Private Games

Chapter 48

‘YOU’RE AN UNEXPECTED answer to my prayers, Marta Brezenova, and your timing could not have been better,’ Knight announced, feeling pleased at his good fortune. ‘My name is Peter Knight, and I am actually in desperate need of a nanny at the moment.’

Marta looked incredulous and then happy. Her fingers went to her lips as she said, ‘But you are the first person I’ve handed my flier to! It’s like fate!’

‘Maybe,’ Knight said, enjoying her infectious enthusiasm.

‘No, it is!’ she protested. ‘Can I apply?’

He looked again at her flier. ‘Do you have a C.V.? References?’

‘Both,’ she said without hesitation, then dug in her bag and brought out a professional-looking C.V. and an Estonian passport. ‘Now you know who I am.’

Knight glanced at the C.V. and the passport before saying: ‘Tell you what. Those are my kids over there. Luke’s on the slide and Isabel is in the sandbox. Go and introduce yourself. I’ll look this over and give your references a call.’

Knight wanted to see how his kids interacted with Marta as a total stranger. He’d seen them revolt against so many nannies that he did not want to bother calling this woman’s references if she and the twins did not click. No matter how badly he needed a nanny it wouldn’t be worth the effort if they did not get along.

But to his surprise Marta went to Isabel, the more reserved of his children, and won her over almost immediately, helping her build a sandcastle and generating such enthusiasm that Luke soon left the slide to help. In three minutes, she had Lukey Knight – the big, bad, biting terror of Chelsea – laughing and filling buckets.

Seeing his children fall so easily under Marta’s sway, Knight read the C.V. closely. She was an Estonian citizen, mid-thirties, but had done her undergraduate studies at the American University in Paris.

During her last two years at the university, and for six years after graduating, she had worked as a nanny for two different families in Paris. The mothers’ names and phone numbers were included.

Marta’s C.V. also indicated that she spoke English, French, Estonian and German, and had been accepted into the graduate programme in speech-language pathology at London’s City University. She was due to join the course in 2014. In many ways, Knight thought, she was typical of the many educated women streaming into London these days: willing to take jobs beneath their qualifications in order to live and survive in the greatest city in the world.

My luck, Knight thought. He got out his mobile and started calling the references, thinking: Please let this be real. Please let someone answer the—

Petra DeMaurier came on the line almost immediately, speaking French. Knight identified himself and asked if she spoke English. In a guarded tone, she said that she did. When he told her that he was thinking of hiring Marta Brezenova as a nanny for his young twins, she turned effusive, praising Marta as the best nanny her four children had ever had, patient, loving, yet strong-willed if necessary.

‘Why did she leave your employ?’ Knight asked.

‘My husband was transferred to Vietnam for two years,’ she said. ‘Marta did not wish to accompany us, but we parted on very good terms. You are a lucky man to have her.’

The second reference, Teagan Lesa, was no less positive, saying, ‘When Marta was accepted for graduate studies in London, I almost cried. My three children did cry, even Stephan who is normally my brave little man. If I were you, I’d hire her before someone else does. Better yet, tell her to come back to Paris. We wait for her with open arms.’

Knight thought for several moments after hanging up, knowing he should check with the universities here and in Paris, something he couldn’t do until Monday at the earliest. Then he had an idea. He hesitated, but then called Pottersfield back.

‘You hung up on me,’ she snapped.

‘I had to,’ Knight said. ‘I need you to check an Estonian passport for me,’

‘I most certainly will not,’ Pottersfield shot back.

‘It’s for the twins, Elaine,’ Knight said in a pleading tone. ‘I’ve got an opportunity to hire them a new nanny who looks great on paper. I just want to make sure, and it’s the weekend and I have no other way to do it.’

There was a long silence before Pottersfield said, ‘Give me the name and passport number if you’ve got it.’

Knight heard the Scotland Yard inspector typing after he read her the number. He watched Marta get onto the slide, holding Isabel. His daughter on the slide? That was a first. They slid to the bottom with only a trace of terror surfacing on Isabel’s face before she started clapping.

‘Marta Brezenova,’ said Pottersfield. ‘Kind of a plain Jane, isn’t she?’

‘You were expecting a supermodel moonlighting as a nanny?’

‘I suppose not,’ Pottersfield allowed. ‘She arrived in the UK on a flight from Paris ten days ago. She’s here on an educational visa to attend City University.’

‘Graduate programme in speech-language pathology,’ Knight said. ‘Thanks, Elaine. I owe you.’

Hearing Luke shriek with laughter, he hung up and spotted his son and his sister running through the jungle gym with Marta in hot pursuit, playing the happy monster, laughing maniacally.

You’re not much to look at, Knight thought. But thank God for you, anyway. You’re hired.