Who Loves You Best (26 page)

The lawyer returns to his side of the desk. “We need to
prepare for the worst, even if,” he adds, holding up one hand to forestall my protest, “it turns out to be unnecessary. I take it your wife is financially able to support her children without your help?”

“Yes,” I say bitterly.

“The Court will want to know you’d be prepared to give up your job and care for them full-time.”

I narrow my eyes. “She’d have to pay me, then, wouldn’t she?”

“If you were their primary caregiver, then yes, she would be required to pay you maintenance and child support.”

“And I’d get the house?”

“In all probability. It’s helpful that she put the house in your name, not hers. She would be left with her company, of course, and enough funds to put a roof over her head.”

“The damn company’s all that matters to her anyway,” I say sourly.

Morton pulls a pad of foolscap towards him. “Marc, I’m sorry to be blunt, but right now, this is all academic. Unless you have a very good reason, the Court rarely gives custody to the father when the children are this young.”

“She tried to kill my daughter. Is that good enough?”

For a moment, Morton appears lost for words.

“Would you care to explain?” he manages finally.

His flashy gold fountain pen scratches as I talk. I describe in detail the sudden dash to the hospital with Poppy, Clare being dragged out of bed by the police at midnight; and I tell him her latest wild claims of salt diabetes and miscarriages of justice and low levels of vaso-something. I
don’t believe a word of it, and I can tell from Morton’s expression that neither does he. This is some bullshit Clare’s cooked up to throw me off the scent.

When I’ve finished, he leans back, reads through his notes, and taps his pen thoughtfully against his mouth.

“Was the postnatal depression ever formally diagnosed?”

“She was a basket case. Crying all the time, snapping at everyone, it was obvious—”

“But not medically diagnosed?” Morton puts his notes down and folds his hands on top of his pad like a doctor delivering a terminal diagnosis. “Marc. I’ll be honest with you. As far as the issue of your wife hiring the nanny goes, we’ll have to tread very carefully. It’ll depend entirely on which judge we draw. Some of them are very old-school on the subject of working mothers, but others … especially the women … I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. We can play that by ear. But the salt business,” he adds, picking up his pad again and thoughtfully pulling on his lower lip. “That could be very interesting. Obviously, from our point of view it’s unfortunate no charges were brought, but we could make a lot of hay with the midnight arrest nonetheless. No smoke without fire, all that sort of thing.”

I find myself warming to the man. I’m certain Lyon would be far less enthusiastic about playing dirty. But I don’t want a gentleman in my corner; I want a brawler who’ll do whatever it takes to win.

“Let me do a little research into Munchausen’s and this salt diabetes,” he says briskly, scrawling in the margin. “If there’s any question about the children’s safety, the judge
will err on the side of caution, which in this case serves us well.”

“Will I be able to stop her seeing them altogether?”

“That’s a little more difficult. Our case for custody is fundamentally circumstantial: If we can throw up enough doubt over the salt poisoning, together with the postnatal depression, and her clear reluctance to care for the children herself, as evidenced by the hiring of the nanny against your express wishes … yes, it could be enough to swing custody in our favor. But unless we can prove the children are in immediate danger, we’d be unlikely to deprive your wife of access altogether. Let’s take one step at a time for the moment.” He stops writing and looks me in the eye. “One other thing. I need to know if there’s a third party involved. I couldn’t give a damn either way, but I don’t want to be ambushed by the other side when we’re trying to build a case based on your concern for your children—”

“There’s no one else,” I snap.

“And what about your wife?”

I laugh harshly. “Hardly. Not unless you count the bloody nanny.”

“It happens,” Morton says neutrally.

I glance at the flowers on his desk. Camellias. Like the ones Jenna brought home the other day for Clare.

There
is
something strange going on between them: An intimate, secret bond that excludes me. As soon as Jenna joined us, I was shoved out of the nursery, even though I was the one who’d looked after Poppy on my own for her first two weeks of life. The two women created a mysterious,
feminine world full of secret smiles and laughter at my expense. Every time I tried to do anything with the twins, I was gently, but firmly rebuffed.
This is our world. We don’t need you
.

Clare would never cheat on me with another man; she’s far too honest, too upright, to look at another guy. Plus she doesn’t like sex much; never has.

But with a woman? With Jenna?

Slowly, the pieces start to slide into place. Clare putting a second pot of coffee on in the morning, just for Jenna; the nanny buttering a hot bagel for my wife when she comes down for breakfast. Clare leaving Jenna a surprise scarf to thank her for helping out at the shop, and Jenna hand-washing Clare’s cashmere sweater in return. Fixing Jenna’s hair, going off on girly shopping trips, sharing confidences over a bottle of wine in front of the TV. No wonder my wife and I never sit down and talk anymore. That fucking cuckoo has kicked me out of my own nest.

“You do realize that if we go down this route, things could get very dirty?” Morton asks, watching me carefully. “If we have to go to court, she’ll hire lawyers who’ll fling plenty of their own mud your way. It could become very unpleasant for you.”

“I’ll deal with it,” I say harshly. “Do whatever you have to, Morton. Just make sure we win.”

I nurse my second Scotch as I wait for Clare to get home, buoyed by the alcohol and my conversation with the
lawyer. If my dear wife refuses to play ball, I’m confident he’ll be more than a match for anything her hired guns can throw at us.

Personally, I’m pretty sure Clare will agree to give me custody, especially as I’m willing to compromise and let her keep the house; it’s mortgaged to the hilt anyway. It’s not like she spends any time with the twins. She’ll probably welcome the excuse not to have to bother with them. Regardless of my promise to Morton, I’ve no intention of giving up my job, so she’ll only have to fork out for child support. I’ll even give her reasonable access, as long as it’s supervised; and not by Jenna. Thank Christ that lesbian bitch is out this evening. Last thing I need is her sticking her nose in.

I finish my drink. I’m almost looking forward to this.

The front door opens, and I hear Clare calling my name. I wait for her to find me.

“Here
you are,” she says, pushing open the door to my study and switching on the light. “What are you doing, sitting all alone in the dark? Where’s Jenna?”

“She’s out. Another date with her mystery man. It’s lucky she was in when I got home—my key jammed in the bloody lock.”

Clare’s lips tighten. “I told her she couldn’t take the night off.”

“I wanted to have the house to ourselves.” I force a warmer note into my tone. No need to start things off on the wrong foot. “There’s a couple of things we need to talk about, Clare. Why don’t you come in and sit down?”

“I’d rather talk in the sitting room.”

Sure, Clare. Let’s make sure
you’re
comfortable.

She shrugs off her coat. “I’m just going to get some tea. Would you like some?”

“Another Scotch, please.”

A few minutes later, she joins me in the sitting room with my drink, and a mug of that shit-awful green tea she drinks. Way to go, sweetheart. Live dangerously, why don’t you?

As she hands me the glass, I notice she’s wearing a short, clingy dress I haven’t seen before. Makes a change to see her bloody legs; I hate women in pants. No mystery who she’s getting all gussied up for.

“How was your day?” I ask, as she settles in the armchair opposite.

“Busy. I spent most of it stuck in traffic.”

“Have you decided what to do when Wendy goes on maternity leave?”

She looks surprised. “I told you about that? Jenna solved it for me. Remember Lucy George?”

“Not really,” I shrug, irritated that, once more, Jenna is in the room with us.

“She retired from the Putney shop about six months ago. She got bored sitting at home, and came in to see about coming back to work the day Jenna was holding the fort in Fulham. Somehow, Jenna talked Wendy and Lucy into a job-share. It’s the perfect solution. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

“Clare,” I say impatiently, “there’s something important we need to discuss.”

“Oh, Marc.
Please
don’t,” she sighs, “tell me you’ve lost more money.”

Jesus! Is she ever going to let me forget it?

“It’s not about money.” I fight to keep my anger in check. “Look, we both know things haven’t been good between us recently. We’re constantly at each other’s throats. I’m miserable, and I’m sure you are, too.”

Clare hesitates. “All right. Yes. It’s been difficult.”

“We can’t go on like this. It’s not good for either of us, or for Rowan and Poppy.”

“I can’t remember the last time we sat down and really talked.” She sighs again. “We never seem to have a moment to ourselves.”

Whose fault’s that?

“Marc, I know you don’t like me working, but to be honest, sometimes it’s the only way I get any peace. It’s not that I mean to shut you out—”

“I’m not blaming you. I just want to find a way to work this out without fighting.”

Her eyes are suddenly wet. “You’ve been so distant recently—”

“I talk to you,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my tone. “You just don’t listen.”

“Have you any idea how hard I’ve been working?” Clare exclaims. “It was bad enough before you got us into debt, but now it’s a thousand times worse. We could lose everything if I don’t find a way out of this mess! I’m exhausted, Marc. Is it any wonder I don’t have time to listen to your problems?”

“You don’t have time for anything except that damn company—”

“If it wasn’t for that damn company, we’d be out on the street!”

“Oh, change the fucking record, Clare!”

I leap up and lean heavily on the mantelpiece.
Play the long game, Marc. This isn’t the way to get her to agree
. I’ll go to Court if I have to, but it’d be so much easier if I can get her to sign off on things amicably.

“I don’t want to argue with you,” I say wearily. “I don’t intend to end up one of those couples who still aren’t talking when their children walk down the aisle. Let’s sort this as quickly as possible so we can both move on. I’ve been talking to someone about the best way to—”

“So have I,” Clare says unexpectedly.

I swing around. “You have?”

She blushes. I can’t remember the last time I saw my wife disconcerted.

“I didn’t want to go behind your back, but I thought one of us had to do something,” she stumbles. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve made an appointment for us on the twenty-eighth—”

“Both of us?”

“Well, yes. You can’t go to this sort of counseling on your own.”

“I’m not talking about counseling, Clare. Christ! I’m talking about
divorce!”

I’ve never seen anyone turn gray before, but Clare does. The color drains from her face, quite literally, like a cartoon. Unexpectedly, I find myself wanting to laugh, and struggle to hold myself in check.

“
Divorce?”
she whispers.

“Isn’t that what we’ve been talking about?”

“Divorce,” she tries again, as if she doesn’t understand the word.

“Come on, Clare. Don’t tell me this is a surprise. We’ve barely spoken, let alone had sex, for months. How did you think this was going to end?”

“Is there … is there someone else?”

“Not as far as I’m concerned. What about you?”

She can’t meet my eyes. “Of course not.”

My anger flares again.
What about the flowers, you lying bitch?
Never mind new dresses and sneaking around and the girly whispering in corners. You and that fucking mouthy dyke.

“I don’t want this to get messy,” I say, dropping all pretense at friendliness. “If we can agree to everything ourselves, without getting lawyers involved—”

“But the twins are only six months old! They need us, they need a
family!”
She grabs at my arm. “Please, Marc. You don’t mean this. I know things have been difficult recently, but it’s just a rocky patch. It hasn’t been much fun for me either, but we’ll get through it. We can go for counseling, spend more time together. Jenna can take the twins one weekend, and—”

I shake her off. “I’m doing this
for
Rowan and Poppy.”

“Think how they’ll feel when they’re older, shuttling between us, spending alternate Christmases … oh, Marc, please, you
can’t
want that—”

“It’s better,” I say coldly, “than being poisoned.”

“How can you say that?” she whispers, shocked. “I
didn’t poison Poppy! You
know
I didn’t! The doctor said she has salt diabetes; you can’t blame me for that!”

“One doctor.
One
opinion. And I only have your word as to what that was. For all I know, it’s something else entirely. Something you caused.”

“But Jenna was
there!
She heard her!”

“She’d say anything if you paid her enough.”

“I would never do anything to hurt either one of my children!”

“Really? The thought’s never even crossed your mind?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, guilt written all over her face.

My resolve hardens. However ugly this gets, however much she begs and pleads, I’m not letting her anywhere near my children.
Not now, not ever
.

“This discussion is going nowhere,” I tell her roughly. “I’m sorry it all seems such a shock to you, Clare, but that’s hardly my fault. If you’d paid the slightest attention to me, you’d have seen it coming. I suggest you go to bed and sleep on it. We can discuss your access to the children tomorrow, when we’ve both had a chance to calm down—”