Free The Nanny by Melissa Nathan

collapsed in hysterics.
    â€œIt’s made with chickpeas !” he repeated.
    â€œWell it is !” said Cassandra, frustrated.
    â€œWell it is !” repeated Toby.
    â€œNow now,” said Dick. He turned to Jo. “There’s mixed salad with balsamic vinegar and sun-blushed tomatoes—the children find sun-dried a bit too salty—and focaccia with hummus, tzatziki, or guacamole. Or if you have a sweet tooth there’s brioche, butter, and chocolate spread or raw honey—most of it organic. I’ll grind some coffee when the kids are sorted. Half-decaffeinated, organic, Brazilian, hope that’s okay.”
    After deciding that Dick was being serious, Jo looked down at Tallulah. “Tallulah’s choosing for me,” she said. “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”
    Without further ado, Tallulah poked her little pink tongue neatly out of the corner of her mouth and started making Jo’s tea.
    â€œChocolate spread! Chocolate spread!” shouted Zak, victorious.
    â€œIt’s Nutella!” cried Cassandra. “Look at the label!”
    â€œDad said chocolate spread!” shouted Zak.
    â€œDa-ad!” wailed Cassandra.
    â€œNow, now,” said Dick.
    Tallulah chose buttered toasted brioche with lots of chocolate spread and hummus. Luckily, homesickness seemed to be temporarily numbing Jo’s taste buds.
    â€œI like the cats,” she said, hoping the act of talking would distract her body from the act of having a minibreakdown.
    Dick smiled.
    â€œThey’re Molly and Bolly,” said Tallulah, solely to her. “Molly’s the boy, he’s the bigger one, and Bolly’s the girl.”
    â€œMolly’s a strange name for a boy,” said Jo.
    â€œIt’s short for Molière,” said Tallulah. “Mummy’s favorite playwright. He’s French.”
    â€œI know. I studied him for French A-level.”
    The table went quiet.
    â€œBolly’s short for Bollinger,” continued Tallulah. ‘It’s Mummy’s favorite champagne. Bolly’s always busier than Molly but doesn’t eat as much as him. They’re Burmese, but they don’t have a funny accent.”
    The conversation was then drawn to a close as the table started arguing about what sort of accent the cats would have if they could speak, Dick playing as active and passionate a role in the argument as his children.
    While they were eating, Jo became vaguely aware of the sound of the telephone breaking into the cacophony around her. She waited for someone to answer it, and when no one did, wondered briefly if it was only going on in her head. But no, Dick was starting to notice it, too. He kept frowning at it and tutting. Was this a test? To see if she was able to take responsibility? Was it Vanessa calling? Or could it be her parents checking that she had arrived in London safely? She hadn’t had a moment to call them. The longer it was ignored, the more frantic she started to feel. Eventually, unable to contain herself any longer, she said to Dick, “Would you like me to get that?”
    â€œOh yes, please,” he answered eagerly.
    As Jo approached the ringing phone, the family as one became silent. Jo realized she didn’t know the phone number, yet didn’t feel she could answer informally, as if she were mistress of the house, especially if it was Vanessa on the other end. She also realized she had no idea how to answer the tiny chrome instrument. She grew suddenly self-conscious. She picked up the phone and heard herself say, in a stilted voice, “The Fitzgerald residence. May I help?”
    â€œPress the green button!” cried the suddenly hysterical Fitzgeralds.
    Jo managed not to throw the phone in the air and pressed the green button. “Speak!” they yelled at their new nanny.
    Jo turned her back on them.
    â€œThe Fitzgerald residence,” she said brusquely. “May I