Who Loves You Best (20 page)

Dinner is a tense affair. Clare chatters brightly about nothing, her hostess-with-the-mostess mask firmly in place. Jenna keeps her head down, literally (though on the plus side, at least this presents me with an unchallenged view of her impressive cleavage). Marc grunts monosyllabically. If you ask me, we could all do with a few shrooms in the stew to lighten things up.

“By the way, I called Hurst’s,” Clare tells Marc, passing me the garlic bread. “You can take the Range Rover in on Thursday. Once they’ve had a look at it, we can—”

“What did you do that for?” Marc snaps.

“We agreed we don’t need a 4×4 in London. It’s too expensive, and we could save—”

“And I told you I’d handle it, Clare. Let me sort it out in my own time.”

“Every month it’s sitting outside, it’s depreciating—”

“For God’s sake! Fine! I’ll take it in on Thursday!”

I wink at Jenna over the salad bowl. I can see why she fucked off the moment she heard Marc’s key in the door.

She pushes back her chair. “I’ll put on some coffee.”

“I’ll help you clear the table,” I offer quickly.

We clatter plates noisily in the kitchen. “Is it always like this?” I whisper.

“Pretty much,” Jenna whispers back.

Fuck it. Divorce is the last thing I’d wish on Clare. I hate to say it, but Davina’s right. Marc’s a decent bloke, but he’s all wrong for my sister. Even a spoiled Mummy’s Boy wants to grow up sometime. Clare’s too used to doing everything for him. It’s one thing mothering me (and fuck knows, with Davina as my default option, I needed it) but you can’t keep treating your husband like one of the kids. He needs to start taking some responsibility—and she needs to
let
him.

Poor cow. She’s always had shit luck with men. First Dad dying when she was seven (any shrink will tell you that fucks a girl up for life) and then there was Guy. Dirty old bastard. I don’t know all the ins and outs, but something happened the summer she turned fifteen. As far as I can make out, he tried it on, she slapped him down, threatened to tell Davina everything if it ever happened again. She’s a girl of her word, our Clare. He knew she meant it.

Clare slams the salad bowl down on the counter behind us, making us both jump. “Jenna, don’t put tomato-based sauces in Tupperware. I’ve told you before, they stain the plastic.”

“Sorry, I forgot—”

“Do I have to do everything myself to make sure it’s done right?”

“Give her a break, Clare,” I say softly.

Clare looks like she’s about to spit out another sharp retort, but instead she deflates against the counter.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Jenna. It’s not you I’m upset with; you know that. It’s Marc. He needles me all the time. It’s so unfair.
He’s
the one who screwed up.”

I shoot my sister a sharp glance. Clearly Jenna is familiar with all the dirty laundry in this house: literal and figurative. I sympathize with my sister, but Clare shouldn’t be telling the nanny this stuff. It’s not fair to either of them. If there’s anyone she should be talking to, it’s her husband.

Jenna smiles neutrally, and takes the
cafetière
into the dining room. Smart girl. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. At least, not until you know who’s going to win.

I pick up the tray of cups and saucers to follow her. My leg gives way, and I stumble drunkenly against the kitchen island. If it wasn’t for Clare’s quick reaction, I’d have dropped the lot.

“Please, Xan,” she says in a low voice. “Don’t drive home tonight. You’ve had too much to drink. You can stay in the spare room.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll have a coffee, and I’ll be fine—”

“You’re
drunk,”
she snaps.

Maybe, I think, as she stalks into the dining room. But in the morning I will be sober, and you’ll still have a resentful, inadequate husband you can’t handle.

“For God’s sake,” I hear her exclaim. “That tablecloth was from Brussels, Marc!”

“It’s not like I spilled the bloody wine on purpose—”

“It never is, is it?”

Clare is mopping ineffectually at a spreading stain with a paper napkin as I walk in. Marc rolls his eyes. “Clearly my wife thinks I’m conducting a one-man war of attrition against the lace-makers of Belgium.”

“Clearly my husband thinks we’re made of money.”

“Clearly the two of you belong in the nursery,” I retort.

“I have a headache,” Clare cries, throwing the dirty napkin on the table. “I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll be in my office,” Marc says, shoving his chair back from the table.

Jenna and I stare at each other across the balled-up napkins, empty wineglasses, and cooling coffee.

“And they wonder why I’m still single,” I say.

Jenna sighs. “It’s like living in Baghdad. Only not as much fun.”

“How come you don’t just quit?” I ask, as we clear the table.

“I love your sibling loyalty,” Jenna says acidly.

“I’m not saying you should.” I pour coffee dregs down the sink and rinse the
cafetière
. “I guess I’m impressed you’ve stuck around, that’s all.”

“I’m planning to cash in and sell my story to the
News of the World.”

I laugh. “Seriously, though. The way I understand it, it’s easier to find a rich husband than a good nanny. I bet any one of her friends would write you a blank check.”

Jenna is suddenly very busy putting glasses into the dishwasher.

I narrow my eyes. “Someone already has, haven’t they? Don’t tell me. They offered to double your money and you loyally turned them down.”

She hesitates.

“Oh, come on. I’m not going to drop you in it. Look. Fuck the dishes. Grab a bottle of wine from the fridge, and I’ll get the glasses.”

I lurch slightly as I reach up. Jenna quickly puts the wine down and steadies my elbow.

“Guess that last Scotch went to my head.” I grimace.

“Guess that last
four
did.”

I open the wine, and follow her into the sitting room. “So. Are you going to tell me about it?”

“You won’t tell Clare?”

“Of course I bloody won’t. What do you take me for?”

“One of her friends offered me a job. Like, a
lot
more money. She’s been divorced for a few years—”

“So no getting caught in the marital cross fire.”

Jenna curls up at one end of Clare’s ridiculously expensive overstuffed sofa, and I settle down at the other. Our toes are touching. She really is lovely. Like a young Sandra Bullock: girl-next-door wholesome, but with that subtle, and unmistakable, hint of dirty-in-bed. I like the way she’s toned down the makeup and cheap jewelry since she’s been around Clare, too. She looks younger, classier. Though
there’s nothing she can do to minimize the enormous tits. Thank God.

She holds out her glass and I pour. “I really like Clare, and I love the twins. But I’m fed up playing pig-in-the-middle. And I could
really
use the extra money.”

“Who’s the so-called friend who’s trying to poach you?”

“Olivia Coddington.”

“Christ. That woman’s a real piece of work.”

Jenna sips her wine. “She made me promise to give her an answer by Monday.”

I think for a moment. “Look, why don’t you try asking Clare for a raise?” I suggest. “Tell her the truth. Say you’ve had a better offer, and you don’t want to leave, but you can’t afford to work for her unless she ups your salary.”

“Suppose she fires me?”

“She won’t. But if she does, as soon as her friends find out, you’ll have half a dozen job offers before you’ve even packed your suitcase.”

Jenna smiles, and suddenly I’ve got a hard-on the size of Nelson’s Column. As she shifts on the sofa, her T-shirt rides up, exposing a tanned, rounded belly and a cool starburst tattoo around her navel. Her nips are like organ stops. It’s not cold in here, so I know she fancies me, too. Which only makes it worse. She’s holding me off, keeping her distance, even though I know she wants to fuck as much as I do. She’s the one in control of what happens next. It’s a novel feeling.

“So what’s going on at home?” I ask suddenly. “Why all the drama?”

“There’s no drama—”

“Give me a break.”

She drops her gaze. “Really, it’s no big deal.”

I lean forward, and run my thumb gently down the side of her neck. Looks like the bastard tried to strangle her. “I’d call those bruises a big deal.”

“He didn’t mean—”

“Bullshit.”

“What the fuck do you know?” she bursts out. “You arrogant shit! Who do you think you are? You have no idea what you’re talking about! You haven’t got a clue what Jamie’s been through!”

I keep my tone level. “OK. Why don’t you tell me what he’s been through, and then we can work out if I know what I’m talking about or not.”

“He was attacked, all right? Three men jumped him when he took a shortcut across the park on Christmas Eve. He was trying to get home in time to take me to a carol concert. They raped him. OK? They
raped
him!”

She stares at me, waiting for me to rush to apologize, to back down:
I didn’t know; how awful; God, I’m so sorry
.

“And that makes it OK for him to take it out on you?” I say coolly.

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes. Did you hear what
I
just said?”

“You’ve got no right to judge him! You don’t know the first thing about it!”

“He was raped. I get it. It sucks, but it happens, Jenna.”

“Easy to say when it hasn’t happened to you!”

“Ah, but it has.”

She falters. “You’re lying. You’re just saying that so—”

“My mother sent me to boarding school when I was six. I was buggered for years, by every boy big enough and strong enough to yank down my trousers. It only stopped when I figured out they liked my drugs better than my arse.” I shrug. “Did I enjoy it? Not particularly. Did it fuck me up? Probably, but no more than thousands of other schoolboys. Did I start thumping women to feel better about myself? Of course not.”

For a long moment, Jenna says nothing.

“He’s—he’s so scared,” she whispers. “Of the dark, of crowds, everything. He thinks what happened to him makes him less of a man. I don’t know how to help him.”

“The only thing that makes him less of a man is hitting a woman.”

She suddenly starts to cry, choking, ugly sobs. I hesitate a moment, then pull her into my arms, trying not to notice the softness of her breasts against my chest, the clean, citrus smell of her hair as it brushes my neck. I rub her back, struggling to channel brotherly and supportive thoughts. A little difficult to do when you’ve got a hard-on like a tent pole.

After a moment, she turns in my arms. She has the most extraordinary eyes: a vivid, Irish green, shot through with hazel and gold lights. Her dark lashes are spiky with tears. I can feel her heart beating fast beneath her thin, tight T-shirt.

Her lips part slightly. I know when a woman is waiting to be kissed.

“Jenna!” a voice calls down the stairs.

We leap apart as if spring-loaded.

Clare comes down to the half-landing. “Jenna, you have to be up early tomorrow with the twins. Don’t you think you should get to bed?”

I grab my jacket. “Look, I’d better go. I’ll catch you later.”

“Aren’t you staying over?”

“Not a good idea,” I say ruefully.

I take the steps two at a time. Only as my feet hit the pavement do I start to breathe a little easier. I suck in a lungful of crisp night air. Normally I wouldn’t hesitate, but there’s something about this girl. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t want to fuck her up. It’s not like it could ever be a permanent thing.

I head towards the Tube station, leaving my car parked at Clare’s flat. Jenna’s got enough problems. The last thing she needs is to get tangled up with me.

“It’s getting worse,” the doctor tells me two days later.

“Sugarcoat it, why don’t you,” I say, fumbling with the buttons on my shirt.

“I’m sorry, Alexander. I wish I had different news for you. I had hoped we’d have a little more time. As you know, once symptoms start to accelerate, there is a very definite degenerative rate—”

“Got it,” I say.

A couple of years ago, when I first started tripping and stumbling, when I had trouble fitting the key in the lock and problems zipping my jacket, I put it down to too many
late nights, too much booze, too much charlie;
too much
. Then I started slurring words even when I wasn’t drunk. The muscles in my legs and arms twitched and cramped. One night I woke up choking and gasping for breath. I told myself I’d just pushed my body too far, that all I needed was to take it easy for a bit, but deep down, I knew it was something more.

ALS is a process of elimination. Basically, if you haven’t got Huntington’s, motor neurone, MS, or Alzheimer’s, you’ve probably got Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. Sometimes it’s random, a genetic mutation; but Davina says her father—my grandfather—was clumsy and often slurred his words, though she claims she never saw him drink. He blew his brains out when she was seventeen. I think it’s a fair bet that he and I share the same fucked-up genes.

It seems I’m in good company. My nemesis is also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, after the famous Major League baseball player. David Niven died from it. Stephen Hawking has it, too.

Did I mention there’s no cure?

But I’ve got lots to look forward to. Eventually, I won’t be able to stand or walk, to get in or out of bed on my own, or to use my hands and arms. In the later stages, I’ll have difficulty breathing as the muscles of my respiratory system weaken. Most people with ALS choke to death, usually within three to five years of the onset of symptoms. I probably have another couple of years, if I’m lucky.

“I’d like you to see somebody,” the doc says, scribbling on his pad.

“A shrink, you mean?” I stand up. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

“You’re thirty-four, Alexander. No young man is fine with something like this. You need to talk to someone—”

Hello, Vodka, this is Xan
.

I take the piece of paper, since it means so much to him. As soon as I leave the office, I crumple it and throw it into the foot-well of my car. (How much longer will I be able to drive?)