Who Loves You Best (6 page)

“Not really, darling.” I kiss her cheek. “Just a long weekend in Nevis, nothing special.”

“Oh, Davina! I’d
kill
for a few days in the Caribbean. I hate England in March, it’s so dreary.”

“Darling, you should have said. The Bartholomews would have loved to see you—”

“You know that’s not an option.” She turns and ushers the pretty girl forward. “This is our new nanny, Jenna. I thought it might be fun if she joined us this weekend, and got to know the family.”

“Lovely to meet you, dear,” I say. “Welcome to Long Meadow.”

The girl gazes up at the house with awe. “This is all yours?”

How
sweet
. One forgets.

Marc struggles up the steps with the twins, a plastic baby seat swinging from each hand, like Jack and his pails of water. Two quilted bags are slung across his chest. He looks cross and out-of-sorts, as usual.

I lead the way into the glass-walled orangery, where, despite the dull weather, Mrs. Lampard has set the table for lunch. Clare insists on a place being added for Jenna—“She can’t eat in the kitchen, Davina; she’s part of the family, not a servant!”—and, worse still, brings the twins to the table when they start squalling.

“I’m sure Jenna wouldn’t mind,” I murmur discreetly.

The girl leaps up. “Of course—”

“Jenna, sit down,” Clare says. “It’s Saturday, it’s your day off. I invited you to Long Meadow as
our guest.”

“I don’t mind, honestly.”

At least
some
body knows her place. How Clare runs a successful business mystifies me. One has to maintain a certain reserve with staff, and Clare has always worn her egalitarian heart on her sleeve.

Other children bring home stray kittens and litter runts; as a child, Clare used to turn up with vagabonds from the local council estate that she’d picked up in the village and invited back to tea. Mrs. Lampard would fill them with toast and pound cake in the kitchen, and then return them to their miserable high-rise dwellings (having frisked them for teaspoons first). Clare was always devastated not to receive a return invitation.

She thinks me a dreadful snob, I know; but it never occurred to her how unfair she was being, giving these children a glimpse of privilege they could never share.

Jenna seems a perfectly nice girl, if a little common (gold hoop earrings and rather cheap shoes); but one doesn’t make friends with servants. Although Clare does seem a little more like her old self again now that she’s finally seen sense and hired some help. I knew she wouldn’t take well to motherhood. She’s more like me than she thinks. I did
tell
her.

“Darling, you really don’t have to breast-feed,” I reprove gently, as Clare whips out a huge, blue-veined bosom. “It’s terribly nouveau. Formula is quite acceptable these days.”

“Just because
you
didn’t want to,” Clare retorts.

I make no apologies for my failure to enjoy child-rearing. There is a dreadful amount of sentimental hoopla about babies. With few exceptions, they are
not
beautiful; most infants resemble Churchill in his far-from-finest hour. They bawl, squirm, vomit on one’s clothing, and are generally as appealing at the dinner table as a sandwich full of maggots.

Nor, in my opinion, do they improve with age. Once
mobile, they leave a slimy trail of stickiness wherever they go, like snails. The moment they master the rudiments of communication, they use them to demand the repetition of the same mind-numbing games and stories until you want to scream with boredom. How many times must the wheels of the bus go round before they are satisfied?

Unfortunately, the issue of an heir was somewhat of a deal-breaker for my first husband.

I married Manon Sterling for love. Admittedly, he was also obscenely rich, but I find that a very attractive quality in a man.

For years, Manon had been a dedicated playboy who adroitly sidestepped any talk of marriage. But, at fifty-one, he was starting to feel the first cold intimations of his own mortality. He wanted a pretty, nubile wife to make him feel young again; and an heir to inherit his vast fortune. I was twenty, a virgin, and extremely beautiful—but destitute, since my father, who’d given me a taste for the finer things in life, had then gambled away any means to enjoy them.

Manon and I were a perfect match. He enjoyed doting on me; I enjoyed being doted upon. Sex with my new husband was pleasant, and undemanding. I fell pregnant within weeks.

I had no choice but to go through with it. Manon—utterly in love with every aspect of my pregnancy—proclaimed me glowing, but all I saw was
fat
. I shuddered every time I caught sight of my swollen body in the mirror (oh! my twenty-three-inch waist!). The only thought that sustained me throughout the entire nightmarish nine months was that I would never,
ever
have to do this again.

Clare was born by cesarean section; nothing would have induced me to endure the indignity of a “natural” birth (I refuse to believe that anything, once stretched to ten times its normal size, is
ever
the same again).

I might have warmed to her a little more had it not been made clear in advance that an heir:
n
. (male) was expected. I had nightmares I’d be forced to endure pregnancy after pregnancy like some medieval broodmare until I delivered a son. My relief at the birth of Alexander four years later can only be imagined.

I felt nothing in particular for either child. Oh, I didn’t wish anything dreadful to happen to them, of course; I actually became quite fond once they went off to school. But there was nothing
visceral;
none of that tigress maternal instinct one reads so much about. I was perfectly happy to cede day-to-day care to a series of nannies until the children grew up and became recognizably human. (My own mother had died when I was two and nannies clearly hadn’t done
me
any harm.)

No, Manon was the one who spent hours in the nursery, lavishing love and attention on Clare, with whom he was besotted. It was particularly unfortunate, then, that he had a stroke and died when she was seven and Alexander not quite three.

I had liked my husband (better, after all, to be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave), and was in no rush to marry again. However, it appeared Manon was no longer quite as obscenely rich as everyone thought. A series of bad investments, heavy stock market losses, and a staggering unpaid tax bill meant that once his debts were paid, very little,
beyond our house in Pimlico, was left. Without his life insurance, the children and I would have found ourselves on the street.

It’s easy for Clare to take the moral high ground, but she should try poverty for a while. I wasn’t brought up to work. I could throw a dinner party for twenty at the drop of a hat or organize a charity ball in my sleep, but I hadn’t the faintest idea how to earn my own living.

Clare never liked Guy. She didn’t rebel (that wasn’t Clare’s style), but it was quite obvious, despite her scrupulous politeness, that she detested her stepfather. Where Clare led, Alexander followed.

Thank God Guy could afford good boarding schools.

Mrs. Lampard serves lunch: cold roast chicken and new potatoes for Marc and Jenna, egg-white omelettes for Clare and me. Clare pulls a face, but she’ll thank me for it one day. She’s ballooned to a size eight since her pregnancy, and the nanny really is a very pretty girl.

I watch Jenna use the edge of her fork to cut her roast chicken. I grimace inwardly, and then realize it’s not from ignorance; she appears to have sprained her wrist.

I lean forward and tap her hand. “How did that happen?”

“She fell over the coffee table last weekend when she went home,” Clare answers. “I
told
her she should go to hospital and get it x-rayed, just in case, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Do you live with your parents?”

“My boyfriend,” Jenna says.

“And what does he do?”

“He’s a plumber—”

Clare interrupts. “He has his own business, Davina. Plumbers earn a fortune these days. Ours went to the Maldives for a fortnight last year.
We
can’t afford to go to the Maldives—”

“Yes, thank you, Clare. I do know the value of a good plumber,” I retort tartly. “He doesn’t mind, your boyfriend, that you’ve taken a position where you’re required to live in?”

“Oh, but she wasn’t required to—”

“He doesn’t mind,” Jenna says.

She doesn’t quite meet my eye. Hmm. I know what that means.

“And your parents?” I ask. “What did you say your father does?”

“Davina.” Clare laughs self-consciously. “Stop giving her the third degree.”

I dread to think how my daughter found this girl. A poster on a lamppost, perhaps? Did she not think to check what kind of family the girl comes from? Knowing Clare, she’ll have considered it “judgmental” to investigate her background. I wonder how much effort she put into researching the purchase of each of her flower shops, and checking the references of those she employed there. And how much time, in contrast, she spent finding the woman who will be shaping her children’s characters, molding their minds.

Clare has no idea. A nanny affects the way your child sees the world, and sets the defaults in their nature.
Give me a child until he is seven, and I will show you the man
.

I blame Nanny Frieda in no small measure for the way Clare has turned out. She was the one who encouraged Clare to mess about with pots in the greenhouse. It was amusing at first, and Clare certainly had an eye for color and detail. By the time she was twelve, everyone wanted her to do their flowers. It was rather sweet to have her go to friends’ houses and throw a few roses prettily in a vase. Reflected rather nicely. But I never expected her to pursue it as a
career
. First the business degree—I know university is all the rage these days, and it can be a good way to find a husband if you choose the right sort of place; but Clare spent her entire time studying,
such
a bluestocking. Then came the obsession with setting up her own company. She ran herself ragged financing it all herself, buying up bits of land to grow things, wouldn’t take a penny from Guy or use any of the spare acreage at Long Meadow. I was rather relieved when she finally said she’d met a man. She was thirty-one, after all. If she’d left it any longer, she’d have missed the boat.

“I suppose you’ll go back to work now.” I sigh, passing Marc the deviled eggs. “I’m sure the children will miss you.”

“It’s only part-time to begin with, Davina. The twins will be fine with Jenna; it’ll be like having three parents living at home, instead of two.”

“I’ve told Clare she really doesn’t have to—”

“I
want
to, Marc.”

Trouble in Paradise. I thought as much.

All this fuss about careers. Men may tolerate a working
wife these days, but that doesn’t mean they
like
it. They just want a nice house and a pretty wife and children to come home to, whatever they might tell you. Men are simple. They know it. Women have to understand that, if they expect to be truly happy with their husbands. A good man is hard to find, not keep. All one has to do is give them good food, respect, appreciation, and plenty of sex. Lots of sex and no nagging. It isn’t hard.

To paraphrase that marvellous American President (
dear
Jackie: Now there was a woman who knew what men want): Girls these days get married thinking about what their husband can do for them, not what they can do for their husband. Is it any wonder so many of them run off with the au pair?

I push my omelette around the plate. “Darling,” I suggest, “now that you’ve got a spare pair of hands, why don’t you spend a bit of time on yourself? Get back in shape, buy a few pretty clothes. I know your shops kept you busy when you had time on your hands, but there’s really no need to—”

“Davina, I run a
business
. I’m not volunteering to do the church flowers!”

“Yes, dear, I understand that. But surely the whole point of being the boss is that you don’t have to go in every day. You can manage things from home. It’d be a shame to miss out on—”

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Clare cries. “It’s bad enough when you correct the way I fold a napkin, but if you think I’m going to sit here and listen to
you
, of all people, tell me how to raise a family—”

“You’re upsetting the babies, Clare.”

Marc picks Rowan up and puts him against his shoulder. “You know I’m behind you a hundred percent,” he adds firmly, “but your mother’s right. I don’t want you pushing yourself too hard. It’s been a really tough few months, and now that we’ve got Jenna, you should take a break and relax while you can.”

Clare looks on the verge of tears. “If I’m worrying about PetalPushers, I can’t relax. You know how much the company means to me.”

“Don’t bite your nails, darling,” I murmur. “Ugly habit.”

“It’d be different if you needed to work, Clare. But I’m earning enough now; we could manage for a bit—”

“I need to work for
me
,” Clare pleads.

I really don’t understand my daughter at all.

“Oh, Christ.” Marc laughs, leaping up. “He’s puked all over me! Jenna, would you mind holding him for a moment?”

“But that’s a new shirt,” Clare complains. “It cost a fortune—”

“It doesn’t matter. I just need to sponge it out, it’ll be fine.”

He disappears to clean up. I don’t miss Clare’s sour expression as she glances Rowan’s way. How ironic, that Marc should take so naturally to fatherhood. It must be his Arab genes. They’re very big on family in that part of the world, I understand. At least, as far as boys are concerned.

I knew as soon as Clare brought Marc home that it was going to be a disaster. Oh, he’s definitely very charming.
Good at handling women; that’s five older sisters for you. But not the one for Clare. Absolutely the wrong choice.

Have you noticed how certain sorts of girls—Italians, for example—bloom early? By the time they’re twenty-eight, no matter how pretty they were at fifteen, they’re overblown and spent, already turning into their mothers. Genetics, you see. Some young men seem so liberal and open-minded at twenty; but by thirty, their genes have won out and they’ve reverted to type. Just like their fathers and grandfathers before them, they expect dinner on the table when they get home and a wife who runs around picking up their socks. Marc may adore his children, but I have a feeling he won’t expect to do the dirty work—the
women’s
work—involved in actually raising them.