Bad Heir Day by Wendy Holden Page B

phone slam back down in the hall, he hastily took it off again.
    Cassandra swept back into the room looking triumphant. “Thank God,” she declaimed. “That girl’s finally seen sense. She’s moving in tomorrow morning.”
    “What girl?” asked Jett, looking hopeful.
    “The fat one who inexplicably lives in Mayfair. She’s coming to be the nanny.” Joy was not a regular visitor to Cassandra’s fearful heart, but now she positively fizzed with it. No more interminable games of Monopoly with Zak, although it was gratifying how good he was at it. No more Harry bloody Potter at bedtime. Best of all, no more calls from Mrs. Gosschalk.
    “The nanny?” echoed Brie, faintly mocking. “So you’re getting some help after all.” Cassandra did not like the tone of her voice.
    “Not at all,” she snapped. “This girl is an Oxbridge graduate. She is coming to be my assistant. It’s just that,” Cassandra added in an undertone, “she’s going to be assisting me in rather more ways than she bargained for.”
    ***
    The following morning, Anna let herself out of Seb’s flat for the last time. As she headed for the bus stop and the Kensington-bound No. 10, she worked out that probably the most valuable thing she possessed was an old beaver coat which had a marked tendency to moult. It had been the only thing Seb had ever given her. Apart, that was, from an inferiority complex the size of Manchester.
    Her recent emotional traumas, however, had not remotely affected her ability to be everywhere far too early. It made sense in a way; she had always suspected that her tendency to be unfashionably punctual had sprung from a lack of self-esteem. Following Seb’s recent antics, it was surprising she wasn’t even earlier—Cassandra had told her to present herself and her belongings at eight o’clock sharp, and here she was at a positively devil-may-care five to.
    For reassurance more than warmth, Anna huddled further into the depths of the tatty coat. Seb had told her it gave her a Russian air. Doubtless, she thought sourly, he had meant less Anna Karenina than headscarved babushka with wrinkles deep enough to rappel down. Bastard .
    Anna lifted the fountain-pen shaped knocker and let it crash back against the door. Following some vague sounds of shouting from within, it was opened by a man wearing studded black leather boots and a T-shirt bearing the Dayglo green legend, “My Probation Officer Went To London And All I Got Was This F***ing T-Shirt.” Given its thinness and his age, his hair was longer than seemed advisable; his creased and baggy face was less lived in than marked for demolition.
    “Your dog’s obviously very fond of you.” He looked pointedly at her upper thighs.
    Anna glanced at her legs in mingled panic and fury. The coat had been shedding all over her. Her best Joseph trousers were covered in short black hairs.
    “Oh, its not a dog,” Anna said. “That’s my beaver.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them.
    “Well, I can see we’re going to get on splendidly,” the man remarked, a broad grin splitting his stubbly face. He thrust out a hand. “You must be Anna. I’m Jett St. Edmunds, Sandra’s husband.” The palm that greeted Anna was as hot and moist as rice pudding. And rice pudding was one of the few—very few—desserts that Anna had never liked.
    “Stick your bags in the hall. Sandra’s in there.” Beckoning her in, Jett gestured at the door of what Anna assumed to be the sitting room. “She’s not,” he added, with a conspiratorial wink, “in a very good mood.”
    Anna entered the vast white sitting room to be greeted by the sight of a bathrobed Cassandra prone on a chaise longue. She was wearing a sleep mask that failed to disguise that, beneath it, her expression was thunderous. Beside her on the floor lay a copy of the Daily Telegraph .
    Cassandra raised herself a little. “You bastard ,”she hissed. “How dare you come in here after what you’ve