Have you left her on her own with the children yet?” the blond woman asked.
“Next weekend will be the first ti
me,” said Bryony. “We’re off to Idaho to stay with Dick Fuld and his wife for the weekend.”
“You must be inner-circle,” said Mr. Gressingham, clearly impressed by this invitation.
“That’s always the big test. It all runs beautifully until we go away. The moment we step out the front door, it always falls apart,” said his wife. Nick turned toward her to listen to the conversation. He was running his finger around the edge of his wineglass, making a high-pitched humming sound that signaled his boredom.
“Tell them what happened last time we went away,” her husband urged, sensing his wife was already losing Nick’s interest.
“We came home a day early because Dan had to get back to work, and I found the nanny in bed with the housekeeper,” she said triumphantly.
“Our bed,” chipped in her husband. “Not even her bed. A lesbian tryst under our own roof.”
“At least they were taking exercise,” joked the woman from the Treasury. “Our nanny’s food bill is bigger than her salary.”
“It’s so difficult to find decent staff in London at the moment,” said Mrs. Gressingham.
“We’ve been very lucky,” said Bryony, sounding just a little too pleased with herself.
“It’s a competitive market,” said Nick. “London is a global financial center, and everyone wants to live here. And everyone wants good people to work for them.”
“Have you tried any Poles? Apparently they are very good with children,” said someone else.
The conversation turned back to property prices in London and the way that rich foreigners were at an unfair advantage because they didn’t have to pay the same taxes as ordinary British families.
“How come?” said Mrs. Gressingham, leaning in toward Nick, so that you could see visible evidence of her daily two-hour gym schedule in the sculpted muscles of her upper arms.
“They buy houses through a holding company so they don’t have to pay taxes,” explained Nick.
“Anything over five million gets snapped up by Saudi princes or East European oligarchs,” complained Foy. “Soon there won’t be anyone English living in Kensington and Chelsea.”
