The Unwelcome Guest Read online

  ‘I’m Saffron. How do you do?’

  Saffron. Even her name is interesting. Her voice is deep and husky. Deep, but not masculine. Saffron oozes style and femininity.

  ‘I’m Hayley,’ I reply, shaking her hand.

  ‘Are you from New Zealand?’ Saffron asks.

  I nod my head. As soon as I open my mouth everyone guesses where I’m from. My English boyfriend tells me my vocal cords are as soft as guitar strings and that, like all New Zealanders, I sound as if I am talking through my teeth.

  ‘Whereabouts in New Zealand?’ Saffron asks.

  ‘Queenstown.’

  ‘We’ve been there for a holiday. It was fabulous. How could you bear to leave?’

  ‘Every young New Zealander craves some time in England.’ I pause. ‘New Zealand is small. Parochial. There’s more to life than sharp-edged mountains and life-threatening adventure.’

  My insides tighten. Actually, I miss our small cosy family bungalow full of finely stretched enthusiasm. My cheery father and brother who spend their days strapping people to bungee elastic. My thin, worried mother who works stoically at the local supermarket.

  Saffron puts her head on one side and her lips burst into a wide smile. ‘Do come and sit down.’

  I follow her into the drawing room, which looks like a film set. It has a large curved window adorned with tumbling white damask curtains and matching window seat. This white extravaganza frames a view of a tennis court and a swimming pool. Am I dreaming? Have I arrived in Hollywood?

  ‘Please sit down,’ Saffron says, smiling across at me.

  I sink into a silk-covered antique walnut chair, to the right of the fireplace. Saffron sits opposite me and leans forwards.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve read our job description. We need help, from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m., five days a week.’ She pauses and crosses her shapely, slender legs. ‘Our elder son Ben is eight years old. He attends a private school, City of London Freemen’s. Its name is a bit confusing.’ She smiles. ‘It’s not in London, but Ashtead, not far from here. His younger brother Harry is six. He’s still at the local C of E Primary.’ She pushes her glasses further back against her nose. ‘In term time, we need them taken to school and picked up, and for them to be looked after until 6 p.m., when either Miles or I will be home. If they are ill or it’s the school holidays, we need them cared for full-time.’ She leans back. ‘Does the package we sent to the agency seem suitable to you?’

  I smile slowly. ‘It does. Very much so. And I love working with this age group. I expect you’ve looked at my CV. The last children I looked after were the same age and we got on so well.’

  ‘Look, Hayley,’ Saffron says, sitting back, frowning in contemplation. ‘I’ve read your references. You come highly recommended, but are you available? I need someone to start quickly.’

  I take a deep breath to slow down my reply. I mustn’t sound overeager. It will make me seem desperate. But this is by far the best opportunity I’ve had since I arrived in the UK. So far I’ve only had a few temporary appointments at homes where the regular nanny was on holiday.

  ‘Well, I could move some things around … That way I could start on Monday,’ I say hesitantly.

  ‘Great stuff.’ She gives me a wide beaming smile. ‘Well, I’ll show you the accommodation. You can meet the children and we can take it from there.’

  She stands up, and I follow her back into the hallway. An older woman is now attending to the flower arrangement on the dresser, cutting stamens from the lilies. When she sees us she straightens her back and rubs it, watching me through sad grey eyes.

  ‘Let me introduce you. This is my mother-in-law, Caprice,’ Saffron says. ‘Caprice, this is Hayley, who’s considering coming to work for us.’

  Caprice nods her head at me, and carries on trimming the lilies.

  I follow Saffron up the spiral staircase, along a landing decorated with a combination of modern art and landscapes, through a mock-Georgian doorway, into the nanny’s accommodation. I exhale in admiration, as I look at a boudoir with a curved window that drips with what must be thousands and thousands of pounds’ worth of rich red-and-gold-striped silk. There’s a four-poster bed with red silk curtains and a matching counterpane. A four-poster bed? Silk? For the nanny? My breath escapes from my body like a waterfall. I have to get this job. I will never find a better one in the UK. Not only is the room I am standing in lavish in its soft furnishings, it also has a generous sitting area with two armchairs, a two-seater sofa and a fifty-inch TV. And there’s a kitchenette with a minifridge, microwave, kettle and hob. I am practically salivating.

  ‘There isn’t an oven,’ Saffron apologises, ‘but you’re welcome to use the main kitchen whenever you want.’

  ‘It’s fabulous,’ I gush.

  Even if the children are monsters, I determine to fall in love with them as we move across the bedroom to the bathroom. It has the full complement: toilet, bidet, shower cubicle, ornate basin with a cabinet and full-length mirror. An extravagant claw-footed bath. A black and white marble floor.

  ‘It’s so lovely. I’ve never seen accommodation as special as this.’

  Saffron smiles proudly. ‘I chose the décor.’ Then she shakes her head and her face tightens. ‘But Caprice doesn’t like it. She says I should have chosen a floral pattern for the bed.’

  Caprice. The woman downstairs. The mother-in-law.

  ‘Come and meet the boys,’ Saffron continues, suddenly keen to move on.

  Please. Please, God, let me get on with the kids, I pray silently.

  I walk downstairs with Saffron, and together we step into the playroom, where two skinny blond boys are sitting on the sofa watching TV. So like Saffron, they look as if they have been cloned from her, no man involved. As soon as we enter the room they jump off the sofa and run towards us.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ one of them squeaks.

  Saffron bends down and takes them both in her arms. When they have all finished hugging, their eyes turn to me.

  ‘I want you to meet Hayley, your new nanny,’ Saffron says, smiling.

  My stomach leaps. New nanny? Am I employed already? They stand wide-eyed, staring up at me.

  ‘Would you like me to read you a story?’ I ask.

  ‘Can we have The Gruffalo? Granny says it’s too babyish for us, but we love it.’

  Granny. Caprice, again? She seems to have a lot of influence in this house.

  ‘I can’t see why not. What do you think, Mummy?’ I ask.

  ‘Great idea,’ Saffron replies as she switches off the TV.

  I settle on the sofa, between the boys, and start to read. I love reading out loud. I was into amateur dramatics when I was younger, so I enjoy putting as much expression as I can into every sentence, and playing with my voice. The boys, one each side of me, snuggle against me as if they’ve known me forever. Saffron stands watching us, a fond smile playing on her lips.

  Once the story is over, Saffron prises the boys away from me, and we step back into the hallway.

  ‘Thanks for coming to visit,’ Saffron says. ‘I’m definitely offering you the job. If you’re interested, I’ll send the contract to your agency tomorrow. You could move in on Sunday, and start work on Monday. That would be great for us.’

  I am so thrilled I feel like taking her in my arms and hugging her. Just as I am trying to stop myself from doing that, I see a man walking towards us. A man with foppish brown-blond hair and broad shoulders, smiling a high-wattage smile. My stomach rotates.

  ‘This is my husband, Miles.’

  4

  Saffron

  I’m sitting on the train to work when a woman with square shoulders sinks down next to me. She presses against me, squashing me. Making me feel claustrophobic. I lean away from her, against the carriage window, contemplating the late payment from my client, Sasha Reznikovitch, who promised the money three weeks ago. We chased her and she agreed to send it by BaccS, last Monday. It still hasn’t arrived. We need to chase her again.

/>   My law firm, Belgravia Private Clients – BPC – is a high-turnover outfit with only three members of staff. Me – the only lawyer; Ted Beresford-Webb, a friend from my school days who acts as my financial and office manager; and Julie Walsh, my PA. Julie was Miles’ first girlfriend and is Aiden’s ex-wife. And we have three clients. Three high-net-worth clients, demanding access to legal advice 24/7, which is why they pay generously.

  For a second, as I sit on the train, worrying about cash flow, I regret leaving the magic circle law firm where I trained. I was a senior associate, aspiring to be a partner one day. But then I remember the excitement that tingled through me like electricity when my major client, Aristos Kaladopolous, began talking me into leaving to set up my own firm. Promising to bring all his legal issues to me lock, stock and barrel, if I did. He kept his word. And, so far, it has worked like clockwork.

  Hard-working clockwork. Working around the clock more often than you, my dear mother-in-law, would like. I know you think I’m an absentee parent, Caprice. You frequently remind me, with your eyes. With your waspish comments. It is rich coming from you, a woman who has never contributed to family finances. A woman who does not understand the importance of earning money. A woman who married a wealthy man and expects money to flow towards you, like a river. Don’t you know that river would stop flowing if it wasn’t for aspirational individuals like me? Aspirational individuals like your husband, whose hard work you took for granted?

  The train jerks to a halt and I look out of the window. We’ve arrived at Vauxhall. People begin to decant onto the platform like ants. The mass next to me eases away, and for the first time in half an hour I feel as if I can breathe without concentrating. I sigh as I stand up. Now I must battle with the tube.

  Having survived the journey, I walk along Ebury Street, Belgravia, with its fine Georgian architecture, and any doubts about my choice of career vanish. Once again my body solidifies with pride. I am proud of my independence. Proud of what I have established.

  Into the building. Up in the compact lift. Left out of it, through an ugly modern glass fire door, into BPC’s half of the third floor. Julie is sitting behind a wide imitation marble plastic counter, typing. Her face is partially obscured by a large flower arrangement. She stretches her neck above pinks, chrysanthemums and alstroemeria to say, ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning,’ I reply.

  I look across the room. Ted has arrived too. His thick hair damped and scraped back, neat and tidy as ever.

  ‘Still no news from Sash,’ he informs me with a grimace.

  ‘Well then, why don’t you chase her?’

  An instruction, not a question. He nods his head. I walk across their office, through another glass door, into mine.

  My office is too tidy. There’s a dearth of the usual scattered papers. No large cardboard boxes filled with files of documents at the moment. No Post-it stickers plastered around my computer screen and desk to remind me of urgent tasks. I’m not as busy as I’d like. My favourite shipping magnate, and major client, Aristos Kaladopolous, is on holiday, breezing around the Greek Islands on his superyacht. A blue and white plastic monstrosity, complete with a helicopter pad, three launches and an army of jet skis. His new wife is keeping him occupied, so, disappointingly, he hasn’t become involved in any legal spats for eight weeks.

  I tap my fingers on my desk. My stomach tightens. We need Sasha Reznikovitch’s money, ASAP. She is an oligarch’s daughter, who dances with the Moscow Royal Ballet. And we need some more work to come in. Maybe I should try and take another client. But then, when I’m busy I can only just manage as I am.

  The telephone rings and I pick up. My brother-in-law Aiden’s amiable voice chirrups down the line. ‘I’m in the area. Do you have time for a quick lunch?’

  There was a time when it was Julie he would have popped in to see.

  ‘As a matter of fact I do, yes.’

  And my spirits lift. Aiden is pushy and bombastic. But he is good company.

  Three hours later, we meet in his favourite restaurant, Boisdale’s. Old English. Oak panelling and oil paintings. Stiff white tablecloths. When I arrive Aiden is sitting at a table in the corner, waiting for me.

  Aiden. Miles’ younger brother. So like Miles, but not as good-looking. Aiden’s face and body have been softened by an overdose of adipose tissue. Missing Miles’ patience and kindness, he is edgy and raucous. But what Aiden has missed in serenity and looks he has gained in financial success. We are comfortable, but Caprice has boosted our finances big time. Miles has a lecturer’s salary and let’s face it – although I haven’t told my family yet, my business is on the line.

  Aiden is an entrepreneur. His business, selling innovative grease traps for London pubs and restaurants, turns over ten million a year. He has a mews house in Chelsea, a chalet in St Moritz, and a villa in Barbados (the expensive end).

  Today he sits opposite me, lowering his chin, widening his well-cushioned jowls.

  ‘How’s life going for my favourite girl?’ he asks, leaning across the table and putting his hand on my arm.

  I know why I’m his favourite girl: because he is in competition with Miles. I guess, and have guessed for years, that Julie, despite marrying Aiden, always secretly preferred her childhood sweetheart Miles. They split up when he left home to go to Cambridge. Almost immediately, she took up with Aiden, when he was on a weekend exeat from Charterhouse.

  Before he put on weight. When he still played a lot of sport.

  I suspect she took up with Aiden to claw back Miles’ attention, but Julie’s ploy didn’t work. He and I met during our first term at Trinity College Cambridge, and have been an item ever since. So even if she hoped to, Julie never had another look-in with him.

  Julie and Aiden got engaged and married a year before we did. Their wedding day was lavish and fun. They had the works; no expense spared. Church bells. Choir with Aled Jones-esque soloist; heart-breaking, jaw-dropping. Reception at Hampton Court Palace. Sit-down meal that deserved a Michelin star. Wedding favours. Toast after toast.

  But less than a year later, a week or so before Miles and I tied the knot, Julie turned up at our house, announcing that she was leaving Aiden. She knew I was away on a business trip – I had spoken to her on the phone that very morning. Allegedly she was asking Miles for shelter and advice.

  I always wondered whether there was more to it than that. Did she come to tell him how she felt about him, hoping he wouldn’t marry me?

  After talking to Miles, she left Aiden, didn’t come to our wedding, and went home to live with her parents. Only after our wedding did she then return to her husband. Was it because she had failed to entice Miles away from me? It is something I will never know the answer to. Miles says the conversation he had with her that night is confidential, and he is a man who always keeps his word.

  When Julie finally left Aiden for good, over five years ago, I became Aiden’s challenge. His revenge against his brother for being the one that his woman wanted. If he could bed me, he would. A stag thing; wanting to rut his competition’s mate. Despite the fun I have being with him, the disingenuous nature of his attention always annoys me. Not for the first time in our relationship, he places his hand on my arm.

  ‘Please stop touching me,’ I snap.

  5

  Aiden

  I’m at my favourite restaurant. And you are sitting opposite me, drinking sparkling mineral water while I nurse a large glass of Bourgogne Aligoté. It has been a huge burden to me, falling in love with my brother’s woman. I put my hand on your arm and squeeze it; in empathy, in camaraderie. But you wince. Your body stiffens.

  ‘Please stop touching me,’ you snap.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it,’ I reply, pulling my hand away. Your eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. But as I know every movement of your volatile face, I can tell you think I did mean something. ‘Look, Saffron,’ I continue, ‘I just want to know how it’s going for you now that Mother has moved into your
house.’

  You sigh and shake your head. ‘I try so hard to get on with her, but it is time to admit to you that I don’t find your mother easy.’

  ‘Well, I already know that.’ I laugh. ‘Do you remember your thirtieth birthday, when you told me that Mother always excludes you? She dotes on Miles, but not on you? You said you would have room for her in your heart if only she would let you into hers.’

  You squirm awkwardly in your chair. ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  You frown. ‘I don’t remember. I try not to complain about your mother. It’s not really fair on you, or Miles.’ You take a sip of mineral water. I watch your voluptuous lips adhere to the glass as you drink. My heart palpitates.

  I smile inside, remembering how squiffy you were that night. We walked around the garden together, in the moonlight, as I had contrived to have a private conversation with you about my relationship with Julie. I put my arm around you and you didn’t seem to mind. I shouldn’t have – you were very drunk. But then, it was worth it. I still remember the warmth of your sweet, sweet body close to mine.

  You shake your head. ‘I have no recollection of saying that.’ You take another sip of mineral water. Another purse of your generous lips. You put the glass on the table and sigh. ‘But it’s true. I would have loved to have a close friendship with a warm mother-in-law. My relationship with Caprice is not what I envisaged.’ Your eyes hold mine. ‘I have plenty of room in my heart for love.’

  My chest tightens. ‘I know you do.’

  The waitress arrives with our food. A colourful vegan concoction for you and rare calf’s liver, so undercooked that blood oozes across the plate, for me. You glance at the blood and your eyes narrow again.