The Unwelcome Guest

by Amanda Robson

  When you have stopped wincing at my food, I continue. ‘We are both minimised by Caprice. A very poor second to her favourite: Miles.’

  You pick up your fork and push lentils and vegetables around, like a cat toying with them, not ready to eat yet. ‘I know she dotes on him, but I have always been under the impression she also dotes on you.’ You sit staring at me, fork in the air.

  ‘No. No,’ I reply. ‘She makes me feel excluded too.’

  A slight grimace. A shake of your head. ‘You’re right. I was telling a white lie to try to protect you. The truth is, Caprice’s world centres around Miles. No one else matches him. No one else is good enough. It’s a sadness we both have to face.’

  6

  Caprice

  It’s Friday morning and I’m driving my grandsons to school. Yet again. Listening to Harry Potter, narrated by Stephen Fry. Yet again. I sigh inside. Harry Potter. Unrealistic. Irreligious. A divisive influence. But you are impressed by it, aren’t you, Saffron? And so your sons have become addicted to this turgid nonsense. Despite your Oxbridge education, you don’t seem to have noticed it’s badly written. I mentioned that to you last week, on a rare occasion when you were attempting to cook, and your shoulders stiffened.

  ‘J.K. Rowling is brilliant. Top-end literature. So creative. So thought-provoking. If you can’t see its attraction like the rest of the world, half your brain must be missing.’

  You have quite a mouth on you don’t you, Saffron? Always condescending towards me, just because you did an obscure degree at an old, rather than a new, university. By the way, I know the difference between old and new universities now. Do you remember me being belittled about that when we first met?

  But despite my opinions, I am prepared to be flexible. When the children asked me to download Harry Potter to my iPhone, so that they could listen to it on the way to school, I agreed. So, unfortunately, I’m having to suffer owls and Hagrid, wizards and muggles, wands and quidditch. Stuff and nonsense that makes me want to vomit. I love my grandsons. But I do feel they miss out on so much of what matters in life, because of you, Saffron.

  They need to be sent to a decent boarding school, like Aiden and Miles were. But you dug your heels in, didn’t you? Just when I had talked Miles into accepting my suggestion, you fought back. You forced him to refuse my offer to make sure both my grandsons were offered places at Charterhouse.

  Instead, you have insisted that they attend local day schools. The one Harry goes to is a C of E primary, which you insist can’t be bettered for a child of his age. It isn’t even private and so I worry he’s in danger of mixing with the wrong kind of peer group.

  At least before too long they’ll both be at the City of London Freemen’s – a good solid private school. But I’m only being honest when I say its name just doesn’t have the same ring to it as Charterhouse.

  We’re stuck at traffic lights. I change the angle of the rear-view mirror so that I can look at my grandsons. So neat-featured. So dainty. So vulnerable, with angelic blond hair and stick-like arms and legs. Clones of you. You have infiltrated and overwhelmed my family’s genes. But never mind. Whatever they look like, I still love them. With a bit of luck as they get older their faces will become stronger. More Jackson. Less Filby. For even though you have taken my son’s name and now call yourself Saffron Jackson, you will always be Saffron Filby to me.

  We pull into the side road by Harry’s school. I switch off the car engine and sigh with relief as Hagrid is silenced.

  ‘Please can we listen to it for five more minutes,’ Ben begs.

  ‘No, Ben. We need to drop Harry off now, otherwise you’ll be late and your form teacher Ms Frankfurt will tell you off.’

  ‘Mummy would let us,’ Ben says.

  ‘Mummy isn’t here,’ I reply.

  ‘Franki would let us,’ Harry tries.

  Franki. Their last nanny.

  ‘Franki isn’t here,’ I reply.

  ‘Daisy would let us,’ Ben pushes.

  Daisy. The nanny before last.

  ‘Daisy isn’t here,’ I say, voice sharp.

  Then I soften. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you some chocolate buttons to eat on the way home, if you get out of the car right now.’

  So young, bribery still works. And you are strict about chocolate, Saffron, so it’s a real treat. You frequently remind me not to buy it for them, rabbiting on about diabetes. Rabbiting on about their teeth. But I take no notice. What harm can a little chocolate do? Life needs to be fun.

  So, chocolate promised, I open the car door, and they edge out of the car onto the pavement. Eager little hands hold mine as we walk towards St Peter’s Juniors. As soon as we reach the playground Harry dashes off to join his friends. Ben and I return to the car to carry on our journey. This time, thankfully, without Harry Potter. That is our agreement. After dropping off his younger brother, Ben sits in the front passenger seat and Harry Potter is over for the day.

  Sitting in the front is another secret treat. You only ever let the children sit in the back, for safety reasons. Despite not spending much time with your children, you are a stickler about certain things. I start the ignition and we set off.

  ‘When can I tell Mummy you give us lots of chocolate?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Never. You promised, remember. Otherwise I won’t be able to give you chocolate again. It has to be our secret.’

  He wriggles in his seat. ‘I don’t like lying to Mummy.’ His voice sounds plaintive.

  ‘It isn’t lying. It’s just not telling her something,’ I snap.

  He shakes his head. ‘Granny, it feels like lying.’

  ‘How many times have I asked you not to call me Granny? It makes me feel old.’

  We are stationary in a line to turn right. I look across at him and see his eyes pool with tears.

  ‘But … but … I think I love my mummy too much. She’s my favourite person. I want to hug her forever and tell her every thought in my head.’

  The traffic moves, so I pull my eyes away from him to concentrate on the road. Ben might have passed an entrance exam to an academic day school, but he really needs to tighten up on his people observation skills. It just shows you how academic intelligence isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. How can he love Saffron more than anyone in the world, when his father is someone as generous and kind as my son Miles?

  Fortunately, we do not have to continue this conversation any further. We have arrived in the school car park and it’s time to drop him off. He opens the car door and sidles out.

  ‘Bye, Granny, thanks for the lift.’

  My stomach tightens. Doesn’t he ever listen to a word I say?

  Ben and Harry Jackson now deposited at their places of education, it’s time for my compensation for doing the school run. The school gate mums have invited me to join them for their once-a-week catch-up. Coffee at a local café. They are real mums. Even though they can’t afford to send their children to the most prestigious private schools, I admire them because they’re mums with time for their families. You are so irresponsible in comparison. With my help you could afford a top-end school like Charterhouse, but still you rail against it. And you don’t make it up to Ben and Harry by being there for them. Your children have the worst of both worlds.

  I step into the café. Wooden tables. Wooden floors. Rustic but modern. I look across at the young mums, sitting together on two brown leather sofas. Cradling their mugs of coffee, heads back laughing. And suddenly, from nowhere, Rupert’s loss hits me. I was young once, like them, looking after my children, in charge of my family unit. Adored by my husband. I thought my life would be like that forever. And now it has gone. And Rupert has gone. His face moves towards me in my mind’s eye, and I want to reach out and stroke his cheek. Pull him towards me and kiss him.

  I bite my lip to stop tears falling, before turning around and walking out of the café. I’ll feel stronger, more able to cope with company next week.

  7

  Hayley

  The Bri
ts are having an Indian summer. It’s mid-September, and yet it’s twenty-five degrees Centigrade. My legs burn beneath my black jeans. Not how we Kiwis imagine the UK. And, during this almost tropical weather, I’m moving in to my new home. To my new job. I’ve told all my friends on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook.

  Fresh off the bus, I walk along Lexington Drive, weighed down by my overloaded rucksack. Everything I possess in the UK is on my back. Tired of moving from one temporary job to another, camping in strange houses, I’m so excited to be settling in one place, where I will be comfortable and relaxed.

  I walk past the modern mansions, open-mouthed all over again. Houses big enough for twenty people to live in. Houses with tradesman’s entrances. Stone porticoes. Heavy front doors of antique oak and mahogany. Ornate door-knockers. Protruding security cameras, turning towards me as I pass manicured gardens and Range Rovers parked neatly in generous drives next to low-slung sports cars and family run-arounds. Houses that whisper – look at me, I’m rich.

  Despite my heavy bag, I almost skip towards number 20, the one at the far end of the road. The one where I’m going to live.

  I arrive and stand back to admire my new home. This mansion is set further back from the road than the others. It has a wide circular drive with a pond, and a fountain in it. The house is three storeys high, with six large windows on each floor. It has a fine old yew hedge bordering the garden, with shiny black railings in front of it. A large fir tree stands to the right of the drive. It’s magnificent. I hope they light it up at Christmas.

  A large gold lettered sign, ‘Wellbeck House’, is attached to the railings, by the front gate, next to the entrance buzzer and a large security camera. I push the buzzer. A male voice, which sounds a little like a Dalek’s, answers, ‘Hello, Hayley. I’ll buzz you in.’

  I hear a grinding sound, and push the gate. It’s heavy. I open it slowly and step into the driveway.

  My feet crunch across stone, past the pond with its fountain. The front door opens. Miles Jackson, you are standing on the doorstep smiling at me, large brown eyes twinkling into mine. My stomach rotates. You are so good-looking. You have strong features. A proud chin and nose. Light brown wavy hair. Intense eyes I would love to lie next to. You’re an intellectual. An academic, according to my agency notes on the family. I expect your students drool over you, don’t they?

  ‘Welcome,’ you say, stepping away from the doorway.

  I follow you in. The house unfolds before me, even more impressive the second time. I notice a photograph on the dresser next to the flowers. You and Saffron, standing together, beaming into the camera, wearing mortar boards and holding degree certificates. You must have met at uni. Meeting too young – one of the signs of an unsuitable relationship. I push that thought away. The first rule of my nanny agency is never, ever to flirt with the man of the house. Try it once and you’re off the books.

  ‘Can I get you anything? It’s really hot today. Would you like a cold drink?’ you ask.

  ‘I’m fine thanks. I’ll just unpack and then I’ll come and get a glass of water.’

  ‘Let me show you to your room right away then,’ you say. ‘Saffron’s already shown you the nanny quarters, hasn’t she? I know you said you liked them.’

  ‘I did indeed.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry but she’s out today with the boys at a friend’s house. But at least you can settle in in peace.’ You pause. ‘I’ll come up with you just to make sure everything is OK.’

  We walk up the spiral staircase together, side by side. Your presence makes me feel uncomfortable. Because I daren’t let my eyes rest on you too long, I’m over-aware of everything around me. The thick-pile burgundy carpet. The golden rag-rolled walls. And for some strange reason I feel myself breathing too fast, too deeply.

  We arrive in my sumptuous quarters, red silk an even richer ruby than I remembered. Four-poster bed, larger. Claw-footed bath more tempting.

  ‘Thank you, it’s fabulous.’ I smile.

  ‘I’ve put clean towels in the bathroom,’ you say, brown eyes gleaming. ‘And a large beach towel. The cover is off the pool if you fancy a swim.’

  I look at you, the perfect man, standing in front of me, and just for a second, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. Then I think of your wife, Saffron, and my brain becomes curdled with envy. Guilt supplants envy. What am I doing, admiring another woman’s husband? Especially when she’s been kind enough to employ me.

  8

  Saffron

  It’s date night. Our new nanny, Hayley, is babysitting, as you are out playing bridge this evening, Caprice. And I’m sitting opposite your treasured son at Red Peppers in Esher, sipping a cheeky Rioja and picking at sesame quinoa. As Miles does not share my dietary habits, I watch him devour a steak burger on sourdough, with sweet potato fries. The heady stench of meat pushes towards me, making me feel slightly nauseous. I try to ignore it.

  ‘So what do you think about my theory?’ I ask.

  He smiles. ‘The one you always harp on about? That Aiden fancies you, because he’s in competition with me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ve been through this so many times. I can’t blame him having the hots for you. But why should it be anything to do with being in competition? He finds you attractive. Period.’

  ‘But why keep pushing it?’

  He has a sip of wine, holding my gaze with his. ‘He doesn’t much, does he? Do I need to beat him up?’ His tone is mild, and I can tell he isn’t taking me seriously.

  ‘It’s always there,’ I insist. ‘An undercurrent. Come on, Miles. You know he came and took me to lunch, again, a few days ago. He put his hand on my arm. I told you.’

  He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Wasn’t he just being friendly? It’s hardly making a pass is it – putting a hand on someone’s arm?’ A frown ripples across his forehead. ‘Or maybe it is these days.’

  I lean back in my chair. ‘Women know when a man wants them. It’s instinct. Sometimes it’s hard to explain.’ I pause. ‘And I’m sure he’s jealous of you.’

  He shakes his head slowly, and eats the last sweet potato fry. ‘I suppose Mother and Father always got on with me more easily. Aiden and Father clashed because they were both alpha personalities. Mother always doted on me. She had always been surrounded by feisty lively men: her father, her husband, her brother. She always seemed to prefer my peaceful personality to Aiden’s cheekiness.’ He pauses as he tops up our wine. ‘I do think he felt it from time to time.’ He takes a sip of wine. ‘And I suppose brothers do sometimes fancy the same physical type.’ He frowns again. ‘But he’s not evil. Give him a break.’

  ‘I never said he was evil. Just that he makes me feel uncomfortable,’ I say, trying to stop my voice from sounding snappish.

  And my stomach tightens because if Miles thinks brothers fancy similar women, does that mean he still feels more for Julie than he admits? Is that why he’s so tolerant of Aiden’s attention towards me?

  ‘My mother makes you feel uncomfortable too,’ my husband points out. ‘Not everyone who makes you feel uncomfortable fancies you.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Miles. Comparing your mother to Aiden isn’t comparing like with like.’

  I take a mouthful of quinoa, and think about you, Caprice. And I’m back on my wedding day, swathed in silk and lace. You were the only guest who didn’t congratulate me. The only person who didn’t tell me I looked nice.

  I think of you yesterday, when I returned from work, skulking about in the kitchen, tidying up the herb and spice rack.

  ‘You always have it in such a mess, dear.’

  Dear. The way you say that word still annoys me. You overemphasise the d, and then swallow the rest of it.

  You turned your head from the spice rack and smiled a dead smile. ‘Before you go to the playroom to see the boys, I could do with a quick word.’

  I sighed inside, took off my coat and hung it on the coatrack by the back door. Bracing myself for whatever criticism was com
ing next. I sat down at the kitchen table and you sat opposite me. As well-groomed as ever, with your sweeping doughnut of a hairstyle. You have come a long way since your humble beginnings, after marrying a wealthy man. Acquiring a strong and expensive sense of taste. Your ladies’ captain of the golf club look. Elegant. Casual. Designer branded. Chinos and blouses. Scarves and lightweight tailored jackets. Pale tasteful eyeshadow. Pale tasteful smile.

  ‘I’m worried you’re too strict with Ben and Harry,’ you announced.

  ‘What’s the matter this time?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re not having enough fun – and I’m worried about their diet. They’re thin as sticks.’

  And I knew you had been taking them to McDonald’s, and bribing them with chocolate again.

  Before I could reply with my habitual answer about diet – of course they can have an occasional McDonald’s or chocolate treat; everything in moderation, is what I believe – you stood up and walked to our wedding photograph, on the kitchen dresser. You picked it up and cradled it close to your face, studying it intently.

  ‘You were pretty when you were young, weren’t you?’

  You have known me since I was eighteen. I’m forty now. This is the first time you have ever said anything nice about my appearance. Forty is a sensitive age. The modern definition of middle age. So you gave me a compliment in retrospect.

  Pretty when I was young.

  Implying I have lost my looks. I want to look all right even if I live until I’m eighty. So I locked myself in the downstairs cloakroom, put my head in my hands and cried. After all the unpleasant things you have said and done, this was the first time I had allowed you to make me cry.

  But I’ve moved past it now. I know you said it on purpose, but I have forgiven you. I won’t allow sensitivity and vanity to reduce me to tears again. You have issues because you miss Rupert and envy me my time with Miles. I mustn’t forget that I am the lucky one here.