Who Loves You Best (30 page)

And he would. Break my heart, I mean.

He hands me a crystal flute. I stare at the tiny bubbles shooting skyward, the glass sweating in my hand. You don’t open a bottle of champagne without a good reason.

At least he’s got the guts to do it in person, rather than by answer-machine.

“You’re dumping me, aren’t you?” I say calmly.

Xan hesitates. “Yes,” he says finally. “I would have put it differently, but—”

“The result’s the same.” I raise my glass. “Cheers. Look, Xan, it’s OK. I’m not going to make a scene.”

“Jenna, this has nothing to do with you. At least … of course it’s to do with you, but not in the way you think.” He sighs. “I don’t expect you to understand now, but I’m
doing this for you.” He sits on the leather chesterfield, and pats the sofa next to him for me to join him. I put my glass down and he pulls me into the crook of his shoulder, rubbing my back. “I’m sorry, darling. I really wish I didn’t have to do this. You know how much I like you, right?”

I shrug, ashamed to find tears clogging my throat.

“Oh, sweetheart. This sucks, doesn’t it?” He turns my head and tilts my face up, in a gesture strangely reminiscent of Cooper in the park. I blink furiously. “I’m crazy about you, Jenna. If things weren’t such a bloody mess, I’d have probably ended up marrying you. If you’d have had me, of course.”

I summon a wan smile. “Big if.”

“Good girl.”

“Is this … is this because of Clare?”

“Clare?” He looks genuinely astonished. “You think I’d throw away the best thing that’s ever happened to me because my sister might get her knickers in a twist? I couldn’t give a toss what anyone thinks; you should know that by now. She’d have come around, anyway. Clare’s got a good heart. She might have been a bit sniffy for a while, but she’d have gotten over it.”

“Xan, you’re not making any sense—”

“I know. I don’t expect you to understand. I don’t fucking understand myself. Trust me, self-sacrifice is not in my nature.” He picks up my glass and hands it back to me. “Come on, darling. Drink up.”

“I realize this is a silly question,” I say, “but I went to a lot of trouble to squeeze into this dress. I don’t suppose you’d like to help me out of it?”

Xan nearly chokes on his champagne.

“Oh, come on.” I reach for his belt buckle. “Didn’t you know the condemned woman is entitled to a last shag?”

“You, my girl, are a total slut,” he whispers, pulling down my dress and fastening his mouth on my nipple.

I free his cock. “Tart.”

“Tease.”

“Bastard.”

“I love you,” he sighs.

“I love you, too,” I breathe.

“I don’t know which of you is worse,” Kirsty says. “Clare for not throwing that tosser out months ago when she found out he’d nicked millions off her, or you for letting her brother dump you and then shagging the arse off him anyway.”

“At least I got an orgasm out of it,” I say. “Three, actually.”

“So, are you two back together?”

I prop myself up on my elbow and pick fretfully at her duvet cover. “Not really. Friends with benefits, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t get it. I know he likes me. He made this big song and dance about not wanting to break up with me, but then he goes and does it anyway.”

“Maybe he’s like Superman: too busy saving the world to have a girlfriend.”

“If he starts wearing his Y-fronts outside his trousers, I’ll let you know.”

Kirsty settles herself cross-legged on her pillow. “Seriously, Jen. Are you really OK about this?”

“I’ve had better days, but I’ll get over it. I knew going in it was never going to be a long-term thing.” I sigh. “To be honest, after Jamie, I’m kind of over the whole sexy-but-damaged routine. Right now, I’d settle for a nice dull teacher or policeman who’s kind to his mother and remembers my birthday.”

“The nice ones are the worst,” Kirsty warns.

“Looks like it’s just going to be me and Clare, then. Isn’t that going to be cozy? Two sad cows sitting at home with our cocoa. I might even take up knitting.”

“You just need to get back on the horse. Come out with me on Friday. There’s a new club that just opened off the King’s Road. I know one of the bouncers; I bet I could get us in—”

“Not really in the mood, sorry. Anyway, I don’t want to leave Clare on her own yet. She’s still really upset about Marc.”

“Why? I thought you said she was having a fling with that American?”

“I don’t know if it’s a fling,” I say quickly. “They were only talking when I saw them.”

“Horny cow.” Kirsty giggles. “Bet they’re at it all the time.”

I shift uncomfortably. I should never have said anything to Kirsty. If she mentions it to Fran, Clare will die of embarrassment. She’s got enough on her plate right now, I think protectively. She doesn’t need the whole Gucci set gossiping about her love life.

I unfold myself from the bed. “Actually, Kirsty, she’s really cut up about Marc leaving. She hasn’t stopped crying
for a week. She keeps going on and on about not wanting the twins to come from a broken home. Davina made me promise to drag her by force if necessary to her divorce lawyer tomorrow. I think she’s terrified Clare will take him back if he comes home.”

“You know, you’ve totally got Clare over a barrel. You should ask for another pay raise.”

“It’s not always about money,” I say sharply. “I
like
Clare. She can be a pain in the arse sometimes, but she’s really nice. She doesn’t look down her nose at me. She
needs
me.”

Kirsty grins unrepentantly. “That’s exactly why it’s the time to ask.”

Our farewells are a little cool. Sometimes Kirsty can be a bit …
hard
. She’s my best friend and everything, but I don’t think I’d want her looking after my children. I know she’d take care of them and look after them properly, but if I was a mother, I’d want to know my kids were
loved
.

Clare’s already in bed when I get home, even though it’s not yet ten. I lie awake in the dark, listening to her muffled sobs next door. I’m a bit more upset about Xan than I let on to Kirsty, but what’s happened to Clare makes my romantic upset look like a toddler’s tantrum.

To my surprise, when I knock on her door at seven the next morning, she’s already up and dressed. She looks like a corpse, but at least she’s getting on with it.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” I ask. “I can drop the twins at the Hurlingham—”

“I’ll be fine. Nicholas Lyon is an old friend. Anyway,” she adds firmly, “I’m sure this will be sorted out soon. It was just a silly fight. Marc’s probably nursing a hangover at
Hamish’s and wishing he could come back home. I wouldn’t even be bothering Nicholas if Davina hadn’t made such a fuss.”

She sweeps blusher feverishly across her cheeks.

“I could throw some spaghetti together tonight, if you like,” I offer. “It’s about the only grown-up food I can do, apart from beans on toast.”

“Don’t you have a date tonight?”

“Not anymore,” I say casually.

Clare puts the brush down and turns to face me.

“Jenna,” she says carefully, “I know I might not seem the best person to talk to about romance right now, but I do have eyes in my head. I can see how well you and Xan have been getting on. If you and he … if the two of you … well, I wouldn’t mind if something happened. Not that I’d have any right to mind, of course,” she adds hastily. “But please don’t let me spoil anything. You don’t get many chances to be happy. Hang on to them when they come along.”

“Never mind about me,” I say robustly. “You’ve got enough to worry about. I’ll be fine.”

She doesn’t look fine as she leaves the house. She looks fragile and pale and very, very nervous. I hope this Nicholas Lyon has a very big box of tissues. He’d better not let her roll over and give that wanker Marc everything he asks for. She’s too bloody nice for her own good.

I’m in the kitchen drinking my tenth cup of coffee when the front door slams so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t come off its hinges.

“The bastard!” Clare cries, throwing her bag on the
table. “He’s been
planning
this! He’s already filed for divorce on the grounds of
my
unreasonable behavior! Mine!”

I nearly drop my mug in surprise. I’ve never seen her so furious.

“He says I’m an unfit mother! He claims I tried to poison Poppy; he’s accused me of being violent and unstable and refusing to sleep with him. Well, that last bit’s true, but the rest of it! It’s ridiculous! He wouldn’t even know which end to put the nappy on, and he’s going for custody!”

“He’ll never win. They’re only six months old; no way will a judge give them to him.”

“I can’t believe it.” She is seething. “After everything he’s done! I’m sorry, Jenna, but this is the last straw.”

“What are you going to do?”

Clare flips open her phone diary. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to bloody bury him.”

Clare cancels every credit card, freezes their joint account, and even takes him off the car insurance. Legally, she can do nothing about the house (though at least she doesn’t need to change the locks) or his repeated demands, through his lawyer, for access to the twins. But she has every stitch of his clothes couriered to the hotel in London where he’s staying, along with the books and files from his study, and the hideous mounted boar’s head she’s always hated. As Dad says when Mum goes off about something, “I don’t know what effect she’ll have on the enemy, but by God, she terrifies me.”

I watch her pack up his boxes, amazed at how tough
she’s being. Clare being Clare, she doesn’t snoop through his private files first. I know I would.

It’s as if she’s boxing up their entire marriage, I think, as she tosses in a silver-framed photograph of the two of them on their honeymoon. She’d have forgiven him almost anything, except threatening to take her children. He crossed a line when he did that, and as far as she’s concerned, there’s no going back.

A week later, a postcard arrives for me from San Francisco. I study the photograph on the front for a long time, picturing Xan standing on the Golden Gate Bridge, surrounded by gorgeous American girls flashing their perfect white American teeth and tossing their glossy American ponytails. I imagine them begging him to say something for them in his sexy British accent. The photograph blurs, and I blink back tears.

“Shall we read it?” I ask Poppy.

She giggles, and knocks over her castle of empty yoghurt pots. I put her bowl of pureed parsnip in front of her, and step back out of range.

“Missing you more than you know,”
I read. “We miss Uncle Xan too, don’t we? Especially at bedtime.
Look after Clare for me. Hope you enjoy your birthday present
. Birthday present?” I lift Poppy’s elbow out of her bowl and wipe it. She puts it straight back in again. “My birthday isn’t till August. What’s Uncle Xan up to?”

“Blah bup,” Poppy says.

“My thoughts exactly.”

She woke up with a bit of a fever this morning, but she seems fine now. I don’t blame Clare for being a bit freaked
out after our last medical drama, but she really didn’t need to keep either of them home today. I’m glad I took Rowan to Baby Swim after all. It’s nice to spend time alone with Poppy. I can give her a bit more attention than I’m able to when I’ve got both of them.

I hear the front door. “Mummy’s home early,” I tell Poppy. “Isn’t that nice?”

Clare comes into the kitchen and goes straight to hug Poppy, heedless of the pureed parsnip smeared all over her daughter. She wouldn’t have done that a week or two ago.

“Everything OK?”

She gives Poppy a final squeeze and brushes crumbs from her jacket. “It is now. Where’s Rowan? Down for a nap?”

“Actually, after you left, he seemed much better.” I wipe Poppy’s face and lift her out of the high chair. “I don’t think he had a temperature at all; it was normal when I took it, anyway. I didn’t want him to miss out, so I took him to Baby Swim at the Hurlingham after all.”

“No!” Clare cries.

“He was fine, honestly. I wouldn’t have let him go if I thought—”

“You don’t understand. Marc’s going to take him! He just called me. He said he was going to the Hurlingham—I didn’t think it mattered; I thought they were safe here at home.” She collapses into a kitchen chair, her face white with horror. “Oh, God, Jenna, what am I going to do?”

It takes me a moment to clue in.

“He’s just trying to upset you. He doesn’t mean it.”

“He does. You don’t know how angry he is.” She leaps
up again, searching her bag for her car keys. “I have to get there first. I’ve got to stop him—”

“You don’t have time. Call the Club and tell them not to let Marc near Rowan.”

I soothe Poppy as Clare demands to be put through to the Baby Swim class. She explains three times, to three different people, that her son must not be allowed to go home with his father. “No,” she snaps, “I don’t have a court order. Yes, I realize that—yes, Marc is his father. Look, can you please just go and
find my son?”

She paces the kitchen, the phone clamped to her ear.

“It’ll be OK,” I reassure. “Even if Marc’s taken him, he’s not going to do anything. Where would he go? He’ll bring him back once he’s given you a good scare.”

“Supposing he doesn’t? Supposing he takes him to Canada or—yes, yes, I’m still here. Have you found him?”

I know the answer even before she drops her phone and turns to me, her eyes wide with shock.

“What am I going to do? Jenna, what should I do?”

I don’t hesitate. “We have to go to the police. I’m sure he’s not going to try to leave the country or anything stupid, but they’ll know what to do, just in case. At least it’ll stop him from pulling a stunt like this again.”

Sensible, law-abiding Clare makes me abandon the car on a double yellow—“Who cares about parking tickets
now
?”—and runs into the police station, Poppy in her arms.

“Please,” she cries, “please, my husband’s taken my baby!”

The receptionist picks up a telephone, a door opens, and we’re suddenly surrounded by people and bombarded with questions. There is a moment or two of confusion
over Poppy—“I thought you said your husband had taken the baby—?” “Her
twin!
He took her
twin
!”—and then Clare is separated from me and ushered into a private room at the end of the hall.