The Nanny by Tess Stimson

actually knows where the mop is. Craig biked over the accounts for PetalPushers, and I’ve
caught up with my emails, all 407 of them. I know that when I go to work this morning, the twins will be happy and cared for and organized without me.
    The real surprise, though, is how much I enjoy Jenna’s company. We come from different worlds, of course. I don’t expect us to be real friends. But I’ve never had a sister, and
Davina and I are hardly close. It’s so nice to have a girl around.
    Poppy disengages milkily from my breast, and I button my nightdress and take her down to the kitchen. A month ago I’d have cringed at the very idea of allowing a virtual stranger to see me
half naked and without my make-up, but it’s as if Jenna and I have signed an unspoken pact, and entered a partnership that’s already intimate. A partnership, I acknowledge, that
excludes Marc.
    I put Poppy in her pink Bumbo seat and pour myself a glass of orange juice.
    ‘Jenna!’ I exclaim suddenly, noticing her bruised cheek. ‘How did you get that?’
    ‘Cupboard door swung back and caught me,’ she says, too quickly.
    I watch as she takes apart Rowan’s bottle and puts it in the sterilizer. Last week, she caught her hand in the car door. The week before, she burned her arm on the iron.
    ‘You seem very accident-prone,’ I say carefully, ‘when you go home.’
    She laughs. ‘Too many vodkas, that’s all.’
    ‘Jenna—’
    ‘Better get going. The twins need their bath.’
    I can’t force her to confide in me. And I could be wrong, of course. Maybe she
is
just partying hard at weekends, getting drunk, falling over. She knows so much about my life, but
I still know next to nothing about hers.
    You’ve never asked
.
    I suddenly feel ashamed. For the past few weeks, Marc’s worked late at the office most evenings, so Jenna and I have fallen into a comfortable routine. She goes through my cookery books
for a recipe she fancies, and washes and chops everything ready for when I get home. I throw it together – she can’t cook, it seems, apart from nursery food – while she opens a
cheap bottle of wine for the two of us. It’s so nice chatting over dinner. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed having someone to talk to.
    But I haven’t given a second thought to what
she
might have to say. Guiltily, I resolve to make more effort to draw her out in future. I want her to feel she can tell me anything.
I want us to be friends.
    Before I leave for work, I run upstairs to kiss the twins goodbye.
    ‘I haven’t seen these outfits before,’ I say, surprised. ‘Where did they come from?’
    She looks pleased. ‘I went shopping at the weekend, and saw them. I couldn’t resist.’
    Oh dear. I rather wish she had. She’s dressed Poppy in a hideous outfit emblazoned with Hannah Montana stencils, and Rowan in some sort of faux-tartan waistcoat and black jeans. I hope she
doesn’t take them out anywhere. People might think I’d dressed them like this.
    Don’t be such a snob
, I tell myself.
You’re as bad as Davina. It was a lovely gesture.
    ‘You shouldn’t have,’ I scold, ‘you must let me pay you back—’
    ‘No, please. I wanted to. I like buying them things.’
    ‘As long as you don’t make a habit of it.’
    She turns away. ‘I like buying things,’ she says again.
    ‘
Sex and the City
is on in two minutes,’ Jenna calls from the sitting room.
    I put the roasting tin into the sink to soak, and load the dishwasher. ‘Would you like a cup of rooibos tea?’
    ‘Why don’t we just finish the Pinot?’
    Help. I’m not used to drinking this much, but I don’t like to say no.
    ‘Marc hates this programme,’ I say, curling up on the sofa.
    ‘So does every straight man on the planet. That’s the whole point.’
    A key rattles in the front door. There’s a thump as Marc flings his briefcase on to the hall table. ‘Christ,’ he exclaims. ‘I’ve had the most fucked-up
day.’
    I listen as he walks