Who Loves You Best Read online

“Mrs. Elias, you’ve no idea how much I’ve missed you,” I whisper fiercely.

  I yank up her skirt and shove her knickers aside, jamming my fingers roughly inside her. She squeals; I ignore her, throwing her down on the bed beside me. She unzips my pants and I pull her astride my cock, ripping her T-shirt over her head. Her titties leak milk, and I latch on and lap it up. I loved her being pregnant, feeding my kids. I loved her walking around with her huge belly: I’ve been fucked.

  She starts riding my cock, taking over again, so I flip her onto her back and drill my dick hard into her. The bedroom’s the one place I’m in charge, and I know she likes it that way.

  I come inside her, hoping she’s had enough wine to forget she’s not back on the Pill yet. I’d love it if she got pregnant again soon. If I had my way, she’d give me a dozen kids. I just wish I wasn’t so damn stressed out all the time. I hate myself for taking things out on Clare, but all I can think about is the money. Always the money.

  After, she curls happily in the crook of my arm. I guess she came, too. Then—

  “Marc? What was it you wanted to talk about?”

  Christ. Why do women always want to talk after sex? It’s doing things ass-backwards, like putting your socks on over your shoes.

  I pretend I don’t hear her. Pretty soon she’s asleep, and I stare at the luminous green figures on the clock next to my bed, knowing I have to be up again in a few hours, but unable to switch off. Sex tonight was fine, yes, but it hasn’t wiped the slate the way it usually does for me. If anything, I feel even more pissy. Clare’s changed since she had the twins; and not in a good way. I’ve watched five sisters have kids, and it softened all of them, even Rania, the wild child of the bunch—Christ, you should have seen her at sixteen. Jailbait. My father was all for sending her back to Lebanon to knock her back into line. Then she met Antoine, had the boys, and she’s blossomed.

  Clare’s always been controlling (Mom considers her a bitch on wheels: She’s never approved of women who work), but it never really bothered me before. She couldn’t have achieved what she has if she didn’t have a tough, steely streak. I know she could be a great mother; you can see it in the way she fusses over her flowers. I always figured she’d relax once we had a family. You have to go with the flow where kids are concerned. Life gets messy. Rania’s three are in and out of the ER with one minor emergency after another.

  But Clare didn’t even try to make it work. She simply passed the ball and brought a sub in off the bench. She’s paying someone to mother her own babies. There are times I think she cares more about her business than me or Rowan and Poppy.

  I ease my arm from beneath her head, the muscles tingling painfully as blood flows back into them. A wisp of hair falls across her face and flutters as she breathes.

  PetalPushers is her real family.

  For two weeks, I try to find a way out of the nightmare, but come up empty. I can’t borrow any more from the bank, I’ve already taken out a second mortgage on the house, and no one will give me a loan this size in the current economic climate. Scared shitless, I drink myself stupid, trying to block it all out, but all it earns me is a monster hangover and a slap-down from Clare when I make the mistake of trying to get it on with her.

  In the end, I run out of time. When the trading floor gives you a margin call, you pay up, or you’re screwed. I have twenty-four hours to find the cash, so I do what I have to, and take it from Clare again. Where else was I supposed to get it?

  It’s not like I’m having an affair, for God’s sake. She’ll never even know. I can make it back with a couple of good trades. I swear, once this is all over, I’ll never stick my neck out like that again. I’ll settle the bet and walk away from the table once and for all.

  For once, I come home sober, putting my game face on as I let myself in the house. I’ve never lied to Clare, even by omission. Every night when I come home, I’m terrified she’ll see it in my eyes.

  I needn’t have worried. She doesn’t even bother to look up.

  Instead, she holds out her wineglass to Jenna, who tops it up. Acid burns in my gut as I watch them from the doorway. They’ve been thick as thieves since that business with Xan a couple weeks ago. I should’ve punched the bastard’s fucking lights out. Nobody puts my kids in danger. And as usual, Clare stuck up for him. Silly misunderstanding, my ass. If I’d been in charge, I’d have locked him up and thrown away the key.

  I pour myself a drink in the kitchen. The remnants of dinner are in the sink. I check the oven. Cold. Nothing left for me, as usual. The fucking cat gets treated better than I do.

  I hear them giggling in front of that damn show like teenagers. I want to slap the pair of them. They’ve even started to look alike, Clare in jeans—I didn’t know she owned any—and the nanny with her hair tied back in a prissy knot like my wife’s; for God’s sake, the girl’s even wearing a pair of bloody pearl earrings.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” I say tightly.

  “Fine,” Clare says.

  I run the water as hot as I can bear it, and stand under it until I feel the tension start to drain away. A year ago, my life was pretty much perfect. I was making money hand over fist, I had a beautiful, attentive wife, two babies on the way, a fantastic new house: Life was sweet. I thought when the twins arrived, there’d be no looking back. Instead, ever since that fucking cuckoo moved in, it’s been falling apart. I feel like a third wheel in my own home. I could lose my job and the roof over our heads if I don’t dig myself out of this hole. And if Clare finds out I’ve borrowed against her company, I’ll lose her.

  I’m toweling myself dry in our dressing room when Clare comes upstairs.

  “You didn’t have to be so rude to Jenna,” she snaps. “A hello would have done.”

  “Jesus. Do we have to talk about the nanny now?”

  “I’m helping her put some sort of monthly budget together,” Clare adds, as if I haven’t spoken. “She hasn’t got the first idea how to manage her finances. That Cartier watch cost her six months’ salary.”

  I throw my damp towel into the laundry basket. “Why d’you have to get involved? It’s none of our business how Jenna spends her money.”

  “She’s part of the family, Marc. She looks after our children.”

  “Your choice,” I mutter.

  Clare stares at me like I’m shit on the sole of her shoe.

  “It’s none of your business, Clare.” I pull on a pair of boxers, and climb into bed. “I know it makes you feel better to think of her as part of the family, but she’s not. She’s an employee, the same as Molly and Craig and anyone else you pay to work for you. You decided you wanted a nanny. Don’t try to reason your guilt away by dressing the relationship up and making it something it isn’t.”

  “I have nothing to feel guilty about,” she says sharply.

  “Whatever.”

  “I just want Jenna to be happy, so Poppy and Rowan are happy—”

  “You want the children to be happy? Fantastic. Fire the nanny, and look after them yourself.”

  Clare spends longer than usual finishing up in the bathroom. When she gets into bed, I feel the covers tremble, and realize she’s crying.

  I want to comfort her, but something holds me back.

  I’m glad to see the invincible Clare Elias rendered vulnerable, like everybody else.

  For the next few days, Clare leaves the house before my alarm has even gone off. I thoughtfully regard my reflection in the mirror the third morning after I wake to find my bed empty. Something isn’t right. Clare hasn’t been herself for weeks. It’s not just the girly bonding with Jenna and chucking my dinner in the sink. I’ve been married to Clare long enough to recognize when she’s using politeness as a weapon. She consulted me about the summer holidays, she takes my suits to the dry cleaners and hands me my cufflinks; but when I’ve tried to talk to her properly, she courteously shuts me down. On the couple occasions she’s given in and we’ve fucked, I can tell she’s faking. I’ve got to know if
she knows.

  “Jenna,” I muse, as I walk into the kitchen, “is everything all right with Clare?”

  She lifts Rowan out of his seat and puts him in the playpen with Poppy. “What do you mean?”

  I spoon coffee into the percolator. I really don’t want the nanny involved, but I have to find out what’s eating Clare. If she’s found out about the money, who knows what she might do. I don’t want to come home one evening and find she’s changed the locks on me.

  “She’s just been a bit … distracted … lately,” I say carefully. “Like she’s got something on her mind. I thought she might have mentioned something to you.”

  “Such as?”

  Christ, she’s not making this easy. “I don’t know. Girl stuff.”

  “Oh. Girl stuff.”

  “Is she worried about something? At work, maybe?”

  “Not that I know of,” Jenna says, wiping down the twins’ high chairs. She straightens up, and looks me dead in the eye. “Is something on your mind, Marc?”

  I blink first.

  “I know I’ve been a bit preoccupied lately,” I say evasively. “I haven’t spent as much time with Clare or the twins as I’d like—”

  “They’ve hardly seen you.”

  Fucking bitch. “Look, Jenna. I love my kids. I love my wife. I’d like nothing more than to come home at five and hang out with them at bath time. I’d kill to take the kids to the park or the zoo today, instead of going into work.”

  “So take the day off.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  I’m suddenly tired; I don’t have the energy to keep fighting with her. “Jenna, in my business, taking time off is seen as a sign of weakness. You can’t imagine the pressure I’m under. Particularly with the economy the way it is. Every day I go into work, I wonder if I’ll be clearing out my desk by lunchtime. You’re only as good as your last trade. The first sign of blood in the water, and the sharks move in. They fire you on Friday, so you don’t depress everyone. By the time Monday rolls around, they’ve forgotten you even existed.”

  It’s such a relief to finally tell someone. To admit how fucking terrified I am. I could never talk to Clare like this. She despises me enough as it is.

  “Why don’t you quit and do something else?”

  I laugh shortly. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Work in an ordinary bank or something?”

  “Behind a counter? Filling ATMs?”

  “Well, couldn’t you manage a branch? With all your experience—”

  “And earn fifty grand a year before taxes? It wouldn’t even cover the basics.”

  There’s an awkward pause. I get up and pour my coffee. Fifty grand must seem like winning the lottery to Jenna. What would she say if she knew I owed almost two million? It sounds like Monopoly money, even to me.

  Jenna picks Poppy up from the playpen. “I’m sure Clare just wants you to be happy,” she says uncertainly.

  “Clare’s got no idea what it feels like to fail. She couldn’t begin to understand. She’s never made a mistake in her life.”

  “D’you ever feel a bit—well—” Jenna hesitates.

  “Inadequate? Pathetic?”

  “No, no, of course not. I just meant … you must wish she didn’t have to work so hard.”

  Poppy squirms fretfully in Jenna’s arms, her long dark lashes spiked with tears, and the nanny gently rubs her back. “Is she OK?” I ask. “Her cheeks are a bit red.”

  “I think she’s teething again, that’s all. She’s been really thirsty, and that’s always a sign. She’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

  “Clare should have stayed home—”

  “Marc, it’s fine. Babies are always teething or getting a cold. You can’t take a day off every time. Anyway, looking after them is what she pays me for.”

  I don’t miss the snide emphasis. She couldn’t make her position any clearer: I work for Clare, not you. Well, she may be Clare’s new best friend, but I’m still her husband. If Jenna doesn’t want to find herself out of a job, she’d better mend her fucking attitude.

  “I’d rather my children were cared for by their own mother,” I say tersely. “They’ll be going to kindergarten in a year or two. The damn flowers will still be there then.”

  Jenna bites her lip. I drain my coffee, feeling slightly guilty. I shouldn’t have thrown Clare under the bus like that. I don’t want this conversation coming back to bite me in the ass one day. But these are my kids, too; a fact both Clare and Jenna tend to forget.

  Screw it. It felt good to finally say what’s on my mind.

  I grab my briefcase and head into the office. For once, Lady Luck is on my side; I have a better day than I have had for months. Several potentially risky trades come off, and by the closing bell, I’ve earned several million for the bank, and two hundred twenty against my personal debt. If I can hold the line, I may—just may—survive this.

  I emerge from the Tube a little earlier than usual into one of those rare, warm May evenings. Everyone is spilling onto the pavements from cafés and restaurants, eager to grab the first real summer warmth of the year.

  My mood lifts. I mull over my conversation this morning with Jenna as I walk home, and realize I’ve been more than a little unfair to Clare. Aside from the fact that I shouldn’t have sold her out to the nanny, much of what I said wasn’t even true. Clare always made it clear she wouldn’t give up work—although she did say she’d stay at home for the first six months—and it’s me who moved the goalposts, not her. I was the one who secretly hoped she’d change once the babies came. It’s not her fault she didn’t.

  I’ve got to come clean, and tell Clare what I’ve done. Our marriage is in serious trouble otherwise. I can’t live with the guilt and worry any longer.

  A siren shatters the calm of the evening. An ambulance roars past, jumping a red light, and I nearly get my toes run over by a van pulling into the curb out of its way. I don’t know how I’m going to break it to her. I know Clare; she’ll want to close the bet now. But if we do that, we’ll have to sell the house to pay off our debts. Even then, it’ll take us a long time to recover financially. It’ll mean living somewhere smaller, in a less upscale neighborhood. We’ll have to let Jenna go, too. We can forget Eton for Rowan. Oh, Christ. What a fucking mess.

  As soon as I see the ambulance parked outside the house, my heart folds in on itself. Christ, not the kids. Oh, dear God, not Poppy and Rowan.

  I start to run.

  Subject: Poppy Elias (Confidential)

  Date: 05/26/2009 11:24:36 A.M.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Sent from the internet (details)

  Harry,

  Clare Elias was officially hospitalized with a postpartum infection following the twins’ birth six months ago, but her medical notes suggest borderline postnatal depression may have been a strong factor in the length of her stay. Dr. Johnson is currently away, so I am unable to verify, but according to the midwife’s report, the mother struggled to breast-feed and became agitated when left alone with the child. Under the circumstances, I fear the hospital must err on the side of caution. I would not rule out the nanny as the culprit, but the girl’s manner, while naturally concerned for her charge, did not present as overly anxious or distressed as one might expect. I consider the mother to be a far more likely candidate for Munchausen’s by Proxy, and we should proceed under this assumption.

  I would suggest that you refer this to Diane, and strongly recommend the involvement of Social Services without delay.

  Frances

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Clare

  Did you know Marc’s cheating you?

  Not cheating on you. Cheating you. Funny how I heard the difference straight away, and understood instantly what it meant.

  Once Xan had sobered up, he came around and gave me the whole story. A friend of his at one of the big investment houses had heard about Marc’s losses at
the bank. It’s common knowledge in the City, apparently. And then suddenly, the debt was settled. Xan had a hunch, and got one of his contacts at the Fraud Office to do a bit of after-hours checking. He didn’t know how to break it to me, so he went out and got drunk.

  Jenna’s still young enough to think an affair is the worst thing that can happen. I almost wish Marc had been unfaithful. At least I could rationalize that: He’s so much younger than me, men are easily tempted, it didn’t mean anything, it was just a fling.

  He’d been draining money from my company for months. I think I knew it had to be Marc, even before I sat down with my forensic lawyer and went through the books. He hadn’t really tried to cover his tracks. He’d wiped out a year’s profit in fewer than two months. I didn’t know, but I could guess, why he needed it: In another life, Marc would have been one of those desperate men crowding the bookies, gray-faced, living on hope and the never-never.

  Bad enough that he’d stolen from me, but then when I dug deeper, I discovered the second, usurious mortgage, when we’re struggling with the first. The roof over our children’s heads. How could he think I wouldn’t find out?

  Until Xan came to me, I’d had no idea of the scale of the debt. One million eight hundred and thirty thousand pounds. It’s almost inconceivable.

  I nearly left him then. I felt so betrayed that he could risk everything we’ve built up over the years like this. But at the end of the day, it’s our money, after all. We’re not one of those couples with separate accounts, who go on holiday together and then split the bills fifty-fifty. How can you promise to share your lives with each other until death parts you, if you can’t even share a bank account?

  So I decided to swallow it and say nothing. Marc would come to me in his own time and own up. And in the meantime—well, in the meantime, I quietly moved the company’s investment funds and capital assets out of his reach.

  It’s just … I’m so angry with him. I can hardly bear to look at him, much less sleep with him. I want to forgive him. I just don’t know if I can.