Who Loves You Best (15 page)

Bad enough that he’d stolen from me, but then when I dug deeper, I discovered the second, usurious mortgage, when we’re struggling with the first. The roof over our children’s heads. How could he think I wouldn’t find out?

Until Xan came to me, I’d had no idea of the scale of the debt. One million eight hundred and thirty thousand pounds. It’s almost inconceivable.

I nearly left him then. I felt so betrayed that he could risk everything we’ve built up over the years like this. But at the end of the day, it’s
our
money, after all. We’re not one of those couples with separate accounts, who go on holiday together and then split the bills fifty-fifty. How can you promise to share your lives with each other until death parts you, if you can’t even share a bank account?

So I decided to swallow it and say nothing. Marc would come to me in his own time and own up. And in the meantime—well, in the meantime, I quietly moved the company’s investment funds and capital assets out of his reach.

It’s just … I’m so
angry
with him. I can hardly bear to look at him, much less sleep with him. I want to forgive him. I just don’t know if I can.

I startle when Craig nudges my elbow. “It’s
him,”
he whispers.

The angry American, Cooper Garrett. Craig says he’s come in three times a week for nearly a month to send
flowers to the same woman. Lilies, usually. Sometimes roses, once tulips; and always white.

We’ve had customers who’ve done this sort of thing before: men who’ve sent flowers daily, an extravagant, look-at-me gesture. But whatever is going on between the American and this woman—her name is Ella Stuart—it isn’t your typical romance. I watch him prowl the shop, briefly diverted from my own preoccupations. I can see the anger seething below his harsh, set features; grief, too, I think. Passion, certainly. How many of us ever inspire that? I know Marc loves me, in his way: As his wife, the mother of his children. I don’t doubt his sincerity, even now; but was it a
coup de foudre
when we met, for him? Attraction, yes, interest, desire; I know he felt all of those—but not passion. Lucky Ella, whoever she is.

“You’re back,” the American says, turning abruptly.

I put aside the pale green pods of a vine called love-in-a-puff that have just arrived from South America. Such a beautiful, delicate flower, so hard to grow in a cold climate. Like love, I think, and then laugh at my own cliché.

“I don’t work on the shop floor very often,” I say. “I have an office. But sometimes, I—”

“Need to.”

Again, this strange man who knows the meaning of flowers catches me off guard. The anger and hostility I saw in him last time have faded, leaving a melancholy that’s almost worse. His blue eyes are midnight with sadness. What has he lost, to fill him with such despair?

He looks at a point somewhere to the left of my head. “For me, it’s the piano.”

Instinctively, I glance down at his hands, resting on the counter. Strong, square, with the blunt, calloused tips of a man used to hard manual labor; and yet there’s an elegance to the spread of his long fingers on the wood surface. I can see them coaxing plangent music from piano keys yellowed with age. He’s a man of contradictions, this Cooper Garrett. He dresses like a plains farmer, with his faded jeans and the worn leather duster reaching almost to the floor; but the Breitling on his wrist is expensive, his boots soft, supple leather. I’d put him in his late forties, though at first sight he looks older. The deep grooves bracketing his wide mouth and furrowing his forehead add years, and dull otherwise classic square-jawed good looks. This isn’t a man who smiles often.

But there’s something about him that invites confidences, and trust.
A safe pair of hands
, I think.

Tentatively, I smile. To my surprise, he returns it. He’s transformed. His blue eyes are suddenly as bright and warm and clear as the Caribbean. Something unknown tugs at me. I want to talk to this man more. I want to know his story. I want to make him smile again.

Craig feigns a breathy little squeak of excitement. His nonsense slaps me awake like a bucket of cold water.

I flush and turn to the bank of flowers. “How can I help today, Mr. Garrett?”

There’s a brief silence. Then, “the white tuberoses, please,” he says coolly. “Your colleague has the address.”

“The Princess Eugenie Hospital,” Craig puts in.

“She’s in the hospital?” I ask, surprised.

“She’s in a coma.” Craig sighs. “She was hit by a car trying to save her daughter.”

“Stepdaughter.” The American is scowling.

I pull together a neat bouquet on automatic pilot, more curious than ever. What’s his relationship to this woman? No wedding ring—I noticed that earlier—though that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Mind you, if they were married to each other, he wouldn’t be sending flowers three times a week. Where does the child, the almost-stepdaughter, fit into the picture? And what is the cause of the grief that hangs around his broad shoulders, as tangible as his travel-stained coat?

Cooper Garrett glances briefly at his flowers, and leaves, without more than a curt nod in my direction.

“Oh, be still my beating heart.” Craig sighs. “That man is wasted on a woman. Who do you think she really is?”

One of these days, Craig is going to bite off more than he can chew with his campy act.

“I’ve no idea. How do you know so much about him, anyway?”

“I
ask
, darling.”

I tidy the tuberose stems and discarded twists of raffia. “Can you make sure the flowers get to the hospital before five?”

“Will do. Are you ready to go over the quarterly accounts now? I’ve got the paperwork from Price—”

“Can’t. I had to postpone the meeting with the accountants so that I could go with Jenna to the doctor’s. I’ll deal with it next week.”

“I can handle it if you—”

“No,” I say sharply.

Craig looks surprised. “No,” I say again, forcing my voice to sound normal. “It’s fine. It can wait. I’m sure you’re right, anyway. The recession’s hurting everyone. Things will probably pick up in their own time. No point worrying unnecessarily.”

Humiliating enough to have my husband leach money from the company accounts with my knowledge. I shouldn’t have told Jenna, and there’s certainly no need for Craig to know, too.

“Actually, I think I’ll go home,” I say, surprising myself. “I want to spend some time with the twins. I miss them,” I add.

Surely this is so much better than resentful foot-nailed-to-the-floor mothering? I’ve found my babies someone who can look after them with pleasure, while I’m free simply to love them, to give them the best of me, the real quality time. Not only is nothing lost by my going back to work; my children are better off than if I were at home. It’s almost as if they’ve got three parents, instead of two.

Jenna is just about to give the twins a bath when I walk in around six. “The chocolate pudding went well,” she says dryly.

“I can see that,” I say, regarding my Cadbury-coated infants. “Look, I’ll bathe them.”

“It’s fine, I can—”

“I’d like to,” I say.

Jenna hovers in the bathroom, handing me the baby soap and sponges as I need them, laughing as the babies, sitting
up toe to toe, kick each other’s feet. Poppy’s cheeks are a little red again as she sucks her sponge, but other than that, neither twin seems the worse for wear.

“Marc doesn’t know what he’s missing.” I sigh.

I scoop Rowan out of the bath and bury my face in his neck, inhaling the sweet, milky scent of my child. Oh, how I love him: every bit as much as I love his sister. I couldn’t make Sophie’s choice after all. Thank God. I’m not a freak, an unnatural mother. It just took a little time, that’s all.

“I thought Marc was coming home early tonight?” Jenna says, bundling Poppy in a towel.

“He called and left a message on my cell. Apparently, he has a meeting.”

“And you’re going to let him get away with that?”

“What’s done is done,” I say heavily. “I have to give him the chance to try to put it right.”

“How can you say that? After he stole money from your company—”

“No one’s perfect, Jenna. We all compromise with those we love, don’t we?”

Reflexively, she touches the latest bruise on her jaw, acknowledging the point with a blush. “But how can he complain about you working?” she adds after a moment. “You’d think he’d be grateful for what you earn.”

I shrug noncommittally. I may agree with her, but I’ve already confided too much. Sometimes I forget Jenna’s not actually family.

She empties the bath and picks up the rubber ducks and plastic fish. “If my dad told Mum she couldn’t work, she’d flip.”

I bundle Rowan in his soft blue hippo towel and take him into the nursery. Jenna follows with Poppy wrapped in her pink polar bear, and we lay them on opposite sides of the changing island, top to tail. Together we put on Sudocrem, Pampers, vests, Babygros. It’s Monday: Jenna fans out four tiny hands, while I cut twenty miniature fingernails. I hold their heads steady, and she gives each some Calpol for their teething. We’re the perfect team: synchronized mothers. If only it were an Olympic sport.

“Marc’s so old-fashioned,” Jenna says, as we settle in the cheap sofa I bought to replace the ridiculous carved rocking chair, and give the twins their bedtime bottles. “He’s worse than my dad.”

“His mother stayed home and raised six children. I suppose he’s just reverting to type.” I stroke Poppy’s cheek as she gulps noisily. “It’s not that I don’t want to look after the twins. Every time I walk out of the house, I feel torn in two. Marc has none of that guilt,” I add resentfully. “He’s not conflicted at all. No one expects him to quit work and stay home with the baby. It’s all so straightforward for men.”

By the time my husband comes home, Jenna and I have eaten, and I’m already in bed. I listen to him stumble around downstairs, cursing as he smashes into something. I hear glass breaking, and feel a spurt of anger. Isn’t it enough that he’s been playing Russian roulette with our home, without turning into a bloody drunk as well?

He finally lurches upstairs and clambers into bed. Whisky fumes roil my way as he leans over me and runs a sweaty hand over my haunch. I lie still, hoping he’ll think I’m asleep and give up.

“Clare?” he whispers loudly. “Are you awake?”

I keep my breathing slow and even.

He clumsily grabs my breast. “Ow!” I yelp, slapping his hand away.

“Are you awake?”

“What do you think?”

“I missed you,” he slurs. “You’re my best friend, Clarey, do you know that?”

“Yes.” I sigh, pushing him away.

His hands are more insistent now. “I love you. I just want a cuddle, tha’s all. Not too much to ask, is it? At th’end of a very long day.”

“Marc, I’m really not feeling very sexy right now—”

“You’ve never looked more beautiful,” Marc pants.

Men always say that, don’t they? When what they mean is: I really,
really
want sex right now, and frankly, who looks at the mantelpiece when they’re poking the fire?

I’m a conscientious wife. I make sure Marc and I have sex every weekend, even if I’m not in the mood (and find me a woman with young children who wouldn’t prefer an extra hour of sleep). If I’m feeling reckless, I’ll even throw in a quickie in the shower on Sunday morning. It’s usually enough to keep him sweet the rest of the week, but on the odd occasion Marc asks for snacks between meals, I never say no. Once we get going, I enjoy it—Marc is a skilled and thoughtful lover—although, if I’m honest, not quite as much as the latest
Times
best-seller. Sex just isn’t the driving force it used to be. It’s not Marc; it’s a woman thing.

But right now, even if my husband weren’t breathing sour fumes in my face, or fumbling my nipples like they’re
volume controls, or prodding an unappetizing semiflaccid penis against my thigh, I wouldn’t feel particularly inclined to accommodate him. Right now, I’m too angry even to fake pleasure.

“No, thank you, Marc. Sweet of you to offer,” I add politely, “but actually, I’d rather not.”

I have a meeting with a grower in Islington at seven the next morning. I leave home before anyone is up, relieved not to have to face Marc over the breakfast table. It’s been a strain coming up with things to talk about without invoking the pink elephant in the room. I keep waiting for him to tell me what he’s done, but his solution to the problem seems to be to go out and get roaring drunk, then come home and make a move on me.

He’s such a child sometimes. He reminds me so much of Xan. I remember when Xan was about five: He cut off all the heads of Davina’s roses, and then panicked and tried to tape them back on. Marc was just trying to put things right the only way he could think of. He’s a fool, not a bastard. If I didn’t truly believe that, I would have left him.

I race home to see the twins at lunchtime, but to my disappointment, they’re sleeping. “Stop worrying,” says Jenna. “They haven’t forgotten who you are. Go and get your highlights done; we’ll be fine, really.”

So I go to Nicky Clarke and sit reading
Harper’s Bazaar
and drinking cappuccino and feeling dreadfully guilty for paying someone to look after my babies while I go off and do something so frivolous. It’s almost excusable when I’m
working flat out to save us from bankruptcy, but how can I justify this?

Though my hair does look
great
, I think as I hand over my credit card (trying not to notice the total), and in my business, like any other these days, image is everything.

I put my wallet back in my bag and notice I’ve a missed call on my mobile.

Four of them.

“She was fine until about an hour ago,” Jenna says. “I put them both down for their naps, and went back when I heard Rowan crying. Poppy was just lying there, like this.”

My baby is limp in Jenna’s arms, her eyes half-closed and rolled back in her head. She’s so pale she looks carved from wax. I want to be the one to hold her, but I’m terrified to touch her
(bad mother, a
voice says inside my head) in case I make things worse.

“Is it the vaccinations?” I demand. “All that publicity about the MMR—”