Free The Nanny by Tess Stimson Page A

to where
we are now. It’s meant we’ve had less time together than we’d have liked, but neither of us has ever complained. We accepted it as the price we had to pay for our joint success.
We discussed having a baby for years, planning when and how to organize it so that it didn’t disrupt our lives or affect us financially. So why is Marc suddenly coming over all Neanderthal on
me?
    ‘Fine,’ I say shortly. ‘Why don’t
you
stay home and look after them, and I’ll work? I’m talking twenty-four/seven care, Marc, not a cuddle for thirty
minutes before bed when they’re all clean and sleepy, and a walk in the park for an hour or two at weekends. Let’s see how
you
like surviving on three hours’
sleep—’
    ‘You’re not the only one kept awake all night, Clare.’
    ‘I’m the only one actually
up
, though, aren’t I?’
    ‘I’d give my fucking eye-teeth to stay at home with the kids instead of slaving away in an office all day,’ Marc says bitterly. ‘Women don’t know how damn lucky
they are to have the choice.’
    ‘
Choice?
’ I demand, livid. ‘Is
that
what you call it?’
    We glare at each other over Poppy’s head. It feels as if the ground is shifting beneath my feet. I’ve never heard Marc talk like this before. Since when did we become one of those
strung-out couples who bicker over whose turn it is to take out the rubbish and indulge in I’m-more-tired-than-you competitiveness?
    Since we had children and our lives as we knew them ceased.
    The truth is that, even though he agreed to it in the end, Marc hasn’t forgiven me for hiring Jenna. I’ve tried to explain how desperate I was, how fretful and anxious, that every
time the babies cried it felt like a slap in the face. I tried to describe the endlessness of it, the relentless demands and chaos and incessant neediness. ‘You said you wanted this,’
Marc responded, confused. ‘You wanted a baby, you
wanted
to stay at home for a while.’
    The dreadful thing is, he’s right: this
is
what I wanted. I just had no idea what it really meant. I wanted children, yes; but when I pictured motherhood, what I saw in my head
was the baby, not me
with
the baby. I had no idea how much work one child would be, never mind two. But even more than the sleeplessness, the relentless routine, the effort required just
to get through the day, I hate being needed. I hate the repetitiveness, the mind-numbing
boredom
. My mother’s right. I can’t do it. Usually unflappable, I’ve been
flapping away like a dodo trying to take flight since the birth of the twins. I’ve done everything recommended in all the books, I’ve approached child-rearing like I have everything
else in my life, by reading and studying and becoming an expert; and instead of the success that has always rewarded my efforts until now, I’ve failed.
I’ve failed.
    There was only one thing I could do to put things right: hire someone who
was
an expert, someone who could succeed where I had fallen short. Marc’s a professional, a businessman.
Surely he can understand that?
    ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Marc says unexpectedly, rubbing his hand over his face. ‘I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just stressed out. I’ve had a bitch
of a time at the bank. Of course you should work if that’s what you want.’
    ‘It’s only a few days a week . . .’
    ‘I know. I’ll see you tonight.’
    He leaves without kissing me, though he drops a butterfly kiss on Poppy’s forehead, and ruffles Rowan’s pale halo of white curls on his way out.
    Five minutes later, Jenna’s head appears round the door. ‘Marc didn’t look too happy,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘He had a face on him like a slapped arse. Oh,
Rowan, baby, are you still waiting for breakfast? You must be starving!’
    ‘I’m just finishing with Poppy—’
    She picks up my son. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort out his bottle. Everything OK?’
    ‘Yes, fine.’ I hesitate. ‘Well. Actually, Marc and