said Bryony. “Izzy has a party on the Saturday night, but we’ll get a cab to collect her at midnight.” A couple of seconds later Ali heard her brand-new BlackBerry give a satisfactory ping as the message landed in her inbox.
Bryony switched the heater on to maximum. She was always cold. Probably because she is too thin, thought Ali, recalling how every morning she was woken at six o’clock by Bryony’s personal trainer ringing the doorbell. The hot air blasted in Ali’s face, making her eyes feel dry and filling her nostrils with the smell of burned dust.
Bryony’s phone rang. It was Nick. He wanted to talk about fine-tuning the guest list for their Christmas drinks party in light of Tony Blair’s announcement that he would be standing down as prime minister in less than a year.
“Brown will get it, but Cameron will win the election,” said Bryony confidently, “and we’re too associated with Blair. So let’s strike off Ed Balls and Yvette Cooper and invite the Camerons and the Goves instead.”
The call ended as abruptly as it had begun.
Ali’s back stiffened. Even without her employer sitting beside her in the front passenger seat, this maiden voyage would have presented a challenge. But Bryony’s last-minute decision to show Ali the quickest route to the twins’ school had amplified the pressure, especially when she suggested that Ali should drive, in case she had to take a call.
Bryony was wearing a floaty chiffon shirt that billowed gently as the heater blasted hot air through the car. The shirt was in a plum color that most people with red hair would have assiduously avoided. But somehow Bryony managed to pull it off. The early-morning sun through the windshield caught her hair and set it ablaze, turning her into something magnificent. If she were a man, people would say Bryony had a commanding presence, Ali decided.
Bryony opened an envelope, and Ali could see that she was going through photocopies of stories from today’s newspapers. Every so often she would read something out loud.
“‘French Connection sinks into the red’ . . . Let’s see what The Times has got to say . . . ‘August terror alert cost BAA thirteen million pounds’ . . . Could be worse . . . ‘Scottish Power in merger talks’ . . . Felix did well to get someone to spill the beans on that one . . .”
“Is this part of your job?” Ali eventually asked, as Bryony reached into her handbag to pull out a packet of seeds. She tore them open and elegantly began eating them, one by one, even though they were tiny and she could have consumed the entire packet in a single gulp. Bryony looked surprised, because although she was accustomed to being driven to work and often talked to her driver, she clearly wasn’t used to someone asking her questions.
“It is,” she smiled.
“What exactly is your job?” asked Ali.
“I run a financial PR agency,” said Bryony, who liked the fact Ali was the only nanny they had interviewed for the job who clearly hadn’t bothered to do a Google search on her family. “My clients are companies who pay me and my team to advise them on media relations. I talk to journalists on their behalf. If one of my companies is being bought by another company, or they are about to release their results, or someone is being recruited or fired, then we come up with a communications strategy to explain all this to the media.”
“That sounds pretty interesting,” said Ali.
“It is,” said Bryony, leaning over to switch on Radio 4. “I need to listen to this. One of my clients is being interviewed.”
Ali fell silent as the Today presenter introduced the CEO of a British company that had just bought one of its rivals, catapulting it to the top of the house-building league. It was a punchy debate that seemed to consist of John Humphrys suggesting the property market was about to lose steam and Bryony’s man avoiding the question by talking about the surge in one hundred
Bryony switched the heater on to maximum. She was always cold. Probably because she is too thin, thought Ali, recalling how every morning she was woken at six o’clock by Bryony’s personal trainer ringing the doorbell. The hot air blasted in Ali’s face, making her eyes feel dry and filling her nostrils with the smell of burned dust.
Bryony’s phone rang. It was Nick. He wanted to talk about fine-tuning the guest list for their Christmas drinks party in light of Tony Blair’s announcement that he would be standing down as prime minister in less than a year.
“Brown will get it, but Cameron will win the election,” said Bryony confidently, “and we’re too associated with Blair. So let’s strike off Ed Balls and Yvette Cooper and invite the Camerons and the Goves instead.”
The call ended as abruptly as it had begun.
Ali’s back stiffened. Even without her employer sitting beside her in the front passenger seat, this maiden voyage would have presented a challenge. But Bryony’s last-minute decision to show Ali the quickest route to the twins’ school had amplified the pressure, especially when she suggested that Ali should drive, in case she had to take a call.
Bryony was wearing a floaty chiffon shirt that billowed gently as the heater blasted hot air through the car. The shirt was in a plum color that most people with red hair would have assiduously avoided. But somehow Bryony managed to pull it off. The early-morning sun through the windshield caught her hair and set it ablaze, turning her into something magnificent. If she were a man, people would say Bryony had a commanding presence, Ali decided.
Bryony opened an envelope, and Ali could see that she was going through photocopies of stories from today’s newspapers. Every so often she would read something out loud.
“‘French Connection sinks into the red’ . . . Let’s see what The Times has got to say . . . ‘August terror alert cost BAA thirteen million pounds’ . . . Could be worse . . . ‘Scottish Power in merger talks’ . . . Felix did well to get someone to spill the beans on that one . . .”
“Is this part of your job?” Ali eventually asked, as Bryony reached into her handbag to pull out a packet of seeds. She tore them open and elegantly began eating them, one by one, even though they were tiny and she could have consumed the entire packet in a single gulp. Bryony looked surprised, because although she was accustomed to being driven to work and often talked to her driver, she clearly wasn’t used to someone asking her questions.
“It is,” she smiled.
“What exactly is your job?” asked Ali.
“I run a financial PR agency,” said Bryony, who liked the fact Ali was the only nanny they had interviewed for the job who clearly hadn’t bothered to do a Google search on her family. “My clients are companies who pay me and my team to advise them on media relations. I talk to journalists on their behalf. If one of my companies is being bought by another company, or they are about to release their results, or someone is being recruited or fired, then we come up with a communications strategy to explain all this to the media.”
“That sounds pretty interesting,” said Ali.
“It is,” said Bryony, leaning over to switch on Radio 4. “I need to listen to this. One of my clients is being interviewed.”
Ali fell silent as the Today presenter introduced the CEO of a British company that had just bought one of its rivals, catapulting it to the top of the house-building league. It was a punchy debate that seemed to consist of John Humphrys suggesting the property market was about to lose steam and Bryony’s man avoiding the question by talking about the surge in one hundred
Similar Books
