As they both stood up, he towered over her and she felt
oddly swamped by him, not just his size, but the strength of
his personality. He would be a dangerous opponent, she
thought.
He handed her her briefcase, smiled at her. It was a
genuinely warm, fatherly smile. ‘I’ve enjoyed our conversation,’
he said. ‘Honestly. Can I get you a cab?’
‘No, the doorman will do it. Thank you. Goodbye Michael.’
He grinned again, his huge hand surrounding hen, ‘Goodbye, Octavia. And I think you should cut out the
power breakfasts at least.’
She managed to smile again and left.
The twins were in their pyjamas watching the nursery TV
when she got back, and greeted her rather desultorily.
Minty was asleep, her bedclothes thrown off, nesting
amongst a mound of toys in her cot, small bottom thrust
into the air, dark curls stuck damply to the nape of her
neck. Octavia looked at her, in all her small sweet rosy
perfection, tried to imagine her one day noisy, restlessly
argumentative like the twins, and failed, or rather quailed
from it, heard Carlton’s voice again — ‘You want to make
the most of them when they’re little.’
She pulled the quilt tenderly up over the small body, and
as she turned and left the room, she found her eyes full of
tears.
She knew why: and it wasn’t just because of what
Michael Carlton had said.
Caroline, the nanny, was in the kitchen when Octavia went
down, and greeted her rather coolly. ‘Ah, Mrs Fleming.
What happened?’
‘What do you mean, what happened?’ said Octavia
sharply. She felt unable to cope with any more conflict.
‘I thought you were getting home by seven at the latest,
this evening. At least, that’s what you said.’
‘Oh, God!’ She had told Caroline she could have the
evening off. ‘I’m so sorry, Caroline. You were going out,
weren’t you? Well, it’s only—’
‘Eight. Too late, I’m afraid. We were going to the
cinema.’
‘Caroline, I am sorry. My husband suddenly needed me
to meet one of his clients and — oh, dear, what can I say? I
forgot. How dreadful of me. Are you sure it’s too late?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I’d arranged to meet my boyfriend at
seven.’
‘You should have rung me. On my mobile.’
‘I did try.’
Yes, and of course she had switched it off, for the Savoy.
She looked at Caroline rather helplessly. ‘Well, look, you
must have - oh, dear, not this weekend off, we’ve got
people over from the States. Maybe next—’
“The next one would be nice, Mrs Fleming. As actually
we did agree - perhaps you’ve forgotten.’ Her voice was
polite, but her expression was very hard. ‘I’ve arranged to
go away, and—’
‘No, of course I haven’t forgotten,’ said Octavia quickly.
Caroline was supposed to have three weekends a month
off; lately it had dwindled to more like the other way
round. She was quite good natured beneath her daunting
manner, and she was very fond of all three children, Minty
in particular, but reneging on what was, after all, a written
contract, clearly made her angry. She did not smile now at
Octavia, merely turned towards the door.
Octavia, reading her body language, sensing danger (for
she had seen four nannies off already in her eight years of
motherhood), said, ‘No, of course you must have that
weekend. Why don’t you take the Monday as well, make it
a really long one? Friday would be more difficult, we’ve got
some do, I think, but—’
‘Oh, that would be marvellous, Mrs Fleming. Thank
you. If you can manage it …”
‘Yes, of course I can. We certainly owe it to you. And
Caroline, I’m sorry about this evening. Again.’
“Thank you, Mrs Fleming. Right, well, I think I’ll go up to my room now, I’m very tired. Oh, by the way, your father phoned. No message, but he’ll ring again.’
He certainly will, thought Octavia; she might leave the
answering machine to deal with him. ‘Fine,’ she said, ‘thank
you.’
Caroline turned and ran up the stairs. Octavia watched
her, thinking distractedly what good legs she had, how
pretty she was altogether, tall, fair haired, athletic looking,
wondering why she had chosen to be a nanny of all things.
Her father was a prosperous solicitor and she’d gone to a good school; she had A-levels, she could have done’ anything, anything at all, and yet she’d opted to take care of other people’s children. Very odd: even if the reward (Ł200 a week clear, own flat, sole use of car) were so good No status, no freedom… Well, better not waste time
meditating on that one, thought Octavia, pouring boiling
water on to her peppermint teabag - she could save on a lot of calories if she cut out supper — and went back to the playroom, concentrating her thoughts and the necessary
willpower on her children. They deserved some of her,
quite a lot of her; they really didn’t get enough.
The twins had wearied of their video and were engaged in
their favourite occupation of arguing. People who disapproved
of Octavia — or who, more precisely, were envious
of her, resented her success, her charmed life, her gilded
lifestyle — often said it was irritatingly predictable that she
would have had twins, would have instantly acquired a
family, rather than just a child, would have got pregnancy
and breastfeeding and postnatal exhaustion and the inevitable
career break over and done with all at once. No
wondering when or indeed whether to embark on the next
pregnancy for Octavia; there it was, her family (and even a
boy and a girl, for heaven’s sake), readymade, with the least
possible inconvenience not only to herself but her colleagues
and her clients as well.
Octavia herself, delighted by the charm, the distinction
of twins, was at first unaware of the professional benefits
they brought her, and was surprised and hurt the first time
she heard these expressed by an outside source; later on, she
was amused — and faintly shocked — to find herself
recognising its wisdom.
The first occupant of a professional woman’s womb is a
novelty, interesting both to herself and to others - not least
in the challenge it represents to her lifestyle and working
systems; the second is an also ran, recognised for what it is, a
necessary adjunct to the first, at once easier and more difficult to accommodate, the absence from the desk so much less acceptable, the non-availability to clients and colleagues so much more tedious. All Octavia’s professional friends had taken less time off with the second baby (while needing it more), most of them back within two months: all pale, thin, manically over-conscientious. In contrast, Octavia’s progress through the maze of working motherhood was, if not smooth, at least steady, and she was most gratefully aware of the fact. Until, of course, the arrival of Minty …
But she thought now, climbing the stairs on legs that were suddenly heavily and weakly weary, the twins, however convenient, were immensely exhausting. She could hear them arguing about what they were going to watch or do next; they argued all the time, it was to them like breathing, a constant background to everything they did. She had hoped that when they had been separated, sent to different schools — or rather when Poppy had been sent to Bute House, as part of her inevitable progression to St Paul’s Girls’ School, leaving Gideon at Hill House, on his own inevitable one to Winchester - that they would meet at the end of each day more peacefully. But they did not. It
wasn’t that they didn’t like each other, rather the reverse, but simply that they possessed a tumultuous energy, which fuelled in its turn an intense need to pursue any disagreement,
any difference of opinion, to its logical end.
Peaceable settlement of any matter was out of the question.
Even asleep they were restless, tossing and turning,
talking, even giggling. They had wild, unruly dark hair,
brilliantly deep-blue eyes, ceaselessly watchful expressions.
They were almost nine now, and very alike; perhaps more so in their middle childhood, resolutely asexual, than they ever would be again. They were incredibly exhausting: that
was another thing people said about twins, that they were
easier, once the first year was over, than ordinary siblings,
but nobody could have said that of Gideon and Poppy.
Octavia took a deep breath now, braced herself, went
into the playroom. ‘Hallo again. Had a good day?’
‘Gross,’ said Gideon.
‘Brilliant,’ said Poppy.
‘Okay, one at a time! Why gross, Gideon?’
‘Got gated.’
‘What for?’
‘Talking. In Latin.’
‘What a surprise.’
‘Yeah, and I didn’t get into the soccer team. That pig
Johnson did instead, he’s so—’
‘Much better than you?’ said Poppy sweetly.
‘Shut up, Poppy! Of course he’s not. He’s been practising
on the sly, that’s why, and sucking up to—’
‘You can’t practise on the sly,’ said Poppy, who was a
stickler for syntax. ‘You can only do things on the sly that
aren’t allowed. Practising soccer is obviously allowed,
there’s nothing wrong with it.’
‘There might be,’ said Gideon darkly.
‘How could there be?’
‘Look,’ said Octavia, ‘Johnson wouldn’t have been
chosen for the team unless he was good enough. Bad luck,
Gideon, but there’s always next time.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ said Gideon. ‘You don’t care about
games, you wouldn’t want to be in a team.’
This was so unarguable that Octavia was silent for a
moment; then she rallied.
‘No, but I know about getting in other things. Like
companies I want to work for and can’t, it’s like that really.
I know about being disappointed.’
‘Work!’ said Gideon. ‘That’s all you think about. How
could work be as important as playing for your school?’
‘I think it’s about the same actually,’ said Octavia firmly.
‘Now then, Poppy. What was so good about your day?’
‘Lots! I came top in French and got asked to Camilla
Bartlett’s party.’
‘Did you, darling? How lovely.’
‘More than lovely,’ said Poppy. ‘Her dad’s renting a
plane and flying twelve of us to France. I’ve got a letter
here.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Octavia, her eyes scanning the letter
(‘… love you to join us … 19 June… Le Touquet … day by the French seaside… bring swimmers and something a bit more formal to wear for lunch … ask your mother to phone me … Lauren Bartlett …’), ‘whatever happened to musical bumps?’
‘It might be bumpy,’ said Gideon, ‘on the plane. They often are, those little ones. Then you’d be sick. Then you might not be so pleased.’
‘Oh, shut up, Gideon. Why do you have to spoil
everything?’
“That’s not spoiling it. That’s just being truthful.’
‘Of course it’s spoiling it, it’s saying it won’t be nice,
when it will.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Twins, please!’ said Octavia wearily. ‘Listen, shall we
play something before you go to bed?’
‘Like what? Murder Mystery?’
‘No, there isn’t time for that. You know those games take hours.’
‘So what, then?’ Poppy’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.
‘Something like Scrabble? Pelmanism?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘Bor-ing,’ they said in unison. ‘No thanks.’
At least she had stopped them arguing.
They watched the first twenty minutes of A Hundred and
One Dalmatians, and then went to bed. The last thing
Octavia heard as she went back down the stairs was them
arguing (from their different rooms) about whether the
landing light should be on or off.
Octavia went into her bedroom and changed into some
leggings and a sweatshirt and then walked very slowly along
the corridor to her study. She always spent her rare solitary
evenings there, working, writing letters, making phone
calls. It was where she felt happiest, most at home, most
safe.
The day’s post was on her desk, placed there by Miri
Donaldson. She put Poppy’s invitation on the top of the
pile, and sat looking at it, oddly unsettled by the events of
her day; by the difficult lunch with Margaret Piper, by the contretemps with Caroline, by the near confrontation with Michael Carlton.
He was right, in a way, about the children. They did
grow up so quickly, and you did miss so much. She hadn’t
been there when the twins had taken their first steps, or
when Poppy had said her first joined-up sentence (although
it was engraved on her heart and her conscience: ‘Mummy
gone work’), but could she really have spent all that time in
all those years with them, long, long tedious days with
nothing to think about but the house and the supper and
whether they were going to get chickenpox this time
round?
It was very shocking, but she feared she could not; the
restless, questing, ambitious Octavia would have become
bored, depressed, and therefore, and inevitably, a bad
mother. Far better that she was fun, adoring, interesting for
them. Only — that was what all working mothers argued.
And it wasn’t quite true. She knew it. She quite often
wasn’t interesting or fun; she was too tired, if she was there
at all. The whole concept of quality time was a dreadful