The Nanny (28 page)

Dick managed half a laugh. “If one of the children said that, we'd tell them life wasn't fair.”

“Yes,” conceded Vanessa quietly, “but unlike the children, I can leave home.”

There was a long pause before she started again. “The more I think about it the more I feel motherhood is…a relative concept.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Vanessa sighed. “If we'd been living 150 years ago and were rich, I wouldn't have even been expected to breast-feed my babies, but I felt so guilty because I couldn't. If I'd been poor, I'd have popped them out in
my tea break and got back to work.” She started to talk fast. “If I'd lived in a biblical tribe, I'd have had all the women of the tribe supporting me, helping me, feeding me, and looking after me. Only
one
generation ago, I'd have probably had my family living down the street, would have known all my neighbors and would have spent the first fortnight of motherhood being looked after in hospital and sleeping off the trauma of giving birth. I don't have any family support apart from the occasional visit from my mum—your mum sees the kids once a year—I don't know my neighbors so I can't ask them for help, I was home from hospital making my family dinner the day after I'd given birth, and my workplace seems to think that my miraculous ability to have children is proof that I'm flawed, rather than proof that I'm helping the human race survive as a species. I mean, can you imagine any other animal in the animal kingdom treating their mothers like this?”

She stood up and was pacing the conservatory. “And yet I'm expected to feel
guilty
because I can afford
one
woman to help me. Well I
refuse
to feel guilty, Dick. Or evil. Or selfish. I admit it.” She lifted her hand. “I need help being a mother. Everyone does. And if they say different, they're lying.”

Dick gave a slight nod. Vanessa calmed herself down before continuing.

“I love my job.
Love
it. I
need
it. Just as there are some women who feel utterly complete being mothers, I feel utterly complete having a job. I don't mind the fact that you have the shop, what I mind is that you don't respect my job and how bloody good I am at it, and that you imply I've got something lacking in me as a woman because I prefer the company of adults to children. For all we know, I'll come into my own as a mother when the children are teenagers—or adults. Who knows? And what I mind is that you
resent
the fact that I bring home the bacon! I mind that I have to fight you to feel fulfilled. I mind that I thought you were going to be my biggest support but you've turned into my biggest block to happiness. I mind that I'm so angry with you that I can't remember how to love you.” She was crying.

Dick was now rigid, as Vanessa took a deep breath before continuing.

“If you wanted to give up the shop and become a…a…carpenter, I'd happily support you. I'd support you in anything you wanted to do. I'm a born career woman. It doesn't mean I don't love my children, I'm not a freak of nature. I just love my job. Why can't I be allowed to be a woman with children who loves her job?”

Dick was pale. “Because you can do both,” he wept. “And I can't do either.”

“That's not true!” cried Vanessa. “I spent the last two weeks aching for Jo to come back. And so did the kids! I was hopeless. They were bored, I was bored—it was awful. I can't do it, Dick. I am just not cut out for it. Why should all women be able to do the same job just because they're female? Can you imagine expecting every man to be able to…” She thought frantically for a relevant job description…“I don't know…
garden
? Just because they're all men?”

Dick managed a smile. “I'm quite good at the garden,” he mumbled.

A laugh hacked out through Vanessa's tears. “And you're a wonderful father. The kids adore you. You've got far more patience with them than I've ever got.”

“But they don't need two fathers.”

“I don't want to be a father, Dick, I just want to be me. And whatever the kids need, they need two happy parents.”

“And a good nanny.”

“And a good nanny.”

Dick looked at his wife. “You can't remember how to love me?” he whispered.

She gave him a half smile. “I'm beginning to remember,” she whispered back.

When the rhythmically raised voices of Dick and Vanessa lowered again, and Josh could hear his father crying, he felt a choking sensation rise in his throat. And for the first time, he felt pity for his father instead of for himself.

Outside in the playhouse, Zak, Tallulah, and Cassie huddled together under their blanket.

“Is Daddy going to leave us?” whispered Tallulah. “Like he left Josh and Toby?”

“No,” whispered Cassie.

“How do you know?” sniffed Zak.

“Because we won't let it happen,” said Cassie.

“How?” asked Tallulah and Zak.

They all tried to think of an answer.

“When did all the rows start?” asked Cassie eventually.

“When Jo went,” sighed Tallulah.

“Exactly,” said Cassandra. “So we're going to get her back.”

“How?” whispered the others, in hushed awe.

“Easy,” said Cassandra. “You see, it's all about knowing exactly who you're dealing with. Bringing out sides of people they didn't know they had themselves.”

There was silence.

“We won't have to get Jo back ourselves,” said Cassandra, “because Josh is going to bring her back for us.”

Stupidly early on the Monday morning of her fifth week at home, Jo was the first one up in the kitchen. She looked out at her mother's neat little garden, replaying the conversation she'd had with Vanessa the night before. Vanessa had sounded weary but resigned. Yes, they all wanted her back, but they had no choice but to give her only two more weeks before they started looking for a new permanent nanny. Jo had spotted her chance to say she desperately wanted to come back—but with a view to becoming their part-time nanny; she wanted to study and look after the children at the same time, she wanted to live in London and go to university, she missed the children, missed the chaos, missed the tension, but she needed more. Instead, she had felt the gap in the conversation where this was all meant to be said come and go without her even opening her mouth.

The birds were so loud she could hear them over the boiling kettle. She usually loved this fleeting moment between night and day—as if she'd caught God off guard taking a power nap. And she usually loved this moment best at exactly this time of year because it was so proud with potential, and she usually loved experiencing this moment in her parents' house before they'd woken up, because they were her comfort zone, yet sometimes the thought of them was less exhausting than the experience of them. Technically, this should have been up there in her favorite moments.

But not this morning. Something had changed—she had changed. Everything had changed. This morning the signs of summer made her itch with dissatisfaction at her life. And her parents' home had stopped being a comfort zone ever since the row with her father. He was still sulking, and she believed he might never get over it. And she hadn't been sleeping well because certain disturbing images of Josh Fitzgerald kept waking her up.

She heard her father pad downstairs. He was up early. She turned
round and watched him come into the kitchen, pour himself a cup of tea instead of making a pot, then go upstairs for his bath without looking at her.

She filled the cafetière, took a coffee, and put them both on a little tray, opened the back door, and took her mug into the garden. She sat down on the B& Q bench by the gnomes and, with her mind somewhere between Niblet-upon-Avon and Highgate, watched the garden wake up.

 

Half an hour later in Highgate, Josh was feeling torn. When Vanessa had got the call from Jo saying she couldn't come back that week, he reluctantly said that he had to go back to the office. His job was meaningless drivel, but it paid the bills. And he could do with the break.

Josh now saw mothers in a somewhat different light. Instead of looking straight through them—as had been his wont—he found himself inclined to bow as they passed him in the street. And he certainly looked at nannies in a different light. As far as he was concerned, nannies and mothers had taken over the role of biblical midwives—silent, invisible lifesavers, giving their menfolk time to go round slaying each other and recounting ripping yarns about themselves. Up till now his arguments in favor of the superiority of his gender had always felt indisputable. Why was there no female Shakespeare, no female Einstein, no female Shackle-ton? he used to say in bars all over London to girls who would pout at him in mock anger. But now he knew the answer. They'd all been busy wiping babies' bottoms and doing finger-painting.
What a tragic waste
, he thought.

Of late, he had begun to notice a worrying habit of waking up, as if from a trance, in Jo's bedroom, and finding that he'd been sitting on her bed, or looking at her photos, or holding her stupid Mickey Mouse clock, or reading the spines of her books. He had seriously needed to get back to work.

When he told Vanessa and Dick that he had no choice, he had to go back to work, Vanessa had looked at Dick in a way Josh had never seen her look at him before.

There was a tenderness in it and yet an expectation of great things. Dick then said it was his turn to stay at home, and stay at home he would. In fact, he became positively evangelical.

“It's my turn to look after the children,” he said firmly. “I'll only open the shop for a few hours a day when they're all at school. I'll be absolutely
fine.” There was a pause. “I'm a modern father, and this is a modern family.” Another pause. “Now, how do you work the clothes dryer?”

When Josh wandered through the kitchen on his way out to the big wide world, Dick was staring at the timetable on the fridge door. He looked at his son with haunted eyes.

“Where's the spaghetti bolognese?” Dick asked.

“The mince is in the fridge.”

“And what do I do with it?”

“Make spaghetti bolognese for the children to spread on their faces.”

“Where's the recipe book?”

“Dad, it's mincemeat and tomato sauce. You'll be fine.”

“Where the hell's Tumble Tots?”

“Address is in the diary.”

“Where's the diary?”

“In the dining room by the telephone.”

“Is Beavers what I think it is?”

“No. It's a club for little boys teaching them to obey mindless rules so that they can grow up to be unquestioning members of society. Zak loves it, don't forget his woggle.”

“What the hell's a woggle?”

“He'll tell you. I have to go. Phone me if you need any help.”

“Why? Will you come home and help me?”

“Nope. But I'll need a laugh.”

 

By ten, Dick had tidied the kitchen, put the dishwasher on for the second time, changed all the bed linen, and put the third wash in. The house was buzzing with activity, and all thanks to him. He was the master of all he surveyed, the king of his castle, and all was well with the world. He stood at the ironing board, listening to a Radio 4 play and piling up his children's clothes. Why hadn't anyone told him that the act of ironing tiny clothes corresponded directly to the amount of love you have for their wearers? The knowledge that his children were eating what he had put in their lunch boxes filled him with satisfaction. The awareness that their last contact with home life before entering the big bad world had been Daddy made him yearn for them again. How come no one had told him these things? It was a conspiracy! Women had conned men for centuries that these jobs were unfulfilling, yet all this time their souls were being pumped with love.

By 11:30, the Radio 4 play was over, the ironing was done, the sheets
were blowing in the sunshine (he'd decided against the dryer) and Dick knew that he never wanted to work outside his home again.

After finger-painting with Tallulah and getting her to tidy up faster than ever before by pretending it was a race; after picking up Zak from school and watching him shake hands with his teacher, which brought a lump to his throat; after picking up Cassandra and seeing her face light up at the rare sight of him; and after driving home while singing “Postman Pat” louder than all of his children put together, Dick's mind was made up.

This was what life was about, not worrying about money, not trying to sell records to people who really wanted DVDs, not sweating over figures that never added up and living in fear that any day you'd be found out as a failure. Life was about nurturing the next generation, giving them a sense of values that would give their world meaning, teaching them to have confidence in themselves and love for others. He may have been forced to fail Josh and Toby, but he wasn't going to fail his little ones. They were his future, and he had as much to learn from them as they had from him.

“Dad?” asked Zak.

“Yes, son,” said Dick, smiling down at his youngest boy.

“What does bollocks mean?”

 

The Alice in Wonderland shoot would be in full swing.
And why on earth shouldn't I be popping along to it
, Vanessa asked herself once more, as the taxi carried her toward it. She was the account manager, she needed to see how the company's most important ad was going. And she needed to have a word with Anthony.

She paid the taxi, smoothed down her Nicole Farhi suit, straightened her back, and walked purposefully into the studio. The pungent aroma of fresh paint vied with the strong cappuccinos she knew they'd been drinking since dawn.

She stood safely at the back watching for a while. In front of her stood the Mad Hatter's Tea Party. Casting was perfect, and everyone was 360-degree beautiful, despite heavy makeup and costumes. The scene was one of three that were being set in Alice's Wonderland. The actress playing Alice was a TV presenter, which meant she had the body of a child with helium breasts. As soon as the camera light went on, she widened her eyes, curved her back, and bared her teeth and breasts in the obligatory pose once reserved for a top-shelf wonderland, but one that had now encroached fully on daily life, making everyone less satisfied with their own. As soon as the camera light went off, so did the light in her eyes, and
she looked bored and a little hungover, as if the effort of breathing filled her with ennui.

Vanessa had long since got over the excitement of seeing a star perform the same three lines all day with decreasing finesse and patience, and this part of the process would be much more pleasant if everyone else involved in it, including the star, felt the same.

She tiptoed closer to the action. Anthony was standing near Tom, who was looking through the camera and moving his right hand to indicate to the Dormouse to move fractionally over.

The director was watching the action intently while authoritatively stroking his chin. Beside him, his PA, wearing more body piercing than clothes, watched her boss just as intently while authoritatively stroking his ego. Anthony turned round, saw Vanessa, and walked toward her, smiling. She immediately craved a Silly Nibble. They met in the middle of the studio.

“How's it going?” asked Vanessa coolly.

“God, you look amazing.”

“Not here, Anthony. How's it going?”

“Who cares? There's a perfect cupboard in studio 3.”

Tom turned round and grunted a greeting. Vanessa waved at him overeagerly and joined him at the camera.

“How's it going?” she asked with great earnestness.

“Typical nightmare,” said Tom. “My vision is compromised in all senses of the word.”

He moved over, allowing her to see.

She looked at the composition for a while, taking in every detail. “Is Alice's eye shadow purple?” she asked eventually.

“Why?” shot Tom. “Don't tell me they hate purple.”

Vanessa kept her tone even but firm.

“I told you in the pre-preproduction meeting that they didn't want any purple because of the new Emiscar logo.”

“I thought you said purple was their favorite color.”

“That was in the
pre
-pre-preproduction meeting.” Why didn't anyone concentrate around here?

“Well it's too late now,” said Tom. “It's taken us all morning to get her to open her eyes. Asking her to close them again while someone changes the color of her eye shadow is far too risky. We'll change it in postproduction.” Vanessa felt a presence at her side. She ignored it until it spoke.

“Would you like a mochachino?” asked the PA. “Some cinnamon toast? Bottled water?”

She stared at the girl for a second before realizing that she'd like all three.

“The color will be brightened up in production, won't it?” clarified Vanessa, back to the business in hand.

Tom smiled at her. “Thanks for your comments,” he clipped. “All positive input greatly appreciated.”

“Well, I'm just saying, it needs to be brighter than bright. The opposite of real life.”

Tom stared at her as her postbreakfast-prelunch arrived. “Have I ever produced an ad that was too realistic?” he asked, loudly enough for Alice to look over and practice focusing. “I am aware I'm not Ken Loach, you know.” He began a performance of a real-life artistic temperament at work. “I do know what I'm doing—selling promises, allowing the world to return to its thumb-sucking, halcyon days when happy endings really did come true. That's what all those awards in my office are for—”

“I was only saying—' interrupted Vanessa through a mouthful of cinnamon toast.

“
Yes, well
,” shouted Tom suddenly, “you can shove your ‘only saying' where the sun doesn't shine.”

The studio fell silent. Vanessa finished her toast and placed her coffee on the camera stand.

“For your information.” she told him primly and loudly, “I have incredibly flexible joints and a private sun terrace, so that the cliché is totally redundant. But I take your point, Tom. Thank you.”

Jesus, she had to get away from these tossers. She'd have to confront Anthony another time. She walked out to silence. As she reached the door, Anthony appeared at her side, as if from nowhere.

“About those flexible joints,” he whispered.

“
Not now, Anthony
,” she said.

Anthony stared at her.

Her last thought as she left the studio was that Anthony looked in serious danger of bursting.

 

Josh's lunch hour was over. But he found it impossible to tear himself away from his father's books. The morning had flown by. He'd never thought he would enjoy bookkeeping, but doing it for somewhere he cared about had transformed it into a work of love.

At 3
p.m
., when he looked up for the first time since lunch, he saw his office with different eyes.

He asked himself why he'd become an accountant and immediately knew the answer. He could remember, as if it was yesterday, asking his father what he should become when he was older.

“Don't do what I did, son,” Dick had proclaimed with the solemn wisdom of regret. “Get yourself a profession. You can't go wrong with a profession.”

And fifteen-year-old Josh had been impassioned by the idea of making his dad so proud of him that he'd come back home for good. He wondered now if Dick would even remember the conversation.