Free The Nanny by Tess Stimson Page B

I had words.’
    ‘Yeah, me and Jamie had a few over the weekend . . .’
    ‘He doesn’t want me to go back to work.’
    She snorts. ‘I’d like to see him giving up the expense accounts and company car to change shitty nappies.’
    Instantly I regret my impulsive confidence. I’ve got no right to criticize my husband in front of the nanny.
    ‘He’s under a lot of pressure,’ I say quickly, ‘this recession – the bank—’
    ‘Jamie’s the same. All macho,’ Jenna says, kissing Rowan’s bare toes.
    I feel a pang of something bittersweet as I watch my son gurgle and reach for her; it hurts my chest, my breasts. I’m glad that my children love her, I
want
them to; and yet.
    And yet.
    She lifts his soft vest and blows a raspberry on his round belly. ‘Jamie thinks the man should be the provider, though he doesn’t mind spending my money now he’s screwed up his
business.’
    ‘Oh, but that’s the thing,’ I confide. ‘Marc’s never been like that. He’s always been really proud of what I do, I’ve heard him boast about it to his
friends. He’s got five older sisters, he really respects women. Although,’ I add thoughtfully, ‘none of his sisters has worked since they had kids.’
    ‘So you’re going to fire me and stay home after all?’
    ‘Heavens, no. No! I’d go mad if I couldn’t work.’
    ‘He’s just going to have to deal with it then, isn’t he?’
    ‘I suppose he is,’ I smile.
    ‘You need to make it clear nothing’s changed, Clare. I see it all the time: men marry a really successful woman, then she has kids, and suddenly he expects her to stay home and turn
into a perfect housewife. But if she does, he gets bored with her and fucks off with the au pair.’
    Her language is a bit – well – colourful, but she does cheer me up.
    ‘Maybe I
should
fire you if you’re going to run off with my husband.’
    ‘Yeah, but then you’ll be stuck with him for ever.’
    I laugh. ‘Oh, Jenna. What would I do without you?’
    ‘I’ll remind you of that next time I want a pay rise.’
    She thinks I’m joking, but what
would
I do without her?
    I listen to her chatter to Rowan as she takes him downstairs. He never laughs like that with me. Jenna is a lifesaver; my rock. Already, after just two months, she’s become the lynchpin of
the family.
    That first morning, as I waited for her to arrive, I was literally sick with nerves, racing off to the lavatory twice to throw up. Maybe I shouldn’t have hired her, I panicked; maybe I
shouldn’t have hired
any
one. I’d made a dreadful mistake. What was I thinking, opening my home to a complete stranger, handing my babies over to someone I barely knew?
    I’d rushed around the house with jugs of flowers and scented candles, laying out plates of hand-made biscuits, wanting her to feel welcome, pleased to be here.
Love me, love my
babies
, I pleaded with my magazines and my body creams and my Lapsang Souchong,
help us, fix us, make it better.
    And then she arrived, calm and reassuring, radiating competence. I watched Rowan turn to her, like a flower towards the sun, and knew I’d made the right decision.
    Jenna imposed order. She had the twins sleeping in their expensive cots in the nursery within a week (though Marc and I still lapse sometimes at weekends and put them in the pram in our room).
The nursery looks like a spread from a parenting magazine: the stuffed animals lined up with artful carelessness, babygros folded just so, cot sheets so crisp you could bounce a coin off them. No
matter how closely I try (and I took a photograph one Friday night after she’d left for the weekend, so I could copy it precisely) I can never make it look quite the same.
    With Jenna in the nursery, I’ve been able to take back control of the rest of my life. I’ve had my hair cut, the leak in the roof has been fixed, I’ve fired the cleaner (who
spent all her time drinking my expensive coffee and calling Brazil on my phone) and hired someone who