When she came up into the sunshine she waited for the lights to change. There was a sign in a shop saying MORE FOR SALE. More and more and more. The water tower stood like a totem. Ritualistically, the cars circled it, lucid strings of red and blue and silver. A man was running quickly towards her, followed by a man with a broom. She stepped aside and let them pass. The lights changed and she crossed in a group, losing the others at the other side. Now she was walking swiftly, realising she was late. There was a brown high-rise block and an immaculate white shopping centre. She passed a jeweller’s and a shop selling Aussie Pies. There was a queue at the bus stop, and a formidable block of banks. Still you haven’t managed to see Sharkbreath, she thought. Plain reprehensible. They have certainly tried to help you. The bank had been sending her sympathetic offers, suggestions for repayment plans, and really it was only recently they had brought on Sharkbreath. It was unfair to demonise them, those legions of lenders and their zipper-mouthed minions. So they had taken an axe to her credit cards? What did she expect? Why would they entrust them to her any more, when she was so clearly incapable of paying them off? She understood the rules, they had been explained clearly to her, and if she was incapable of abiding by them — ‘Well, then you get Sharkbreath,’ she said aloud.
The green was clad in trees, branches defined against thick clouds. She walked down Shepherd’s Bush Road, where every shop was selling cut-cost bargains, and picked a path through slow-moving children and men like Elde and the disconnected variety of the crowds. A man was shouting at an intercom. She turned left and found herself in quieter streets, so idyllic that the houses had a sense of smugness to them. There were geraniums in the gardens and ivy on the walls. There was a penguin statue on the steps of a cottage. That was a tidy gimmick, she thought. Her footsteps rang out as she picked up speed. She saw a car sticker saying ‘Experience the Meaning of Life’. She turned at a corner where a man with a white beard was brushing the pavement, and a woman was saying ‘C’est catastrophique’ to her friend as they stood in the garden of a cottage.
At Brook Green she was late and trying to run. Hindered by her stacked-up shoes, shoes made for self-mutilation, she hopped and skipped along the street. There were people playing tennis though the day was cold. She passed them quickly, and ran up Bute Gardens. To the sound of dogs barking she rounded another corner, nearly collided with a group of kids singing, saw the blank glass of an office block and stepped onto the main road. Hammersmith was a woven mass of cars, steady at the lights. Trees, glass, marble and old white stones. A pattern of materials, she picked them out against the cold sky. Behind stood the old shopping centre and the sign of the Underground.
Now she was cursing as she ran, staring down the lights while they ambled on red, slalom-racing along the road, twisting out of the way of other people. Her hips ached, and she found herself panting along the river, past the backs of quiet pubs. Her head was still sore and she wondered what was ague and could she have it? She thought she might. At the prospect of an interview she felt a mingled sense of joy and death come quickly. She wanted to be saved but the taste was bitter. Acrid air around her and a swelling on her heels. She should stop borrowing Jess’s shoes, she thought, they didn’t fit at all. Then she found she was lost. She was frantic for a few moments, scrambling around dirty streets, finding herself in a housing estate which had a map like hermetic code and she was spitting mad when she found the path again. But other than that it was a fine day. Her suit was tight and she had sweated liberally, but the water glinted in the sunshine. The big old muddy river was tranquil in the afternoon and the sky was clear above it. So she walked more slowly, trying to catch her breath. On the iron bridge a dozen cars coursed along, crossing into the south.
There were lions by the gates, grim-faced, chipped by age. She stepped past them, her heart thumping. She saw pebble borders containing sumptuous flowerbeds and a big wooden door. She adjusted her shirt, tucked it into her belt, noticed she had scuffed Jess’s shoes, blew her nose on her hand and wiped her hand on a hedge. She saw a gargoyle doorknocker and used it. There was a pause, and then Rosa found she was being drawn inside by a woman with long thin hands and a bony face. She was admitted to a long grey corridor where the walls were decked with portraits. It was clear that Mrs Brazier had been a handsome woman until she had her skin tightened. She had shining auburn hair, in abundance, and her face had been stretched behind her ears. Her breasts were made of marble, or some modern equivalent. She looked pretty surprised about all of this, but that didn’t help her much. She had an ironical voice to match her ironical face, and she never smiled. Insistently thin, she had made herself still more angular by squeezing everything into jodhpurs and stiletto boots. Her hair was curly and she looked like a Corinthian column. This unnerved Rosa, and she stumbled as she went to shake hands. Rosa said, ‘Hello’, and Brazier said, ‘You must be Rosa.’ She had a cool, manicured hand. Anointed with expensive oils. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Rosa, smudging sweat onto la Braze’s pearly hand. Further platitudes followed, which Rosa failed to commit to memory. Mrs Brazier wanted a tutor for her children, who were small and apparently gifted. Rosa wanted a shot of adrenalin and a large gin and tonic, but she sat there nodding politely, raising her accent with every syllable.
She noted that the doors were arched, and found bouquets arranged on the tables. The house was clad in lustrous flora, and every piece of wood was recently polished. The floors shone. Paintings were hung in hammered silver. The chair Rosa sat in, like a tarnished throne, was — said Madame Braze — a family heirloom, which went back to the Tudors. She stroked the arms and felt the shock of the old.
There was some talk of pay. It sounded good enough for Rosa. She quickly came to understand that Mrs Brazier was a flinthead who despised the younger frau. She emanated an air of refined selfishness. She offered Rosa tea in so reluctant a way that Rosa knew she had to say no. So she said no, though her mouth was dry after running from Shepherd’s Bush station. She kept her lips pursed and hoped she didn’t smell too foul. Brazier explained in detail what she wanted, and said that Rosa would have to start on Monday. Rosa said that would be fine and clamped her mouth shut. The children came in, Tabitha and Harry, and they were spoilt little darlings kitted out for luxury. At forty-five or so, which Rosa thought la Braze must be behind her face, she had two children of five and seven. Must be tiring, thought Rosa, but la Braze treated her infants like members of her retinue. Little Tabitha ran for mummy’s pashmina and little Harry was told to take the dog to Nanny. So the dog and Harry trotted off, leaving Rosa and Madame Braze looking at each other across a luxurious room. Cream cotton and rouge silk, thought Rosa. Taffeta, a word she hadn’t thought for years. The table was crystal. The fireplace was original. There was a Regency mirror which reflected Rosa half her girth. Madame la Braze said she felt the secret of good parenting was discipline. This was Rosa’s cue to agree slavishly, so she did. She nodded like a nodding dog, and said she couldn’t wait. They talked about qualifications, Rosa had few, but she held out her degree like a votive offering, and la Braze nodded curtly. Rosa said she loved children, loved them passionately. ‘They are the future,’ she said, with what she thought was an eager smile. La Braze didn’t respond. ‘It’s very important to educate them well,’ said Rosa, pushing on, and Brazier snapped out, ‘Of course it is. They have to be taught how to think.’ Interesting, thought Rosa. Very interesting. Then Rosa took the hand that was extended to her, received a still more stony nod, and turned to leave. She tripped again on a Persian rug, steadied herself on a plinth, and skirted round a statue of Athena. By then old Braze had gone off to slap another layer of acid on her face. Smiling at the retreating form of the nanny, Rosa walked out onto the river path.