The Twins

  To Jen, who planted the idea of this book and then helped me water it

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ONE

  MARGO

  The air smells of sea salt and cologne and money. I hear them all above deck, clinking champagne glasses, but I stay below in the galley and stare out of the huge porthole at a cut-glass blue horizon.

  I never thought that this decadent lifestyle could be mine but here I am, floating on this luxury yacht on the Solent in the thick heat of summer, and arranging a seafood platter of crab tails, dressed lobster, and king scallops on a tray of ice. This evening, I’ll have dinner at The Royal Hotel on the Isle of Wight, be sailed back to Southampton and then chauffeured all the way back to the six-bedroom house in Kensington. The twins will fall asleep in the car and we’ll carry them gently up to bed and then, only then, I’ll go and sit in my room and let myself breathe. I’ll be able to tell myself that I’ve done it – I’ve made it through another day without mistakes.

  I finish with the platter, wash and dry my hands. There’s champagne in a tall-standing bucket and I don’t want to drink it but there’s something that begs for me to smell it and to see its bubbles race to the top of the glass. I pour some out into one of the crystal flutes, set it down on the table and look at it.

  ‘Have you got a taste for the good stuff, Margo?’

  One of the women, David’s school friend possibly, has come down the stairs. I think her name is Barbara, or Barbie for short. She’s long-legged under a violet sarong, bejewelled by rings and wears her black hair in a majestic-looking mass on top of her head. She’s alarmed me and I’m embarrassed.

  ‘Oh, I’m – I’m not going to drink it,’ I say.

  ‘You enjoy yourself, love,’ she laughs. ‘You’ve done a good job today.’

  She smiles and one eye drifts a little. She’s skittishly drunk, I can see, but that’s the whole point of the day.

  ‘I’ve come hunting out that coriander mayo you made for the chips,’ she says.

  I hand her a bowl. ‘Here.’

  She dips a slender finger straight in, licks it. ‘Divine.’

  She picks over the many other dishes to compliment the platter that I’ve laid on the kitchen top; smoked salmon and lemon pâté; arancini balls; teriyaki beef cups; Stilton and chutney rarebit bites. She pops an arancini ball into her mouth.

  ‘Years ago,’ she says, chewing. ‘Before all the kids, we’d take this boat out to the Med. We’d strip off after too many drinks, go skinny dipping. Never knew whose body you were rubbing up against but that was the fun of it.’

  She laughs and I laugh with her because I’m supposed to.

  ‘Marie was telling me you used to be a dancer?’ she asks.

  Six-year-old Marie is my biggest fan and I love her for the pedestal she’s put me on.

  ‘I went to stage schools when I was little,’ I reply. ‘I’ve forgotten most of it now.’

  ‘She told me that you’ve taught her some bits?’

  ‘A couple of routines. She loves it.’

  ‘I’ve always admired the discipline of ballet,’ Barbara says. ‘All that effort to look so effortless. Though their feet look like shit by the end though, don’t they? Cut like ribbons.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’

  ‘And so you decided against it as a career then?’ she asks. ‘Dancing? Because you like kids more?’ She gives a shrill bark of laughter. ‘That’s a whole other load of punishment!’

  I smile and she waits for me to say something more but I don’t. Her anticipation of conversation is faltering and I don’t know how to rescue it because small talk isn’t what I’m good at. She claps her hands to signal the end and we’re both glad of it.

  ‘Well!’ she says, nods to the bowl of mayonnaise in her hand. ‘I’d better go before I eat it all! This is so incredible. You let me know if you’re ever looking to come elsewhere, yes? I could lure you away. You’d choose me, wouldn’t you? I don’t even have children!’

  Choose me.

  I smile at her again, mute, and then she trots up the stairs and out of the hatch and I hear her speak to Emmeline.

  ‘Doesn’t say much, does she?’

  ‘I think that’s why I like her,’ Emmeline replies and they both giggle but I don’t mind what they say about me.

  I take a white tray of sundae glasses filled with chocolate and salted caramel scoops out of the freezer, top them with sprinkles and vanilla wafers and walk up out of the galley. The children shout with delight when they see me. All ten of them are sitting on the front deck, wearing hooded towels over life-jackets, limbs bronzed and hair tangled.

  ‘Ice cream!’ one of them yells.

  I take the tray in one hand and the sail rope with the other to balance myself as I step over it to get to them. It’s not an easy move but precision is what’s expected of me, today and all days. The children dive at the tray as I set it down, pick up silver spoons as I in turn pick up their discarded towels and hang on them on the rails before returning to the sunbathed saloon below deck. I look out of the porthole again. The sea is calm and I am safe here in this little space. I am safe with David and with Emmeline and the twins.

  Being a nanny means knowing both when to be visible and invisible. It’s living by another family’s routine, abiding by their rules and wants. It’s knowing to fold pyjamas over a hot-water bottle on cold winter nights before bedtime, it’s remembering beloved bears for holidays, the hierarchy of china sets, and ticking off lists of Christmas presents for various relatives. It’s updating the family calendar every week, cutting up boxes to make toy car garages, adding glitter to home-made cards and then tidying it all up again. It’s being privy to an elite world where you are given a private corner of a house to observe it, where you don’t ask questions when you come across conversations that you shouldn’t.

  My jobs provide me materially with everything I could ever want. The softest mattresses, Egyptian cotton linen, heavy blackout curtains for my bedrooms, cosy armchairs for my own lounges, organic food to cook, Le Creuset sets to cook in, Ottolenghi books to cook from. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that none of it is really mine. At the end of a job I say goodbye to it all and I take away only memories and my limited wardrobe of clothing, and cash. Lots of cash, because families pay for outstanding service and they are also generous with donations as birthday or Christmas gifts. I don’t even know how much I have in my account – I only know I have more than I would ever need. What would I ever buy myself? What do I like? I like going to the theatre and watching the dancers, to remind me of a life once lived.

  I get a notebook from
my bag and start making some lists whilst everyone is happy drinking champagne and eating ice cream in the sun. We have ten days before the new school year starts and I need to make triple sure I have everything organised. The summer holiday has been long, with a packed itinerary to satisfy the entire family: hosting barbeques for their friends, seeing family, countless day trips to Diggerland, Peppa Pig World, Legoland and zoos. David and Emmeline booked a week in Bali for the four of them and offered me a week off for my own pleasure and I smiled, pretended to be delighted and told them I would visit family. Instead I stayed in London in their house: bleached their shower heads, dusted tops of wardrobes, rotated the toys and tried to sleep as much as I could. I didn’t want a holiday where I would sit on a balcony somewhere, thinking how lonely I really am.

  I open my bag again, unscrew the lid of a little bottle that I keep zipped up in the secret compartment, swallow two of the white pills dry. They’re running low so I add another line to my list to order more on express delivery.

  ‘Margo!’

  I startle at the shout and the lidless bottle pings up in my hand. Pills fall like little hailstones, click on the smart flooring and roll in every direction.

  ‘Oh, sorry!’

  It’s Jonny, Marie’s twin, at the stairs and he comes bounding down, crouches on the floor to help me pick them up.

  ‘Don’t worry, dove,’ I say to him. ‘It was an accident.’

  I can hear that my voice is tight. These pills are my absolute lifeline.

  ‘Is there any more ice cream?’ he asks beside me.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I say but I’m furiously pecking at them with my fingers. I don’t want the children down here and picking them up, thinking they’re sweets: they’re far from it. I filter them inside the bottle.

  ‘Jonny?’ I ask. ‘Did you get any?’

  But I’m answered with silence and I turn my head, see that he’s gone, already up and out of the hatch like a monkey. Has he taken any of the pills with him? I scramble up, panicking, and rush up the stairs. He’s on deck, right next to Emmeline who is talking to another woman, and in the palm of his hand I can see that he’s holding a dozen or so white pills and counting them. I go towards him.

  I steer him towards the foredeck. ‘Can I have those?’

  ‘You can’t eat things off the floor,’ he says to me because that’s what I’m always telling him.

  ‘Wait—’ I say but I watch him stretch his arm out over the rail and sprinkle the pills into the sea.

  ‘There you go!’

  He smiles because he thinks he’s done the right thing, but I stare at the water in dismay. I have those pills shipped from America and I wonder how many days’ worth I have left now in the bottle. Oh God, I’ve left them in full view down in the kitchen, and I need to get back down before anyone sees them. Don’t panic, don’t panic, I tell myself, but I feel sweat start to bead on my forehead.

  ‘Great,’ I manage and turn to go back. ‘Thanks, darling.’

  ‘Oh, Margo,’ Barbie trills and I look to her. She waves an empty champagne flute at me, smiles drunkenly.

  ‘I’ll get a bottle,’ I say.

  ‘Can we have some more ice cream?’ a child asks.

  ‘I’ll get some.’

  I go back below deck, snatch up the bottle. I can see that I’ve only got a few left. Breathe. I can just order more, it’s fine. I screw the lid on tightly, put the pills back in my bag, and I then look at the sea out of the porthole, exhale, and tell myself that I’m safe here. Looking after people is what I’m good at: routine and order and consideration. There is no need to feel anxious.

  ‘Margo?’ someone calls from above. ‘Can you bring up the oysters?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  I busy myself with tending to the others. People don’t realise you’re not talking to them about your own life if you’re putting food on their tables, if you’re doing their laundry, if you’re smiling at their stories. I like living their lives because it’s easier than living my own.

  My life has ghosts.

  TWO

  CORA

  It’s crowded in the bar. People are pressed against one another, there’s sweat in the air and boozy breath too close to my cheeks but this is what I like: being at close quarters to these vibrant, sleek people with loud music thudding through my chest and coloured lights roving across my skin. This is the Saturday after-show party and I’m wired on it.

  Nav leans in and I know that he’s shouting in my ear but I can barely hear him.

  ‘What?’ I shout back.

  He drags me off the dance floor.

  ‘I said that arsehole Guy Harris is over there, and he’s looking at you,’ he says and points to a booth in the corner of the room where a man lounges with another dancer.

  ‘I know,’ I nod. ‘I’m waiting for the right moment to speak to him.’

  Nav makes a face over the music. ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s the reason we’re here.’

  Guy Harris is a casting director renowned throughout the business for his tenacity and networking skills. He’s also renowned for being tempestuous, promiscuous and lewd and I’ve seen all of these things, all at the same time.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Nav groans.

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  ‘Oh God,’ he says. ‘I thought we were here for the free booze.’

  ‘We are,’ I reply. ‘But also for favours to be exchanged.’

  Both Nav and I are professional dancers and, especially between being signed-up, it’s all about visibility. We’re not even supposed to be at this party: we have nothing to do with this cast. A friend let us in but I have no idea where she went nor do I care.

  ‘What kind of favours?’ he says.

  ‘There’s a show that’s going into production,’ I say. ‘And Guy is the person I need to talk to to get me an audition. Plus, he knows the choreographer really well.’

  ‘Who’s the choreographer?’ Nav asks.

  ‘Jean-Luc Laurent.’

  His eyes widen because Jean-Luc is a big name in contemporary dance. ‘What’s the show?’

  ‘It’s not well known,’ I say. ‘But there’s a part written for me.’

  ‘You say that about every single role you’re put up for.’

  I dig into my bag, apply lipstick, and Nav rolls his eyes.

  ‘Original,’ he says. ‘You’re going to sleep with Guy to get an audition? Is sex your answer to everything?’

  ‘Usually.’

  ‘Can’t your agent put you up for the audition?’

  ‘I need something more than her good word,’ I say. ‘It’s all about favours, Nav, I told you.’

  ‘Is this a good idea? You’re drunk.’

  I pout at him with full red lips, flash my extended eyelashes. Everything about me is bigger and bolder tonight because one needs to stand out in a crowd as beautiful as this one.

  ‘“One should always be drunk”,’ I say. ‘“That’s all that matters . . . But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose. But get drunk.” Quote by Charles Baudelaire.’

  ‘You’re coming home with me tonight though, OK?’ Nav says.

  ‘Oh, relax. I’ll meet you outside in ten minutes.’

  I slip through the heaving mass of bodies on the dance floor, and feel hands catch my waist, strokes of fingertips on my arms and hot breath on my neck. Dancers are almost always tactile and I’m the best of them.

  ‘Guy!’ I exclaim as I reach his booth.

  I reach over and kiss his cheek and then I sit on his lap. I see the other dancer raise her eyebrows.

  Guy looks up at me through thick designer glasses and smiles slowly at the recognition. ‘Cora Devaux,’ he says.

  My name oozes from his mouth like syrup. He’s nearing fifty, has tanned skin and lines where they are handsome on men but not, according to cosmetic adverts, on women.

  ‘Missed me?’ I whisper into his ear.

  He doesn’t go to remove me and the
dancer takes her cue, gets up and takes her drink with her.

  ‘I haven’t seen you in a while,’ he says.

  I shrug. ‘I like to school people in the art of patience.’

  He smiles again. ‘Can I help you? I never see you unless you want something.’

  ‘Oh! How you wound me,’ I reply. ‘But now you come to mention it, I’m interested in a show that’s being cast at the moment.’

  ‘And you think I can help you out?’

  ‘I know you can.’

  ‘If I can’t?’

  My thumb strokes the top of his hand as it’s clasped within mine and he looks down at it.

  ‘Then all the weight of Mondays would crush my shoulders,’ I say. ‘And shame on you because Mondays are the worst of the days.’

  ‘I forgot that beautiful tongue,’ he says, looking at my lips. ‘You could charm the birds from the trees. What’s the show?’

  ‘Mirror, Mirror.’

  He frowns. ‘How do you know about it? Jean-Luc only announced it two days ago and not even widely.’

  ‘Because I’m always looking for it,’ I say. ‘And I want to dance Eliza.’

  He tilts his head at me. ‘She’s a fuck-up.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘But everyone likes a fuck-up, don’t they?’

  I move my hand from his and squeeze his thigh. He can feel my body through this ridiculous dress I’m wearing; a bright violet film of material ruched at the waist and stopping short just below my butt. He can see my toned calves; can see the lights making shadows across my collarbones. I use my body as a weapon.

  ‘The part needs someone raw,’ I say. ‘Someone passionate; and that’s me, isn’t it?’

  He grins. I can see the familiar excitement spark in his eyes. ‘Could be.’

  I smile. ‘You could be credited for finding the star of this show and I could blow you kisses from the stage.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he says. ‘But—’

  ‘Of course,’ I purr. ‘Tit for tat. How’s your wife?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ he says but he laughs.

  I lean in, bite his bottom lip and his eyes widen in both surprise and then pleasure. Or is it pain?

  Tit for tat. Is that enough, I wonder. I’m twenty-seven, he can have girls far younger than me who are more desperate for chances, but I have an edge a lot of them don’t. He’s panted it before, hot in my ears, as I’ve stared him down through a mask covered in feathers over his perspiring body.