The Nanny Part 9

"Is it chicken?" asked Tallulah.

"No."

"Chips?"

"No."

Tallulah gasped. "Cheese fondue!" she cried.

Take me home, thought Jo. "What is your all-time favorite food?" she said instead. The question was a sure winner. Every four-year-old's favorite food fitted in nicely with her easy recipe for chocolate Rice Krispies.

Tallulah was quiet for a while. Then she opened her eyes wide, and said in hushed awe, "Homemade hummus on home-baked brioche with garlic-stuffed olives."

Jo knelt beside her. "Well, sweetie," she exclaimed. "It's not that."

Jo planned to phone Shaun during Tallulah's ballet lesson but made the fatal error of deciding to catch a quick glimpse of Tallulah in her full tutu glory before nipping out to make the call. After half an hour of standing mesmerised by eleven fairies in the fairy wood, she realized she'd missed her chance. So she joined the other parents on the small chairs at the end of the room.

Tallulah was being a tree. Stretching up, up, up into the sky in a pink glittery concoction of feminine fancy topped with a pink flowery headband. Next to Tallulah stood, treelike, a tiny, squat four-year-old wearing a thermal vest under her tutu, ballet shoes that she would grow into well within the decade, and the face of a fairy elephant. Her mother sat beside Jo with love in her eyes.

"That's right, Xanthe!" sang the teacher, "join in."

Xanthe was far more interested in pensively picking her nose and watching Tallulah being a tree.

"Ooh, Tallulah," chirruped the teacher, "you're a lovely tree. Isn't she a lovely tree, everybody?"

Ten four-year-olds stopped being trees for a while and looked at Tallulah. Tallulah opened her face to the sun and thought tree thoughts.

"What a lovely tree," cooed the teacher. "Are you an oak or chestnut?"

"Banana."

"Oooh," said the teacher. "Lovely."

Jo only just stopped herself from tapping the woman next to her and telling her that she was Tallulah's nanny. Before she knew it, the cla.s.s was over and she realized she would have to wait to phone Shaun until after they got back home.

By the time they got back, Jo's schedule was tight. Tallulah had to be changed from a fairy to a four-year-old and eased down from the dizzy heights of tree stardom while tea had to be thought about and prepared, all within the strict deadline of pickup time for the older two children.

As the afternoon wore on, Jo's need to speak to Shaun grew increasingly uncomfortable, like an unheeded blister. Usually by now they'd have spoken briefly first thing in the morning, had a lunchtime catch-up and then squeezed in a quickie mid-afternoon to make tonight's arrangements. She'd have had macro-and micro-details of his day from the traffic jam on his way into work to today's sandwich fillings and, if there'd been time, they'd have even managed a row. After being together for so many years they could fast-track from easy-going chat to heated row within moments. But today, there had been no time to even start one. Not talking to Shaun gave Jo the oddest sensation of having gone too far out at sea and lost sight of the sh.o.r.e. But every time she picked up the phone, Tallulah bounced in with another query or demand, with the energy and persistence of a delirious pup.

To her amazement, Jo got tea, Tallulah and herself as ready as they both needed to be in time to pick up the other two. She'd have to phone Shaun this evening, she told herself firmly, and until then she'd just have to cope with being all at sea. Just as she was about to leave the house, the phone had rung. It was Diane, Vanessa's mother.

Luckily, she explained to Jo, she could squeeze in a little visit before her bridge game, as long as the children were home on time. She would be there at four on the dot, so Jo promised that would be fine and was now in a hurry. Tallulah was only too pleased to hurry along beside Jo, because she had been the best tree and she hardly had room in her little body for all the happiness. In fact, bits of happiness kept bursting out in the form of unexplained giggles and skips.

They got to Zak's school in good time. Zak caught their eye in the playground and nodded briefly with an easy smile. Then he went to shake his teacher's hand and doff his cap before obediently approaching, handing Jo his football as if she had been waiting for it all along, taking her hand in his, asking her how she was, then telling her about his day in intimate detail.

Zak and Tallulah spent an enjoyable ten minutes in the car together, as Jo drove to pick up Ca.s.sandra. They found her sitting on her own on a low wall wearing a glum expression of world-weariness. With barely a flicker of recognition, she got wordlessly into the back of the car. All three children were in their own little worlds, and Jo left them to it, concentrating on getting home without traveling via Manchester.

"I was a tree," Tallulah told them all.

When Jo got them all home at one minute to four, she discovered she'd forgotten the alarm code. Zak remembered it, but fell over on the way to the understairs cupboard and wailed so loudly he almost deafened the beeping of the alarm, but not quite. Tallulah went to look at Zak's knee while Ca.s.sandra calmly punched in the four-digit code and told Zak to stop crying like a baby. Jo wondered if now would be a good time for her to slip away home. She looked at her watch. Thirty seconds until Diane arrived. She wondered if Diane would be anything like her daughter.

Meanwhile, Diane's daughter was rather enjoying her day. Most of it had been run-of-the-mill. That morning, she walked briskly past reception at Gibson Bead Advertising Agency in Soho, holding a steaming black coffee in one hand and a bulging briefcase in the other. She headed for the lift, her strappy shoes clacking on the marble floor. She pressed the lift b.u.t.ton and checked her makeup in the glistening reflection of the lift door. Her eyes drifted behind her. There she saw Anthony Harrison from Creatives enter the building, wink at the receptionist, and stride toward the lift, whistling as he approached. She turned her head away from him and pretended to look at something on the far wall, a gesture which her subconscious knew was far more likely to attract his attention than actually engaging him in conversation.

Anthony Harrison was one of the few of the Creative team copywriters with whom Vanessa would have actually liked to work. Creatives were notoriously pampered, spoiled, and impossible, but Anthony Harrison managed to turn those traits into engaging proofs of genius. He was the man who had come up with the hugely successful b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l-It's That Time Again tampon campaign and the gloriously ironic copy of the L'Oreal line, Equality-Because I'm Worth It campaign. He seemed to be able to slip effortlessly into women's heads. Probably because he had similar access to their knickers. Vanessa prided herself on being the only woman in the entire office who was impervious to Anthony Harrison's charms. Yes, he was good-looking, creative, intelligent, and charming, she could see all that. But from about the age of three, when Vanessa had first started loving everything about the male s.e.x, she had been attracted only to dark men. As far as she had always been concerned, blond men were as manly as Barbie. It just didn't work for her. All her boyfriends had been dark-haired, and her husband was dark-haired and olive-skinned, with soulful brown eyes. Anthony Harrison had thick hair that flopped over his forehead in an endearingly boyish way, but it was flaxen. His skin was smooth as silk, but it was fair; his eyes were deep and penetrating, but they were blue. Vanessa was safe.

Anthony stood next to Vanessa, and she kept her eyes firmly on the wall, conscious that he was managing to give her the once-over without moving his head. She smiled inwardly. Men were so predictable. Which was, she knew, one of the many reasons she adored them.

The lift chimed and its doors slid silently open. Here she acknowledged Anthony's presence for the first time, at which he gestured for her to go in before him. She smiled delicately, just the right amount to accentuate her apple cheekbones and remain enigmatic. They stood next to each other in silence as the lift ascended. Vanessa got out first. Creatives was on the top floor-or the "penthouse" as it was known-offering superior views and thicker carpets than the rest of the building. As she walked away, she could feel Anthony Harrison's eyes scan her figure once more. In the reception mirror she could see him ignoring the glances from women already at their desks, keeping his eyes focused on her retreating view as long as possible, tilting his head sideways as the doors shut in front of him. She felt her endorphins skip with vengeful satisfaction at the thought that men still found her s.e.xy.

She walked swiftly through the office, her coffee high, her head higher, and her self-esteem somewhere in the clouds. It was the best part of the day. Unfortunately it was nearly over. She swept confidently into her office, shut the door, and walked over to her desk. She put her coffee next to the up-to-date photos of the children, hefted her briefcase onto the desk, and sat down, moving fast to distract herself from the deflation already setting in.

There was a rat-a-tat at her door.

"Come!" ordered Vanessa.

The door swung open dramatically and Max Gibson, agency founder and onetime advertising guru, stood theatrically in its center, with a smile on his face wider than his bow tie. Max's days of inspired campaign ideas were long gone, but his onetime pulse-of-the-nation slogans were now so anachronistic they were postmodern in a totally up-to-the-minute way. He was enjoying his retrospective phase far more than he enjoyed his initial success, when he'd been too ambitious to enjoy anything.

"Vanessa, sweetie," he bellowed through his cigar. "VC wants an agency review! We've been asked to pitch!"

Vanessa blinked in amazement. Archrival, McFarleys', had held the much-coveted Vital Communications account for almost five years. Their latest campaign-a very trendy teddy bear with his own mobile phone and website-had slowly grown stale, but because the sales were still up, everyone in the business a.s.sumed McFarleys' would be safe for years to come.

"You're kidding!" Vanessa cried.

Max roared with laughter. "Would I kid about something this big?" he twinkled. If his bow tie could have spun it would. "Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds must be s.h.i.+tting themselves." He laughed, then suddenly turned deadly serious. "I want the best creative team we've got. I don't care how up their a.r.s.es they are, in fact the higher up the better. I want a creative team who are so up their own holes, they're f.u.c.king potholing. I want them to give you migraines, I want a team that are so G.o.ddam good, they make your life a nightmare. I want you committing suicide over this, sweetie."

"You want me to head this?" gasped Vanessa.

"Head it? Head it?" exclaimed Max. "I want you to mastermind it! I want you to f.u.c.king Mussolini it! And I expect you to pick the best. The creme-de-la-f.u.c.king-creme."

"Right," said Vanessa, pen in hand.

"Anyone in mind?"

"You know," said Vanessa. "I've never worked with Anthony Harrison and Tom Blatt before."

"You're s.h.i.+tting me?" exploded Max. "That's criminal. How long have you been here? What? Eight years? Call a lunch meeting at Groucho's p.r.o.nto."

"Okay," said Vanessa. "You're the boss."

She picked up her coffee, and Max winked at her through the cigar smoke.

Anthony Harrison looked out past the line of awards on the window ledge, out toward Soho, which was starting to buzz with antic.i.p.ation of the approaching summer. The rumors about the VC pitch had already started.

Tom Blatt was Anthony's partner in crime, a graphic artist, who, in his own modest words could create images that got "blue-rinses to buy p.i.s.s in a bottle." Tom wasn't a wordsman. He sat in the office he and Anthony shared frowning so hard it was giving him one of his heads.

"If Goofy and Grumpy get it," he told Anthony, "I'm leaving. Leaving. That's it. Moving onto a houseboat to paint flowers on f.u.c.king watering cans."

"For Christ's sake," said Anthony. "Why do you immediately a.s.sume the worst?"

Tom shrugged. "Helps me deal," he muttered.

"With what? Nothing's happened yet."

"When it does, I'll be ready. Healthy pessimism. Worked for van Gogh."

"How? He cut off his ear and killed himself."

"But look how famous he is now-"

"Tom. You're in advertising. You're not going to cut off your ear, and you're never going to be famous."

Tom slumped down on the leather swivel chair opposite Anthony's desk. "I bet that b.i.t.c.h gives it to Goofy and Grumpy. She wouldn't know talent if it c.r.a.pped on her face."

"What b.i.t.c.h. Who's heading it?"

"Vanessa Fitzgerald."

"b.u.g.g.e.r! I was in the lift with her this morning. Should have given her a bit of the old Tony treatment."

Tom let out a big sigh. "How come the suits wield all the power, and we're the ones with the talent?"

"Dunno, Tom."

Anthony's phone rang. Anthony and Tom stared at each other, and after three rings, Anthony picked it up.

"Anthony Harrison."

"Anthony?" It was a female voice, firm but friendly.

"Yup."

"Vanessa."

"Hi, Vanessa!"

Tom sat up in his chair.

"I won't bush-beat," said Vanessa. "You know we've got the VC pitch?"

"I had heard some rumor."

"You and Tom interested?"

Anthony grinned at Tom.

"Yeah, why not? I'm sure we could squeeze it in.'

"Let's have a meet," Vanessa continued. "Monday's the earliest I can do it. Groucho's, 1 p.m. You, me, Tom, and Max."

"Great. I'll let Tom know." He put the phone down and punched the air.

Downstairs, Vanessa replaced her phone slowly and replayed Anthony's answers in her head, reveling in the controlled excitement she'd heard in his voice. There was something extremely endearing about a man pretending he didn't feel your power over him.

At four o'clock, Vanessa found a window to phone Jo at home.

"Hi! How's it going?"

Jo cradled the phone on her shoulder. She kept an ear out for Diane, due to arrive any second, while the other ear was still ringing from the sound of the house alarm. She knew she'd have to get the Rice Krispies started if she was going to get them finished in time for tea.

"How was school?" asked Vanessa, while finis.h.i.+ng her progress report on a cereal ad. Jo tried to think. "Fine. Zak had a spelling test. He got "whether" right with an "h." The teacher was very pleased. He needs a new recorder because the big boys used it as a goalpost and it got broken. Ca.s.sandra had a math lesson, and Tallulah sat next to Ella for painting." She a.s.sembled all the ingredients together on the worktop and smiled. She knew the Children Commandments. There Shall Be Ingredients for Chocolate Rice Krispies in the House at All Times.

"Mmhmm," said Vanessa, signing the bottom of her notes. "Please put that in the diary, I'll buy him a recorder on the weekend."

Spider-Man hurled himself into the kitchen, unaware that baggy, saggy underpants ruined the overall effect somewhat. "Have you moved my cyberdog?" he asked Jo, his voice rising unsteadily.

"I thought you were getting ready for your nan?" said Jo, looking down at Zak. "She won't want to see you like that, will she?"

Max poked his head round Vanessa's office door. "Did you speak to Anthony?" he bellowed, ignoring the phone in her hand.

Vanessa grinned and nodded at Max, while saying "What's he wearing?"

"How the f.u.c.k do I know what he's wearing?" asked Max.

"He's Spider-Man," answered Jo into the phone.

"Oh dear."

"Have you moved my cyberdog?" repeated Spider-Man, hitching up his pants and getting tearful.

"I talked to them earlier this morning," Vanessa told Max, giving him the thumbs-up.

"Did you?" asked Jo. "They didn't tell me."

"No, the Creatives, not the children."

"The what?"

"I can't find my cyberdog!"

"If you can get into your smart trousers and s.h.i.+rt, I'll come and help you look for it," said Jo.

"Has he been holding his w.i.l.l.y at all today?" asked Vanessa.

"I hope to Christ you're not talking to a client," snapped Max.

"Must dash," said Vanessa. "I'm frantic. Bye."

Jo clicked off the phone, gave Spider-Man a secret mission to get into his smart clothes that Nan liked (thus putting the baddies off the scent), put the phone in the fridge, took the phone out of the fridge, and continued to make chocolate Rice Krispies.