What the Nanny Saw (19 page)

“It’s what’s inside that counts,” said Ali.

“That’s not true, Ali,” said Izzy. She sat up on the bed. “Look at the people here tonight and tell me tomorrow whether you still believe it’s what’s inside that counts. In Mum’s day you could get away with being either beautiful or clever. Now you have to be both, and I’m neither.”

“Everyone loves you the way you are,” said Ali. But what she really meant was that people loved Izzy the way they thought she was. Bryony and Nick described her as the fulcrum between Jake’s moody cynicism and the twins’ excess of temperament. Her friends found her sweet-natured and easygoing. Malea said she was the most softhearted member of the family. Did they not sense her fragility, or did they not want to see it? Ali wondered.

“If Mum loved me the way I am, then she wouldn’t go on about what I eat all the time,” said Izzy, “and she wouldn’t need someone like you to help me with my schoolwork. She’d just let me be me.”

“She just wants the best for you,” said Ali, searching for a pot of moisturizer on Izzy’s dressing table that would simultaneously remove the small rivers of mascara flowing down Izzy’s cheeks and soothe her skin. It was Crème de la Mer. For a moment Ali hesitated as she shook a gloopy lump onto cotton wool and handed it to Izzy. Over the previous four months she had developed some immunity to the scale of the Skinners’ wealth, but somehow this £50 teaspoonful of face cream shocked her more than the man who came once a month to check whether any lights needed new bulbs, or the gardener who threw away annuals from pots in the back garden after they finished flowering like a man discarding his middle-aged wife for a younger model.

“Actually, it’s got nothing to do with me, it’s all about her,” said Izzy quietly. She looked at Ali from behind the sticky mask of face cream. “Have I returned to my former state of mediocrity?”

“You’re not mediocre, Izzy,” said Ali. “You’re a talented musician. You’re brilliant at sport. You got an A for your last English essay.”

“None of it comes naturally. I have to work hard at everything I do. And everyone gets A’s at my school. Getting A’s is what’s expected. You’re practically prevented from doing a GCSE in a subject where you might not get an A.”

“And you’re really good at lacrosse,” said Ali, reminding Izzy that she was part of the team that played in the final of the UK schools’ championships as she watched Izzy trace lines through the cream on her face.

“Did you know Mum got a scholarship to Wycombe Abbey and a first at Oxford, and that she was the woman everyone wanted to marry?” said Izzy. “It’s such a burden being her daughter.”

“You don’t have to plow the same furrow,” Ali said.

“There are girls at my school who do internships in the holidays with Marc Jacobs. Three others are already signed up with the Royal Ballet. One has started a year-nine magazine with an interview with Cherie Blair on the cover of the first issue. Another is signed to Select Models. I’m just a humble little Christmas tree in a wood full of oaks. That’s why you are here. You are part of the great master plan to secure ten top-grade GCSEs for Isabella Skinner and work experience doing something glamorous in the media. Anything else would be catastrophic. I once heard Mum telling Dad that I would need to get a decent job because I wasn’t cut out to be a City wife.”

“Well, it would be a shame to work so hard and then be condemned to a life shopping at Selfridges and acting as a tutor to your children,” said Ali, trying to lighten the mood.

“Especially if I end up being a size sixteen,” said Izzy. “In Mum’s book, that’s worse than being dumb.”

“All parents worry about their children,” said Ali, thinking about her own mother and the way her face had become frozen in a permanent mask of anxiety over the past ten years.

“She only worries about the things that reflect badly on her,” said Izzy resolutely.

“You’ll find your own way, Izzy,” Ali reassured her. “You’ll find something you love doing, and then life will fall into place.”

“Is that what you really believe, Ali?” asked Izzy. “Because if it was, then you wouldn’t be working here.”

“I like working here,” insisted Ali, surprised to find this was true.

“Why?” asked Izzy.

“I feel free,” said Ali, “I feel unconstrained. I know that I could leave whenever I want, but I love living in London, I really like living with your family, and I know you won’t believe it, but it’s great looking after Hector and Alfie. I find them interesting and unpredictable. And it’s just a phase. Like being a teenager. This isn’t the rest of my life, and it isn’t the rest of yours.” Izzy’s eyes brightened for a moment. Something had resonated. “I’m trying to find my center of gravity. So must you.”

But sometimes you need to get away from your family to do that, Ali thought to herself. Her phone rang. It was Bryony.

“Can you come down right away, Ali?” she said brusquely. “There’s been a disaster. I need you.”

“I’d better go, Izzy,” she said apologetically.

“Don’t worry, Ali, I’ll put on the dreadful dress that Mum bought me. I won’t let you down. Even though I’ll look like a sausage decorated with sequins.” Izzy smiled. It was a sad smile of resignation rather than rekindled joy. “Then tomorrow the diet begins.”

•   •   •

Ali went downstairs
to find the ground-floor rooms transformed. The grand piano, tuned earlier in the day, had been moved into the dining room in a cloud of disapproval from Tita, who said that Steinways were “uniquely sensitive” to subtle changes in room temperature, movement, and humidity. The enormous round dining table had disappeared, and half a dozen smaller tables covered in white linen tablecloths and flower arrangements that matched the color scheme in the hall filled half the room. Each table was surrounded by half a dozen gilt-colored chairs with pale linen seats.

Ali glanced round the room, then headed toward the drawing room. She could hear raised voices, male and female, all speaking at once. The sofas and armchairs had been reconfigured to maximize the space in the center of the room, giving two intimate seating areas at either end. Bryony was standing by the fireplace, shouting at Hector and Alfie, who were huddled on either side of their grandfather on the nearest sofa.

“I can’t believe they chose this moment to do something so monumentally stupid,” yelled Bryony. “Have they got any idea how stressful it is organizing a party like this?”

“It shows quite sophisticated comic timing,” said Foy unhelpfully.

“Calm down, Bryony,” barked Nick, noticing Ali’s presence in the room. “He can wear a hat, for God’s sake.”

“A hat at a bloody drinks party? He’ll look ridiculous,” said Bryony. “People already think they’re weird without them doing this kind of thing. Sophia Wilbraham is going to have a field day.”

“Who cares what that gossipy barrel of a woman thinks about anything,” said Nick. “I don’t know why you even bother to invite her.”

“To remind her that whatever she does, I do it better,” retorted Bryony. “And because you like her husband.”

“He’s useful to know,” said Nick.

Ali stared at Hector. His luscious curls had disappeared, apart from one sole survivor curled just above his right ear. His hair was so short that in parts Ali could see his scalp. On the right side of his head were a series of tiny cuts from a razor blade. His face was completely brown.

“Why have you done this?” shrieked Bryony, moving toward him.

“It’s because we want to be soldiers,” said Alfie, shrinking back into the sofa. “Ali told us that soldiers always have shaved heads. I cut Hector’s hair, and now he must cut mine, otherwise we won’t look the same and we can’t be in the army together.”

“You are not cutting your hair, Alfie,” Bryony said firmly. He started crying and punching one of the sofa cushions.

“What have you put on your face?” asked Ali.

“Camouflage,” said Hector.

“What did you use?” she persisted.

“Shoe polish,” they both shouted out at exactly the same time, stoking Bryony’s fury. “It’s behind the curtain.”

Ali went over to the window and found two tins of open shoe polish, one black and the other dark brown. The curtains were covered in a series of perfectly shaped shoe-polish handprints. She resolved to tell Bryony about this part of the disaster later.

“Why did you tell him that soldiers have shaved heads?” Bryony asked Ali.

“Because they do,” said Ali, trying to bind apology and reason into her response. “It was a passing comment. I didn’t suggest they should actually cut their own hair.”

“You can’t blame Ali,” said Nick. “Think of all the things they did when we had the other nannies.”

“Ya ha mimusch,”
Alfie shouted. Hector repeated the phrase until everyone was staring at them.

“What are they saying, Ali?” asked Bryony.

“I don’t recognize those words,” said Ali.

“Why weren’t you watching them?” Bryony turned on Ali again.

“I was helping Izzy choose what to wear,” said Ali.

“She knows what she has to wear,” said Bryony impatiently.

“She was upset about something, I was trying to help her,” said Ali.

Bryony sat down on the sofa, suddenly deflated. “I’m really sorry, Ali, I know that you can’t be with them all the time. Can you just take them away and deal with them?”

“Shall I cut Alfie’s hair a little, just to calm them down?” suggested Ali, as the twins walked over to her and each took a hand.

“Yes,” said Bryony, wondering how she could be so easily defeated by a pair of five-year-olds.

“What would we do without her?” asked Nick as Ali left the room. “She’s brilliant with them. Far better than the rest.”

“You’re very lucky,” agreed Foy. “Imagine if you had to look after them on your own. Like Hester.”

•   •   •

Twenty minutes later
Hector and Alfie sat on either side of Foy on the closest sofa, avidly listening to a story he had told them many times before about how he escaped through enemy lines after being shot down by Germans during World War II. Like most of Foy’s stories, the content was entirely fictional. He was far too young to have fought in the war, and he had never been a spy, but the twins were enraptured.

Ali had done her best with the kitchen scissors, and although Hector looked dreadful she had managed to placate Alfie without cutting his hair quite as short. They had both refused to wear hats, and Bryony had acquiesced.

“I think Dick should sit there,” Nick said, pointing to the sofa at the end of the room. “Then I can control who he meets more easily. People can informally congregate here for an audience. Tell Ali to keep the twins well away from him. He doesn’t do mess.”

“Good idea,” said Bryony, looking over at Ali to make sure she had heard. Ali nodded.

“Will you keep an eye on his wife, Bryony?” he asked. “For God’s sake, don’t let Hester near her.”

“Maybe I should get Felix to charm her?” suggested Bryony.

“Maybe you should get Felix to mark Hester,” retorted Nick. “He’s about the only person who can rein her in. By the way, I’ve just been sent an e-mail saying that we’ve been voted
Risk
magazine’s structured finance bank of the year for 2006.”

“Darling, that is great news,” said Bryony, quickly kissing him on the lips. Nick leaned toward her, but she pulled away as the doorbell rang.

“Whoever that is, tell them to piss off, because they’re early,” said Nick.

“It’s Hester and Rick,” Bryony said, and sighed. “Why are they always the first to arrive and the last to go?”

•   •   •

“Nunc est bibendum!” declared Foy.
“Shall we open some champagne to get us all in the mood before Mr. and Mrs. John arrive?”

“Everyone calls them Elton and David, Daddy,” insisted Bryony.

“I’m not addressing a couple of poofs that I’ve never met by their first names,” said Foy. “I will be introducing myself to Mr. and Mrs. John as Mr. Chesterton.”

“Your homophobia betrays your age,” said Hester coolly, “and they might not find an audience with you such an interesting prospect. Anyway, once they’ve fulfilled their side of the contract, I don’t imagine they’ll stick around for small talk. Especially not of the smoked-salmon variety.”

Ali stared at Hester in fascination. She was wearing a mid-length shift dress and leather boots, as if deliberately underplaying the glamorous dress code. As far as she could tell, Hester wore no makeup, but she had inherited the quiet beauty of her mother, so that even the unflattering hemline just below the knee somehow looked elegant.

“I was just joking, Hester,” said Foy, standing in the path of a waiter who had just appeared with a tray of champagne. “Mr. John might be interested to meet another self-made man.”

“Remember to pace yourself, Foy,” warned Tita, who had just appeared in the drawing room, wearing a cream diaphanous dress and a diamond necklace that Ali had never seen before. She seemed to glow in the soft light. Her hair was scraped off her face and twisted into an elegant bun at the back of her head, accentuating her cheekbones.

“Rick, Hester,” she said, the palms of her hands suspended in the air as though blessing her son-in-law and daughter. “So lovely to see you.” She waited for them to come over to her.

“You look beautiful, darling,” she said to Hester. “But perhaps the boots are a little clunky.”

She would never learn, thought Ali. Hester wore the boots precisely because it would provoke this reaction. Everything Hester did was still in opposition to her parents, most significantly her choice of husband. Rick stood beside Hester, clearly there under duress. His jacket was too big, his trousers were too short, and he wasn’t wearing a tie. From the neck down he reminded Ali of a bouncer you might find outside a nightclub in Norwich. From the neck up he looked like an irascible romantic poet with his tangled hair, brown eyes, and round glasses.

“Have you broken up for the holidays yet?” Tita asked as she kissed Rick on both cheeks, her lips barely touching his skin. Ali thought she saw Tita’s nose crinkle as she glanced down at the chest hair peeking out of the top of his shirt, but it might have been Rick’s aftershave that offended her olfactory sensibilities.