Who Loves You Best (23 page)

I’m cleaning up a bottle of milk Poppy has thrown against the stove door when Marc gets home. In my rush to mop up the mess, I’ve forgotten to cage Rowan in the playpen; as Marc enters the kitchen, Rowan grabs hold of the plastic tablecloth and attempts to pull himself upright. A bowl of chocolate mousse—for Fran’s barbeque tomorrow—catapults off the table and spills all over my cream linen Jigsaw skirt.

“For God’s sake, Rowan!” I scream.

“You don’t have to shout at him,” Marc says coldly. He picks up his son and soothes him with exaggerated patience. “He’s only a baby. He didn’t mean to do it.”

“I’ve been dealing with them on my own for the past four hours!” I cry. “I’ve put in a full day at work, too, Marc! The last thing I need is to come home and clear up after these two monsters!”

“Monsters?”

All the frustrations of the day spill over. “They’ve been
absolute horrors! As soon as I get one settled, the other one starts. It’s a total nightmare—”

“Can’t you control two small babies for five minutes?”

“It’s not that easy—”

“My mother had six children under eight,” Marc says.
“She
managed.”

“She didn’t work!”

He shrugs. “Your choice.”

“If I didn’t have the company, we’d be on the streets right now,” I flare.

He pushes his face into mine. “Has it ever occurred to you that you
drove
me to take chances? Flaunting how much more money you earn, how successful you are. Too successful to look after your own children—”

“You try it!” I start to sob. “It’s impossible.
They’re
impossible. They hate me. They’ve been fine all day with Jenna. It’s
me
they can’t stand. I’m a terrible mother. I should never have had them. They’d be better off without me.”

I wait for Marc to tell me I’m being ridiculous. Of course I’m a good mother, of course my children love me. I’ve just had a bad day; it’ll be better tomorrow.

My husband levels a cool look at me.

“Yes,” he says. “Maybe we would.”

All right, I know. The sugar water and chocolate biscuits were a mean trick. I do feel a bit bad about it now. The twins were probably bouncing off the walls after I left last night. But the last thing I need is Clare thinking she can manage without me. I don’t want to have to quit and work for Olivia what’s-her-face. It’s just that I’m
so fucking broke
. I’ve
got
to find more money somehow. Clare can afford it. If she really wants to.

I knock back my cocktail, wondering where the fuck Kirsty’s got to. I’m starting to feel slightly sick from the heat and the tequila and the smell of sweaty, unwashed bodies. My head pounds in time with the music. I wish she’d get a move on. She’s supposed to be going to the loo, not having a flipping baby.

To be honest, I shouldn’t have come out tonight. I know she’s only trying to cheer me up because I’ve left Jamie, but I’m really not in the mood to meet anyone new yet. I still feel really crappy about the way things finished. Six years is a long time to be with someone, even if it did
totally suck by the end. At least I should’ve had the guts to end it in person, instead of leaving a pathetic message on his answering machine. I know Jamie’s been a bit psycho recently, but it was still a shitty thing to do. I don’t really blame him for changing the locks on me. The trouble is, I’m still paying rent on the flat and now I’ve got nowhere to stay on weekends. Kirsty’s been great, but I can’t doss on her floor forever.

I glance around the heaving club. If I
was
looking for someone new, it wouldn’t be anyone here. I still can’t stop thinking about Xan. Bloody Clare. Why’d she have to interrupt us the other night? All her “we’re friends and equals” crap. Yeah, sure; until it looks like I might end up her sister-in-law.

You know, she can be a right cow sometimes. Like with that shit yesterday over the twins’ clothes. They looked
great
in those outfits I bought them. She only changed them into those boring sweatpants so she could get one over on me. She’s always pulling rank when it suits her. Telling me what the twins can and can’t drink, what they can and can’t wear, what time they should go down for their naps. Like, if you’re such a bloody good mother, why are you bothering to employ
me?

She could easily give me a pay raise if she really wanted to. She’s got tons of money. But no, she has to make me grovel.
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?
It was really embarrassing having to tell her how much I owe. And then she gets this face on, like I’m the first person on the planet to max out their credit cards. Everyone’s
in debt these days. She’s worse than my mother. I mean, what business is it of hers anyway?

I grope in my bag for my cell. If Kirsty doesn’t come back soon, I’m out of here—

“I’ve met these really cute guys,” Kirsty giggles, emerging from the mass of pulsating bodies. She nods towards a couple of stud muffins who look like they live at the gym. “Whaddya think?”

I shrug. They’re OK. Just not my type.

“Don’t be such a stroppy tart,” Kirsty hisses. “Forget Jamie. He’s a fucking loser.”

If she knew what he’d done to me that night, she’d cut off his balls with a bread knife. But here I am, feeling guilty for dumping him! I don’t even
like
him! It’s not like I’ll miss him. Why am I always so bloody
feeble?

It’s never going to happen with Xan. Seriously, what do we have in common? My life sucks, but I’m not that fucking sad. He’s only out for one thing, but I’ve never slept around, and I’m not starting now. Clare doesn’t know how lucky she’s got it, going home to a regular shag every night. Everyone bitches about how miserable it is to be married, but they should try single for a change.

Kirsty shoves a Bacardi Breezer in my hand. “Here. Have another drink.”

“I don’t want another drink.”

“Would you lighten up already?”

I hesitate, then tilt the bottle to my lips. “One more,” I say scowling. “And then we’re leaving.”

———

Some bastard’s riding a jackhammer in my head. I can’t even open my eyes, it hurts too much. My mouth tastes of cigarettes and puke. I don’t remember how many times I threw up last night, but put it this way: My stomach’s still inside out. I hate Kirsty. I am never, ever going to drink again.

A grating warble next to my ear makes my teeth rattle.

“Yours,” Kirsty mumbles.

I pull the pillow over my aching head.

“For fuck’s sake, answer it!”

I snake out a hand, and fumble for my phone, knocking a glass and several books off Kirsty’s bedside table. Without opening my eyes, I flip it open.

“I think I can do another five hundred pounds a month,” Clare says breathlessly. “I know it’s probably not enough, but things are terribly tight right now. If you can wait until Christmas, I might be able to do a bit more then, it depends how things go with the—”

“What time is it?” I grunt.

“What time—? Oh. About nine-thirty, I think. Yes, nine-thirty-five.”

On a Sunday? Is she fucking
insane?
“I don’t mean to be rude, Clare, but can’t this wait till tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course—”

“Great. Bye.”

“Wait! Do you think you’ll say yes or no?”

I flop over onto my back, and wait for the room to stop tilting. I’m never going to get rid of her till I sort this out. Screw it. I didn’t want to work for that stupid Olivia bitch anyway. And five hundred quid is five hundred quid. “OK. Yes.”

“That’s fantastic! Oh, Jenna, thank you so much. You won’t regret it. I know things have been a bit, well, difficult lately, but—”

“Forget it.”

“Well, if you—”

I shut the phone. I need to sleep. Twelve more hours would be good. Twenty-four would be better—

“What the fuck,” I groan, as Kirsty peels off the covers.

“Well, I’m awake now,” she says crossly.

“Well, I’m dying.”

“Come on. You’ll feel better after a good fry-up. I make super good bacon and eggs.”

I should feel sick at the thought, but actually, I’m suddenly starving.

“Won’t your boss mind me staying over?”

“Fran? Nah. She’d give you her own bed if I asked her to.”

“Dunno how you’ve got the balls. You treat her like you
own
her.”

Kirsty grabs a stained dressing gown from the hook behind the door. “You need to remember who’s got the power in the relationship, I keep telling you that. D’you have
any
idea how hard it is to find a decent nanny in London? One who speaks English and can drive, I mean. You could walk into a dozen jobs like
that,”
she says, snapping her fingers. “She’d be totally screwed if you left.”

I’m not so sure, but I’m in no condition to argue.

I follow Kirsty downstairs in my borrowed T-shirt, which barely covers my knickers. If you can dignify a piece of lacy dental floss with the term
knickers
.

“I know this great hangover remedy,” Kirsty says, far too loudly for my sensitive constitution. “Hair of the dog. It’s, like, vodka, raw eggs, tomato juice, and—”

“Stop with the raw eggs, would you,” I beg. “I don’t think—”

“Jenna!”

Seriously
. Is there no escaping this woman?

In fairness, Clare looks just as startled to see me as I am to see her. I yank my T-shirt down. “What are you doing here?”

“Fran invited me for Sunday brunch. I thought you said you were going home this weekend?”

“Can’t. Jamie put all my stuff in trash bags and changed the locks.” I glance warily across at Fran. “Kirsty said it was OK for me to stay over—?”

Fran waves a careless hand.

“You look awfully tired,” Clare presses anxiously. “Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?”

Kirsty snorts. “Nah. It all came up last night.”

“Oh, dear. You want to be careful, Jenna. Binge drinking is very bad for you. You can do as much damage in one weekend session as—”

“I’m not very hungry after all,” I tell Kirsty. “Actually, I think getting up was a mistake. I’m going back to bed.”

“I could bring you a cup of green tea,” Clare calls up the stairs.

I hide under the duvet before she offers me a dandelion smoothie or some hand-churned tofu. I’m relieved I don’t have to leave Clare; I adore the twins, and I couldn’t bear to have to say goodbye yet. But there’s something about her
earnest wholesomeness that makes me want to rush out and club baby seals for breakfast.

My body aches, as if I’ve been hit by a truck. Even my toes throb. I pull the covers over my head. I don’t care what Kirsty says, I’m going on a detox tomorrow. I’m too bloody old for this.

I still feel one bulb short of a sunbed when I fall out of bed again the next morning. I trudge down Cheyne Walk, trying to summon bright, Mary Poppins chirpiness as my liver waves a white flag. I hope Clare’s out at the shop all day today. As soon as the twins go down for their nap, I’m joining them.

I pause to cross the road, and a piercing wolf whistle has me leaping out of my skin. For fuck’s sake! In my fragile condition, any shock could be terminal.

“Jenna! Hold up!”

Xan crosses over, and looks me up and down. “Good night, was it?”

“Since you ask.”

“I’ve seen better-looking corpses.”

“Fuck off.” I sigh. “How come you’re up this early, anyway?”

“Haven’t been to bed yet,” he says cheerily. “Came to pick up my car.”

“It’s been sitting here a week. You’re lucky it hasn’t been towed.”

He points to the blue disabled sticker on his rear windscreen. “I used the crip space.”

“Somebody in a wheelchair might have needed that,” I reprove.

“My need was greater. Will you have dinner with me?”

“Will I what?”

He folds his arms and leans against Clare’s gleaming black iron railings. “You know. Dinner. Main meal of the day, usually eaten in the evening. From the French word
dîner
, the chief repast of the day, ultimately from the Latin
disiunare
, which means—”

“Yes, thank you. I know what dinner is. I just want to know why you want to have it with me.”

“Because my conscience fought a battle with my loins, and lust won out.”

My eyes slip involuntarily towards the bulge in his jeans. Xan snorts with laughter. I scowl. I can’t help it, it’s just one of those words. When someone says
loins
, you can’t help but, well,
look
.

“Come on. A drink, then.”

“No drinks,” I say feelingly.

“OK. Evian all the way, I promise.”

I waver. His turquoise eyes goad me. Oh, shit. Xan is narcissistic, untrustworthy, and arrogant; which, as every woman knows, is an irresistible combination. There’s just something about a bastard. It’s the combination of a Machiavellian ability to deceive and the thrill-seeking, callous behavior of a psychopath. It’s so … I don’t know … so fucking
sexy
.

The front door opens. “Xan!” Clare exclaims. “What are you doing here?”

He jangles his car keys by way of answer.

“Jenna, if you wouldn’t mind, Poppy just spilt fruit juice all down herself.”

“Friday,” I hiss to Xan. “Oriel at eight.”

“Thank heavens you’re here early,” Clare says, slamming the door on her brother and hustling me into the kitchen. “We’ve got to go to the hospital. I just had a call from the pediatrician.” Her voice is filled with hope for the first time in weeks. “They think they might know what’s wrong with Poppy.”