grey-haired, grey-skinned, softly spoken guy with a background as an award-winning economist; someone who rarely shines at these meetings, but who’ll consistently come up trumps and turn out impeccably researched stories written in language readers can grasp, unlike those on some of our rivals’ finance pages, that you’d nearly need a Harvard master’s in finance to get your head around.
He draws the air of experience deep into his lungs and addresses the now silent room. The European Central Bank have announced an interest rate hike of half a per cent, is his calm opener, which mightn’t exactly be the sexiest lead story at the table, but it’ll affect hundreds of thousands of mortgage holders and so therefore it has massive bite. On and on he goes, giving me the freedom to let my thoughts take me back to my more pressing concerns and back to about noon today, when in sauntered a slightly more promising candidate for the job of nanny/lifesaver.
But when I say ‘slightly more promising’, all I mean is she was young, reasonably well groomed and at least had the courtesy to turn up for the interview appropriately dressed, even if her eye make-up did happen to be the exact colour of bright yellow hazardous waste. Trouble was, she had precious little experience in childcare and when I asked her why her CV only had one reference on it, her answer was that she was really an out-of-work actress and thought this would be a nice little earner until her big break arrived.
‘I mean, it’s only minding a kid, isn’t it? Besides, I’ve loads of nieces and nephews and I know I’m well able to handle it,’ she coolly informs me. ‘And the reference I have is good, my auntie went to load of trouble to write it for me. Oh, but by the way,’ she added, hammering a further nail into her own coffin, ‘if my agent rings about an audition, then I’ll need time off. Plus I don’t work evenings after seven p.m. or weekends. And I should probably tell you that I already have my holidays booked for the first two weeks in June, I’m going to Spain with my boyfriend, so that’s out as well. I assume that’s all OK with you?’
It’s not often I’m at a loss for words, but on this occasion I was. I didn’t answer, couldn’t. Just sat there staring at her in disbelief thinking, ‘next!’
And the piece de resistance? Just after lunch (which in my case is rarely more than a cereal bar wolfed down at my desk between phone calls, and that’s if I’m very lucky), Rachel buzzes into my office to say the final candidate the agency have available to start work is now waiting patiently at reception. I stride out of my office to greet her, praying, just praying that this one will look not unlike Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins, act like a firm but kindly Angela Lansbury in Bedknobs and Broomsticks and keep perfect law and order in my house when I’m not there as strictly as Emma Thompson in Nanny McPhee.
Initial reaction was positive and for once, my stomach didn’t sink at the sight of what was waiting beside Rachel’s desk for me. Mrs. Adele Patterson was sixty-something, with a grey perm so tight it looked like someone had accidentally poured a tin of baked beans over her head, wearing a coat that looked like it was made out of the same upholstery they use on bus seats and laden down with two Marks and Spencers grocery bags. But she was the only candidate who actually looked like an actual proper nanny, wise and calm and experienced, someone you’d unhesitatingly trust your child with. Plus she at least looked me unflinchingly straight in the eye, doing me the courtesy of coming straight to the point.
‘I don’t work in other people’s houses,’ she told me straight up in a no-nonsense style that I at least respected, even if what she’d just said made me break out in an anxiety sweat. ‘You’re welcome to leave your daughter, Lily isn’t it? Well, you can drop her to my house at nine in the morning, no earlier, and I’m strict about collection time too, no later than six o’clock in the evening please. That’s quite a long enough day for any child, believe me. And for me too, I might add. I’m not getting any younger, you know.’
‘Mrs. Patterson, I’m afraid … Well, the thing is that’s going to be a problem. What I need, you see is … Well, let’s just say that there might be the odd evening – just the occasional one, that’s all … when I could possibly get delayed getting home from work, so I really am looking for someone who’s prepared to live in, at my house, which is very comfortable, by the way … It’s in Rathgar,’ I tack on hopefully, like this’ll make a difference.
‘Makes no difference to me if you live in the penthouse suite of the Four Seasons, love,’ she snapped back, sounding shell-shocked at the very suggestion and getting pinker in the face by the minute.
‘Well, I would be paying premium rates, of course, and we can always negotiate a day off for you …’ I exaggerated, astonished at the sheer brazenness of my lie.
Day off? I think. Elka got one day off in the past year and that was on Christmas Day. And even at that, she still had to take Lily for a few hours in the afternoon while I dashed into the office to check the layout for the Stephen’s Day edition of the Post.
But my back is to the wall here, and short of Mrs. Patterson producing references that implicate her in the massacre of a school full of small children, she’s hired.
‘Then I’m very sorry to waste your time, Miss Elliot, but I’m afraid this is just not going to work out, simple as that. You see, I take care of my two grandchildren at home as well, so either your little girl can stay with me daytimes only, with collection strictly no later than six p.m., or that’s it. I’m not here to bargain with you or to offer you any other alternative. And what’s more, I’m going to have to leave now: as it is, I had to ask a neighbour to look after the other children for me so I could get into town to meet you.’
OK, it was at this point that I got desperate, not even able to conceal the pleading in my tone. This woman was my last hope and I couldn’t, just couldn’t let her walk out the door.
‘Mrs. Patterson, as you can see, my job here doesn’t exactly allow me to work regular nine to five hours, but if you’ll just hear me out about moving into my home, only for a short time you understand, I’d be happy to pay you far, far more than the agency rates.’
I look at her pleadingly, silently begging her to say yes.
‘Lily’s such a good girl,’ I tack on for good measure, ‘she’s very well behaved, everyone says so and minding her really is a doddle …’
‘It’s a no, I’m afraid,’ Mrs. Patterson replied crisply. ‘There’s no way that I’d just abandon my own husband and grandchildren to move into a stranger’s house, no matter what you paid me. You must understand that there are some things in life that are far, far more important than any job or any amount of money, like family, for one,’ she said, looking pointedly at me.
Then, picking up her handbag and groceries and tossing me a curt nod, she showed herself out of my office and back towards reception. Leaving me feeling like I’d just been cut and dried and left to hang out for dead on a line.
Back to the meeting and it seems Seth Coleman, with his barracuda-like instincts, is onto me.
‘Earth to Eloise? Are you with us or what?’ he says, rapping a pen with bony fingers impatiently off a pile of folders in front of him. ‘We really need to move on this. Some of us have work to do, you know.’
I’m suddenly aware that all eyes are locked on me and that I’m in danger of losing control of the room. It’s gone quiet, scarily quiet; people are coughing and looking in my direction, anxious to get out of here. Which means it’s now over to me and I’m going to have to make it at least look like I’m on the ball.
‘Fine, thank you Seth,’ I manage to say, crisply as I can. ‘In that case, the mock-up of tomorrow’s
