does he do?”
“He’s a plumber—”
Clare interrupts. “He has his own business, Davina. Plumbers earn a fortune these days. Ours went to the Maldives for a fortnight last year.
We
can’t afford to go to the Maldives—”
“Yes, thank you, Clare. I do know the value of a good plumber,” I retort tartly. “He doesn’t mind, your boyfriend, that you’ve taken a position where you’re required to live in?”
“Oh, but she wasn’t required to—”
“He doesn’t mind,” Jenna says.
She doesn’t quite meet my eye. Hmm. I know what that means.
“And your parents?” I ask. “What did you say your father does?”
“Davina.” Clare laughs self-consciously. “Stop giving her the third degree.”
I dread to think how my daughter found this girl. A poster on a lamppost, perhaps? Did she not think to check what kind of family the girl comes from? Knowing Clare, she’ll have considered it “judgmental” to investigate her background. I wonder how much effort she put into researching the purchase of each of her flower shops, and checking the references of those she employed there. And how much time, in contrast, she spent finding the woman who will be shaping her children’s characters, molding their minds.
Clare has no idea. A nanny affects the way your child sees the world, and sets the defaults in their nature.
Give me a child until he is seven, and I will show you the man
.
I blame Nanny Frieda in no small measure for the way Clare has turned out. She was the one who encouraged Clare to mess about with pots in the greenhouse. It was amusing at first, and Clare certainly had an eye for color and detail. By the time she was twelve, everyone wanted her to do their flowers. It was rather sweet to have her go to friends’ houses and throw a few roses prettily in a vase. Reflected rather nicely. But I never expected her to pursue it as a
career
. First the business degree—I know university is all the rage these days, and it can be a good way to find a husband if you choose the right sort of place; but Clare spent her entire time studying,
such
a bluestocking. Then came the obsession with setting up her own company. She ran herself ragged financing it all herself, buying up bits of land to grow things, wouldn’t take a penny from Guy or use any of the spare acreage at Long Meadow. I was rather relieved when she finally said she’d met a man. She was thirty-one, after all. If she’d left it any longer, she’d have missed the boat.
“I suppose you’ll go back to work now.” I sigh, passing Marc the deviled eggs. “I’m sure the children will miss you.”
“It’s only part-time to begin with, Davina. The twins will be fine with Jenna; it’ll be like having three parents living at home, instead of two.”
“I’ve told Clare she really doesn’t have to—”
“I
want
to, Marc.”
Trouble in Paradise. I thought as much.
All this fuss about careers. Men may tolerate a workingwife these days, but that doesn’t mean they
like
it. They just want a nice house and a pretty wife and children to come home to, whatever they might tell you. Men are simple. They know it. Women have to understand that, if they expect to be truly happy with their husbands. A good man is hard to find, not keep. All one has to do is give them good food, respect, appreciation, and plenty of sex. Lots of sex and no nagging. It isn’t hard.
To paraphrase that marvellous American President (
dear
Jackie: Now there was a woman who knew what men want): Girls these days get married thinking about what their husband can do for them, not what they can do for their husband. Is it any wonder so many of them run off with the au pair?
I push my omelette around the plate. “Darling,” I suggest, “now that you’ve got a spare pair of hands, why don’t you spend a bit of time on yourself? Get back in shape, buy a few pretty clothes. I know your shops kept you busy when you had time on your hands, but there’s really no
“He’s a plumber—”
Clare interrupts. “He has his own business, Davina. Plumbers earn a fortune these days. Ours went to the Maldives for a fortnight last year.
We
can’t afford to go to the Maldives—”
“Yes, thank you, Clare. I do know the value of a good plumber,” I retort tartly. “He doesn’t mind, your boyfriend, that you’ve taken a position where you’re required to live in?”
“Oh, but she wasn’t required to—”
“He doesn’t mind,” Jenna says.
She doesn’t quite meet my eye. Hmm. I know what that means.
“And your parents?” I ask. “What did you say your father does?”
“Davina.” Clare laughs self-consciously. “Stop giving her the third degree.”
I dread to think how my daughter found this girl. A poster on a lamppost, perhaps? Did she not think to check what kind of family the girl comes from? Knowing Clare, she’ll have considered it “judgmental” to investigate her background. I wonder how much effort she put into researching the purchase of each of her flower shops, and checking the references of those she employed there. And how much time, in contrast, she spent finding the woman who will be shaping her children’s characters, molding their minds.
Clare has no idea. A nanny affects the way your child sees the world, and sets the defaults in their nature.
Give me a child until he is seven, and I will show you the man
.
I blame Nanny Frieda in no small measure for the way Clare has turned out. She was the one who encouraged Clare to mess about with pots in the greenhouse. It was amusing at first, and Clare certainly had an eye for color and detail. By the time she was twelve, everyone wanted her to do their flowers. It was rather sweet to have her go to friends’ houses and throw a few roses prettily in a vase. Reflected rather nicely. But I never expected her to pursue it as a
career
. First the business degree—I know university is all the rage these days, and it can be a good way to find a husband if you choose the right sort of place; but Clare spent her entire time studying,
such
a bluestocking. Then came the obsession with setting up her own company. She ran herself ragged financing it all herself, buying up bits of land to grow things, wouldn’t take a penny from Guy or use any of the spare acreage at Long Meadow. I was rather relieved when she finally said she’d met a man. She was thirty-one, after all. If she’d left it any longer, she’d have missed the boat.
“I suppose you’ll go back to work now.” I sigh, passing Marc the deviled eggs. “I’m sure the children will miss you.”
“It’s only part-time to begin with, Davina. The twins will be fine with Jenna; it’ll be like having three parents living at home, instead of two.”
“I’ve told Clare she really doesn’t have to—”
“I
want
to, Marc.”
Trouble in Paradise. I thought as much.
All this fuss about careers. Men may tolerate a workingwife these days, but that doesn’t mean they
like
it. They just want a nice house and a pretty wife and children to come home to, whatever they might tell you. Men are simple. They know it. Women have to understand that, if they expect to be truly happy with their husbands. A good man is hard to find, not keep. All one has to do is give them good food, respect, appreciation, and plenty of sex. Lots of sex and no nagging. It isn’t hard.
To paraphrase that marvellous American President (
dear
Jackie: Now there was a woman who knew what men want): Girls these days get married thinking about what their husband can do for them, not what they can do for their husband. Is it any wonder so many of them run off with the au pair?
I push my omelette around the plate. “Darling,” I suggest, “now that you’ve got a spare pair of hands, why don’t you spend a bit of time on yourself? Get back in shape, buy a few pretty clothes. I know your shops kept you busy when you had time on your hands, but there’s really no
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