What the Nanny Saw by Fiona Neill Read Free Book Online

stretched from the wrought-iron gate at the end of the front path up the eight steps to the front door. Because it stood in the center of the concave arc of the crescent and was the only double-fronted building on the street, it appeared as though the other houses were leaning deferentially toward it. Everything here spoke of consequence, from the blue plaque on the façade announcing that a famous scientist had once lived under this roof, to the Francis Bacon hanging above the fireplace.
    A self-important pile of newspapers sat at the opposite end of the dining room table. The headlines were all about yesterday’s foiled plot to blow up planes on transatlantic flights. Ali smiled as she remembered her mother phoning to suggest it was too dangerous to live in London.
    Ali heard a noise outside the dining room and quickly turned to the next page in the plastic file. Her time was surely running out. It must have been at least ten minutes since Bryony had left the room. This bit was easier to absorb because whole sentences were highlighted in yellow pen. The first said that Ali had recently finished a relationship with another student. Someone had put an exclamation mark beside this point. The second said that Ali had an older sister with “mental-health issues.” Beside this, in tiny black writing, someone had written “interesting!” She stood up abruptly and angrily put the file back where she had found it. She was incensed, less by the fact that they had unearthed all this information about her than the casual use of exclamation marks.
    Ali stood up and smoothed down her short dark hair and the skirt. She would leave the house without anyone noticing and call the woman at the concierge agency to let her know that something else had come up. As she pulled on her jacket and headed swiftly toward the dining room door, she heard a low guttural growl.
    “Come on, show your face,” she said. The growling stopped, and Ali stepped decisively toward the door again, but as she touched the handle, the dog started up again. This time it gave a single bark. It stood up, and Ali could see it was a small, sandy-colored pug. Its teeth were bared and its hackles raised. It wasn’t the sort of dog that Ali would have matched to Bryony. She would have suited something smooth-coated and long-legged.
    “You’re all talk,” said Ali, stretching out her hand toward its collar to find out its name and then abruptly pulling away as the pug lurched toward her and snapped at her fingers. She stepped back and the dog reverted to growling. Ali decided to wait a moment for the pug to calm down and then make her escape.
    On a delicate half-moon table on the other side of the door she found a pile of hardcover books, one written by a former cabinet minister. She looked inside it and saw that there was a handwritten dedication from the author to his “very dear friends, Nick and Bryony Skinner.” If they were such dear friends, then why did he bother with their surname? Behind these was an orderly battalion of photos. There is a direct relationship between people’s wealth and the number of photos they display of themselves in their home, thought Ali. And generally, the more professional-looking the photos, the more dysfunctional the household. That’s what Rosa always said, anyway. These pictures were all encased in expensive-looking silver frames.
    Center stage was a large photograph of a group of eight people gathered around a dinner table in the middle of a meal. The cutlery was still two rows deep, and there was an equal number of wineglasses. There were no women. Ali guessed the middle-aged man tipping his untouched glass of champagne toward the photographer was Nick Skinner. He stared at the camera with a benevolent smile as though bestowing the photographer with an enormous favor. His other arm was crossed tightly over his chest, making his pose a curious juxtaposition of freedom and restraint. He had the air of someone who was