What the Nanny Saw (5 page)

Ali heard a noise outside the dining room and quickly turned to the next page in the plastic file. Her time was surely running out. It must have been at least ten minutes since Bryony had left the room. This bit was easier to absorb because whole sentences were highlighted in yellow pen. The first said that Ali had recently finished a relationship with another student. Someone had put an exclamation mark beside this point. The second said that Ali had an older sister with “mental-health issues.” Beside this, in tiny black writing, someone had written “interesting!” She stood up abruptly and angrily put the file back where she had found it. She was incensed, less by the fact that they had unearthed all this information about her than the casual use of exclamation marks.

Ali stood up and smoothed down her short dark hair and the skirt. She would leave the house without anyone noticing and call the woman at the concierge agency to let her know that something else had come up. As she pulled on her jacket and headed swiftly toward the dining room door, she heard a low guttural growl.

“Come on, show your face,” she said. The growling stopped, and Ali stepped decisively toward the door again, but as she touched the handle, the dog started up again. This time it gave a single bark. It stood up, and Ali could see it was a small, sandy-colored pug. Its teeth were bared and its hackles raised. It wasn’t the sort of dog that Ali would have matched to Bryony. She would have suited something smooth-coated and long-legged.

“You’re all talk,” said Ali, stretching out her hand toward its collar to find out its name and then abruptly pulling away as the pug lurched toward her and snapped at her fingers. She stepped back and the dog reverted to growling. Ali decided to wait a moment for the pug to calm down and then make her escape.

On a delicate half-moon table on the other side of the door she found a pile of hardcover books, one written by a former cabinet minister. She looked inside it and saw that there was a handwritten dedication from the author to his “very dear friends, Nick and Bryony Skinner.” If they were such dear friends, then why did he bother with their surname? Behind these was an orderly battalion of photos. There is a direct relationship between people’s wealth and the number of photos they display of themselves in their home, thought Ali. And generally, the more professional-looking the photos, the more dysfunctional the household. That’s what Rosa always said, anyway. These pictures were all encased in expensive-looking silver frames.

Center stage was a large photograph of a group of eight people gathered around a dinner table in the middle of a meal. The cutlery was still two rows deep, and there was an equal number of wineglasses. There were no women. Ali guessed the middle-aged man tipping his untouched glass of champagne toward the photographer was Nick Skinner. He stared at the camera with a benevolent smile as though bestowing the photographer with an enormous favor. His other arm was crossed tightly over his chest, making his pose a curious juxtaposition of freedom and restraint. He had the air of someone who was accustomed to such attention.

The man on his right was gripping his forearm. Ali recognized this face but couldn’t put a name to it. When she took up residence a month later, one of the children told her that it was someone very important from the Bank of England, and asked if Ali agreed that he looked like a character from
The Wind in the Willows
. For the moment Ali turned her attention back to Nick. His teeth were unnaturally white, she thought, but perhaps it was the contrast with the black dinner jacket. He had dark hair, cut short, sleek as an otter. For a middle-aged man, he was still in good shape. Ali observed the full glass of wine and half-eaten plate of food in front of him and the empty glasses and plates in front of his fellow diners. He was someone who watched what he ate and drank, and felt irritated if he glanced down at another man’s stomach and compared it unfavorably with his own.

Beside this was a wedding photo. Ali immediately recognized Bryony. She was engulfed by the two physically imposing men on either side of her. The taller one was Nick. The other, Ali guessed, was her father. Each had an arm around Bryony, but she somehow seemed separate from them both, as though she was stepping away from them toward the camera. Bryony was wearing the kind of wedding dress that Ali would choose if she ever got married. Handmade by Vera Wang, she would soon discover. On the end, slightly apart from the group, was a disheveled figure with wild, dark hair, tipping a glass of champagne toward the camera. He was an impostor, decided Ali. Later she discovered from the children that his name was Felix Naylor and he had once been in love with Bryony. “Still in love,” Izzy corrected the twins.

The door suddenly opened, and Ali was unnerved to find herself still holding the wedding photo and staring at an older version of Nick Skinner. His hairline had receded and there were a few wrinkles around his eyes, but otherwise he was unchanged. These changes were good, decided Ali, because they bestowed a gravitas that wasn’t present in the wedding photo.

“God, I’ve missed the interview, haven’t I?” he said, holding out a hand, and delivering a winning smile. “Bryony will kill me.”

It was said in a way that suggested that Bryony was probably so used to such shortcomings that she would barely flinch. Ali clumsily put the photograph back on the table and tried to explain, as she awkwardly shook hands, that the dog wouldn’t let her leave the room.

“Leicester was an anniversary present from Bryony’s parents,” he said, scratching the dog between the ears. “He most definitely wasn’t on our wish list. He’s so inbred that he’s developed a sort of canine dementia that means he lets people in the house but won’t let them leave. Really he should be dead.”

“Is there anything you can do?” Ali politely inquired.

“Well, I suppose we could accelerate the inevitable,” said Nick, curling his fingers into a gun shape and pulling the trigger at Leicester’s head. “We should have done it years ago, but Bryony said it would send the wrong message to her father.”

“I meant for the psychological problems,” Ali stammered.

“You’re not going to believe this, but actually, a couple of years ago, Leicester did have his very own head shrinker.” Nick laughed. Ali echoed him with a nervous laugh of her own.

“It was one of Bryony’s wilder ideas. Leicester had developed a very scatological response to situations that he couldn’t control. He was seen by an animal psychologist for almost a year. He went to the canine equivalent of The Priory for three months and came out completely cured,” explained Nick, as though relieved to find something to talk about. “Although he’s been on antianxiety drugs and a special diet ever since.”

“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.