by Fiona Neill
“We tried to tell you,” said Izzy, who looked even more shocked than Ali’s mother by the twins’ reaction. They clung on to Ali’s goose-pimpled legs, begging her never to go in again. She suggested that they put on their swimming trunks and come in for a quick dip with her.
“No, no, no,” they chorused.
On the way back home Ali’s mother told her that it wasn’t healthy for children to be so attached to someone who was being paid to look after them.
“It’s going to make it very difficult for you to leave them,” she warned, over Hector’s and Alfie’s sobs.
• • •
Ali’s sister appeared for the first and only time just as they were all about to leave. Ali was relieved that Jo had disappeared for the night, because she looked awful. Even Izzy, a fervent admirer of grunge, who spent hours engineering perfect holes in her tights and trying to tease her hair into dreadlocks, was taken aback by her appearance. Jo’s skin was sallow, even beneath the suntan, and especially when set against the gaudy primary colors of her ankle-length skirt and tie-dye top. Instead of looking interesting and romantic, she was dirty and scabby. The woven wristbands were faded, and the clunky bracelets drew attention to her skinny arms. Her clothes smelled of stale patchouli oil. She smiled at Izzy and the twins. Her teeth were gray. One was missing. She was painfully thin, thinner even than Izzy at her thinnest. She embraced Ali.
“I’m going to do it this time, Ali,” she whispered. “I won’t let you down.”
“I’ve heard it all before,” Ali wanted to say.
“Maybe I should give it a go at home again? Would you help me?” Jo asked. The twins clung onto Ali’s hands, as if sensing a rival to her affections. Ali put an arm around each of them. The choices with Jo were always stark: life and death, love and hate, sickness and health. How could she compare her needs to her sister’s? She would do anything to help her.
“She’s helping by paying for you to have another go at rehab,” she heard her mother abruptly intervene. “She can’t just walk away from her job. Ali has her own life to lead.”
So there was an unexpected bonus to her altruism: it bought Ali unintended freedom. When she got back to London, Ali wasn’t sure whether something had broken or something had been mended, but she suddenly had more clarity about what she didn’t want than she could remember in years.
17
November 2007
A couple of weeks after the trip to Norfolk, Ali was surprised to see that Nick had sent her an e-mail. He usually did not communicate directly with her, preferring to use Bryony as a conduit for any special requests (dry cleaning suits, renewing car registration, booking flights, buying underpants). Ali immediately opened up the message. It was written formally, like a letter, with proper paragraphs, correct punctuation, and every word written in full. He wanted Ali to bring Hector and Alfie to his office in Canary Wharf the week before Christmas so that he could take them to the annual Lehman’s Christmas party for children.
Nick informed Ali that wives generally didn’t attend these events, to give husbands the opportunity to spend “quality time” with their children. He then invited Ali to accompany him in case he had to take any phone calls. He explained nothing more about the party other than confirming the date and time in another brief e-mail a couple of days later in which he warned Ali that people took the dress code seriously, but failed to tell her what it was.
Ali took heart from this reassuringly normal request and enthusiastically agreed to come with the twins. Over the past couple of months Nick and Bryony seemed to be working all the time. Weekdays and weekends blended into one another. The bimonthly dinner parties had stopped, Sunday lunch with Foy and Tita was suspended, and the annual drinks party was canceled. Most evenings Ali ate dinner alone with the children.
The trip to Norfolk seemed to have shifted the parameters of Ali’s remit so that responsibility for the weekend now fell on her shoulders rather than Bryony’s. Ali knew from her phone conversations that Bryony was struggling with the same Russian energy deal, trying but failing to generate positive stories in the British press. Her client was rude and demanding, relentlessly threatening to fire her from the account. After a great deal of persuasion, Felix Naylor wrote a piece for the Financial Times, arguing that you couldn’t be in favor of globalization without accepting that key British industries might end up being owned and run abroad. He also came round late one evening to warn Bryony that a journalist on his newspaper was digging around her Ukrainian client.
“His background is dubious,” Felix had told Bryony over a bottle of wine late one night.
“It’s the same with all those oligarchs,” said Bryony dismissively. “If no one else is worried about their dirty money, then why should I be? They get more invitations to Ten Downing Street than I do. They’ve practically hijacked the entire Icelandic financial system.”
“This government is totally undiscriminating about the company it keeps and utterly in thrall to anyone who waves a fistful of money in their face,” agreed Felix, “but you should cover your back with this guy.”
“What are they saying about him?” Bryony pressed him for details.
“Let’s say that after the wall came down he was heavily involved in nontraditional exports,” said Felix.
“Can’t you give me a bit more than that?”
“Only if you tell me whether Northern Rock shareholders are going to be compensated.”
“I’ll tell you what I know.”
“They say that he was the mastermind behind an international sex-trafficking ring that ran from Ukraine. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Fuck,” said Bryony.
“Fuck, indeed,” said Felix.
Bryony at least worked from home in the evenings. Nick rarely seemed to be at Holland Park Crescent during daylight hours. When he did appear before the twins’ bedtime, he came down into the kitchen without addressing a word to anyone. Malea always brought him dinner, which he accepted wordlessly and then left half eaten. If Hector or Alfie broke through his reverie, he always responded with relevant questions that suggested he wasn’t completely out of touch. When he caught Izzy smoking in the garden, he simply reminded her to pick up the cigarette butts in case Leicester tried to eat them. He stopped asking questions about schoolwork. Or music practice. Or whether Foy had been at the house. Once he asked where Jake was, and Ali gently reminded him that he was away at university.
He seemed more anxious about Bryony. Their nonchalance about each other’s whereabouts had been one of the defining characteristics of their relationship. They had traveled without coordinating diaries, often relying on Ali to know which country or even which hemisphere the other was in. Now, when Bryony was away, Nick wanted to know exactly where she was staying. He made Ali forward e-mails with addresses and phone numbers in case of emergencies. He pressed her for details about whether she was traveling alone or with colleagues. He was interested in Bryony’s schedule for the following week. He wanted to know when she would be home again. He made unusual requests: the recycling box should be kept in the kitchen rather than outside the back door; mobile phone bills should be filed in his office; Bryony’s handbag must be left in their bedroom.
Ali found his neediness rather touching until she began to hear raised voices coming from their bedroom at odd hours on the rare nights that both of them were in London at the same time. The previous evening, curiosity overwhelming common sense, she had stood outside to hear what they were arguing about. She felt oddly self-righteous about her intrusion, arguing that she needed to know for the twins’ sake. She imagined possible scenarios: Nick had lost his job; the house in Oxfordshire was coming in over budget; Nick didn’t want Foy to have his seventieth birthday there; Bryony was having an affair; Nick was having an affair. What else did married couples argue about?
“Lack of libido is
a sign of depression,” she’d heard Bryony shout.
“Or a sign that I don’t find you attractive anymore,” Nick had retorted. Something fell on the floor. A book, perhaps. Or the bedside clock. Ali guiltily stepped farther into the shadows when she knew she should have walked away.
“Then why don’t you go and find someone else to have sex with?” asked Bryony.
“Because I don’t want to turn into your father.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I’m taking about.”
“He might have had the odd fumble over the past fifty years, but at least they’ve managed to stay married.”
“I’m not sure that’s how Eleanor Peterson would see it. Or Julian, for that matter.”
“He hasn’t had a relationship with Eleanor. She’s my godmother. And my mother’s best friend.” Bryony sounded exasperated.
“Foy likes to keep it close.”
“Dad has not had sex with Eleanor.” Then, against the odds, she had laughed. It was a tired noise. More snort than guffaw.
“Why do all our rows end up being about my father?”
There was a long silence, during which Ali considered Bryony’s comment and concluded that perhaps it wasn’t strange at all, because her parents argued almost exclusively about Jo; Ned and Sophia Wilbraham always bickered about Katya’s relationship with Thomas; and Will MacDonald always rowed with his wife about the mess the children made in the car, which seemed particularly hypocritical, given his behavior inside it. Then Nick spoke.
“Because he’s the serpent twisted around our marriage.” Ali gasped and put her fist in her mouth to prevent any further impromptu outbursts.
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” said Bryony angrily.
“He’s the problem.”
“You can’t blame him for what’s going on at your bank. I know he’s got a lot of faults, but he can hardly be held responsible for the subprime mortgage crisis.”
“I can,” said Nick testily, “because if he wasn’t around, then I might have done something different with my life years ago and then I wouldn’t be up to my neck in shit now.”
“Like what?” Bryony challenged him.
“Been a playwright or an academic.”
“Or an astronaut?” suggested Bryony acidly. “Well, why didn’t you do any of these things? I earn enough money to support you. You could have done anything you liked.”
“No, I couldn’t,” Nick countered petulantly.
“Why?”
“Because otherwise I’d have ended up like Rick, with my balls cut off. I’d have to put up with the snide comments and the constant barbs without responding in any meaningful way because I can’t bite the hand that feeds me. And just like Hester, you wouldn’t have been able to resist accepting money from him.”
“I could have learned to live more frugally,” protested Bryony.
“When I was trying to persuade you not to spend a million pounds doing up a Jacobean manor house that I didn’t even want to buy, your first reaction was to ask for money from him.”
“Are you saying that you work in an investment bank to impress my father?”
“I do it in part to maintain our independence from him. I couldn’t tolerate being financially dependent on him.”
“But I’m financially independent. We don’t need his money.”
“That would make it even worse,” said Nick.
“I don’t understand.”
“Because it would look as though I couldn’t afford to keep you.”
“Are you saying that you couldn’t earn less money than me because it would be emasculating?” Bryony questioned him.
“It would be easier for you to give up work than me.”
“You want me to leave my job?”
“No,” Nick said with a sigh. “I love the fact that you work. I’m just trying to say that it’s another thing your father uses against me.”
“One of the reasons I work is because of him.” Bryony’s voice was so loud now that Ali allowed herself to breathe properly again. “I never want to depend on a man like my mother depends on him. She would have left him years ago if she had any other options.”
“So you agree that he’s had an affair with Eleanor.”
“I know he’s probably had affairs. Just not with Eleanor. Does it really matter exactly who he’s slept with? He’s my dad. I can’t just walk away from him the way you walked away from your parents.”
The door of the bedroom opened suddenly and Nick came out, slamming it behind him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked angrily.
“You woke me up. I heard the noise. I wanted to check that everything was all right,” stammered Ali.
“Well, everything is just tickety-fucking-boo,” shouted Nick, storming downstairs.
• • •
The following afternoon, as instructed, Ali waited for Nick with Hector and Alfie in the lobby of Lehman’s at exactly two o’clock. Knowing Nick was an aggressive timekeeper, she had arrived at Canary Wharf almost an hour early and wandered around with the twins. There was a huge Christmas tree in the main square, festooned with lights and baubles, but it was utterly diminished by the long winter shadow of surrounding skyscrapers.
Everything was gray. The water in the canal. The sky. The buildings. The only bit of color was the red blaze of ticker tape that ran around the building opposite Nick’s office with up-to-the-minute news of shares listed on the London Stock Exchange. Hector and Alfie stared at it in fascinated silence, trying to work out how long it took for the same share to appear again.
“What does it all mean, Ali?” they asked, as though posing a great philosophical question. “Why do some go up and others go down? Why does it change all the time?”
“I’m not sure,” said Ali.
They walked around, heads craned toward the sky, overwhelmed by the scale of the buildings. Ali had never been to New York, but she imagined this was what it might be like. People, mostly men, rushed past them with a sense of purpose Ali hadn’t observed anywhere else in London. Some smiled at Hector and Alfie, reminded no doubt of their own families. Others looked mildly shocked, because this definitely wasn’t a place for children.
“It’s like the bit in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang where the streets are empty of children because the parents have hidden them from the child catcher,” whispered Alfie, searching for Ali’s hand with his own. He began whistling the tune to “Two Little Boys.”
“Spooky,” agreed Hector, using their favorite new word.
Just before two o’clock they stood outside the Lehman’s building and counted exactly how many floors there were from top to bottom.
“Thirty-three,” shouted Hector triumphantly.
“Where does your dad work?” Ali asked.
“Don’t know.” Hector shrugged. “Never been here before.”
As they worried how Father Christmas would land his sleigh on the roof of such a tall building, a receptionist called up to Nick’s office and explained that Mr. Skinner was coming to the end of a call and would be down as soon as possible. Ali tried to persuade the twins to read a sign commemorating the opening of the building by Gordon Brown three years earlier, but they were more interested in sliding up and down the marble floor or playing catch around the huge brown pillars. At one point they started singing at the tops of their voices. The high-ceilinged atrium acted like an echo chamber. The receptionists smiled indulgently.
Nick eventually emerged from the elevator. He didn’t apologize for being late, because he had no idea how difficult it was to entertain two six-year-olds inside such a building for more than twenty minutes. Ali searched for traces of last night’s dispute in his face. The lines around his eyes were etched a little deeper, his blue eyes were cloudy, an
d he smiled a little too readily, as though conscious that he should make a good fist of looking happy. Otherwise, he looked reassuringly the same.
“Daddy,” yelped the twins as they saw him.
Nick appeared gratified by their reaction. He proudly introduced Hector and Alfie to the receptionist, and she remarked on how they were as handsome as their father. She looked from one face to the other as everyone did the first time they met them, disconcerted by the way one was a mirror image of the other. Hector’s left eyelid was slightly bigger than a half-moon, Ali could have told her. And Alfie had a birthmark shaped like an almond on his right shoulder blade. Nick smiled at the compliment, giving it enough attention to make her feel comfortable that she hadn’t overstepped any boundaries but not so much that he revealed any vanity.
“Thanks for bringing them, Ali,” he said as they headed toward the elevator. They passed a couple of enormous pictures. Everything in the building was oversize, thought Ali. It was a monument to the male ego. Tall ceilings, cream marble floors, black marble walls, huge pillars, and leather sofas so deep the twins’ legs couldn’t hang over the edge. It was all sharp edges and cool, hard surfaces.
“What exactly goes on here?” she found herself asking Nick.
“It’s a place where we turn money into more money.” He smiled.
• • •
Ali felt as though she were shrinking while Nick seemed to grow in stature as he led them through the security barrier deeper into the building. She was relieved to see how he dominated this environment. He was more relaxed here than he was at home, greeting everyone by name and proudly telling people that he was taking his children to visit Father Christmas on the thirty-first floor. “Where you normally weave your magic,” said one of the few women Nick had greeted.
The way he occupied the space around him reminded her of Will MacDonald when he was in his faculty building: neither belonged to his environment; rather, their environment belonged to them. As they waited for the elevator to arrive, Nick took them over to see a large black-and-white photograph of soccer players with a montage of green and white circular shapes in the middle.