Who Loves You Best (9 page)

I put Poppy in her pink Bumbo Seat and pour myself a glass of orange juice.

“Jenna!” I exclaim suddenly, noticing her bruised cheek. “How did you get that?”

“Cupboard door swung back and caught me,” she says, too quickly.

I watch as she takes apart Rowan’s bottle and puts it in the sterilizer. Last week, she caught her hand in the car door. The week before, she burned her arm on the iron.

“You seem very accident-prone,” I say carefully, “when you go home.”

She laughs. “Too many vodkas, that’s all.”

“Jenna—”

“Better get going. The twins need their bath.”

I can’t force her to confide in me. And I could be
wrong, of course. Maybe she
is
just partying hard on weekends, getting drunk, falling over. She knows so much about my life, but I still know next to nothing about hers.

You’ve never asked
.

I suddenly feel ashamed. For the past few weeks, Marc’s worked late at the office most evenings, so Jenna and I have fallen into a comfortable routine. She goes through my cookery books for a recipe she fancies, and washes and chops everything ready for when I get home. I throw it together—she can’t cook, it seems, apart from nursery food—while she opens a cheap bottle of wine for the two of us. It’s so nice chatting over dinner. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed having someone to talk to.

But I haven’t given a second thought to what
she
might have to say. Guiltily, I resolve to make more effort to draw her out in the future. I want her to feel she can tell me anything. I want us to be friends.

Before I leave for work, I run upstairs to kiss the twins goodbye.

“I haven’t seen these outfits before,” I say, surprised. “Where did they come from?”

She looks pleased. “I went shopping on the weekend and saw them. I couldn’t resist.”

Oh, dear. I rather wish she had. She’s dressed Poppy in a hideous outfit emblazoned with Hannah Montana stencils, and Rowan in some sort of faux tartan waistcoat and black jeans. I hope she doesn’t take them out anywhere. People might think I’d dressed them like this.

Don’t be such a snob
, I tell myself.
You’re as bad as Davina. It was a lovely gesture
.

“You shouldn’t have,” I scold. “You must let me pay you back—”

“No, please. I wanted to. I like buying them things.”

“As long as you don’t make a habit of it.”

She turns away. “I like buying things,” she says again.

“
Sex and the City
is on in two minutes,” Jenna calls from the sitting room.

I put the roasting pan into the sink to soak, and load the dishwasher. “Would you like a cup of Rooibos red bush tea?”

“Why don’t we just finish the Pinot?”

Help. I’m not used to drinking this much, but I don’t like to say no.

“Marc hates this program,” I say, curling up on the sofa.

“So does every straight man on the planet. That’s the whole point.”

A key rattles in the front door. There’s a thump as Marc flings his briefcase onto the hall table. “Christ,” he exclaims. “I’ve had the most fucked-up day.”

I listen as he walks through to the kitchen and mixes his usual (whisky, a dash of water, no ice). “This credit crunch is killing us,” he calls. “Another two of the big U.S. banks just wrote down huge losses. We can forget about bonuses again this—oh. Jenna. I didn’t realize you were here.”

“Hi, Marc.”

I swing my legs down to make room for him next to me on the settee. He doesn’t sit down.

“I need to talk to you,” he says curtly.

“What about?”

“Do you mind if we go upstairs and discuss it?”

“We’re watching
Sex and the City,”
Jenna says.

Marc scowls. I put down my glass. “It’s OK, Jenna. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Doesn’t she know to take a hint?” Marc hisses furiously as we go upstairs. “It’s after ten o’clock! When do we get to spend any time alone in our own house?”

“Sssh! She’ll hear you. Be fair, Marc. You’ve only just got home. She was keeping me company.”

“Well, she needs to learn when to give us some privacy.”

Emboldened by the wine, I slide my arms round his waist. “Why,” I murmur, “would we need privacy?”

He stiffens. I’m quite sure he’s about to push me away; and then, suddenly, the tension leaches out of him and he pulls me close. “Mrs. Elias,” he whispers thickly into my hair, “you’ve no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

I’ve missed you, too
.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, the warm haziness of the wine gives way to a sharp, greedy hunger. I grab his face between my palms and kiss him: a hot, grinding kiss that crushes his lips against his teeth. I want my husband inside me, that kiss says. I want him to fuck me
now
.

Marc falls backwards onto the bed, pulling me on top of him. His answering erection presses into my stomach. He yanks up my skirt and tugs aside my knickers, fingers probing roughly between my legs. I grope for his belt buckle, freeing his penis. He’s pulling my T-shirt over my head, scooping my heavy breasts from my bra. My nipples tingle,
and a few drops of milk leak onto his chest. He catches one swaying breast, sucking hungrily.

Slipperiness gushes between my thighs. I guide him inside me and ride him hard, rearing back to take him in even deeper.

Moments later, Marc flips me abruptly over onto my back, and thrusts furiously. My orgasm breaks over me with such speed, I’m gasping for air. He comes within seconds and collapses against my chest. He hasn’t even taken off his shirt.

By the time I remember to ask what he wanted to talk about, he’s already asleep.

I smile secretively as I go downstairs for breakfast, raw and throbbing in all the right places.

Jenna is feeding the twins their morning gruel: baby rice mixed with expressed breast milk. She glances up as I come into the kitchen, but doesn’t smile. She looks tired and rather fed up.

I put on a pot of coffee, as Jenna seems to have forgotten this morning. “You’re up early.”

“It’s eight-fifteen,” Jenna says tightly.

I flush guiltily. “I didn’t realize. Marc must have turned the baby monitor off when he got up for work. Jenna, I’m really, really sorry.” I reach for the breakfast bowl. “Let me do that—”

She snatches it away. “We’re up now.”

“I’ll pay you overtime,” I promise. “Or you can take some time off instead if you like?”

She finishes feeding the twins and makes a big production out of scraping the bowl into the waste disposal. She’s really annoyed with me. It can’t just be the early start, can it? Oh, God. I don’t want her to take it out on the twins. Or supposing she quits and hands in her notice? I can’t manage without her, I can’t go back to—

“Actually, Clare,” Jenna says suddenly, turning around, “I’m going out tonight, so I will finish early and take some time off, if that’s OK. About five? It’ll give me time to get ready and do my hair.”

I’d meant to stay late at PetalPushers, to go over the books with Craig and see if we can get to the bottom of the discrepancies.

For heaven’s sake
. You offered her the extra time off, even if you didn’t mean her to take you up on it
quite
so soon. But that’s not her fault. She wasn’t to know. And she can’t be expected to work morning, noon, and night, can she?

“Yes, yes, of course, that’s fine. Are you going anywhere nice?”

“There’s a new club opened in Stockwell, thought I’d give it a go.”

“Sounds … fun.”

“I’ll be back to start at seven tomorrow, usual time. Don’t worry if I don’t come home before then, though.”

I smile awkwardly. “I don’t know how you can stay up all night, and then work all day. I don’t think I could do it.”

“Guess it’s easier when you’re young.” Jenna shrugs. “Right, I’d better get on. I don’t want to end up behind today.”

Ouch. I’ve been thinking of myself as more or less Jenna’s age, but of course she doesn’t. I suppose thirty-nine seems ancient to her.

Davina is right, as usual. We’re never going to be friends.

“Do I look old to you?” I ask Craig.

He hefts a bucket of early pink cherry blossom out of the way of the fire door. “Darling girl, when you get to my age, Elizabeth Taylor seems young.”

“That’s not terribly helpful.” I sigh.

“Sweets, you’re ageless. Helen of Troy. If I didn’t bat for the other side, I’d have put the moves on you long ago. Why the mirror-mirror soul-searching now?”

I’ve never quite figured out why Craig affects an outrageously campy persona at work, when he’s actually happily married with three gorgeous daughters and another baby on the way. Perhaps he thinks it’s expected of a man who works with flowers; like hairdressers.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say disconsolately. “Just feeling a bit sorry for myself.”

“You saw Davina last week?”

“Well, yes—”

“And your nanny is young, pretty, and single?”

“Not quite single, but yes—”

“There you are, then. Asked and answered.”

“Craig,” I say, suddenly distracted, “is that baby’s breath over there?”

He dodges in front of a bench of bleeding hearts. “No.”

“Yes, it is—wait. Are those
ferns
?”

“Of course not—oh, all right. Yes.” He flings his arms wide in dramatic fashion. “Yes, I brought in baby’s breath and leatherleaf ferns, I’ve bulk-ordered forced roses, I’ve been selling mums, I’ve sinned, mea culpa, shoot me now!”

I gape in astonishment. “Craig, what on earth is going on?”

He deflates and plops onto the ripped stool behind the till. “Look, darling, I know it’s blasphemy, it goes against everything we believe in, but we’ve been losing money hand over fist recently. It’s not just the odd discrepancy, it’s by the bucket. I didn’t want to worry you while you were on leave, so I’ve been cutting the odd teeny corner here and there.”

“What kind of corner?” I demand.

“Chartreuse flowers and ornamental amaranths are divine, of course, but it’s such a niche market. People
like
baby’s breath and ferns and roses—”

“The niche market is what we
do
!” I exclaim. “Craig, you
know
that.”

We’ve never built our inventory around workhorses like carnations and mums. We have an aesthetic; either our customer base buys into that, or they go elsewhere.

I glance around the shop. This is where PetalPushers started; of all my shops, this tiny Fulham one is my favorite. Little more than a grown-up kiosk, it’s filled with interesting, quirky, old-fashioned flowers dancing in buckets that spill onto the pavement outside. Right from the beginning, I was determined to keep things organic. No forced flowers from Sun Valley growers or truckloads of Dutch tulips.
Instead, I saddled myself with a terrifying bank loan, bought a few acres of land, and with the last of my seed money, planted my favorite flowers and rented this shop. I sold what I grew, and bought from other small gardeners like me. I kept my inventory seasonal: larkspur and poppies in spring, mistletoe and holly in winter. It’s taken twelve years and a lot of hard work, but I’ve earned my reputation as a high-end, boutique florist. It’s all about the flowers. White callas, deep purple hyacinths, parrot tulips, all crammed into crystal vases, their stems cut short to focus on the blooms. Our signature bouquets are monochromatic and simple, using no more than one or two varieties of flowers. I’ve never gone after the mass market. I wanted to play to the high net-worths. Our arrangements are expensive, but worth it.

I don’t understand the reluctance to spend money on flowers “because they’re only going to die.” How long will a fancy meal last? One of my bouquets will bloom for ten days and lift your spirits every time you see it. There’s beauty even in a decaying rose.

“Why are we in such trouble?” I ask Craig suddenly. “The last quarter’s accounts were healthy enough.”

“We’re in a major recession. It’s hurting everyone—”

“We cater to the high end of the market. Our clients aren’t hurting that much.”

“We’ve got a lot of competition. Another supermarket opened just around the corner last month—”

“We’re not competing with inexpensive mass-market flowers. We’ve never chased pennies on a bloom. It can’t have made that much difference—”

“I don’t know.” Craig shrugs crossly. “I just look at the bottom line.”

I shush him as a customer enters. Normally I’d let Molly, the Fulham manager, serve him, but I like to spend a few hours every week or so working on the floor at one of my shops. It keeps me grounded and in touch with my client base.

“How can I help—”

“Flowers,” he says shortly.

Too angry for a funeral. Or a lover, unless he plans to beat her to death with the calla lilies. His brooding, bitter intensity fills the room like smoke.

I hesitate, and then move towards a bank of glorious pink peonies.

“Not those. She has enough secrets.”

I glance up in surprise. Not many people know the Victorian language of flowers; certainly not—I hate to sound like Davina—an American. From the Deep South, judging by his mellow accent.

“Yellow tulips?” I hazard.

“Hopeless love and devotion? Hardly. And not abandonment,” he says dryly, as I reach for a small crystal bowl of anemones.

Craig is agog. “What did you have in mind?” he asks breathlessly.

For a long moment, the bitter American says nothing.

“Lilies,” he says finally. “Lilies and jasmine.”

Innocence and good luck. Somehow, I don’t think he means it as a compliment.

Under his sardonic gaze, I deftly pull together a bouquet,
weaving the jasmine through the lilies in a tight, crisp arrangement.
This
is why I love my shop, my job. These flowers won’t be thrust into someone’s hand, sniffed cursorily, jammed into a vase and forgotten. They will become part of someone’s story.

I watch the American curiously as he pays and leaves without another word.

I feel sorry for her, whoever she is.

It’s ten to six by the time I get home, thanks to a security alert on the District & Circle Line. I expect Jenna to be champing at the bit, wanting to get ready, so I’m slightly surprised to find the house in near-darkness. She must have popped out for a minute.