Who Loves You Best (22 page)

In seven years, Marc has never once bought me flowers.

———

“Did you have to be so rude to me in front of Xan?”

Marc tosses his jacket on the end of the bed. “Give me a break. The man’s a drunk.”

“He’s my brother! At least you could have—”

“You’re the one who stormed upstairs over a spilt glass of wine,” Marc snaps.

“I had a headache.”

“You
are
a headache.”

I wrap my arms defensively around my chest. “How can you say that?”

“Christ. All you ever do is bitch.” Marc sneers. He balls up his socks and throws them in the direction of the laundry bin, his voice taking on a mocking falsetto. “‘Get another job. Sell the car.’ Have you heard yourself lately?”

“I’m not the one who got us into this mess.”

“Yeah, yeah. Save it, Clare. I’m not in the mood.”

He climbs into bed and turns his back to me. I switch off the bedside light and stare miserably into the darkness. I can’t seem to do anything right anymore. Marc blames me for everything. How
could
he believe I’d ever hurt Poppy? He must really … he must really
hate
me, I realize, with a spurt of shock. He’s lived with me for seven years, he knows me better than anyone except Xan. To believe the worst of me like that … to
want
to believe it … how much resentment has he been harboring, for how many years?

I’m bewildered by the speed with which we’ve fallen apart. I can’t remember the last time he kissed me, never mind the last time we made love. But we were fine until we
had the twins. Weren’t we? Or … or was I just too busy with PetalPushers to notice?

Was I so wrong, to expect the same from marriage as Marc? A partner who was my lover and my friend; a career; a family. Is that really asking too much?

I push myself up on my elbow, but Marc’s light snores tell me he’s already asleep.
How can he?
My own stomach churns with anxiety. How can he
sleep
when our marriage is in crisis?

I throw myself restlessly back on my pillows. I haven’t heard Jenna or Xan come upstairs yet. I’m very fond of Jenna, of course. It’s not that I don’t think she’s good enough for Xan, obviously. But if they got together, it would … complicate … things too much. He’ll break her heart, and I’ll be the one left picking up the pieces.

Sliding out of bed, I reach for my robe and tiptoe out onto the landing. There’s a soft murmur of voices below me, and then, as I stand and listen, a long, pregnant silence. Suddenly, the thought of Jenna stealing kisses from my brother—
my
brother: the one man whose loyalty and love I can still count on—fills me with a dark, ugly jealousy.

“Jenna?” I call sharply. I descend to the half-landing. “Jenna, you have to be up early tomorrow with the twins. Don’t you think you should get to bed?”

Moments later, the front door slams. Instantly, I feel ashamed of my pettiness. I didn’t mean for Xan to drive home. He’s in no fit state.

I slink upstairs and climb back under the cold covers. Next to me, Marc is stiff and unyielding, even in sleep.

I doze fitfully, haunted by dreams in which my life and
Jenna’s are entangled and confused. At one point, I reach for Marc, only to have him turn into a wild-eyed Jenna, laughing manically as she brandishes a salt-cellar in each hand.

I wake disoriented and exhausted. Marc’s side of the bed is empty. The two of us are getting up earlier and earlier in our attempts to avoid each other.

Downstairs, I find Jenna in the utility room, loading the washing machine. Elbow deep in our dirty laundry: literally and metaphorically.

“Thank you so much for clearing up the kitchen last night,” I say nervously. “I really appreciate it. I didn’t mean you to get caught up in—”

“Forget it.”

She slams the washing machine door shut, and twists the knob. I follow her back to the kitchen, cowed. Jenna has a way of giving you the cold shoulder, making you feel in the wrong even when you don’t know exactly why. After all, I certainly pay her enough to clean up a few coffee cups now and then. And Xan was here to help. It’s not like I’m using her for slave labor.

Jenna picks up the kitchen sponge, and, ignoring me, wipes down the countertop. I hover uselessly. It’s like being back at school. I never quite grasped the unwritten playground rules. I couldn’t work out why I would be cast out of my small circle of friends for no apparent reason, and would spend tearful hours trying to discover what I’d done wrong, until I was suddenly admitted back into favor without explanation. I hated it then, and I hate it now.

“Was Xan … was he OK to drive when he left?” I ask tentatively.

“He got the Tube. He said he’ll come by to pick up his car in a day or two.”

She’s obviously in one of her moods. I decide to ignore it and hope she gets over it. “Did the twins sleep through?”

“They woke up at seven.”

She clears away Rowan and Poppy’s breakfast bowls, hands each of them a cracker, and then starts briskly to sponge the already gleaming kitchen table.

“You haven’t forgotten about their play-date at Annabel’s?” I venture. “It’s not far from here, but if it rains you need to get a taxi. I don’t want to risk Poppy catching cold.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” she says coolly.

I move out of the way as she starts on the Viking range. “I could help you get the twins ready if you like. I don’t have to go into work until later today,” I add, suddenly wondering as I say it why I have to go into work at all. I could spend the afternoon lazing in Annabel’s back garden, the children playing on a picnic rug at our feet, enjoying the gentle June sunshine on my face and a glass of crisp Pinot Grigio in my hand and the feeling of grass between my bare toes.

I lift Poppy out of her high chair, inhaling her smell. She’s growing up so fast, and I’m missing it.

Poppy squirms, and reaches towards Jenna. “Ma! Ma! Ma!”

It’s like a knife in my stomach.

“She says that to everyone,” Jenna says.

“She wants you,” I say, handing her to Jenna.

“Cupboard love.” Jenna smiles at Poppy. “She knows where the cookies come from.”

Forcing a smile, I go upstairs and get ready for work. When I come back down, the twins are playing on the floor of the sitting room. Jenna dressed Poppy in one of the hideous starched, frilled dresses I hate, and Rowan in a loathsome pair of black jeans and a miniature bomber jacket. Why does she keep buying them this dreadful stuff? Why can’t she let them look like babies? They’re only six months old, for heaven’s sake! I don’t want them going to Annabel’s looking like this. They’re not
Jenna’s
children.

“Look, do you mind if I change them?” I say suddenly. “I’d rather they wore something more comfortable.”

Deliberately ignoring her outraged expression, I take them back upstairs. My hands tremble with anger as I lay each of them on the changing table, and take off the scratchy, cheap synthetic outfits. I pull out their soft, worn sweats and T-shirts, in pale, faded colors: lavender, mint, robin’s egg blue. It’s like Jenna’s trying to take over. Imposing what she wants against my wishes. She needs to remember she’s just here to do a job. They’re
my
babies.

She’s sitting at the kitchen table when I bring the twins back down, her arms folded. I don’t have to be a mind reader to see trouble coming.

Instantly I regret my childish power play. It’s not fair to take out my foul mood on her. And Jenna’s the last person I need to alienate at the moment.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so picky,” I apologize. “It’s just that the twins will be crawling around Annabel’s
back garden, and I’d hate it if they ruined the lovely clothes you bought them. They should be kept for best—”

“Look, Clare. We need to talk.”

Words you never—as an employer or a lover—want to hear.

I sit warily opposite her.

“It’s not about the clothes,” she says quickly.

She hesitates, rubbing the palm of her hand up and down her inner arm as if she’s cold. I’ve noticed it’s something she does when she’s nervous or unsure.

“I’ve been offered another job,” she blurts. “It’s a lot more money, and the hours would be shorter, too. You know how much I love the twins, and I’d hate to leave you, but … well …”

She trails off, dropping her gaze. I simultaneously want to kill her and throw myself at her feet and beg her to stay.

“I didn’t realize you were looking for another job,” I say carefully.

“Oh, I wasn’t. I’m really happy here. It’s just—”

“Clearly you’re
not
really happy here, if you’re considering leaving.”

She flushes. “It’s not that. An opportunity just came up and … and, well, I thought I should talk to you about it before I did anything.”

I smooth my hands outwards against the surface of the tabletop. “I can’t see why,” I say evenly. “If you want to leave us, there’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

“But I don’t!”

“I’m sorry, Jenna. I don’t quite understand. If you don’t
want to leave, why are you telling me you’ve been offered another job?”

“I’m in so much debt, Clare,” she pleads. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to pay it off. I can’t even afford the minimums on my credit cards. I’m months behind with the rent, and now that Jamie and I have split up, he’s refusing to let me break the lease, and I can’t do it unless he agrees because we both signed it and—”

“You’ve split up with your boyfriend?”

She nods unhappily.

I sigh. No wonder she’s so upset. At her age, breaking up seems like the end of the world. “I didn’t know. When did that happen?”

“The weekend before last. When I had to take a couple of days off.”

“Two weeks ago? Where did you stay last weekend?”

“With Kirsty, at Fran’s.”

“Oh, Jenna. You could have stayed here. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You’ve had so much else to worry about—”

“But you’re part of the family, I keep telling you that.”

“I know, and I really don’t want to leave you, but—”

“Look, I’m sure we can work something out.” I rub my eyes wearily. First Craig, and now Jenna. I don’t know how I’m going to afford any of this, but I don’t seem to have a choice. I can’t lose either of them. Jenna rubs me raw sometimes, and she can be a bit bossy, shoving my nose in my inexperience; but when it comes to babies, she
is
the one who knows best. I’d be lost without her.

Maybe I could pay off her debt for her. It can’t be that much. “What do you owe?”

“About … well, about sixteen thousand altogether.”

“Sixteen
thousand?”

She bites her lip. I’m not surprised she’s embarrassed. How on earth can she have racked up a debt of sixteen thousand pounds at her age? What has she been buying, Picassos?

“Jenna, who offered you this job?” I demand. “It’s someone you’ve met here, isn’t it? One of my so-called friends—wait. We had that charity meeting last week. It was one of them, wasn’t it?”

She looks uncomfortable.

“Who, Jenna?”

“Olivia,” Jenna mutters.

“Olivia Coddington? My
friend
Olivia?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything—”

“I’m glad you did,” I say tightly. Once the rest of the committee find out what she’s done, her name will be mud. And if she thinks I’m going to sponsor her membership to the Hurlingham Club after this, she’s got another think coming. “I don’t know how much she’s offered you, Jenna, but I have to tell you, you’ll earn every penny. Olivia’s last two nannies haven’t lasted three months between them.”

“I know. I don’t want to leave you, but I really need the money. Is there … could you … I hate to ask, but—”

More money
. Of course. Jenna already earns more than most of my friends’ nannies, because of the extra work involved in looking after twins. And she’s only been with us five months; hardly time for a pay raise.

I need her, of course I do; the last thing I want is to lose
my nanny now, but I feel like I’m being held to ransom. If I give in this time, am I going to be facing the same scenario in another few months?

“Let me think about it over the weekend,” I say finally.

I spend the rest of the day at work fretting about nothing else. Maybe I
should
let Jenna go. I can’t afford to match the kind of salary Olivia can offer, and if Jenna’s heart isn’t in it, I don’t want her looking after my babies.

Perhaps I could take care of them myself, I think wildly. It’d certainly please Marc; and I’ve been surprised how much I’ve missed spending time with them, too. I never intended to be this sort of mother. Maybe I could give Craig a bit more of the independence he craves, and take on a part-time role myself. Enroll the twins in a nursery. I could juggle things somehow—

What are you thinking?
I’d never cope. Look how I went to pieces last time.

But they’re older now. In eighteen months, they’ll be ready for nursery school. I don’t want Poppy calling Jenna, or anyone else, Mummy.
I
want to be there for her first steps, her first word. What’s the point of having children if I’m going to hand off my mothering to someone else?

At the end of a long, difficult day—Craig, bristling with ideas and self-importance, has been in and out of my office every five minutes; and then my Islington manager, Wendy, broke the news that she’s four months pregnant—I’m relieved to get home and say goodbye to Jenna for the weekend. I’ve had about as much of staff problems as I can stand for one week. I’m looking forward to spending a couple of hours simply enjoying my children.

Rowan and Poppy, however, have other ideas. They scream, spit out their food, squirm and cry in the bath, and throw up twice each over their clean Babygros. It’s as if they’re picking up my anxiety and amplifying it a thousandfold. By seven-thirty, they’re bouncing off the walls, and I want to tear my hair out with frustration. What on earth was I thinking? I can’t do this. I could
never
do this. Motherhood is ninety-nine percent slog, grind, and mind-numbing boredom. It’s not worth going through that for the one moment when they smile at you or say your name. I’m sorry, it’s just not. I’ll pay Jenna anything she wants if she’ll just stay.