Who Loves You Best (19 page)

“Be fair,” Clare protests. “You can’t tell me you don’t talk about your income to the other lawyers in your chambers. It’s just harmless gossip—”

“If that’s all it was, it wouldn’t be so bad. But it turns out,” Candida pauses for dramatic effect, “Charlotte Hughes-Foster had
tried to steal her!”

Shocked gasps all around.

“But Horatio and Alfie are in the same class at Ludgrove!” Clare exclaims.

“She came to my wedding,” Candida says indignantly. “I thought I could trust her. If she’d had an affair with my husband, I might have been able to forgive her. The man’s an alley cat anyway. But my
nanny!
We’ve been together for years! How
could
she?”

“What did you do?” Poppy demands.

“Well, Vicky and I sat down and had a long heart-to-heart. We’ve been taking each other for granted, I think we both realize that now. We’d grown apart and stopped really communicating. So we’ve decided to really work at things from now on,” she adds earnestly. “We’ve set aside one night a week to spend together, so we can concentrate on each other. I think this whole affair might be the making of our relationship.”

A loud wail emanates from the twins’ intercom. I breathe a sigh of relief and leap to my feet. No one even seems to notice me pick up the intercom and leave.

I’m tempted to spit in the organic lemonade as I pass.
None of these spoiled, rich, self-obsessed women care about the nameless girls they entrust with their precious children. Clare’s nice, but even she forgets I have a life of my own. She hasn’t once asked how Jamie is since I came back. I don’t just walk offstage when I leave her house and vanish into thin air.

I’m upstairs changing Rowan’s nappy when the nursery door shuts quietly behind me. I jump.

“Please, don’t let me disturb you,” Olivia says, waving her hand.

“The bathroom’s just along the hall—”

“Actually, darling, I’m glad I’ve got you alone. I wanted to have a quiet word.”

Casually, she picks up a pair of pink bootees from the changing table. “So sweet. Mine are both boys. I do so
long
for a little girl. The thing is, Jenna,” she says, briskly changing tack, “my current nanny isn’t really working out. I need to find a new one, and I was wondering if you could help.”

“Well, I could ask around,” I say doubtfully. “Maybe a friend of mine—”

“Oh, no, darling,” trills Olivia, “it’s
you
I want.”

I hesitate, wondering if I’ve misunderstood. “But I work for Clare.”

“Obviously. And I love Clare, sweetie, I really do, but I’m absolutely desperate. I know it’s a little bit naughty, and Clare probably won’t be on speakers with me when she finds out, but she’s done nothing but sing your praises since you joined her. You’re smart and presentable, and your accent isn’t
too
bad—”

“I couldn’t possibly, I’m sorry,” I say firmly.
My
accent? Cheeky bitch. At least I don’t sound like I’ve swallowed a bucket of marbles.

“How much is she paying you, darling? Two thousand? Two and a half?”

“I really can’t—”

“I’ll pay you four. And I’ll buy you a car; you can keep it if you stay a year.”

Four?
Four thousand pounds a month?

“Don’t worry, darling. My boys are very sweet, I’m not paying you silly money because they’re monsters.
I’m
the difficult one, as if you hadn’t guessed. As long as you keep me happy, we’ll be fine.”

I think fast. I love the twins, and I like Clare, a lot; I can even tolerate Marc. This woman clearly has the moral scruples of a bloodsucking leech. She’d be a total bitch to work for, and she might easily change her mind and sack me after a week, and then I’d be fucked.

Four thousand
. I could clear my debts, pay Jamie off: If he has enough start-up cash to find his own place, he might leave mine.

Put that way, it’s a no-brainer.

If there were any justice in this world, I’d wake with a splitting headache and a mean coke hangover: depression, lethargy, and the Monday-morning blues on a Thursday. Not to mention a couple of remorseful, teary women and an angry husband/father (I’m still not quite sure how old they are) at the door.

But thankfully, the devil has all the best tunes.

I hold out my hand to check: not even shaking.

Flipping back the duvet, I chivvy the two girls who picked me up at Mahiki last night out of bed. They totter home happily; neither asks for my number, or offers me hers. This is the beauty of letting women make the moves: no guilt, no grief, no strings. Everybody’s happy.

By seven-thirty, I’m behind my desk in my huge new fuck-off corner office at ShopTV, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I spend the morning checking yesterday’s sales figures, chairing the daily review meeting, and touching base with the presenters and guest reps from suppliers going on air. We’re doing a big push on pearls this week, tying it in with the launch of a major new skin-care range—pearls
have to be worn against the skin to keep their luster, blah, blah. Our sales figures on the segments are down from last year, but only slightly; given the depth of the economic shit we’re all in, I’m still in my happy place. Most people think when a recession hits, it’s the luxuries women cut back on, but surprisingly, our homeware lines suffer most. If she can’t afford a new frock, a woman cheers herself up with a nice pair of shiny earrings. Sod the saucepans.

I toss the viewing figures across my desk. I can sell anything to anyone, but it helps when I have a decent product.

My cell rings; I check the ID, and grin. “I take it I’m forgiven?”

“You don’t deserve to be,” my sister says crisply.

“C’mon, CP. Even you can’t sulk forever.”

“Don’t call me that. You know I hate it.”

Our dear, departed father was Catholic. He chose Clare’s first name, but graciously permitted Davina to pick her middle one—on condition it featured in
Butler’s Lives of the Saints
. She spent hours combing through all six thick, leather-bound volumes for the most irritating one she could find. Clare Perpetua it was.

“So, am I off the hook?” I ask.

“Just because they didn’t charge you, it doesn’t mean you weren’t guilty,” Clare says tightly.

“Oh, absolutely. Our boys in blue never make a mistake, do they?”

A low blow on my part; but irresistible. My sister is the kind of civic-minded person who picks up other people’s litter; I’ve never seen her jump an amber light, never mind a red one. She certainly didn’t deserve to be hauled off in the
middle of the night—as if Clare would harm her own kid! She’s more wholesome than organic apple pie. Whereas I definitely deserve to have my collar felt. I am a reprobate, a sinner, a man without qualm or conscience. Or, may I point out, a criminal record, thanks to a talent for low cunning and a well-connected stepfather with a guilty conscience.

Fortunately for me, Clare, fair girl that she is, doesn’t distinguish between her innocence (genuine) and mine (the thorny question of proof). I’m constantly amazed, given her level of integrity, that she ever makes any money at all.

“Well, never mind all that now,” she says briskly. “I called to invite you over to supper, but if you’re going to be difficult—”

“I’m the soul of amenability. But I have to ask: Am I liable to have my nose punched by your charming husband?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“He threatened to, and I quote, ‘beat me three ways to Sunday’ if I darkened his doors again.”

“You were smoking marijuana in our drawing room!”

Clare must be the only person under forty who calls it
marijuana
.

“I told you, I’m sorry. It was a misunderstanding. I thought they were menthol—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Xan. I wasn’t born yesterday. Frankly, I don’t care what you smoke, as long as you don’t bring it into my house or involve my family and staff.”

“Darling, I didn’t mean to involve Jenna. I had no idea I was being tailed by the police. Though I must admit, I’ve rather gone up in my own estimation as a result.”

“Next time they arrest you, I’m
not
bailing you out.”

“Fair enough.” I put my feet up on my desk and flick an elastic band across my office. “Just for the record, am I to take it the small matter of your devoted spouse embezzling your fortune has all blown over?”

“It was just a … misunderstanding. I don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want you to talk about it, either, Xan, or you can forget supper.”

“We’re a very misunderstood family,” I muse. “Don’t worry. Discretion is my middle name.”

“And there was me thinking it was trouble,” Clare says waspishly, and rings off.

My arm twitches as I slide my phone back in my pocket, and I drop it. I try to pick it up, but the muscles of my right hand won’t seem to work properly. Cursing, I kick the phone, and it skitters out of reach beneath my desk. I leave it there, and pull open the bottom drawer with my left hand. My fingers close around the silver hip flask. Who gives a damn if it’s not yet noon? I need a shot of the hard stuff if I’m going to get through the rest of the day.

I’m nicely mellowed by the time I reach Clare’s around seven. I stumble slightly on the steps, just as she opens the front door.

“Xan, are you drunk?”

I grab the railings. “Just warming up, CP.”

“Sometimes,” Clare says through gritted teeth, “you’re enough to try the patience of a saint.”

“Marc home yet?”

“Not yet, no.”

I follow her into the kitchen, where the twins are playing
happily in the playpen, steadily throwing all the LEGOs out onto the limestone floor. Debussy is on the iPod, and I smell jasmine and saffron. I sniff the air hungrily. “Shrimp curry?”

“Your favorite.”

I sweep her into a clumsy hug. “You are my favorite.”

“It’d be nice if you’d remember that sometimes, and stop drinking yourself into an early grave. You know how much I worry about you—”

“Jenna!” I exclaim, as the woman who’s haunted my erotic dreams for the past three months comes downstairs. “Have you missed me, darling?”

“I’m working on my aim.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me. I know how you really feel.”

“That’d explain your Kevlar vest.”

Fuck, she’s sexy.

“Jenna,” Clare says, “can you give Poppy her sippy cup?”

“It’s a bit full,” Jenna says, taking it.

“She’ll be fine.”

“Shall I empty some of the juice out first?”

“Jenna, I
said
she’ll be fine.”

I eye my sister in surprise. She usually treats staff like visiting royalty, to prove she doesn’t think she’s better than they are. It’s the rest of us she bosses around like serfs.

Poppy holds her cup in two fat fists, and drinks without spilling. I’m impressed. It’s more than I can manage these days.

Clare throws Jenna a triumphant look.
Now
I get it. This is a turf war. Clare may believe she’s a crap mother, but
she’s still going to make sure Jenna knows who’s in charge. To be honest, I’m kind of surprised she ever let another woman in on her territory in the first place. Davina is to motherhood as Cruella De Vil is to animal rights, but I always figured Clare would be the Ultimate Soccer Mom. Homemade birthday cakes, hand-sewn party dresses, the whole Suzy Homemaker shebang. Whatever she does, it’s always a success. There are times (few, admittedly) when I feel quite sorry for Marc.

Talk of the devil. As a key scrapes in the front door, Jenna scoops the kids out of the playpen and takes them off for their baths. I admire her arse in her tight jeans as she climbs the stairs.

Marc goes straight to the drinks cabinet in the corner of the kitchen, nodding curtly at me. “Can I get you anything?”

Clare grinds pepper over a saucepan of pasta. “I think he’s had enough.”

Cluck, cluck, mother hen
.

“Scotch works for me,” I say.

Marc hands me a generous glass. I realize this is what passes for an apology from my brother-in-law. Fair enough. I
was
smoking weed on his sofa.

“Good day?” Clare asks her husband.

“Hectic.”

“Did you call Michael Peters yet? He said they couldn’t hold the job open for long—”

“Christ, Clare. Let me get through the door before you start in, would you?”

Her lips tighten and she turns back to the simmering
pan. I love my sister to death, but she’s a hard act for us sinners to follow. Marc must get sick of eating shit while she pitches her tent on the moral high ground. Yeah, he’s been an arse, but I reckon he’s a good bloke underneath. He loves his kids, loves his wife. He just doesn’t have a clue what makes her tick.

You’d think a man with five older sisters would
get
women. Superficially, he’s OK; he’s great at birthday presents, Clare’s got a box full of the kind of hard-to-find, one-off pieces of jewelry women love—and I’m guessing he doesn’t just roll over and go to sleep after a shag, but he’s fucking useless when it comes to the hard stuff. He had six mothers fussing over him for most of his life. He’s used to dumping his problems in a woman’s lap and having her unravel them for him. Clare thinks because he lets her take charge of things he doesn’t mind that she earns four times his salary, and makes all the big decisions; she’s never figured out he’s actually an old-fashioned boy who just likes Mummy running around looking after things.