What the Nanny Saw (38 page)

“My lawyer will get it sorted, Bryony. Please try and stay calm. They haven’t charged me with anything yet. They’ve got to build a case against me to press charges.”

“There could be a lot of media interest in this, and it’s not sub judice unless you’re charged,” Bryony worried. “Stories about greedy bankers with their greedy bonuses netting even more money through grubby little backroom deals sell newspapers. No one is more reviled at the moment. Not even pedophiles. They’ll be digging around for stories about us.”

“The point is, Bryony, that I didn’t do it,” said Nick firmly.

He still didn’t seem perturbed. Instead he insisted they focus their attention on what the papers were saying, so that they could try to build some kind of coherent response. Perhaps Bryony was right, perhaps the antidepressants were numbing his reactions.

“Get our side of the story out first, isn’t that always your advice?” he asked Bryony.

He started with one of the tabloids, knowing that their coverage would be the most lacerating. He opened up the
Daily Mail
and folded the paper back on itself to concentrate on the first page.

Bryony sat down beside him. Ali took her plate to the dishwasher and then came back to the table to collect the rest of the dirty dishes. She caught sight of the first headline and stopped to read it over Nick’s shoulder. “Banker at Troubled Lehman Brothers Arrested for Insider Dealing.” There was a small fact box with bullet points: insider trading was suspected in thirty-two percent of City takeovers; people rarely acted alone; the usual modus operandi was for the person providing the information to get someone else to make the trade with a broker and then split the proceeds; insider trading had become rife in the City during the boom years. There was a photograph of Nick and Ned, “the alleged co-conspirator,” taken together at the Christmas drinks party the previous year.

“It’s really bad news the way the media is linking this with the banking crisis,” said Bryony. “Even if the charges aren’t proven, you could end up being the scapegoat for a whole industry. Especially because you were involved in subprime securities and Lehman’s has been so greedy and reckless. It has all the ingredients of a perfect scandal.”

“I hope you offer more comfort to your clients in times of crisis,” observed Nick, who, in Ali’s opinion, seemed unnaturally unbothered at the way his life was being unpicked so publicly in a newspaper. He turned the paper over to the next page.

There was a picture of Jake, sprawled on the grass outside his Oxford college, smoking dope from the same pipe that he shared with Ali at the party. His head was resting on the bare stomach of a girl wearing a bikini top and a pair of cutoff denim shorts. Most definitely not Lucy. His arm was pointing toward the camera, his palm flat, in an effort to block the lens. But his reactions were evidently slowed by the dope, and instead he was captured with a leery half-smile in a cloud of smoke, obviously stoned.

“Oh my God,” said Bryony. “He’s on drugs.”

“How could he do this to us?” groaned Nick. “We told him to lie low.”

Ali glanced at Nick. She wanted to tell him that he was being unfair, because if he hadn’t been arrested then no one would have been interested in a photograph of his son smoking dope at university. The newspaper story was all about the wild lifestyle of the son of disgraced City banker Nick Skinner. It didn’t mention that Jake had just got a first in his end-of-year exams.

“It’s an old photo,” Ali pointed out. “His new flat doesn’t have any outside space. He was probably just relaxing after exams. He wouldn’t have got a first if he had a big drug problem, and he wouldn’t turn up to work at the right time every day.”

“Everyone is going to see this,” said Bryony, starting to cry.

“Do you think he realizes?” Nick asked. He instinctively reached out for his BlackBerry, but of course, with the exception of Ali, all their mobile phones had been taken.

“I’m lost without my bloody phone,” he said. “Can I borrow yours, please, Ali?”

She handed over her BlackBerry, and Nick scrolled down her contacts list, looking for Jake’s name.

“Jake isn’t in there,” said Ali.

“Why not?” asked Bryony.

“I deleted him when he went to university,” Ali mumbled.

“What’s his number?” Nick asked Bryony.

“Don’t you know your son’s number?” Bryony asked, as she tapped it in. Her hand was shaking as she gave the phone to Nick. Poor Jake, thought Ali, as he picked up the phone expecting to hear Ali’s voice and instead was woken by his father delivering a scathing indictment of his behavior. She could hear him protesting to Nick that one of his friends must have sold the photograph to the newspaper and that it was taken almost two months ago. Jake sounded confused, as well he might, because from Nick’s reaction it was as if his conduct had eclipsed the insider-dealing charges.

“How did it go at the police station?” Jake kept asking. “What exactly is going on?”

“Don’t try and change the subject,” Nick persisted. There was a pause. “Your mother is very upset about this.”

He’s going to exploit this to take the pressure off him, realized Ali. Bryony was nervously flicking through the
Financial Times
. Her body was taut with tension and her movements quick and abrupt. She found a small piece, more concise and better sourced, largely based on the FSA press release on the front of the Companies and Markets section of the newspaper. She ran her finger over the story, nervously picking apart each sentence. Her hand stopped in the middle and she rubbed the same line over and over again with her finger until the tip was stained with ink.

“It says here that your wife is a senior partner at a City financial PR company and that some of her clients are reconsidering their position in light of the accusations. What do they mean?”

Before Nick could answer, the phone on the desk by the bookshelf started ringing. Bryony got up to get it, half running to the other side of the room. Ali understood from the swift exchange that it was one of the partners at work letting Bryony know that her Ukrainian energy company had called up to say that given the circumstances they would be looking for a new financial PR agency to represent them.

“Did you say someone else could head up the account?” Bryony said.

Her business partner said that she had made the same suggestion, but they were adamant. Bryony said that she would get in touch with them and at least put their case across.

There was a lull in conversation. Bryony’s colleague hesitantly suggested that perhaps it was better if Bryony stayed at home and lay low until the initial interest had died down. It wasn’t good for a PR company to be the subject of news. Bryony reluctantly agreed. She put down the phone, stared at it for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts, and then came back to the kitchen table.

“Is my Ukrainian client one of the companies that you’re accused of buying shares in?” she asked. “No bullshit, Nick.”

“It might have been one of them,” said Nick, his brow knitted as he tried to recall details. “They mentioned so many in the interview.”

“You know that I worked on that takeover deal?”

“Of course,” said Nick.

“Why didn’t you tell me this last night?” she asked, banging her fist on the table.

“I didn’t want to worry you until it’s clear what evidence they have against me. My lawyer says they’ll say a lot of stuff in the hope of catching me out.”

“Even if you’re proven innocent, this ‘stuff’ will have an impact on me,” said Bryony. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. You know they’ve fired us.”

“I didn’t know that someone would leak it to a newspaper,” said Nick apologetically.

“So did you do it?”

“Did I do what?”

“Did you buy shares in my company just before they were sold?”

“No.”

“Did you know about this deal from me?”

“What was it called?”

“The codename was Project Odysseus.”

“Rings no bells at all.”

Ali studied his face as he took Bryony by the hand. Everyone had tics that revealed when they were lying. Will MacDonald’s nostrils flared; the twins couldn’t look her in the eye; Katya whistled; her sister pulled her lower lip with a finger; her mother couldn’t blink. Apart from a slightly plaintive concertina of his forehead, a gesture aimed at provoking sympathy, Nick’s features remained passive. His blue eyes were a little watery, his face perhaps more flushed than usual, but that could have been due to the shot of caffeine. His smile was genuine. But Ali remembered the papers she had seen in the drawing room two years earlier when Jake had stumbled upon them sitting on the sofa, and knew that Nick was lying.

“I’d better call the office again,” said Bryony, getting up from the table.

“Careful what you say on the phone,” warned Nick.

Before Bryony could get to the phone it started ringing, and for the next hour it didn’t stop. The first call was from the Darkes next door, offering help and support and suggesting that if the children wanted to avoid the photographers already lined up on the other side of Holland Park Crescent, they were welcome to climb over the fence into their garden and go out through the basement of their house to get onto the street. Perhaps this was how the burglar escaped, Desmond Darke said sarcastically.

“That’s kind,” said Bryony, “especially since we lied to them about what was going on.” She had no sooner put down the phone than it rang again. This time it was Ali’s parents. Her mother apologetically explained to Bryony that they had tried and failed to get hold of Ali on her mobile. Ali signaled from the other side of the kitchen that she didn’t want to speak to her. Shortly after this, Hester called to say that she would be coming round as soon as possible to help out. Bryony tried to put her off.

“A dawn raid by my sister,” Bryony said, and sighed. “I’m not sure I can endure.”

Tita called from Corfu to let them know she would catch the next flight home. Bryony said she would be grateful to have some help with Foy. Tita agreed but said nothing about his moving back into their house. Lucy’s father phoned to let them know that his daughter was going on a round-the-world trip, and they would be grateful if Jake would avoid contacting her before she left, especially given his drug problem. Bryony put the phone on voice mail and it rang again. This time it was Sophia Wilbraham.

“Bryony, Bryony, are you there?” Sophia’s panicky voice echoed round the kitchen. “Ned’s been arrested. Something to do with Nick. Call me if you know what’s going on. He won’t tell me a thing.”

“On no account speak to her,” Nick called from the bottom of the stairs. “I’m going to call my lawyer again.”

“Do you have any money?” Bryony shouted to him.

“Forty pounds,” he confirmed.

“How are we going to pay for anything?” she asked.

“We’ll be given three hundred fifty pounds a week living expenses until they decide whether to charge me. We’re going to appeal to try and persuade them to allow us access to more funds. If I can convince them I have enough assets to cover all the proceeds from the trades they’ve accused me of making, they might easily award us more.”

“How much are they accusing you of making?” asked Bryony.

“Not much,” said Nick. “Five million, tops.”

“That’s a fuck of a lot of money, and they’ll make you pay back more,” Bryony exploded, “and how can we live off three hundred fifty pounds a week? The mortgage on both houses is about ten thousand pounds a month. Maybe we should just sell Thornberry Manor?”

“You can’t sell anything if your assets are frozen,” Nick calmly explained. “The only way I can raise any money is perhaps by selling off a couple of paintings or some jewelry through a friendly antiques dealer who will pay us in cash. Totally verboten, but it might be worth doing that before they come and do the inventory of our belongings. Perhaps Ali could help you pick out a few things?”

“This is a nightmare,” said Bryony. Nick came over to her and put his arms around her. She remained seated, head bowed, arms folded in front of her. “Why is this happening to us?”

“Someone with a grudge, perhaps,” said Nick. “Someone who wants to create a hate figure to atone for the banking crisis?”

Surely the FSA and the police wouldn’t raid the house of a prominent City banker without good evidence to prove their allegations? Ali wanted to ask. But Bryony wasn’t looking for logic. She just wanted comfort. Ali got up from the table and went in search of an old class list. She found a number for Storm’s nanny, but when she managed to get through a couple of hours later the nanny apologetically explained that the girl’s mother had said that she couldn’t play with the twins.

“Why?” said Ali, furious on their behalf.

“In case there are any drugs in the house,” the nanny said.

“But Storm’s mum is completely addicted to sleeping pills,” said Ali, who had heard numerous stories from this nanny about the mother’s erratic behavior, including her seduction of a Polish plumber, her penchant for saying good night to her children on the intercom, and the fact she didn’t believe in de-nitting the children because it involved killing animals.

“I know,” she whispered. “Maybe we could meet in the park one day. Storm will really miss them. I don’t know what else to suggest. These people are all crazy. I’d leave if it wasn’t for the little girl.”

Ali put the phone down and it rang almost immediately. Perhaps the nanny had relented. But it was the internal phone.

“Ali, is that you?” Foy’s voice shouted. “Is anyone going to come and help me get out of bed? You know I can’t stand up on my own in the morning. Bloody legs! Where’s Malea? Where’s my breakfast? And where’s that bloody lawyer? If I’m paying for her, then at least I’m entitled to meet her.”

“I’ll come and help you,” Ali offered.

•   •   •

Jake arrived from Oxford
a couple of days later, looking chastened. He had been fired from his job at the wine bar because the owner had seen his photograph in the newspaper. He went into the drawing room for what he described as a “ritual bollocking” and then went down to find Ali and the twins in the basement.