Who Loves You Best (12 page)

“If you wouldn’t mind making sure I don’t oversleep,” Clare says briskly when I come downstairs. “I don’t do well with late nights, and I have an important appointment with my lawyer in the morning. My
forensic
lawyer,” she adds dryly. “I’ll be spending the next two days at work, going over the accounts.”

I flush. I swear she can read minds.

She stands and turns off the light. “And Jenna? If I were you, I’d stay away from Xan,” she says.

Two weeks later, and I
still
haven’t worked out what’s going on with Marc and Clare. She leaves for work every day looking immaculate, her blond hair smoothed back neatly, fingers manicured into perfect pale pink ovals, not a stray hair or wrinkle marring her usual work uniform of boring gray or black trousers and pastel cashmere T-shirts. (When Annabel first told me she was sending me for an interview with a woman who ran a flower shop, I’d pictured this hippy, earth-mother type, with mad spirals of dark hair, long flowing skirts, wellies, and broken fingernails. Clare is
so
not my idea of a green-fingered goddess.)

Clare’s great at keeping up appearances, but it’s hard to hide everything when you live with someone. I never actually hear them argue, she’s far too discreet for that, but I can’t help noticing that when Marc comes home now, later than ever, she doesn’t smile or get up to greet him like she
used to. She won’t bother to cook him dinner if he gets home after we’ve eaten. There are no fresh flowers around the house anymore. I can’t remember the last time I was woken by the sound of bedsprings on the other side of the wall.

Talk about caught between a rock and a hard place. I’m not sure which is worse: weekends with Jamie, or Monday-to-Friday here. I’d go home to Mum and Dad, but they converted my old room into an art studio for Mum about a minute after I left home.

I’m feeding the twins breakfast when Marc comes down one morning, his expression tense. Clare follows him, looking tired and distracted, as if she hasn’t slept. I can tell they’ve had another of their “discussions.”

Marc pours himself a coffee. “Would you like one?” he asks Clare stiffly.

“Thank you.”

“Milk?”

“Black, if you don’t mind.”

They’re
polite
to each other, I realize. Like total strangers.

I spoon baby rice into the babies as fast as they can swallow, desperate to escape the atmosphere in the kitchen. The taut silence is deafening.
For God’s sake, someone
say
something
.

“Can you sign a permission slip for the doctor?” I ask Clare. “They’re due for their next lot of shots this morning.”

She glances quickly at Marc, pretending to be absorbed in his
Financial Times
. “You won’t need it. I’ll come with you.”

“I thought you had to go to work early?”

“Nothing that won’t wait.”

Marc snaps his paper derisively, but says nothing. Clare looks close to tears.

Clare doesn’t speak on the way to the health clinic, except to mutter cryptically into her mobile—“I’ll be at the bank by eleven; no, he’s got no idea”—and fret about the heavy traffic. I don’t know why she’s come.

As usual, the doctor is running late. Clare neurotically paces the waiting room while I try to placate Poppy, who’s uncharacteristically fretful and difficult. I think Xan’s right; she must be teething. If Clare wasn’t here, I’d pull my usual trick and dip her pacifier in a packet of sugar. I’ve never known a baby with such a sweet tooth.

We’re finally ushered into a chilly exam room, where the twins are stripped to their Pampers, weighed, measured, and prodded. Finally, a skinny, purse-lipped nurse takes off their nappies and sticks a thermometer up their bums. Unsurprisingly, both babies bawl in protest.

“They’re very fussy,” she sniffs.

“You try having a pole stuck up your arse,” I mutter. “Oh, I see you already have.”

Clare stifles a smile.

Moments later, a fit, clean-shaven doctor of about fifty bounces excitedly into the room.

“Wonderful lungs!” he shouts over the screams. “Good job, Mum!”

“Thank you,” Clare says faintly.

“So, are we weaned? Eating solids?”

He addresses Clare, but she turns helplessly to me.

“We started them off a few weeks ago,” I say. “They’re eating most things now, but they still like their milk in the morning and at bedtime.”

“How many dirty nappies a day?”

Again, he looks at Clare. Again, she looks at me.

“About six each, I think.”

“Sleeping through the night?”

“Yes,” I say, feeling like a ventriloquist’s dummy. “Rowan’s over the colic now.”

“Good, good. Well, Mum, you’ve done an excellent job. Love and care, that’s all most babies need. They don’t want Mum in the boardroom or running the country, do they? They want her at home, isn’t that right?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Do you have children, Doctor?” I ask sweetly.

“Yes, four.”

“How lovely. You must be very proud. Tell me,” I add, “you must work such long hours here. Weekends and evenings, too. It must take a lot of commitment.”

“Always on call,” he says brightly.

I stop smiling. “So how many bloody Sports Days did
you
turn up to?” I demand. “Or was Daddy always too busy saving the world? I’m sure your kids must have found that a
great
consolation.”

“Jenna,” Clare says quietly.

“Well, don’t talk to me about love and care,” I say defiantly. “No one could love these babies more than Clare does.”

She shoots me a grateful look. The doctor coughs, and picks up his syringe.

Poppy doesn’t put up any resistance, but Rowan’s already arching and squirming when I pick him up. The doctor preps his arm with a Medi-swab, but as he gives him the injection, Rowan moves. The needle jabs deeper than the doctor intended, and Rowan screams in pain.

In a second, Clare has crossed the room and pulled him from my arms, her eyes dark with distress. She paces up and down, rubbing his tiny back and murmuring gently in his ear.

As he gradually stops hiccoughing, she turns and looks at me, an expression of surprise and delight on her face so genuine it makes my heart turn over. “I can’t bear him to be hurt,” she whispers.

“I know,” I murmur back.

It isn’t that Clare didn’t love Rowan; she just didn’t
know
it. I’ve watched her pick up Poppy and experience a glorious rush of natural, uncomplicated love; and then seen that smile falter and fade, drowned by her guilt at not feeling the same for Rowan. She was convinced she was going to turn into another Davina. I kept telling her mothers often take time to bond with their babies; people talk a load of shit about it, but the truth is, motherhood’s different for every woman. Clare wouldn’t listen. She’s been beating herself up for months.

But in one single, simple moment, everything’s changed. She could no more choose between the twins now than split the moon in two. I can see it in her eyes.

There’s an unexpected lump in my throat. Lost for words, I give Clare a clumsy hug, trying to let her know:
I
get it
. “You’re going to be fine,” I tell her. “You and Rowan and Poppy.”

We leave the office with the bashful, tearful-but-happy expressions you see on women as they walk out of tear-jerker chick flicks.
We had a Moment
, I think. I wish I was close enough with my Mum to ring and tell her.

As we struggle down the steps to the street, two grannies step aside and wait for us to maneuver the pushchair past them.

“Oh, twins!” one exclaims. “Look, Joan. Aren’t they beautiful?”

The other peers into the stroller, and then smiles at Clare, instantly identifying her as their mother, even though I’m the one pushing the pram. “You must be so proud!”

Clare pinks with pleasure, and squeezes my shoulder. “We are.”

Tears threaten again. She didn’t have to include me like that. The old biddies probably think we’re a couple of dykes, but I don’t care. For the first time, I realize Clare actually means it when she says we’re a team.

Except … except the twins still aren’t mine, are they?

I feed them, I wipe up their shit and vomit; I play mind-numbing games with soft balls and sing them endless dumb nursery rhymes. I schlep around in hideous sweats and trainers so it doesn’t matter if they’re sick on me, and have short, stubby nails so I don’t scratch them by mistake. I’m putting in all the hard work, and at the end of the day, I’ll have nothing to show for it.

But that’s the deal. The twins aren’t mine, will never be
mine. They’ll never even remember me. It’s like pouring all your money into renting a flat, when you could buy one and keep it forever.

At times like this, I wonder how much longer I can keep working as a nanny. Every time I say goodbye to one of “my” babies, a little piece of me goes with them. One day, there’ll be nothing left.

We reach the car, and strap the twins into their car seats. Together, we wrestle to fold the cheap stroller I stole at the London Eye, which has the perverse personality of a seaside deck chair. It’s already taken the skin off my knuckles several times.

“I must remember to get a new pushchair,” Clare pants, as she slams the car boot. “This thing is driving me crazy.”

“It’s my fault we lost the Bugaboo. I’ll pay for it—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They cost a fortune. If anyone’s going to pay for it, it’s Xan.”

Silence makes a sudden space between us.

I swallow. “Clare. You know what Xan said that night at the police station. About Marc cheating. I’m … I’m sure it wasn’t true. He was drunk, he didn’t mean it. Marc would never have an affair—”

“Oh, Jenna. Of course he wouldn’t.” She starts the car, and turns to me, her eyes as flat and cold and hard as blue pebbles. “I’m afraid it’s much,
much
worse than that.”

“Screwed her yet?” Felix asks.

The screen turns red. “Wait till it hits two hundred!” I yell into the phone. “Fuck you,” I tell Felix amiably.

“Don’t tell me: The nanny turned you down—”

“She didn’t fucking turn me down. I said two hundred!”

“You sad bastard.” Felix shakes his head and swivels back to his desk. “Wife’s got you bloody pussy-whipped, Elias.”

I tune him out, watching the screen intently. It’s another bloodbath in the markets, but so far Voyage is holding up. Health and pensions are where it’s at these days. Straightforward demographics. Even in a bear market, you can still walk away with a shitload of money if you keep your nerve—

“Jesus Christ!” I shout, leaping out of my seat. “What the
fuck
?”

“What’s up, mate?”

I slam my phone shut, abruptly cutting off my broker. “Voyage!” I yell, pointing at the screen. “What the shit is happening to Voyage?”

Felix grabs his keyboard and types furiously. “Class
action in Mississippi. Just hit the wires. Some cholesterol drug causing seizures—”

“Can’t be. Voyage doesn’t do pharmaceuticals. They’re strictly insurance.”

“Says here they bought out GITA, the Indian drug company, last summer. Used a shell to make the deal.”

I collapse into my chair. The price has steadied, but I’m already out four hundred thou. I just lost
four hundred thousand pounds
.

“Mate? You’re not exposed, are you?”

“Four hundred.”

“Peanuts, mate. Hamish lost three mill last Friday—”

I laugh shakily. “Not the bank. Personal.”

Felix whistles. “Nasty.”

“It was a done deal,” I plead, running my hand through my hair. “Voyage has been steady as a rock for years. I had a couple bad trades, I was counting on my bonus to put things right, but after the crash last year, it never bloody happened, did it? I needed to get a foot back on the ladder, so I ran a spread bet. Voyage seemed like a safe haven. It was a done deal,” I repeat.

“You can probably go back in and pick it up on the turn. What are you out for, total?”

“One point eight.”

“Christ, Marc!” Felix exclaims. “One point eight
million
?”

“It’s been a fucking roller-coaster this year,” I snap. “We’ve all taken a hit.”

“Yeah, with someone else’s money. This is a fucking lousy market to take a punt on, mate. What were you thinking?”

“It’s no big deal,” I bluster. “You win some, you lose some, right?”

Felix slaps my shoulder. “Yeah, sure. At least you’ve got the wife to bail you out if it all goes south. Looks like you better keep on giving the nanny a wide berth for the time being.”

“Tits like fried eggs,” I lie.

“That’s the spirit.” He hesitates. “Look, mate. It’s Lyle’s stag do tonight at Spearmint Rhino. Why don’t you change your mind and come? Reckon you could do with drowning your sorrows.”

“Yeah. Yeah, why not? Might as well live it up while I still can. It’ll give my brilliant wife the chance to earn a few more million before I get home,” I add bitterly.