Chapter 6
SIX
Beatrice stepped into the elevator, which had been opened by a uniformed doorman using a code. Because it only led to the penthouse level, it was small and had no buttons to press.
But it did have a mirror. As the doors glided shut in front of her, she turned and scrutinised her reflection: her make-up was carefully toned down, her blonde hair in a ponytail. She knew her tailored wool pants were carefully pressed and she could see that her primrose-coloured cashmere sweater was clean. She reckoned she’d nailed the nanny aesthetic: smart but homely, conservative yet relaxed.
The elevator was warm. Beatrice could feel the fibres of her sweater prickling her armpits under her charcoal wool coat, and realised she was sweating. She had no reason to be nervous, and yet she was. These people, who she’d only met over Skype, would be not only her employers but as good as her family. She’d be expected to change the smaller one’s diapers, kiss them both goodnight, cook their meals and dry their tears.
Hopefully they wouldn’t cry too much. Hopefully they wouldn’t shit too much either. But there wasn’t much chance of that.
The elevator came to a stop with a barely perceptible jolt and the doors silently parted. Beatrice stepped out on to an expanse of polished parquet, a white-walled hallway stretching ahead of her. She could smell something cooking – a casserole, maybe. She wondered if they’d ask her to stay for dinner; part of her dreaded that prospect, but she was also hungry.
‘Beatrice!’ A woman hurried into view, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Her face was familiar from the Skype calls – a sharp dark bob, heavy brows, pale lipstick – but Beatrice hadn’t seen the rest of her before, and she was reluctantly impressed by the tight black leather pants, cream silk blouse and catwalk slimness. ‘I’m Frances.’
Frances leaned in to embrace her, and Beatrice cautiously returned the hug. She didn’t like touching people much, especially not strangers.
‘Great to meet you,’ she managed.
‘May I take your things?’ Frances helped Beatrice off with her coat. ‘Did you find the place okay?’
‘Not really,’ Beatrice admitted. ‘It’s kind of confusing out… down there.’
‘Tell me about it!’ Frances laughed. ‘When we first moved here from New York, I used to lose the building every single time. But you’ll get used to it. Let me show you round and then we’ll have a chat.’
Frances slid open a concealed door and hung Beatrice’s coat in a closet with a load of others, many of them child-sized. Then she led the way through into the apartment.
Beatrice couldn’t suppress a gasp of amazement. The place was huge, the gleaming stretch of floor punctuated by leather and chrome Eames couches, silvery-cream rugs and a huge glass dining table. But all that was nothing compared to the view revealed by vast sheets of glass on two sides of the room. London lay spread out below her, countless golden and amber lights glowing in the darkness, tall buildings reaching up to pierce the night sky, the river a black ribbon snaking through it all.
‘It’s stunning,’ she said.
Frances smiled. ‘Isn’t it? We lived on the Upper West Side before, and I never thought we’d get a view like that. But this comes close. Now the kitchen is through here, and Peter’s office, our bedroom, the kids’ playroom…’
She led the way around the apartment, softly opening and closing doors. The place was enormous – Beatrice figured it would take her almost as long to work out its geography as it was taking her to get her head around the subway (or, for that matter, remember that she was meant to call it the Tube).
‘Slate and Parker’s room is here.’ Frances laid a palm on the flat white surface of a door. ‘They’re asleep already – Parker goes down at six thirty and Slate at seven thirty, although now he’s dropped his nap he’s often kind of cranky by then. So after that you’ll be free to clear up anything that needs doing and relax until Peter or I get home.’
‘I see.’ Already, Beatrice was looking forward to seven thirty on her first day.
‘And this is the guest suite.’ Frances opened another door and flicked on a light. Inside was a spacious, comfortable room, doors leading off it to a bathroom and presumably a closet. ‘I know you said you’d prefer to live out, but perhaps now you’ve seen the apartment…’
She gestured temptingly around her – All these things I will give thee.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ Beatrice said. ‘Honestly, you’re so kind. And if you ever need to work late, if you’re out or whatever, I’d be glad to stay over. But I’d love to have a place of my own and some independence.’
The threat of a lecherous husband she’d made up for her mother clearly couldn’t be produced for her employer. Beatrice waited for a reaction, feeling her nails dig into her palms as she clenched her fists.
But Frances surprised her. ‘I totally get it. You’ll want to stay with people your own age, make friends, see the sights on your days off. Do you need some pointers on areas that might be suitable? Here in Canary Wharf there are plenty of apartments with young professionals looking for sharers. Many of them are from the US too, like us. Peter could ask around at work and help you find something affordable? I could too, only young people working in fashion tend to live in areas that are a bit… You know. Sketchy.’
Beatrice hesitated a moment, then said, ‘Actually, I was thinking maybe Spitalfields. It’s easy to get here by bus.’
‘Spitalfields?’ Frances’s eyebrows rose so high they disappeared behind her smooth dark bangs. ‘Now that is sketchy.’
Beatrice forced a laugh. ‘More bohemian, right? I read it’s kind of the fashion centre of London, like the Garment District. I’d love to be based right in the heart of all that.’
‘I totally get that too.’ Frances’s smile was warm. ‘So I will ask around at work, then. But you’re all set for now, right? Until you find somewhere more permanent?’
Beatrice nodded. ‘I’m in a hotel. Mom and Dad offered to sub my accommodation for the first couple of weeks. And it’s right close by, so I’ll be here at seven sharp tomorrow.’
‘Great! Peter might already have left for the office by then, but I’m here until eight thirty most mornings, so I can give you a hand with the morning carnage. Slate’s in preschool from nine – we can walk over there together. And our cleaning lady comes on Wednesdays, but she’ll let herself in.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Wonderful! So I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Unless you have any more questions?’
‘I think I’m all set.’
Gushing with thanks for Beatrice’s time and enthusing about how glad they were to have her on board, Frances showed Beatrice back to the lobby, handed her her coat and pressed the button to open the elevator. Beatrice accepted a final hug and stepped in, waiting for the doors to close before she allowed herself a long exhale of relief.
It had all gone smoothly. Her employer seemed to like her and with any luck the kids would too.
And most importantly, she had managed not to let on that despite her years of babysitting throughout high school, two summers working as a camp counsellor and weekends volunteering at Head Start while she was in college, Beatrice found children tedious at best and infuriating at worst.