Who Loves You Best (11 page)

I clamp the pillow over my ears. I can tell it’s Rowan. Poppy’s cries are cross, but Rowan always sounds so
lonely
.

It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain that their mother favors Poppy. I don’t think Clare really dislikes Rowan; it’s more that she doesn’t seem to know how to handle him. It’s a shame; now that he’s over the colic, he’s actually a real sweetheart. He’ll lie for hours peacefully gurgling at his mobile. Poppy’s adorable, too, of course, but she’s got a temper on her. She always seems to be thirsty. When she’s awake, she demands your undivided attention.

Shit. I can’t just lie here listening to Rowan scream.

I throw back the covers and pull on my sweats. Clare’s probably still lying dead to the world in a cloud of post-coital bliss, I think crossly. These walls are paper thin. It’s almost as bad as listening to your parents getting jiggy.

I’m not jealous or anything. I could get laid too, if I wanted to. It just really pisses me off when girls drop you like a snotty tissue the moment a man shows up.

This is why I’ve never lived in before. I’m never quite sure when I’m off duty. Clare loves all this girly togetherness, the two of us cooking in the kitchen, watching chick flicks like we’re at some sort of sleepover, but she’s not, like, my best friend. I don’t want to spend every night with her. I
work
for her. Who wants to spend all their time off with their boss?

I shuffle into the nursery and pick Rowan up.
Fuck
.
He’s got the shits again; bright yellow crap has leaked through his nappy all over his sheets.

Poppy pushes herself up on her tummy when she sees me, and starts to wail.

“Sorry, Poppy, you’ll have to wait,” I say tersely.

I can’t put Rowan down anywhere while he’s covered in shit, so I’ve no choice but to hold him while the bath runs. Now I’m covered with shit, too. I bet it bloody stains.

I love my job. I love my job. I love my job
.

I bathe Rowan, dress him in this gorgeous tartan outfit I bought last weekend, and then sort out his sister. I have to bathe her, too; which means emptying out the dirty water, cleaning off the lumps of shit ringing the bath, and running it again. Finally, we’re ready to go downstairs. I feel as if I’ve run a marathon already.

I’m halfway through feeding them breakfast (baby rice and formula; I’m supposed to mix it with breast milk, but Rowan won’t eat it, so let’s not tell Clare) when she finally comes down, looking smug.

“You’re up early,” she says brightly.

Poppy smacks her hand in her bowl, splattering me with baby rice. “It’s eight-fifteen,” I snarl, wiping cereal off my face.

Her smile fades. “I didn’t realize. Marc must have turned the baby monitor off when he got up for work. Jenna, I’m really, really sorry. Let me do that—”

I snatch the bowl away. “We’re up now.”

“I’ll pay you overtime. Or you can take some time off instead if you like?”

I scrape the twins’ bowls into the waste disposal. Clare’s nice; she’s nowhere near as bad as Maggie Hasselbach, but she still doesn’t know how good she’s got it. She wasn’t much older than me when she met Marc, and look at her now: gorgeous toy-boy husband, two beautiful babies, this amazing house—must be worth millions—not to mention the sixty-grand car parked outside. It’s not fair. I’d love to get my hair done every month at Nicky Clarke, or have enough clothes to fill a whole spare bedroom.
And
she owns her own business. She can pull a sickie whenever she bloody feels like it.

Meanwhile I clear up her kids’ shit, chop her onions, and do what I’m told. You could fit everything I own into a couple of suitcases. My boyfriend’s a total loser, and I can hardly even afford our rent. In three years, I’ll be thirty, and I’ve got nothing to show for it.

The only thing I’ve got that she hasn’t is freedom. I’m bloody well going to make the most of it while I still can.

I swing around. “Actually, Clare, I’m going out tonight, so I will finish early and take some time off, if that’s OK.” I don’t give her a chance to change her mind. “About five? It’ll give me time to get ready and do my hair.”

“Yes, yes, of course, that’s fine. Are you going anywhere nice?”

“There’s a new club opened in Stockwell, thought I’d give it a go.”

“Sounds … fun.”

“I’ll be back to start at seven tomorrow, usual time,” I add, rubbing it in. “Don’t worry if I don’t come home before then, though.”

She’s gone by the time I come back downstairs. I call Kirsty, and then raid the larder for something edible. This is easier said than done, since Clare is the sort of person who keeps wheat-grass smoothies and tofu in her fridge, whereas I’m more your Red Bull and frozen pizza kind of girl. But eventually I locate some doughnuts she pity-bought last week from the hospital fund-raiser, and settle down with a cup of tea in front of Jeremy Kyle’s daytime talk show.
My sister stole my lover—and now she wants a threesome!
Perfect.

The doorbell rings just as two bleach-blond slappers lay claim to a bald lard-ass with hair coming out of his ears.

“I like the cinnamon frosting,” Xan says, thumbing sugar from my top lip. “Adds a nice touch.”

A bolt of lust shoots straight to my groin.

Xan saunters past me and sits down on the sofa. “Hope you didn’t overdo the doughnuts, though. I thought we’d do lunch.”

I blink. “Don’t be stupid. I’ve got the twins—”

“Bring them.”

“No. I’ve got a thousand things to do, and anyway, I don’t think Clare would like it.” I go back into the hall, and pointedly open the front door. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Come on. You know you want to.”

“I told you, I can’t.”

“I promise, I won’t tell.”

“As if I’d believe
you.”

Xan laughs and pushes the chocolate lava cake towards
me. “You’d have a lot more fun if you just did what I told you.”

“Yeah, and I’d end up getting arrested.”

I give in and reach for the cake fork, but before I can take a bite, Xan catches my hand and turns my forearm over. Carefully, he fits his fingertips to the livid pattern of bruises circling my wrist. “He’s got a firm grip,” he comments, “your boyfriend.”

I pull my arm away. “He just doesn’t know his own strength.”

“Oh, I think he does.”

I open my mouth to deny it.
The cupboard door swung back and hit me. The phone distracted me when I was ironing. I caught my hand in the car door
. I’ve got so used to making excuses for Jamie, the lies automatically trip off my tongue. Last weekend, Mum remarked on a half-moon scar on my knee, and instantly, I rushed to explain it away: I was carrying some wine bottles out to the recycling bin, I slipped on some wet leaves, must have fallen awkwardly—

“You did that when you were seven,” Mum said, looking at me strangely. “You fell over the campfire at Brownies, don’t you remember?”

I busy myself with the twins now, wiping noses and cleaning hands. It’s not Jamie’s fault. I know every sad bitch who’s ever had her eye blacked by her boyfriend says that, but in my case it’s really true. Jamie’s got PTSD; the counselor said so. Like those soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan. He really
doesn’t
know what he’s doing when he gets into these blind rages. I don’t think he even sees me: I just happen to be there.

That doesn’t make it OK, of course—but actually, it kind of
does
. What am I going to do, kick him when he’s down?

Xan tips his chair back on two legs. “He’ll break something next,” he says laconically. “Your wrist, your ribs. Your neck.”

“You’ll break something if you don’t stop tilting your chair.”

He smiles mockingly. “Sorry, Nanny.”

Who the fuck does he think he is? Just because Mummy lives in a bloody castle and he went to a posh school. If I’m so beneath him, what’s he doing here?
He’s
the one who came to
me
. If he’s that bothered, he can go back to guzzling champagne with the Hon. La-di-dah Horse-Face, instead of slumming it at Pizza Express with the staff. Arrogant fucking arsehole.

I shove back from the table. “It’s time I got the twins home.”

“Wait. Don’t go.” He thumps his chair back down. “Look, no more bullshit, Jenna, I promise. It just pisses me off, that’s all. I don’t know why anyone would want to rough up a gorgeous girl like you, but it’s your business. Just tell me one thing. Forgive the cliché, but do you love him?”

Gorgeous girl
.

Oh, get over yourself, Jenna. It’s a
line
.

“I can’t leave Jamie,” I say tightly. “You don’t understand.”

Slightly to my surprise, he doesn’t press the point.

Instead, he stands up, grabs the twins’ pushchair, and throws four twenties on the table. “Let’s go.”

As soon as we’re outside, he flags down a taxi, and hefts the stroller into it.

“What are you doing?” I demand. “We can walk home from here—”

“You need to chill out,” Xan says. “And I know just the place.”

Thirty minutes later, London lies spread beneath us. A murky haze blankets the city, the last of the day’s bleached sunshine glinting off the sluggish brown river. Viewed from the sky, far from the traffic and crowds and noise, it all seems so much more peaceful and gracious than at ground level. London suddenly looks like the print Clare has over her fireplace by one of those Impressionist painters: Manet, Monet, something like that. Elegant and timeless.

“The London Eye.” I sigh as the huge Ferris wheel slowly turns, revealing slices of the horizon by degrees. “You are seriously sad.”

“Come on. You’re loving it.”

I try and fail to suppress a smile. He’s right. I am.

I hold Rowan up against the curved glass so he can get a clear view of the river. He gazes owlishly at me, refusing to look anywhere but at my face.

“Rowan, look! Look at the pretty boats! No, you dope, not at me, down
there
!”

“I know which view I’d rather look at,” Xan says.

Poppy squirms unhappily in his arms, and he knuckles his forefinger and rubs it gently against her pink gums. “Teething.”

“What would you know about teething?”

“You’d be surprised what I know.” He shrugs his left shoulder. “Here. Reach into my back pocket.”

I slide my palm into his jeans. My pulse quickens at the intimate contact.

“Don’t worry, I’m just going to rub it on her gums,” he snorts, as I ease the silver hipflask out and hesitate. “I’m not going to get her drunk. She
is
my niece.”

Poppy screws up her eyes, splutters, then opens her mouth wide for more. Just like her uncle, in fact.

The wheel slowly brings us back down to earth. I check my watch as we leave the glass pod, shocked to see it’s already quarter to five. Shit. I made such a big deal about Clare letting me off early today, and now I’m going to be late home myself. She’ll have a fit.

I jiggle Rowan more comfortably against my hip, and make for the bank of pushchairs and strollers parked near the ticket booth, searching for Clare’s fancy Bugaboo. If we can find a taxi, we might not be that late—

Xan’s arm is suddenly tight around my waist. “Keep walking,” he hisses.

“What?”

“Keep going. Don’t stop, and don’t turn around.”

“What are you talking about? I need the twins’ pushchair—”

“Christ, Jenna! Pick another one! That one,” he says, pointing to a cheap fold-up double stroller at the end of the row. “Clare’s is worth ten times that, right?”

“Yes, but you can’t—”

Xan is already pulling it out of the stroller lineup, and
strapping Poppy into one of its seats. Too bemused to argue, I follow suit with Rowan.

“Stop looking around,” Xan mutters. “Shit, could you
be
more obvious?”

A Hispanic man with earrings through his eyebrow and lower lip is staring hard at Xan from a nearby doorway. For a moment, I think he’s the one we’re trying to dodge; and then I spot the cops. Four single men in cheap business suits, heads swiveling, thread their way through the tourists and young families. They stick out like sore thumbs.

Xan ducks his head into the pushchair, hiding his face, and fusses with the twins’ blankets as I walk the stroller away from the crowded square.

“Not too fast,” he whispers tersely.

“Did the cops
follow
you?” I demand, sotto voce. “Fuck, Xan, what have you done?”

“Mistaken identity. Keep walking.”

We reach a narrow side street without being spotted. Xan risks a glance over his shoulder. No one shouts or raises the alarm.

“Jesus,” Xan says, straightening up. I’m still too shocked to speak.

We round the corner to the main street, just as a taxi with a lit sign crests the hill like the cavalry. Xan jumps recklessly into the middle of the road, his arm raised. The taxi pulls neatly up to the curb and switches off its light. I start to unfasten the twins from the strange pushchair, and realize my hands are trembling.

“Excuse me, miss,” a voice says behind us.

———

I can’t believe Clare doesn’t fire me on the spot.

I
so
would, if I were her. But when she finds us at the police station, she doesn’t say a single word to me. She organizes a cab to take Xan back to his flat in Fulham, and then drives the twins and me home, without even glancing in my direction. I sit huddled in the passenger seat, too ashamed to speak. Technically, it’s not my fault Xan was arrested, but if someone entrusted with my children had just wound up in a police cell for four hours, I’d want to rip them a new arsehole.

“I am so,
so
sorry—” I choke out, as we pull in to a parking bay near the house.

“Jenna. I’m really tired. I’m sure you are, too. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

She reaches into the back of the Range Rover, releases Poppy’s car seat, and carefully carries the sleeping baby up the front steps. Silently, I pick up Rowan.

The house is in darkness. Marc obviously isn’t home yet, despite the fact that it’s now well after ten.

Did you know Marc’s cheating?

I put the twins to bed, unable to get Xan’s drunken parting shot out of my head. God knows what Clare must be going through right now. She must be devastated. Unless … unless she already knew. She didn’t act like someone who’d just found out her husband was screwing around. Maybe they’re one of those couples who have an open marriage. They’re not exactly warm and fuzzy together; I
know they have sex, but I never see them holding hands or kissing. Still, I can’t see Clare tolerating him having an affair. It doesn’t seem quite her style.