The Nanny (8 page)

Anthony stood next to Vanessa, and she kept her eyes firmly on the wall, conscious that he was managing to give her the once-over without
moving his head. She smiled inwardly. Men were so predictable. Which was, she knew, one of the many reasons she adored them.

The lift chimed and its doors slid silently open. Here she acknowledged Anthony's presence for the first time, at which he gestured for her to go in before him. She smiled delicately, just the right amount to accentuate her apple cheekbones and remain enigmatic. They stood next to each other in silence as the lift ascended. Vanessa got out first. Creatives was on the top floor—or the “penthouse” as it was known—offering superior views and thicker carpets than the rest of the building. As she walked away, she could feel Anthony Harrison's eyes scan her figure once more. In the reception mirror she could see him ignoring the glances from women already at their desks, keeping his eyes focused on her retreating view as long as possible, tilting his head sideways as the doors shut in front of him. She felt her endorphins skip with vengeful satisfaction at the thought that men still found her sexy.

She walked swiftly through the office, her coffee high, her head higher, and her self-esteem somewhere in the clouds. It was the best part of the day. Unfortunately it was nearly over. She swept confidently into her office, shut the door, and walked over to her desk. She put her coffee next to the up-to-date photos of the children, hefted her briefcase onto the desk, and sat down, moving fast to distract herself from the deflation already setting in.

There was a rat-a-tat at her door.

“Come!” ordered Vanessa.

The door swung open dramatically and Max Gibson, agency founder and onetime advertising guru, stood theatrically in its center, with a smile on his face wider than his bow tie. Max's days of inspired campaign ideas were long gone, but his onetime pulse-of-the-nation slogans were now so anachronistic they were postmodern in a totally up-to-the-minute way. He was enjoying his retrospective phase far more than he enjoyed his initial success, when he'd been too ambitious to enjoy anything.

“Vanessa, sweetie,” he bellowed through his cigar. “VC wants an agency review! We've been asked to pitch!”

Vanessa blinked in amazement. Archrival, McFarleys', had held the much-coveted Vital Communications account for almost five years. Their latest campaign—a very trendy teddy bear with his own mobile phone and website—had slowly grown stale, but because the sales were still up, everyone in the business assumed McFarleys' would be safe for years to come.

“You're kidding!” Vanessa cried.

Max roared with laughter. “Would I kid about something this big?” he twinkled. If his bow tie could have spun it would. “Those bastards must be shitting themselves.” He laughed, then suddenly turned deadly serious. “I want the best creative team we've got. I don't care how up their arses they are, in fact the higher up the better. I want a creative team who are
so
up their own holes, they're fucking
potholing.
I want them to give you
migraines
, I want a team that are so goddam good, they make your life a
nightmare
. I want you
committing suicide
over this, sweetie.”

“You want me to head this?” gasped Vanessa.

“Head it?
Head
it?” exclaimed Max. “I want you to
mastermind
it! I want you to fucking
Mussolini
it! And I expect you to pick the best. The crème-de-là-fucking-crème.”

“Right,” said Vanessa, pen in hand.

“Anyone in mind?”

“You know,” said Vanessa. “I've never worked with Anthony Harrison and Tom Blatt before.”

“You're shitting me?” exploded Max. “That's criminal. How long have you been here? What? Eight years? Call a lunch meeting at Groucho's pronto.”

“Okay,” said Vanessa. “You're the boss.”

She picked up her coffee, and Max winked at her through the cigar smoke.

 

Anthony Harrison looked out past the line of awards on the window ledge, out toward Soho, which was starting to buzz with anticipation of the approaching summer. The rumors about the VC pitch had already started.

Tom Blatt was Anthony's partner in crime, a graphic artist, who, in his own modest words could create images that got “blue-rinses to buy piss in a bottle.” Tom wasn't a wordsman. He sat in the office he and Anthony shared frowning so hard it was giving him one of his heads.

“If Goofy and Grumpy get it,” he told Anthony, “I'm leaving. Leaving. That's it. Moving onto a houseboat to paint flowers on fucking watering cans.”

“For Christ's sake,” said Anthony. “Why do you immediately assume the worst?”

Tom shrugged. “Helps me deal,” he muttered.

“With what? Nothing's happened yet.”

“When it does, I'll be ready. Healthy pessimism. Worked for van Gogh.”

“How? He cut off his ear and killed himself.”

“But look how famous he is now—”

“Tom. You're in advertising. You're not going to cut off your ear, and you're never going to be famous.”

Tom slumped down on the leather swivel chair opposite Anthony's desk. “I bet that bitch gives it to Goofy and Grumpy. She wouldn't know talent if it crapped on her face.”

“What bitch. Who's heading it?”

“Vanessa Fitzgerald.”

“Bugger! I was in the lift with her this morning. Should have given her a bit of the old Tony treatment.”

Tom let out a big sigh. “How come the suits wield all the power, and we're the ones with the talent?”

“Dunno, Tom.”

Anthony's phone rang. Anthony and Tom stared at each other, and after three rings, Anthony picked it up.

“Anthony Harrison.”

“Anthony?” It was a female voice, firm but friendly.

“Yup.”

“Vanessa.”

“Hi, Vanessa!”

Tom sat up in his chair.

“I won't bush-beat,” said Vanessa. “You know we've got the VC pitch?”

“I had heard some rumor.”

“You and Tom interested?”

Anthony grinned at Tom.

“Yeah, why not? I'm sure we could squeeze it in.'

“Let's have a meet,” Vanessa continued. “Monday's the earliest I can do it. Groucho's, 1
p.m
. You, me, Tom, and Max.”

“Great. I'll let Tom know.” He put the phone down and punched the air.

Downstairs, Vanessa replaced her phone slowly and replayed Anthony's answers in her head, reveling in the controlled excitement she'd heard in his voice. There was something extremely endearing about a man pretending he didn't feel your power over him.

 

At four o'clock, Vanessa found a window to phone Jo at home.

“Hi! How's it going?”

Jo cradled the phone on her shoulder. She kept an ear out for Diane, due to arrive any second, while the other ear was still ringing from the sound of the house alarm. She knew she'd have to get the Rice Krispies started if she was going to get them finished in time for tea.

“How was school?” asked Vanessa, while finishing her progress report on a cereal ad. Jo tried to think. “Fine. Zak had a spelling test. He got “whether” right with an “h.” The teacher was very pleased. He needs a new recorder because the big boys used it as a goalpost and it got broken. Cassandra had a math lesson, and Tallulah sat next to Ella for painting.” She assembled all the ingredients together on the worktop and smiled. She knew the Children Commandments. There Shall Be Ingredients for Chocolate Rice Krispies in the House at All Times.

“Mmhmm,” said Vanessa, signing the bottom of her notes. “Please put that in the diary, I'll buy him a recorder on the weekend.”

Spider-Man hurled himself into the kitchen, unaware that baggy, saggy underpants ruined the overall effect somewhat. “Have you moved my cyberdog?” he asked Jo, his voice rising unsteadily.

“I thought you were getting ready for your nan?” said Jo, looking down at Zak. “She won't want to see you like that, will she?”

Max poked his head round Vanessa's office door. “Did you speak to Anthony?” he bellowed, ignoring the phone in her hand.

Vanessa grinned and nodded at Max, while saying “What's he wearing?”

“How the fuck do I know what he's wearing?” asked Max.

“He's Spider-Man,” answered Jo into the phone.

“Oh dear.”

“Have you moved my cyberdog?” repeated Spider-Man, hitching up his pants and getting tearful.

“I talked to them earlier this morning,” Vanessa told Max, giving him the thumbs-up.

“Did you?” asked Jo. “They didn't tell me.”

“No, the Creatives, not the children.”

“The what?”

“I can't find my cyberdog!”

“If you can get into your smart trousers and shirt, I'll come and help you look for it,” said Jo.

“Has he been holding his willy at all today?” asked Vanessa.

“I hope to Christ you're not talking to a client,” snapped Max.

“Must dash,” said Vanessa. “I'm frantic. Bye.”

Jo clicked off the phone, gave Spider-Man a secret mission to get into his smart clothes that Nan liked (thus putting the baddies off the scent), put the phone in the fridge, took the phone out of the fridge, and continued to make chocolate Rice Krispies.

Twenty minutes later, three children in smartish clothes looked silently in the bowl.

“Does Mummy know you've made this?” asked Cassandra.

“No,” said Jo. “Would she like some?”

“She doesn't let us have too much chocolate,” said Zak. “It's bad for our teeth and, long-term, for our entire systems.”

Jo thought about asking whether Mummy's mummy was of the same mind, when the phone rang.

With her eyes on the children, she went to pick it up.

“Hello,” she said into the phone. “
Don't
eat it yet!” she yelled at the children, who were venturing nearer the bowl.

The children stared at her, and she stared back at them, holding a wooden spoon as threateningly as she could. When a voice sounded in her ear, she got a little shock.

“Hello, is Jo there please?”

“Shaun!” Jo almost wept with relief. She'd forgotten she'd given him the house number before leaving.

“Blimey is that you? I didn't recognize you.”

“I miss you!
Don't eat it now!
”

She leaped across the room and rescued her mixing bowl.

“This is for dessert
after
homework,” she told them. “Or it's a wooden spoon up the bottom.”

“Whose bottom?” asked Cassandra.

“You said it was a treat for waking up,” said Zak. “Not for doing our homework.”

“Can it be Zak's bottom?” asked Cassandra.

“No,” said Jo.

“Why?”

“Much as I love listening to dysfunctional children,” came Shaun's voice in her ear, “I'm a bit busy at the moment. Shall we speak later?”

“Yes,” Jo told the wooden spoon.

Cassandra took the phone from her. “Could Jo call you back please?”
Jo heard her say to Shaun. “She's a bit busy right now. Does she know your number?” Then as Jo wiped chocolate off her ear, she heard the little girl say, “If she doesn't call tonight, she'll call you as soon as she can. Thank you for calling. Bye now.”

Cassandra switched off the phone. “He said that's fine,” she told Jo, handing her back the phone. “Do you know where the cake tins are?”

Nodding mutely, Jo could hear the sound of a doorbell in the distance.

“Right! Homework time,” she announced, hurrying to the front door, practicing her capable smile. When she opened it no one was there, but at the front of the garden an immaculately dressed woman was deadheading the rosebush. The woman turned suddenly to look at her, and then began to approach. She was unmistakably Vanessa's mother. As they met at the door, Jo showed the woman her smile, and the woman handed her some rose stems and stepped into the house. Her skin was taut and smooth, her makeup flawless, and her clothes expensive. She was exceedingly well preserved and seemed unable to smile properly, a bit like the Mona Lisa, thought Jo. But it was her hair that caught Jo's eye the most. It looked like a new crown of spun gold and copper, and her every movement was as if she was still practicing walking with it on her head.

“I've come straight from the hairdresser's,” she said, taking off her coat and handing it to Jo. “So I can't stay long.”

“Right,” said Jo.

“Hello, darlings!” she called out into the house. “I've been to the hairdresser's, so I can't stay long!”

She turned to Jo, said, “Just one tea please, I'm playing bridge tonight,” and sallied forth into the kitchen, where she found the children in various stages of eating raw chocolate Rice Krispies off a wooden spoon.

“Lula!” cried Diane in dismay at Tallulah's sticky brown mouth. “You look like a clown!”

“So do you!” exclaimed Tallulah, impressed. “I want lipstick!”

Diane turned to Jo. “Is that chocolate?” she asked.

“Yes.” Jo sighed. “It's a long story.”

“I know the story of chocolate,” said Diane crisply. “It originates from the cacao bean and was introduced to Europe by the Spanish when they conquered Mexico. That wasn't my point.”

Jo blinked at Diane. “I didn't mean that story,” she whispered.

“Jo promised us a treat if we got up this morning,” Cassie explained.

“Goodness me, whatever next?” Diane asked the room. “Gifts for sleeping?”

“They overslept, so—” started Jo.

“I can't stay long,” repeated Diane. “Who wants to watch Grandma do her nails?”

The girls cheered, and Zak blew an expressive raspberry.