Who Loves You Best (31 page)

As the crowd thins, I recognize Brendan, one of the two cops who gave Xan and me a ride in their police car. “Jenna! What are you doing here?”

“Clare is Xan’s sister. I’m her nanny.”

“I need you to give me some background,” he says, walking me briskly down a narrow corridor to an interview room. “First, is there a restraining order against the father?”

“He and Clare only split up two weeks ago. They haven’t even been to court yet.”

“So what makes her think he’s taken the baby? For good, I mean.”

I explain about Marc, the threatening phone call, the sudden abduction of Rowan from his Baby Swim class.

“But he
is
the child’s father?” Brendan says again.

“Well, obviously, but—”

“So there’s no legal bar to his access? No reason he shouldn’t pick his son up?”

“Look, Clare’s not overreacting!” I cry indignantly. “Marc said he was going to take them somewhere she’d never find them! He means it; he’s got this whole bag filled with money hidden under the stairs—”

“What do you mean?” Brendan says sharply.

“I found a holdall under the stairs about a week before they split up,” I admit. “It was filled with hundred-dollar bills. Maybe a hundred thousand dollars altogether?”

“Did you mention this to Clare?”

“I didn’t think it was any of my business,” I say awkwardly. “I didn’t want her thinking I’d been poking around. And then Marc walked out, and after that I just … forgot.”

I suddenly realize the implications of what I’ve just said. Oh, God. Marc planned this from the beginning. That cash was his fuck-you money. If I’d told Clare, none of this would have happened.

“It’s OK,” Brendan says kindly. “It’s not your fault. This may have nothing to do with it. Let’s just take one step at a time.”

We both know that’s not true, but it’s nice of him to say so.

He leaves me alone in the interview room for what seems like hours. Voices murmur outside, and at one point a secretary comes in to take down my name and address again. Fear makes me nervous and angry. Why are they wasting time? Marc could be getting on a plane to God knows where! Why don’t they
do
something?

Finally, the door opens to admit a senior-looking officer with lots of gold buttons and a self-important expression. Behind him, Brendan can’t quite meet my eye.

“What’s going on?” I ask, looking from one to the other. “Have you found him?”

“I think we need to take a step back,” the older cop says pompously. “I’m sure they’ve just gone for an ice cream and forgotten the time. Why don’t you take the mother home and put the kettle on. I’m sure they’ll be back before you know it—”

“Put the
kettle
on?”

“I understand the same lady was here a few months ago,” he says, glancing at Brendan for confirmation. “She reported the two children missing, and it turned out they were safe and sound with the lady’s brother and you, miss.”

“This is different!” I yell. “He’s
taken
Rowan. Why don’t you get it?”

The arsehole cop presses his lips together. “We’ve taken down the details, miss. If the boy isn’t back in twenty-four hours, we can issue an alert—”

“It’ll be too late by then!”

The door opens again, and a policewoman ushers Clare in. She looks ten years older than she did this morning. Dark circles smudge her eyes, and her face is pinched and drawn.

“Clare, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about the money!” I burst out. “I had no idea Marc was going to do something like this—I didn’t think it mattered—”

She shrugs dully. “Even if you’d told me, it wouldn’t have made any difference.”

“But maybe you could have stopped him—”

“Let’s go home,” she says tiredly. “This is hopeless, Jenna. No one believes me. They probably think I’ve abducted him myself. We’ll find Rowan ourselves. I’ll call Davina. She’ll know what to do.”

“I have a friend in the Canadian High Commission,” Davina says briskly. “They’ll have a watch on the airports by the time his plane lands. If that’s where he’s gone, of course, though I can’t think where else he’d be now that he’s
checked out of his hotel. You need to go and see Nicholas Lyon again first thing in the morning, Clare. He’ll deal with the legal end of things.” She sighs. “The Canadians are a bit French, admittedly, but they’re perfectly civilized. We’ll soon have this all sorted out.”

Clare refuses to go to bed, spending a sleepless night fully clothed in an armchair downstairs, ready to leave at a moment’s notice if Rowan is found. Upstairs, I pace the hallways with a fretful and miserable Poppy, who’s clearly unsettled by the absence of her twin. I should have told Clare about the bag of money before. I just didn’t think of it. How could I be so
stupid?

The next morning, she insists I go with her to see the divorce lawyer, for moral support. We’re ushered into Nicholas Lyon’s conference room by a sympathetic secretary, who pours coffee and offers us doughnuts and warm croissants. As if either of us could eat.

Nicholas comes in and gives Clare a warm hug. “Don’t panic,” he tells her firmly. “We’re going to get Rowan back. I’ve spoken to his employers, and they’ll call us if he sets foot in the office, though I very much doubt that’ll happen. I’ve already been in touch with the Canadian Consulate, and the moment Marc sets foot in the country, he’ll be brought before a Canadian court and ordered to return Rowan to the UK.”

“Suppose he refuses?” she asks anxiously.

“Canada is a signatory to the Hague Convention on Child Abduction. He’ll be forced to bring Rowan back here so that the matter can be decided by a British court.”

Why is everyone so fixated on Canada? That’s the first
place everyone will look; and if I were Marc, the last place I’d go.

“How are you going to force him?” I demand. “I mean, all these conventions and stuff are fine, but haven’t we actually got to
find
him first?”

“There’s a Port Alert in place, Jenna,” Nicholas says. “As soon as he arrives, they’ll hold him. Don’t worry, they’re very much on the ball. One of the more helpful by-products of all the 9/11 security,” he adds wryly.

And if he’s not in Canada?
I think.
What then?

When Rowan and Marc have been missing for twenty-four hours, the police finally take Clare seriously. An alert is issued, but it’s as if Marc’s vanished into thin air. He doesn’t use his credit cards, an ATM, or even his mobile phone. I start to wonder if Clare’s right, and Marc
has
done something terrible.

For three days, we don’t leave the house, jumping every time the phone rings. If Clare loses any more weight, she’ll snap. I wish I could get in touch with Xan. He’s the only person I can think of who might help Clare through this.

On the fourth day, Nicholas calls.

“I’ve just heard: Marc and Rowan were on a British Airways flight to Lebanon three days ago,” he says wearily, when I pick up the phone. “I’m afraid we’ve lost him.”

I feel sick. This is my fault. I was the one who left Rowan at the swim class. I didn’t tell Clare about the money. He must have taken the suitcase out of the house before she threw him out. I let this happen.

Even Nicholas sounds defeated. He explains that Lebanon isn’t a signatory to the Hague Convention. If Marc doesn’t bring Rowan back of his own accord, Clare will never find him. She may never see her son again.

Davina hires a private investigator with contacts in Lebanon, but we have so little to go on. We have no idea which part of the country his family is from, or even if he stayed there. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack full of needles.

In desperation, Clare calls Marc’s parents in Montreal, but they either won’t, or can’t, help us. I wouldn’t be surprised if his mother put him up to this. According to Clare, she’s never approved of her career-oriented daughter-in-law.

With every day that passes, Clare gets quieter and more withdrawn. It’s as if the life’s being sucked out of her. She’s lost all interest in her shops; desperate to distract her, I insist on driving the three of us to Fulham every morning, and we sit and watch Poppy playing at our feet in her baby gym, blissfully unaware of the drama going on around her. She misses Rowan, but she’s only seven months old. She has no comprehension of what has happened. How could she?

For her sake, I try to stick to our old routine as much as possible. I take her to Baby Swim (Clare sits at the side of the pool, taut as a bowstring, constantly scanning the water) and to the park. Every night, I bathe her and put her to bed, trying not to notice the empty space where her brother should be. Clare won’t let me wash Rowan’s sheets or make up the crib properly. It’s as if Rowan has died.

One night, four weeks after Rowan has vanished, I’m
upstairs dressing Poppy in her pink pajamas, trying to tame her dark curls with a soft teddy-bear hairbrush. A particularly wild tendril keeps getting in her eyes, so I reach for the nail scissors to trim it for her.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I jump. Clare stands in the doorway; Rowan’s blanket, as ever these days, is in her hand. She watches me coldly for a few moments.

“I said, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Her hair was getting in her eyes—”

“Did I say you could cut it?”

“No, but—”

She crosses the room and snatches the scissors out of my hand. “I’ll decide if I want my daughter’s hair cut, thank you. I’m Poppy’s mother, not you. You
work
for me. You’re not her family. You have no right.”

“I just thought—”

“I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to do your job.”

I pick up the hairbrush again. She can’t help it. Given what she’s going through, it’s amazing she’s still sane.

I read somewhere once that ninety percent of parents split up after they lose a child. They’re so consumed by their own grief, they don’t have time for each other. They turn in on themselves, and instead of being drawn closer by their shared loss, they’re driven further apart.

Clare doesn’t seem to understand that I’m hurting, too. She barely speaks to me; she’s like a stranger these days. She’s always been self-controlled, but she’s so tightly wound now, I’m terrified what might happen if the dam breaks.

She doesn’t apologize for her outburst the next morning,
or even ask if I mind working yet another Saturday; I haven’t had a day off since Marc took Rowan. Instead, we go to the Fulham shop as usual. I flick on the computer in the corner of the shop and go through the staff roster, while Clare sits on the floor and plays with Poppy. After a while, I swivel and watch her. She doesn’t have an ounce of patience to spare for anyone else these days, but she’ll sit and thread flowers on a fine wire for her daughter as if she can think of nothing else she’d rather be doing. Two months ago, the idea of spending ten minutes entertaining Poppy would have scared the shit out of her.

I’m distracted by the door bell, and look up.

Clare gets to her feet as Cooper Garrett walks in, still wearing his long leather duster, apparently heedless of the summer heat, as dusty and travel-stained as if he’s just ridden across the desert with a vital message to save the world.

“I’ve found your son,” he says.

Lolly was right. She tends to be; the advantage of eighty-some years on this planet. She’s taken care of me since the day I was born: If she says there’s such a thing as love at first sight, I believe her.

I walk into Clare’s flower shop on a bright May morning, my head filled with Ella. I’ve thought of nothing else since she pitched up two months ago in North Carolina, my brother’s ashes in an urn tucked under her arm. Jackson’s mysterious widow: the woman who was married to him for eleven years, and cheated on him for most of them.

I fucked her out of revenge, and then found I couldn’t forget her. Trying not to think about Ella is like telling someone not to think of pink elephants: Suddenly it’s all you can imagine. I’m so eaten up with anger, I have nothing else left. Anger at Jackson, for dying at forty-two and making a mockery of everything I’ve given up; anger at Ella, for stealing my breath and robbing my soul. Anger most of all at myself, for letting any of it matter a damn.

And Clare looks up, her sad smile reaching her tired
eyes, and my anger evaporates like it never was; and I realize:
Lolly was right
.

I’m forty-nine years old: cynical, battle-hardened, bitter, and weary. I have no one, love no one, bar Lolly, an eighty-two-year-old black spinster who has nowhere else to go. I lost my parents in a fire at seventeen; I turned my back on music and Juilliard to look after my brother, and now I’ve lost him, too. In my years as a journalist, I’ve seen human nature in all its forms; I’ve witnessed the best and worst it has to offer. I’ve grieved for the charred corpses of children bombed in Baghdad and interviewed a mother in New Orleans who gave birth to her baby in a tree during the floods. I’ve been there, done that, and I thought I’d lost my ability to be surprised.