Free What the Nanny Saw by Fiona Neill Page A

superior knowledge of the jargon. “We’re operating in the outer frontiers of finance.”
    “To go where no man has ever gone before,” joked Jake.
    “Like the olive, the stock market is both a good servant and a hard master,” said Foy eventually, misquoting Lawrence Durrell.
    “It is,” agreed Nick.
    “So you’re still just selling bits of paper,” said Foy.
    “Yes, but the color of the ink is different,” replied Nick firmly, finally releasing the bottle from his grip.
    “There’s got to be something wrong with a world where people aren’t just spending what they earn but spending what they don’t earn, too,” said Foy finally.
    He made no attempt to put forward his favorite argument that the growth of the financial sector in London was killing innovation in British manufacturing. It was clear to everyone in the room that Nick had just won an argument. It just wasn’t obvious what it was about.
    “You’re being boring, Dad,” Jake shouted grumpily from the middle of the room, where he was leafing through a copy of Kerrang! at the kitchen table, one iPod earphone in his ear, the other drifting across a plate of butter.
    “What’s Dad talking about?” Izzy asked her mother.
    “His work,” said Bryony. “Don’t worry. No one understands what he does. Not even me.”
    “Are you going to open that bottle? Or are you waiting for us to pay further homage to the high priest of finance?” Nick picked up the bottle opener. “Nothing’s obvious anymore,” Foy complained, “just look at that gadget. You need to read an instruction manual to operate it.”
    “That was a present from my team,” said Nick. “It’s probably the most evolutionary bottle opener on the market. You can open two thousand bottles of wine before you even have to think about recalibrating it.”
    “It’s like your electric salt and pepper mills,” continued Foy. “I can’t help thinking that the phallic nature of all these inventions is to compensate for the fact that men spend so much time in offices staring at spreadsheets on computer screens and so little time outside hunting and gathering. At least the smoked salmon industry kept me fit.”
    “I’m perfectly fit,” said Nick. “I run four times a week. And there’s not much need for hunting and gathering in the age of Internet shopping.”
    Foy retreated from Nick like a kicked dog and headed open-armed toward Malea, who had emerged from the storeroom in the basement beneath the kitchen. The area below the kitchen was Malea’s domain. It was the beginning of the production line for the three meals she prepared each day. It was where she slept and bathed, and the front line for the laundry effort. There was a room at the back on the garden side that doubled as a playroom during the day and a place for Jake and his friends to watch TV and play snooker at night. It was also Malea’s favorite location for ironing. Malea looked pleased but embarrassed as Foy picked her up and hugged her.
    “Honey with walnuts,” he said, pressing a couple of jars into each hand.
    “Mr. Chesterton,” she said in embarrassment, “you are spoiling me.” Everyone giggled. Jake shifted uncomfortably in his chair because he was the one who had taught Malea to say this without telling her about the Ferrero Rocher advert. Although his worldview was limited by his parents’ wealth, at seventeen he had enough insight to know that it wasn’t cool to take the piss out of the person who ironed his pants.
    “A taste of Greece, to entice you to visit us,” Foy said.
    Nick busied himself with bottles of wine, trying to hide his annoyance with his father-in-law. It wasn’t for Foy to invite Malea to Greece. She worked for him and Bryony, not Foy and Tita, and they needed her at home even when they were away. Besides, the idea that his father-in-law’s indomitable Greek housekeeper would ever accept such an interloper was ridiculous.
    “Stop pissing all over my territory,” Ali was