by Tess Stimson
She trails off, dropping her gaze. I simultaneously want to kill her and throw myself at her feet and beg her to stay.
“I didn’t realize you were looking for another job,” I say carefully.
“Oh, I wasn’t. I’m really happy here. It’s just—”
“Clearly you’re not really happy here, if you’re considering leaving.”
She flushes. “It’s not that. An opportunity just came up and … and, well, I thought I should talk to you about it before I did anything.”
I smooth my hands outwards against the surface of the tabletop. “I can’t see why,” I say evenly. “If you want to leave us, there’s nothing I can do to stop you.”
“But I don’t!”
“I’m sorry, Jenna. I don’t quite understand. If you don’t want to leave, why are you telling me you’ve been offered another job?”
“I’m in so much debt, Clare,” she pleads. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to pay it off. I can’t even afford the minimums on my credit cards. I’m months behind with the rent, and now that Jamie and I have split up, he’s refusing to let me break the lease, and I can’t do it unless he agrees because we both signed it and—”
“You’ve split up with your boyfriend?”
She nods unhappily.
I sigh. No wonder she’s so upset. At her age, breaking up seems like the end of the world. “I didn’t know. When did that happen?”
“The weekend before last. When I had to take a couple of days off.”
“Two weeks ago? Where did you stay last weekend?”
“With Kirsty, at Fran’s.”
“Oh, Jenna. You could have stayed here. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’ve had so much else to worry about—”
“But you’re part of the family, I keep telling you that.”
“I know, and I really don’t want to leave you, but—”
“Look, I’m sure we can work something out.” I rub my eyes wearily. First Craig, and now Jenna. I don’t know how I’m going to afford any of this, but I don’t seem to have a choice. I can’t lose either of them. Jenna rubs me raw sometimes, and she can be a bit bossy, shoving my nose in my inexperience; but when it comes to babies, she is the one who knows best. I’d be lost without her.
Maybe I could pay off her debt for her. It can’t be that much. “What do you owe?”
“About … well, about sixteen thousand altogether.”
“Sixteen thousand?”
She bites her lip. I’m not surprised she’s embarrassed. How on earth can she have racked up a debt of sixteen thousand pounds at her age? What has she been buying, Picassos?
“Jenna, who offered you this job?” I demand. “It’s someone you’ve met here, isn’t it? One of my so-called friends—wait. We had that charity meeting last week. It was one of them, wasn’t it?”
She looks uncomfortable.
“Who, Jenna?”
“Olivia,” Jenna mutters.
“Olivia Coddington? My friend Olivia?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything—”
“I’m glad you did,” I say tightly. Once the rest of the committee find out what she’s done, her name will be mud. And if she thinks I’m going to sponsor her membership to the Hurlingham Club after this, she’s got another think coming. “I don’t know how much she’s offered you, Jenna, but I have to tell you, you’ll earn every penny. Olivia’s last two nannies haven’t lasted three months between them.”
“I know. I don’t want to leave you, but I really need the money. Is there … could you … I hate to ask, but—”
More money. Of course. Jenna already earns more than most of my friends’ nannies, because of the extra work involved in looking after twins. And she’s only been with us five months; hardly time for a pay raise.
I need her, of course I do; the last thing I want is to lose my nanny now, but I feel like I’m being held to ransom. If I give in this time, am I going to be facing the same scenario in another few months?
“Let me think about it over the weekend,” I say finally.
I spend the rest of the day at work fretting about nothing else. Maybe I should let Jenna go. I can’t afford to match the kind of salary Olivia can offer, and if Jenna’s heart isn’t in it, I don’t want her looking after my babies.
Perhaps I could take care of them myself, I think wildly. It’d certainly please Marc; and I’ve been surprised how much I’ve missed spending time with them, too. I never intended to be this sort of mother. Maybe I could give Craig a bit more of the independence he craves, and take on a part-time role myself. Enroll the twins in a nursery. I could juggle things somehow—
What are you thinking? I’d never cope. Look how I went to pieces last time.
But they’re older now. In eighteen months, they’ll be ready for nursery school. I don’t want Poppy calling Jenna, or anyone else, Mummy. I want to be there for her first steps, her first word. What’s the point of having children if I’m going to hand off my mothering to someone else?
At the end of a long, difficult day—Craig, bristling with ideas and self-importance, has been in and out of my office every five minutes; and then my Islington manager, Wendy, broke the news that she’s four months pregnant—I’m relieved to get home and say goodbye to Jenna for the weekend. I’ve had about as much of staff problems as I can stand for one week. I’m looking forward to spending a couple of hours simply enjoying my children.
Rowan and Poppy, however, have other ideas. They scream, spit out their food, squirm and cry in the bath, and throw up twice each over their clean Babygros. It’s as if they’re picking up my anxiety and amplifying it a thousandfold. By seven-thirty, they’re bouncing off the walls, and I want to tear my hair out with frustration. What on earth was I thinking? I can’t do this. I could never do this. Motherhood is ninety-nine percent slog, grind, and mind-numbing boredom. It’s not worth going through that for the one moment when they smile at you or say your name. I’m sorry, it’s just not. I’ll pay Jenna anything she wants if she’ll just stay.
I’m cleaning up a bottle of milk Poppy has thrown against the stove door when Marc gets home. In my rush to mop up the mess, I’ve forgotten to cage Rowan in the playpen; as Marc enters the kitchen, Rowan grabs hold of the plastic tablecloth and attempts to pull himself upright. A bowl of chocolate mousse—for Fran’s barbeque tomorrow—catapults off the table and spills all over my cream linen Jigsaw skirt.
“For God’s sake, Rowan!” I scream.
“You don’t have to shout at him,” Marc says coldly. He picks up his son and soothes him with exaggerated patience. “He’s only a baby. He didn’t mean to do it.”
“I’ve been dealing with them on my own for the past four hours!” I cry. “I’ve put in a full day at work, too, Marc! The last thing I need is to come home and clear up after these two monsters!”
“Monsters?”
All the frustrations of the day spill over. “They’ve been absolute horrors! As soon as I get one settled, the other one starts. It’s a total nightmare—”
“Can’t you control two small babies for five minutes?”
“It’s not that easy—”
“My mother had six children under eight,” Marc says. “She managed.”
“She didn’t work!”
He shrugs. “Your choice.”
“If I didn’t have the company, we’d be on the streets right now,” I flare.
He pushes his face into mine. “Has it ever occurred to you that you drove me to take chances? Flaunting how much more money you earn, how successful you are. Too successful to look after your own children—”
“You try it!” I start to sob. “It’s impossible. They’re impossible. They hate me. They’ve been fine all day with Jenna. It’s me they can’t stand. I’m a terrible mother. I should never have had them. They’d be better off without me.”
I wait for Marc to tell me I’m being ridiculous. Of course I’m a good mother, of course my children love me. I
’ve just had a bad day; it’ll be better tomorrow.
My husband levels a cool look at me.
“Yes,” he says. “Maybe we would.”
PGGH
6/13/09
Ella,
I’m glad you liked the peonies. Please don’t feel you have to call and thank me every time. Consider it understood.
I don’t have your new number, and need to ask an urgent favor. Not for me, but for the creator of these arrangements we both so admire.
I’d rather explain in person. Let me know what time suits.
Best,
Cooper
Parsons Green Guest House,
21 Langthorne Street, SW6 5RT
Reservations: 020 7334 5809
[email protected]
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jenna
All right, I know. The sugar water and chocolate biscuits were a mean trick. I do feel a bit bad about it now. The twins were probably bouncing off the walls after I left last night. But the last thing I need is Clare thinking she can manage without me. I don’t want to have to quit and work for Olivia what’s-her-face. It’s just that I’m so fucking broke. I’ve got to find more money somehow. Clare can afford it. If she really wants to.
I knock back my cocktail, wondering where the fuck Kirsty’s got to. I’m starting to feel slightly sick from the heat and the tequila and the smell of sweaty, unwashed bodies. My head pounds in time with the music. I wish she’d get a move on. She’s supposed to be going to the loo, not having a flipping baby.
To be honest, I shouldn’t have come out tonight. I know she’s only trying to cheer me up because I’ve left Jamie, but I’m really not in the mood to meet anyone new yet. I still feel really crappy about the way things finished. Six years is a long time to be with someone, even if it did totally suck by the end. At least I should’ve had the guts to end it in person, instead of leaving a pathetic message on his answering machine. I know Jamie’s been a bit psycho recently, but it was still a shitty thing to do. I don’t really blame him for changing the locks on me. The trouble is, I’m still paying rent on the flat and now I’ve got nowhere to stay on weekends. Kirsty’s been great, but I can’t doss on her floor forever.
I glance around the heaving club. If I was looking for someone new, it wouldn’t be anyone here. I still can’t stop thinking about Xan. Bloody Clare. Why’d she have to interrupt us the other night? All her “we’re friends and equals” crap. Yeah, sure; until it looks like I might end up her sister-in-law.
You know, she can be a right cow sometimes. Like with that shit yesterday over the twins’ clothes. They looked great in those outfits I bought them. She only changed them into those boring sweatpants so she could get one over on me. She’s always pulling rank when it suits her. Telling me what the twins can and can’t drink, what they can and can’t wear, what time they should go down for their naps. Like, if you’re such a bloody good mother, why are you bothering to employ me?
She could easily give me a pay raise if she really wanted to. She’s got tons of money. But no, she has to make me grovel. I’m sorry, Jenna. I don’t quite understand. If you don’t want to leave, why are you telling me you’ve been offered another job? It was really embarrassing having to tell her how much I owe. And then she gets this face on, like I’m the first person on the planet to max out their credit cards. Everyone’s in debt these days. She’s worse than my mother. I mean, what business is it of hers anyway?
I grope in my bag for my cell. If Kirsty doesn’t come back soon, I’m out of here—
“I’ve met these really cute guys,” Kirsty giggles, emerging from the mass of pulsating bodies. She nods towards a couple of stud muffins who look like they live at the gym. “Whaddya think?”
I shrug. They’re OK. Just not my type.
“Don’t be such a stroppy tart,” Kirsty hisses. “Forget Jamie. He’s a fucking loser.”
If she knew what he’d done to me that night, she’d cut off his balls with a bread knife. But here I am, feeling guilty for dumping him! I don’t even like him! It’s not like I’ll miss him. Why am I always so bloody feeble?
It’s never going to happen with Xan. Seriously, what do we have in common? My life sucks, but I’m not that fucking sad. He’s only out for one thing, but I’ve never slept around, and I’m not starting now. Clare doesn’t know how lucky she’s got it, going home to a regular shag every night. Everyone bitches about how miserable it is to be married, but they should try single for a change.
Kirsty shoves a Bacardi Breezer in my hand. “Here. Have another drink.”
“I don’t want another drink.”
“Would you lighten up already?”
I hesitate, then tilt the bottle to my lips. “One more,” I say scowling. “And then we’re leaving.”
———
Some bastard’s riding a jackhammer in my head. I can’t even open my eyes, it hurts too much. My mouth tastes of cigarettes and puke. I don’t remember how many times I threw up last night, but put it this way: My stomach’s still inside out. I hate Kirsty. I am never, ever going to drink again.
A grating warble next to my ear makes my teeth rattle.
“Yours,” Kirsty mumbles.
I pull the pillow over my aching head.
“For fuck’s sake, answer it!”
I snake out a hand, and fumble for my phone, knocking a glass and several books off Kirsty’s bedside table. Without opening my eyes, I flip it open.
“I think I can do another five hundred pounds a month,” Clare says breathlessly. “I know it’s probably not enough, but things are terribly tight right now. If you can wait until Christmas, I might be able to do a bit more then, it depends how things go with the—”
“What time is it?” I grunt.
“What time—? Oh. About nine-thirty, I think. Yes, nine-thirty-five.”
On a Sunday? Is she fucking insane? “I don’t mean to be rude, Clare, but can’t this wait till tomorrow?”
“Yes, of course—”
“Great. Bye.”
“Wait! Do you think you’ll say yes or no?”
I flop over onto my back, and wait for the room to stop tilting. I’m never going to get rid of her till I sort this out. Screw it. I didn’t want to work for that stupid Olivia bitch anyway. And five hundred quid is five hundred quid. “OK. Yes.”
“That’s fantastic! Oh, Jenna, thank you so much. You won’t regret it. I know things have been a bit, well, difficult lately, but—”
“Forget it.”
“Well, if you—”
I shut the phone. I need to sleep. Twelve more hours would be good. Twenty-four would be better—
“What the fuck,” I groan, as Kirsty peels off the covers.
“Well, I’m awake now,” she says crossly.
“Well, I’m dying.”
“Come on. You’ll feel better after a good fry-up. I make super good bacon and eggs.”
I should feel sick at the thought, but actually, I’m suddenly starving.
“Won’t your boss mind me staying over?”
“Fran? Nah. She’d give you her own bed if I asked her to.”
“Dunno how you’ve got the balls. You treat her like you own her.”
Kirsty grabs a stained dressing gown from the hook behind the door. “You need to remember who’s got the power in the relationship, I keep telling you that. D’you have any idea how hard it is to find a decent nanny in London? One who speaks English and can drive, I mean. You could walk into a dozen jobs like that,” she says, snapping her fingers. “She’d be totally screwed if you left.”
I’m not so sure, but I’m in no condition to argue.
I follow Kirsty downstairs in my borrowed T-shirt, which barely covers my knickers. If you can dignify a piece of lacy dental floss with the term knickers.
“I know this great hangover remedy,” Kirsty says, far too loudly for my sensitive constitution. “Hair of the dog. It’s, like, vodka, raw eggs, tomato juice, a
nd—”
“Stop with the raw eggs, would you,” I beg. “I don’t think—”
“Jenna!”
Seriously. Is there no escaping this woman?
In fairness, Clare looks just as startled to see me as I am to see her. I yank my T-shirt down. “What are you doing here?”
“Fran invited me for Sunday brunch. I thought you said you were going home this weekend?”
“Can’t. Jamie put all my stuff in trash bags and changed the locks.” I glance warily across at Fran. “Kirsty said it was OK for me to stay over—?”
Fran waves a careless hand.
“You look awfully tired,” Clare presses anxiously. “Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?”
Kirsty snorts. “Nah. It all came up last night.”
“Oh, dear. You want to be careful, Jenna. Binge drinking is very bad for you. You can do as much damage in one weekend session as—”
“I’m not very hungry after all,” I tell Kirsty. “Actually, I think getting up was a mistake. I’m going back to bed.”
“I could bring you a cup of green tea,” Clare calls up the stairs.
I hide under the duvet before she offers me a dandelion smoothie or some hand-churned tofu. I’m relieved I don’t have to leave Clare; I adore the twins, and I couldn’t bear to have to say goodbye yet. But there’s something about her earnest wholesomeness that makes me want to rush out and club baby seals for breakfast.
My body aches, as if I’ve been hit by a truck. Even my toes throb. I pull the covers over my head. I don’t care what Kirsty says, I’m going on a detox tomorrow. I’m too bloody old for this.
I still feel one bulb short of a sunbed when I fall out of bed again the next morning. I trudge down Cheyne Walk, trying to summon bright, Mary Poppins chirpiness as my liver waves a white flag. I hope Clare’s out at the shop all day today. As soon as the twins go down for their nap, I’m joining them.