Who Loves You Best (29 page)

“He can’t do that,” I whisper. “Nicholas, please. He can’t take them, can he?”

“We’ll fight him all the way,” Nicholas says.

“But they’re just babies! I’m their
mother!
They need me!”

“Which is exactly what we’re going to tell the judge.” He hesitates. “Clare, I’ve got to be honest with you. Marc makes a plausible case. This salt poisoning—”

“But I’ve explained that! Poppy has a special type of diabetes—”

“Marc has produced witnesses who insist she was force-fed salt. He has copies of the police report, which is inconclusive, and a letter sent by a doctor at the Princess Eugenie Hospital referring the matter to Social Services. He claims he can produce a number of expert witnesses to back up his allegations. I’m not saying any of this is true,” he adds, holding up a hand, “but I won’t lie to you, Clare, we must take it very seriously.”

“You can’t let him take them,” I plead. “He can have everything. The house, the money. I just want my children.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Clare, I had hoped I wouldn’t have to do this. I don’t want to sink to Morton’s level, but I’m afraid we have no choice. Marc has already thrown a lot of mud, and however we strive to explain it away, some of it is going to stick.”

“I can ask Ella Stuart if she’ll testify for me. I’m sure she’d agree.”

“That would be helpful, yes, but it’s not what I meant.”

He opens the folder on his desk and, taking out a letter, hands it to me. “I’m afraid we need to throw a little mud of our own.”

“What the
fuck
kind of game do you think you’re playing?” Marc explodes in my ear.

Clearly, he’s received Nicholas’s letter. I still can’t quite believe Davina actually sent a private detective to Canada to investigate her future son-in-law, and then sat on the information for more than seven years; but for once in my life, I’m grateful she’s such a devious, suspicious bitch.

I hold the phone further away from my head. “I think it’s called tit for tat,” I say.

He’s almost incoherent with rage. “You lying bitch! How dare you brand me a fucking pervert! You want to drag the whole family through the dirt, is that it? Is this what you want for the children? You think it’s good for them to grow up thinking their father is some kind of sex maniac?”

“No worse than growing up thinking their mother tried to poison them,” I retort.

“I was fucking twenty-one!” Marc yells. “The girl looked a lot older than fourteen; she was knocking back shots in a fucking bar, for Chrissake! How was I supposed to know?”

I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear as I
reverse into a space outside my house. As soon as the divorce is finalized, I’m getting rid of this vehicle. I want a cheap, ordinary car that doesn’t require a twelve-point turn to park.

“It can be upsetting when people take an innocent misunderstanding and turn it into something sinister, can’t it?” I say, climbing out of the car and locking it. “You ask a pretty girl to dance, and the next thing you know, you’re a sexual offender with a criminal record. People can be so narrow-minded. Especially judges in custody battles.”

“You’re not going to win,” Marc snarls. “I’ll make sure everyone knows what kind of lying, conniving, psychotic mother you are.”

How could I have lived with this man, slept with him, had children with him, and never realized what kind of selfish, cruel person he was?

“If you do that,” I say, “they’ll have to know exactly what kind of father you are, too. No court is ever going to—”

“Who said anything about going to court?”

My throat tightens. “What are you talking about?”

“Have you checked the children lately?”

“Marc, what do you mean?” I demand urgently. “Where are you?”

“Don’t they have Baby Swim every Monday, Clare? At the Hurlingham?”

The blood starts pumping in my veins again. He’s at the Hurlingham Club, in Fulham. Which means he isn’t here, at the house, where the twins are, because they were both feverish this morning and I had to keep them home.

Thank God.
Thank God thank God thank God
.

I run up the front steps and unlock the door. “I’m calling my lawyer,” I tell Marc. “I’m letting him know you threatened to take the children. You’ll be lucky to get supervised visits after this.”

I snap my phone shut. In the kitchen, I hear the twins’ happy babble, and Jenna’s voice as she chatters to them.

I sag against the wall. I don’t know if Marc really would have tried to snatch the children, or if he was just taunting me. What would he have done with them, where would he have gone? With no money and nowhere to stay, he’d have run out of options very quickly. But Marc doesn’t always think things through. He might have been tempted to do something stupid. It wouldn’t be the first time. Thank God he didn’t get the chance.

Straightening up, I go into the kitchen, where Poppy is happily splattering applesauce over the table. I give her a deep hug, not caring that my suit will need to be dry-cleaned.

“Everything OK?” Jenna inquires.

“It is now.” I release Poppy, and brush crumbs from my jacket. “Where’s Rowan? Down for a nap?”

“Actually, after you left, he seemed much better. I don’t think he had a temperature at all; it was normal when I took it anyway.” She lifts Poppy out of her seat. “I didn’t want him to miss out, so I took him to Baby Swim after all.”

BARCLAYS

Now there’s a thought

Name:     MS. JENNA EMILY KEMENY
Branch:   469 Brixton Rd London SW9 8HH
Sort Code:      21-48-35
Number:  48760929
                 
www.barclays.co.uk
IBAN      GB73 BAR.C 2148 3548 7609 29
SWIFTBC  BARCGB22

MS. J. E. KEMENY
69 BINFIELD ROAD
STOCKWELL SW9 9EA

The Barclays Bank Account
Current account statement
Jul 19 to Aug 18 2009

 

Your account summary

 

At a glance

Start balance	£ 4,129.55	*OD
Money in	£27,500.00
Money out	£ 3,485.18
End balance	£19,885.27

 

 

Your transactions

 

 

Correspondence: BARCLAYS	Tel: 0845–7–555-555
Statement page 82

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

“Stalking you.”

“Seriously, Xan.”

“Seriously, Jenna.”

“Don’t mess about. If Clare sees us, she’ll go nuts.”

Xan snorts. “If she sees us doing
what?
Chatting in broad daylight outside Marks and Sparks?”

He has a point.

“However,” he says, pulling me into his arms and giving me a knicker-wetting snog I can feel in my toes, “if she saw us doing
this
, I could understand the problem.”

When I finally come up for air, I’m slightly surprised to see the twins gurgling happily in their double buggy beside me. It takes me a moment to realize I’m standing in the middle of Kensington High Street, not smoldering between the sheets at Xan’s pied-à-terre.

He releases me, and pats down his pockets for a packet of cigarettes. “Jenna, we need to talk.”

Four words you never want to hear: from your lover or your boss.

Shit. I knew it wasn’t going to last, but I’d hoped it was going to last a bit
longer
.

“I can’t talk now,” I say, as Rowan wails loudly. “The twins need lunch.”

“Come over tonight. I’m … going out of town tomorrow. I won’t be back for a while.”

Clare’s not going to like it, especially at such short notice. Marc’s working late again, and she hates staying in on her own. Well, tough. I may work for her, but she’s not the boss of me. I
am
entitled to go out in the evening if I want to. Even if it is just to get dumped.

“I’ll see you at eight,” I tell Xan.

“Fine. Look, Jenna—”

I wait.

He shrugs negligently. “Forget it.”

I turn the pushchair around and start to head back home, wondering if Xan really
did
follow me, or if meeting him was just coincidence. I wouldn’t put anything past him.

Maybe he’s decided to tell Clare about us, I think hopefully. We get on really well most of the time, though he can be a bit moody. He’ll be laughing and joking around, and then suddenly he goes all weird and quiet, like his dog’s just died. Five minutes later, he’s fine again. It’s kind of hot, never knowing where you are with him, but it’s exhausting, too. There are times you just want to have dinner and a movie and keep the drama on the screen.

I glance at the sky. It’s overcast, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to rain. I think we’ve got time to nip in to Kensington Gardens to feed the ducks.

I park the pushchair by the Round Pond, and dig
around in the basket beneath for the Ziploc bag of stale bread I brought with us. A bit further along, a couple is sitting on a park bench, deep in conversation. She drops her head, as if to hide tears, and as I watch, he lifts her chin with his finger. He talks to her, straightening her collar as if she’s a child, and the unexpected tenderness of the gesture takes my breath away. It takes me a full minute to register that the woman is Clare, and another few seconds to place the man as Cooper Garrett.

I fling the bread bag back in the buggy and quickly release the brake. I feel clumsy and embarrassed, as if I’ve walked in on her naked.

I can’t believe it.
Clare
, of all people. Not that I blame her; Marc’s a total wanker. But she’s always been so serious and sensible and so … so
Julie Andrews
.

Flowers. Secret assignations in the park. Oh, Mrs. Elias, what
are
you up to?

I smile to myself, startling a couple of old dears walking their dogs.
You go, girl
. I can kind of see why Clare might fancy Cooper: Even though he’s pretty old, he’s still got this really cool, all-action-hero thing going on. It’s quite sexy, in a way. You can imagine him in
The Poseidon Adventure
, leading everyone out of the ship. Marc’s more like the rich loser in
Titanic
bribing the steward to let him escape with the women.

Clare’s late home from work: Getting her brains shagged out, if she’s got any sense. Which she probably hasn’t. She’s just the type to fall madly in love, and then ruin it all by developing a conscience.

I put the twins to bed, and race to get ready for Xan.
On the off chance he’s
not
going to dump me, I want to look sensational.

I’m struggling into a bone-crushing, corset-style top and figure-hugging jeans when I finally hear the sound of a key in the lock. It’s followed by a string of words I wouldn’t want the twins to hear until they’re at least twenty-one.

I yank my zip up and run down to open the front door.

“What the fuck is wrong with the lock?” Marc yells.

“It’s my fault,” I pant. “I shut us out the other day, and Clare had to get the locksmith around. You’ve got one of those mega-security locks so he couldn’t just cut new keys, he had to drill out the whole—”

Marc pushes past me. “Whatever. Where is she?”

“She’s not home yet.” I glance nervously at the hall clock. “I’m supposed to be going out soon—”

“Don’t worry. Go. I’ll be here.” He smiles unpleasantly. “I need to talk to my wife.”

I don’t like the way he said that. I run upstairs, hoping he hasn’t caught her out. Aside from the fact that she deserves a bit of fun, if they split, I’m the one who’ll probably end up out of a job. The first casualty of marital warfare is always the nanny. The husband is convinced you’re on the wife’s side (which you are, of course; unless you’re shagging him. Men are so bloody lazy. Why look for totty elsewhere when it’s right there under your own roof?). And wives never believe you aren’t shagging the husband (which you often are, of course. If he can afford to hire a nanny, he can afford serious jewelry.). Either way, you’re fucked.

I yank open my wardrobe. Never mind Clare’s love life; right now I need to worry about mine. I’ll be claiming my
pension by the time Xan can get these jeans off. I need something more … accessible.

I finally settle on a short, sexy LBD, silver heels, and no bra. Clare would say the outfit’s tarty. Clare has far too high an opinion of men’s taste, if you ask me.

“You look bloody sensational,” Xan says admiringly, when he answers his front door. “Can I actually see your nipples through that top?”

“I put lipstick on them specially.”

“Bloody hell. I can’t wait to get you into bed.”

I follow him into the lounge. He already has a bottle of champagne on ice; I can’t help but notice the way his hands shake as he opens it. My stomach plunges. Marc’s right. Xan must have a real drink problem to have the DT’s like that. It might be better if he does give me the elbow. I don’t want to break my heart trying to dry him out.