all,” said Ali, ignoring their invasion of her privacy.
“And if you have a boyfriend, we’d prefer you to stay with him,” said Bryony.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” said Ali firmly.
“Then I think that we’ve covered all the ground,” said Bryony, efficiently organizing papers until the file that said “Nanny No. 6” was on the top of the pile. “How many families are you choosing between?”
“Sorry?” said Ali in confusion.
“How many other interviews are you doing?”
Ali was unsure what to say. She glanced from Bryony to Nick and saw that he was holding up three fingers away from his wife’s field of vision.
“Er, three,” said Ali.
“Your room would be on the fifth floor, across the landing from the twins and round the corner from Izzy,” Bryony said. “It’s got a wonderful view over the garden, and there’s a small kitchenette and sitting room. The only downside is that you don’t have an en suite. I hope this isn’t a big problem.”
“Not at all,” said Ali, who didn’t want to tell them she had never had her own bathroom.
“And we have a busy social life,” said Bryony, looking up from her list. “So you’d sometimes need to be around in the evenings to help look after the children. We used to have a weekend nanny, but it’s too disruptive, so we’re looking for someone who can do everything.”
“Great,” said Ali.
4
September 2006
“Olio Chesterton,” Foy Chesterton called out in a singsong voice as though he was manning a market stall. “First press. Extra-virgin. Get Malea to use it to make a stifado .” He stood on the bottom step of the stairs that led from the raised ground floor down into the kitchen on the lower ground floor until he was certain that everyone was looking at him, and then triumphantly removed a bottle of murky liquid from a beach basket.
Improbably for London in September, Foy was wearing a pair of muddy-brown shorts, a perfectly ironed short-sleeved shirt, and deck shoes with ankle socks. His calves and thighs were tanned and hardened from two months of playing tennis every day in Corfu, his face as dark and wrinkled as one of the olives picked from his farm. When he stepped into the kitchen, Foy instinctively stooped, as tall men do, and then quickly unfurled again. The huge room didn’t seem big enough to contain his energy. The twins surged forward to greet him, and clung on to his legs like limpets. He didn’t flinch.
“Where’s Cerberus?” he boomed. On cue, Leicester barked from the garden, furiously throwing himself against the glass door as he realized he was excluded from the festivity inside.
“Thanks, Dad,” said Bryony, stepping forward to take the olive oil from his hand. “Maybe we should save it? Does olive oil have vintage years? Does it improve with age?” She quickly kissed him once on each cheek.
“Like me, do you mean?” said Foy, bending down extravagantly to pick up a twin under each arm. “You should drink a spoonful of that stuff every day so that your bones grow as strong as your grandfather’s,” he told them as they tried to wriggle free. Making suitable noises of disgust, Hector and Alfie buried their noses into his neck and ruffled his soft, gray hair until it stood on end.
“Do you have something for us?” they pleaded. He unceremoniously dropped them on the floor, slapped his pockets, and shrugged his shoulders.
“I forgot,” he said dramatically. He noticed Izzy standing by the kitchen table and gestured for her to come forward. Like a magician, he pulled out a brightly colored sarong and matching bikini from the basket and threw it toward her in a high arc over the twins’ heads. She caught it as it fluttered between her outstretched hands. The twins took advantage to make for the bag, but Foy caught them and held them aloft, laughing as their little legs hopelessly pedaled in the air.
“For my most beautiful granddaughter,” he said dramatically.
“Thanks,” said
“And if you have a boyfriend, we’d prefer you to stay with him,” said Bryony.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” said Ali firmly.
“Then I think that we’ve covered all the ground,” said Bryony, efficiently organizing papers until the file that said “Nanny No. 6” was on the top of the pile. “How many families are you choosing between?”
“Sorry?” said Ali in confusion.
“How many other interviews are you doing?”
Ali was unsure what to say. She glanced from Bryony to Nick and saw that he was holding up three fingers away from his wife’s field of vision.
“Er, three,” said Ali.
“Your room would be on the fifth floor, across the landing from the twins and round the corner from Izzy,” Bryony said. “It’s got a wonderful view over the garden, and there’s a small kitchenette and sitting room. The only downside is that you don’t have an en suite. I hope this isn’t a big problem.”
“Not at all,” said Ali, who didn’t want to tell them she had never had her own bathroom.
“And we have a busy social life,” said Bryony, looking up from her list. “So you’d sometimes need to be around in the evenings to help look after the children. We used to have a weekend nanny, but it’s too disruptive, so we’re looking for someone who can do everything.”
“Great,” said Ali.
4
September 2006
“Olio Chesterton,” Foy Chesterton called out in a singsong voice as though he was manning a market stall. “First press. Extra-virgin. Get Malea to use it to make a stifado .” He stood on the bottom step of the stairs that led from the raised ground floor down into the kitchen on the lower ground floor until he was certain that everyone was looking at him, and then triumphantly removed a bottle of murky liquid from a beach basket.
Improbably for London in September, Foy was wearing a pair of muddy-brown shorts, a perfectly ironed short-sleeved shirt, and deck shoes with ankle socks. His calves and thighs were tanned and hardened from two months of playing tennis every day in Corfu, his face as dark and wrinkled as one of the olives picked from his farm. When he stepped into the kitchen, Foy instinctively stooped, as tall men do, and then quickly unfurled again. The huge room didn’t seem big enough to contain his energy. The twins surged forward to greet him, and clung on to his legs like limpets. He didn’t flinch.
“Where’s Cerberus?” he boomed. On cue, Leicester barked from the garden, furiously throwing himself against the glass door as he realized he was excluded from the festivity inside.
“Thanks, Dad,” said Bryony, stepping forward to take the olive oil from his hand. “Maybe we should save it? Does olive oil have vintage years? Does it improve with age?” She quickly kissed him once on each cheek.
“Like me, do you mean?” said Foy, bending down extravagantly to pick up a twin under each arm. “You should drink a spoonful of that stuff every day so that your bones grow as strong as your grandfather’s,” he told them as they tried to wriggle free. Making suitable noises of disgust, Hector and Alfie buried their noses into his neck and ruffled his soft, gray hair until it stood on end.
“Do you have something for us?” they pleaded. He unceremoniously dropped them on the floor, slapped his pockets, and shrugged his shoulders.
“I forgot,” he said dramatically. He noticed Izzy standing by the kitchen table and gestured for her to come forward. Like a magician, he pulled out a brightly colored sarong and matching bikini from the basket and threw it toward her in a high arc over the twins’ heads. She caught it as it fluttered between her outstretched hands. The twins took advantage to make for the bag, but Foy caught them and held them aloft, laughing as their little legs hopelessly pedaled in the air.
“For my most beautiful granddaughter,” he said dramatically.
“Thanks,” said
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