Who Loves You Best Page 8

  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.

  I hesitate by the drinks cupboard in the kitchen, then pour myself a very small gin and tonic. I’ve never really liked drinking alone. It feels … sordid, somehow.

  I kick off my shoes and tuck my feet up under me in a squishy armchair by the unlit fire. I’m exhausted, but it’s a satisfying weariness born of hard work, rather than quiet desperation. I don’t know how I ever thought I could look after the twins myself. I’m just not cut out to be a hands-on mother. That doesn’t mean I love them any less, does it?

  I pull a folder out of my leather satchel, and flip it open. I don’t know why our profits are suddenly down, but I refuse to sell out to the fern-and-carnations brigade who’d be just as happy with a cellophaned bunch of weeds from the garage forecourt. Craig means well, but I created my business for customers who understand the importance of working with nature, who know that stepping out of season, forcing flowers, goes against the order of things; customers who know that flowers mean so much more, like that strange, angry American.

  I must have fallen asleep, because I’m startled by a car alarm sounding outside in the street. I jolt awake, knocking the file onto the floor, and glance at the clock. Eight-fifteen!

  Where on earth is Jenna? And the twins?

  I stem an instant gut surge of panic. She’s probably gone to see a friend, lost track of the time, the traffic—

  She doesn’t answer her mobile. I call four times, growing more and more concerned. Davina is right. How much do I know about this girl? She’s only been here a few months. Anything could have happened—

  Don’t be ridiculous. This is Jenna.

  I ring Fran, suddenly remembering that Jenna knows her nanny, Kirsty. They could have gone off together, forgotten to call—

  Except that Kirsty hasn’t heard from Jenna, even though they were supposed to be meeting an hour ago.

  “It’s nearly nine,” Fran says carefully. “I’m sure everything’s fine, Clare, but maybe you should call Marc if she’s not home soon. She’s a responsible girl, but something could have happened—”

  “Like what?”

  “Well. She might have gotten lost—”

  “Of course she isn’t lost! This is London, not the Black Forest! Why isn’t she answering her phone? Something’s wrong, Fran. I’m going to call the police.”

  “Maybe you should,” Fran admits.

  Marc’s left the office, and his mobile goes straight to voice mail. He’s probably stuck on the bloody Tube himself. And Jenna still isn’t answering.

  I grab my keys and run out to the car. I’m not calling the police to be fobbed off with a patronizing verbal pat on the head. I’m going down to the station in person. I’ll make them pay attention.

  To my surprise, the police take me seriously straight away, which alarms me even more. Fighting tears, I tell them everything I know: It’s pathetically little. Jenna could describe the intimate details of my life: She’s met my friends, my family, she could tell you a thousand things about me down to the perfume I like and the kind of knickers I wear; but I still know next to nothing about her. The policewoman assigned to interview me seems pleasant, but I don’t miss the flash of exasperation when I admit I don’t know the address of Jenna’s flat. I don’t even know if that’s her real name. She could vanish off the face of the earth with my children, and I’ve got no way of tracing her.

  I ring my mother, just in case, but of course Jenna’s not there. “I told you,” she says tartly, “I warned you. She’s probably run off to Morocco with your husband; he’s a lot nearer her age than yours. It does happen—”

  “Marc hates hot weather.”

  “He’s Arab,” Davina retorts, “of course he—”

  I hang up. In thirty-nine years, I’ve never put the phone down on my mother, but for once, I refuse to listen to her ugly nonsense.

  There’s a commotion from somewhere within the station. I look up; and Jenna is there, struggling to get a double buggy I’ve never seen before through the gap next to the sergeant’s desk.

  I swoop on my children, lifting them bodily from the pushchair. I’m sick and sobbing with relief. There’s no room for anger or questions right now.

  Xan wanders through behind Jenna, answering most of them by the mere fact of his presence. I should have known he’d be involved in this; whatever this is.

  He’s drunk, of course.

  He staggers slightly, and a policeman behind him catches his arm. I realize, without real surprise, that he’s in handcuffs.

  “Hi, Clare,” he calls cheerily. “Did you know Marc’s cheating?”

  And passes out on the floor.

  PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL

  PATIENT REPORT

  Patient: Jenna Kemeny, D.O.B. 10/10/82

  NI: NH882282C

  Jenna’s physical injuries are now well healed. However, there is some concern with regard to her mental and emotional well-being. She is still only eighteen, and does not yet seem to have come to terms with the significance of her shoulder injury. When she does, there is a danger her mood will crash, bringing on a prolonged bout of anger and depression.

  There is little by way of a support network. Her relationship with her parents appears affectionate, but reading between the lines, the parents, to whom Jenna was born late in life, are very much occupied with each other and their business (corporate hospitality). They are a somewhat distant presence in their daughter’s life. Jenna is currently living with a group of other young people in rented accommodation in Stockwell.

  At her most recent visit, she presented with a number of partially healed minor lacerations to the forearms. She claimed to have had an accident with a glass platter, but self-harm must be a consideration.

  Our next appointment is scheduled in the New Year, and I will follow up then.

  Caroline Johnson

  Consulting Psychiatrist

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jenna

  “Marry me,” Xan says.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He leans out of the window and slows the car to my pace. “Come on a date with me, or I’ll drive into that tree.”

  I ignore him and keep walking towards the house, switching Rowan to the other hip. Behind me, Xan revs the engine of his stupid red American sports car. I give Rowan a clean pacifier. I’m not playing Xan’s silly games. I learned a long time ago: You don’t shit on your own doorstep.

  I nearly drop the baby at the deafening crunch of metal behind me.

  When I whirl around, Xan’s Mustang is wrapped around the base of a large oak tree at the bottom of the drive. I scream as a branch snaps and falls onto the bonnet, spearing the broken windscreen and missing Xan by inches.

  In the next field, a bull bellows.

  He kicks open his door and staggers from the car. “Damn, it’s so much easier when they say yes.”

  “Fucking psycho,” I gasp.

  The bull bellows again, and lurches towards the broken gate. Xan leans against the wreck of his car and calmly lights a cigarette, laughing as I back nervously towards the house. I want to run, but I’m terrified the bull will chase us. Shit, I wish I hadn’t put Rowan in red this morning.

  I run into the conservatory where we had lunch. “Excuse me, Lady Eastmann—”

  Clare jumps. Her face is white and tense; clearly she and her mother have been getting into it while I’ve been gone.

  “Please, Jenna, no need for that. Davina is perfectly fine—”

  Xan abruptly breezes past me, blowing me a kiss over his mother’s head. “Oh, don’t go all democratic now,” he tells her, his eyes on mine as he brushes his lips
against her cheek. “Not after you’ve had Guy pony up millions for that title.”

  “Alexander. How lovely.”

  “Hello, Mother.”

  He throws himself carelessly into a chair, staring pointedly at me. I blush furiously, wishing he’d stop. Someone will notice.

  Davina pours him a cup of tea, which he ignores. “I didn’t expect you this weekend.”

  “What can I say? I felt the need to nestle in the bosom of my family.”

  “Have you met Jenna?” Davina asks. “Your sister’s new nanny.”

  “A pleasure.”

  There’s the alarmed sound of shouting outside. Shit. The bloody bull. “Lady—um, I mean, Davina—”

  She fixes her cold blue gaze on mine. “Be careful, dear. He’s every bit as dangerous as he looks.”

  You could cut the air in here with a knife. I listen to them bicker. Mum and Dad sometimes have blazing arguments, and I’ve been known to add my fair share of drama, but we never fight like this. As if we actually hate each other. What a fucked-up family.

  “—dear God, will someone please tell me what all that noise is?” Davina exclaims.

  “I’ve been trying to,” I mutter.

  Davina flings open the French doors. The bull’s bellows echo across the lawn, accompanied by shouts and the sound of splashing. Fuck, I hope it doesn’t come charging in here.

  Clare thrusts Poppy at me and storms off after her mother. I juggle the two babies, wondering what the hell is going on.

  Xan opens a cupboard and pulls out a bottle of whisky hidden at the back, then refills his silver hip flask. He settles himself back in his chair, lifting his feet onto his mother’s crisp linen tablecloth.

  “You don’t seem very happy to see me,” he observes.

  “You don’t exactly set out to make yourself welcome.”

  Xan laughs. “You didn’t seem to mind making me welcome last time we met.”

  “I didn’t get much choice, did I?” I flash back.

  My cheeks flame. Every time I think about the night Xan sneaked into my room, I burn with embarrassment.

  God knows why I didn’t just scream and throw him out. Some guy climbs in your bedroom window in the middle of the night, Jenna, puts his hand over your mouth, climbs into bed next to you, and you just let him?

  But there are mitigating circumstances. One, I was so relieved it wasn’t Marc trying to get a leg over, I forgot to be scared. Two, I recognized him immediately as Clare’s brother from the photos in the sitting room. And three … three, he’s fucking gorgeous. I mean, would you throw Daniel Craig and Ashton Kutcher’s love child out of bed?

  So instead of yelling my head off and crying rape, I tugged the duvet up to my chin so he couldn’t see the crappy old T-shirt I was wearing (and, more importantly, what I wasn’t wearing underneath) and moved over to make room for him.

  “Why the fuck don’t you just ring the doorbell and come up the stairs like a normal person?” I demanded.

  “It’s three in the morning,” he pointed out.

  “Hello?”

  “Look, I had a bit of a run-in with Marc last time I was here. He found my stash under the bed—just a few E’s, no big deal—anyway, it seemed easier all around just to climb in the bedroom window and lie low till he’s left for work in the morning.”

  “My window,” I hissed.

  “OK, OK. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out. My ride let me down, I didn’t have any cash on me, and I didn’t feel like walking five miles home to Fulham. I thought I’d crash here.” He smiled ruefully. “I’d forgotten Clare hired a nanny. Nice of her to give you the best guest room.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” I said stiffly, getting out of bed and opening the door, “but I think you should go now. This is my first day and I’m sure you’re very nice but if you don’t mind, I’d rather not get sacked. I’m sure you can see yourself out—”

  “I do love that T-shirt.”

  I clapped my hands in front of my bush, flushing scarlet. “Please go.”

  Clare’s brother unfolded himself lazily from my bed and headed towards the door. At the last moment, he stopped, so close to me I could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

  His hand slid between my thighs. My eyes widened with shock as he shoved his fingers inside me. His other hand found my breast, pinching my nipple hard enough to hurt.

  His eyes never left mine as he found my clitoris with his thumb. I gasped as a hot bolt of lust zipped from my groin to the tips of my fingers and toes. If he’d wanted to throw me back onto the bed and fuck me there and then, I’d have let him. And he knew it, too.

  With a dark smile, he released me, and licked his fingers.

  Then he was gone.

  The memory triggers a sudden heat between my legs now. I bend to put the twins in their baby seats, hiding my blushes behind my hair. I’m not going to let the cocky bastard win. If he thinks he can humiliate me again, he’s got another think coming—

  I jump as Davina stalks into the conservatory. Of Xan, there’s suddenly no sign.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask nervously.

  “Naturally. My daughter is at her commanding best. Where’s Alexander?”

  “Alexander?”

  “My son.”

  “I think he left.”

  Five minutes later, Marc and Clare come back in. Clare looks OK, but you’d think Marc’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. He’s just wearing a tight white T-shirt and a clingy pair of boxers, and I have to force myself not to check out his lunch box. He’s nowhere near as cute as Xan, but he’s still pretty ripped. I don’t want Clare thinking I fancy her bloody husband. I need this job.

  Davina doesn’t come back to say goodbye. Marc’s still steaming when he roars out of the drive, and nearly runs Xan down as he staggers across the road.

  Clearly Marc would be happy to reverse over him, but Clare makes him stop, then leaps out and helps Xan into the back of the car. She totally mothers Xan, but having met Davina, I can kind of see why. The woman has all the maternal instinct of a flesh-eating virus. Clare may not be the perfect mother herself, but at least her heart’s in the right place.

  I study Xan, passed out in the boot. It’s just as well he’s not really interested in me. It’d never work. Never mind the whole money and class thing; the boy’s a total fuckup.

  Gently, I tuck my sweater around him.

  Fuck. This is the trouble with living in. It’s like sleeping at the bloody office.

  I roll over and glance at the luminous green dials. Six-ten. Jesus. I hope Clare gets up to see to them soon. I’m knackered.

  I clamp the pillow over my ears. I can tell it’s Rowan. Poppy’s cries are cross, but Rowan always sounds so lonely.

  It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain that their mother favors Poppy. I don’t think Clare really dislikes Rowan; it’s more that she doesn’t seem to know how to handle him. It’s a shame; now that he’s over the colic, he’s actually a real sweetheart. He’ll lie for hours peacefully gurgling at his mobile. Poppy’s adorable, too, of course, but she’s got a temper on her. She always seems to be thirsty. When she’s awake, she demands your undivided attention.

  Shit. I can’t just lie here listening to Rowan scream.

  I throw back the covers and pull on my sweats. Clare’s probably still lying dead to the world in a cloud of post-coital bliss, I think crossly. These walls are paper thin. It’s almost as bad as listening to your parents getting jiggy.

  I’m not jealous or anything. I could get laid too, if I wanted to. It just really pisses me off when girls drop you like a snotty tissue the moment a man shows up.

  This is why I’ve never lived in before. I’m never quite sure when I’m off duty. Clare loves all this girly togetherness, the two of us cooking in the kitchen, watching chick flicks like we’re at some sort of sleepover, but she’s not, like, my best friend. I don’t want to spend every night with her. I work for her. Who wants to spend all thei
r time off with their boss?

  I shuffle into the nursery and pick Rowan up. Fuck. He’s got the shits again; bright yellow crap has leaked through his nappy all over his sheets.

  Poppy pushes herself up on her tummy when she sees me, and starts to wail.

  “Sorry, Poppy, you’ll have to wait,” I say tersely.

  I can’t put Rowan down anywhere while he’s covered in shit, so I’ve no choice but to hold him while the bath runs. Now I’m covered with shit, too. I bet it bloody stains.

  I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.

  I bathe Rowan, dress him in this gorgeous tartan outfit I bought last weekend, and then sort out his sister. I have to bathe her, too; which means emptying out the dirty water, cleaning off the lumps of shit ringing the bath, and running it again. Finally, we’re ready to go downstairs. I feel as if I’ve run a marathon already.

  I’m halfway through feeding them breakfast (baby rice and formula; I’m supposed to mix it with breast milk, but Rowan won’t eat it, so let’s not tell Clare) when she finally comes down, looking smug.

  “You’re up early,” she says brightly.

  Poppy smacks her hand in her bowl, splattering me with baby rice. “It’s eight-fifteen,” I snarl, wiping cereal off my face.

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

  I snatch the bowl away. “We’re up now.”

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

  I scrape the twins’ bowls into the waste disposal. Clare’s nice; she’s nowhere near as bad as Maggie Hasselbach, but she still doesn’t know how good she’s got it. She wasn’t much older than me when she met Marc, and look at her now: gorgeous toy-boy husband, two beautiful babies, this amazing house—must be worth millions—not to mention the sixty-grand car parked outside. It’s not fair. I’d love to get my hair done every month at Nicky Clarke, or have enough clothes to fill a whole spare bedroom. And she owns her own business. She can pull a sickie whenever she bloody feels like it.