by Tess Stimson
After some persuasion, the school agreed not to make it a police matter, but Alexander was immediately expelled. Guy cut off his allowance, and refused to reinstate it unless Alexander sorted himself out. To our lasting surprise, he responded by going out and getting himself a (legitimate) job.
ShopTV could have been founded with Alexander in mind. Everything he touched turned to gold. By the time he was twenty-five, he was Head of Marketing; now, at thirty-five, he’s running the network with one hand tied behind his back.
Which leaves the other free for all sorts of mischief.
“Where’s hubby?” he asks me, never taking his eyes off Jenna.
“Guy had business in London,” I say shortly.
“Of course. Big sister wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Xan,” Clare says warningly.
“You’re a guest in my house, Alexander. Kindly remember—Oh, dear God, will someone please tell me what all that noise is?”
“I’ve been trying to.” Jenna sighs.
I fling open the French door onto the terrace. Mrs. Lampard is running across the croquet lawn with an athleticism I’d thought decades behind her. In the distance, Lampard and two of the groundsmen are yodeling as if at a rodeo. Bellowing animal grunts sound from behind the topiary, and there is enough splashing from the pool to drown a herd of elephants.
“Alexander,” I demand.
“Bit of an altercation with a tree,” he says, tipping his head back to drain his flask.
I sweep outside. As I round the corner of the house, I see Alexander’s imported red Mustang wrapped around the ancient oak tree at the bottom of the drive. The force of the impact has knocked down the adjoining split-rail fence; the old five-bar gate swings crazily from its hinges.
Of the bull normally in the field behind it, there is no sign.
Mrs. Lampard, holding up her skirts, runs past me. Behind me, Alexander laughs.
I will kill him, I think grimly, as I stalk away from him towards the pool. That animal is worth a fortune. If it has to be turned into rump steak, I will personally see to it that Alexander is barred from every pub and bar in Oxfordshire.
Marc, shirtless and muscular, is in the swimming pool, up to his waist in floating shit. The bull is flailing in the deep end, panic having loosened its bowels to devastating effect. The stench is overpowering. Marc has managed to catch hold of its rope halter, and is attempting to lead it towards the shallows. I remember he grew up in Quebec: farm boy country. Lampard and the groundsmen yell support, and I realize my first impression was correct: This is a rodeo.
Clare pushes me out of the way. “Lampard, go to the far end and make as much noise as you can,” she yells. “Drive it towards the steps.”
Marc clearly has the situation under control, but Clare kicks off her pumps and throws her husband another rope, yelling instructions. Marc ignores her and patiently draws the bull towards the shallows, doing his best to calm it. The groundsmen whip its flanks, and with another mighty bellow, the bull finally lurches up the steps and onto dry land.
“Make sure that car is moved before my husband gets home,” I tell Lampard, and once more go in search of my son.
———
The nanny is in the orangery, the twins asleep in their baby seats at her feet. “Is everything all right?” she asks, rocking gently.
“Naturally. My daughter is at her commanding best. Where’s Alexander?”
“Alexander?”
“My son,” I say impatiently.
“I think he left.”
She’s lying. Oh, Alexander may have disappeared, leaving, like the Cheshire cat, just his grin; but she’s lying about something. I can always tell.
Something about this girl doesn’t quite add up. Clare won’t have noticed; she’s never learned to judge books by their covers. No doubt my daughter is paying the girl far too much, but even so, how can a nanny afford a (genuine: I know these things) Cartier watch? And I realize some women delight in caring for small children, immune to the dribble and soul-destroying tedium, but conscientious though Jenna clearly is—one can tell from the professional way she handles the babies—I don’t pick up the burning need to nurture one might expect to find in a girl who’s chosen proxy mothering as a career. She’s too bright to be satisfied with a life of building LEGOs and wiping small bottoms.
And then there’s the way she looked at Alexander. I have the distinct feeling I’m missing something here.
So I’m not altogether surprised when Clare rings me four days later from the Chelsea police station, and tells me that Jenna’s vanished, and has taken the twins with her.
Clare Elias
97 Cheyne Walk
Chelsea
London SW3 5TS
Guy,
I believe I have made it clear to you on a number of occasions that I don’t wish to accept anything from you. I’ve kept my silence for my mother’s sake, not yours. No amount of money can make up for what you’ve done. Please stop trying to buy me off. I’m quite capable of paying my own mortgage, and if you attempt to discharge it again, I will have no choice but to instruct my lawyer.
Please do not contact me again.
Clare
CHAPTER FOUR
Clare
“Jesus Christ! The woman’s a bitch!” Marc explodes as we drive out of Long Meadow.
“Marc!” I exclaim. “Pas devants les enfants!”
“If you have to talk like a stuck-up snob, at least try to get your accent right.”
I bite back a sharp retort. Marc’s always like this after we’ve been to see Davina, and I can’t blame him. She treats him like a foreigner, a second-class citizen. The only consolation I can give him is that she’s just as brutal with me.
“Is she—is she always like that?” Jenna asks from the back, where she’s squashed between the twins’ car seats.
“Yes,” Marc snarls, “she is. How you turned out even partway decent with a mother like that is beyond me, Clare. No wonder Xan drinks.”
“Marc.”
“Excuse me,” Jenna says, “but Marc, do you think you could open a window?”
“Oh, fuck. I smell, don’t I?”
“A bit,” she admits, giggling.
He’s wearing just his white T-shirt and boxers (roomy and concealing, thankfully), the rest of his wet clothes wrapped in a plastic bag in the boot. His bare thighs ripple as he floors the accelerator and the Range Rover bounces out of Davina’s rutted drive onto the main road. I’d forgotten quite how much I fancy him. It’s been so long since we had sex, I’ve got spiderwebs between my thighs.
“How in God’s name did that bloody bull get in the pool, anyway?” he demands.
“Xan knocked down the gate to its field when he crashed his car.”
“Knowing him, he did it on purpose to piss off your mother.”
“Do you have any siblings?” I ask Jenna over my shoulder.
“Nope. Just me.”
“I can’t imagine being an only child. Do you get on well with your parents?”
“Once a month,” Jenna says dryly.
“Davina should never have been allowed to breed at all, never mind twice,” Marc says darkly. “No offense, darling, I’m glad she did, of course, but the woman has as much maternal instinct as a vampire.”
“I suppose that’s where I get it from.” I sigh.
“You’re not like her at all!” Jenna bursts out. She blushes furiously. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out quite like that. But you’re wonderful with the twins. I can see how much you love them.”
I’m engulfed by the familiar rush of guilt. I love both my children, of course I do. But with Poppy it’s effortless, as automatic as breathing. I have to choose to love Rowan every single day.
“I never know why they’re crying,” I tell Jenna. “You seem to have a sixth sense—”
“I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you, that’s all. Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’ll be much easier next time arou
nd.”
“Sounds like an idea,” Marc murmurs, putting his hand on my thigh.
I remove it, my ardor rapidly cooling. “Not in my lifetime.”
“I know we said that two—Christ Almighty!”
He yanks on the steering wheel as a figure stumbles out of the hedgerow, and the Range Rover swerves towards the middle of the road. A car coming in the opposite direction mounts the grass verge to avoid us, horn blaring angrily. Marc slams on the brakes and pulls over to the side of the road, his face white with anger. I twist in my seat and watch Xan stagger towards us, oblivious to the near-accident he just caused, shirttails flapping, laughing as if this is all a huge joke.
Marc buzzes down his window. “What the fuck d’you think you’re playing at?”
“Needed a lift, mate.” Xan grins.
“Don’t ‘mate’ me. If you think I’m taking you anywhere after that—”
“Please, Marc,” I mutter. “He’ll get himself killed if we leave him here.”
Marc’s jaw tightens. He nods tersely towards the back of the car. “You’ll have to get in the boot. There’s no room in the back.”
“Nice one.”
I climb out and wait for my brother to haul himself into one of the flip-down seats in the rear of the car, making sure he puts his seat belt on. Within minutes, he’s passed out. I glance at him in the rearview mirror. He looks about twelve years old.
I can cope with the careless way Davina behaves towards me; it stings sometimes, but I’m used to it. I try to remember that her own mother died when she was two; instead of sending her to school, her father kept her at home with him and an army of servants who waited on her hand and foot. Davina is shallow and irresponsible and utterly selfish, but is it any wonder? I can’t find it in me to hate her; if anything, I feel sorry for her.
But I’ll never forgive her for what she’s done to Xan.
No one who’s ever seen Sophie’s Choice could forget it. That harrowing moment on the railway platform at Auschwitz, when Sophie is forced by the Nazi concentration camp commandant to choose life for one of her two small children, and death for the other.
“Don’t make me choose,” Sophie begs, clutching her children, “I can’t choose!” But then, when a young Nazi is told to take them both to the death camp, she releases her daughter, shouting, “Take my little girl!” and has to watch helplessly as the screaming child is carried away to die.
I was only a kid when the film came out, motherhood a distant glimmer on the horizon, but the scene haunted my sleep for weeks. How could any mother choose between her two children? How would the ensuing grief and guilt not drive you insane?
Except … except that I would be able to choose.
“Do you find Poppy … easier?” I ask Marc tentatively the following Monday morning.
Marc finishes knotting his tie. “Rowan can’t help having colic. It’s not his fault.”
“Oh, I know,” I say quickly. “I’m not blaming him. Just, you know. Saying.”
“He’s had a tougher start than Poppy. It’s bound to take him a while to settle down.”
He’s four months old, I think.
Marc reaches for his jacket. “Look, it’d be nice if Rowan calmed down, sure, but he’ll grow out of it, the physician said so. Until then, we’ll manage.” He smiles. “We’ve done OK so far, haven’t we?”
No one knows what I nearly did that night. Sometimes, even I manage to forget. I tell myself I’d never really have pressed that cushion into Rowan’s face; that even if Marc hadn’t come downstairs with Poppy—hiccoughing and tearful, woken yet again by her brother’s screaming—I’d still have thrown the cushion aside, and scooped him into my arms and covered him with kisses, soothing his frantic cries like a good mother. It was just a moment of madness, that’s all. A split-second impulse.
Yet I’m afraid to be alone again with my son. I adore him, but I’m terrified of what I might do, what I’m capable of. How do I know I won’t have that … impulse … again?
I’ve read about baby blues, postnatal depression, sleep deprivation; I know what they can do to you. Of course I don’t really want to suffocate my baby! I love Rowan! I’d never want to hurt him.
But I can’t be trusted.
Rowan doesn’t bother to cry as I reach into the pram for Poppy. He knows I won’t pick him up until his sister is fed.
“It’s a shame you gave up breast-feeding with Rowan,” Marc says, as I settle into the rocking chair and unhook my nursing bra. “You never know, it might’ve helped.”
“He didn’t want me. He only liked his bottle.”
“You only liked his bottle.”
“Come on, Marc. You make it sound like I put him off on purpose.” I swaddle Poppy more tightly in her blanket. “You know how much I like breast-feeding Poppy now. I tried my best with Rowan, but he got too used to the bottle in the hospital—”
“Well, you’d have pulled the plug on it anyway, wouldn’t you?”
“I haven’t pulled the plug with Poppy,” I say, surprised by his tone. “I express milk for her every day—”
Marc shuts the wardrobe door with a little more vigor than necessary. “I still don’t see why you had to rush back to work. You’re the boss; you set the rules. It’s not like you don’t get paid if you’re not there. Anyone would think you didn’t want to spend time with your own children.”
I stare at him. First the outburst at Davina’s, and now this. He knows how much my job means to me; and we both need PetalPushers to do well if we’re to pay our massive mortgage. For years we’ve put in long hours building our respective careers, working weekends and evenings, rarely taking holidays, so we could get to where we are now. It’s meant we’ve had less time together than we’d have liked, but we accepted it as the price we had to pay for our joint success. We discussed having a baby for years, planning when and how to organize it so that it didn’t disrupt our lives or impact us financially. So why is Marc suddenly coming over all Neanderthal on me?
“Fine,” I say shortly. “Why don’t you stay home and look after them, and I’ll work? I’m talking twenty-four/seven care, Marc, not a cuddle for thirty minutes before bed when they’re all clean and sleepy, and a walk in the park for an hour or two at weekends. Let’s see how you like surviving on three hours’ sleep—”
“You’re not the only one kept awake all night, Clare.”
“I’m the only one actually up, though, aren’t I?”
“I’d give my fucking eyeteeth to stay at home with the kids instead of slaving away in an office all day,” Marc says bitterly. “Women don’t know how damn lucky they are to have the choice.”
“Choice?” I demand lividly. “Is that what you call it?”
We glare at each other over Poppy’s head. It feels as if the ground is shifting beneath my feet. I’ve never heard Marc talk like this before. Since when did we become one of those strung-out couples who bicker over whose turn it is to take out the rubbish and indulge in I’m-more-tired-than-you competitiveness?
Since we had children and our lives as we knew them ceased.
The truth is that, even though he agreed to it in the end, Marc hasn’t forgiven me for hiring Jenna. I’ve tried to explain how desperate I was, how fretful and anxious, that every time the babies cried it felt like a slap in the face. I tried to describe the endlessness of it, the relentless demands and chaos and incessant neediness. “You said you wanted this,” Marc responded, confused. “You wanted a baby, you wanted to stay at home for a while.”
The dreadful thing is, he’s right: This is what I wanted. I just had no idea what it really meant. I wanted children, yes; but when I pictured motherhood, what I saw in my head was the baby, not me with the baby. I had no idea how much work one child would be, never mind two. But even more than the sleeplessness, the relentless routine, the effort required just to get through the day: I hate being needed. I hate the repetitiveness, the mind-numbing boredom. My mother’s right. I can’t do it. Usually unflap
pable, I’ve been flapping away like a dodo trying to take flight since the birth of the twins. I’ve done everything recommended in all the books, I’ve approached child-rearing like I have everything else in my life, by reading and studying and becoming an expert; and instead of the success that has always rewarded my efforts until now, I’ve failed. I’ve failed.
There was only one thing I could do to put things right: hire someone who was an expert, someone who could succeed where I had fallen short. Marc’s a professional, a businessman. Surely he can understand that?
“Look, I’m sorry,” Marc says unexpectedly, rubbing his hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just stressed out. I’ve had a bitch of a time at the bank. Of course you should work if that’s what you want.”
“It’s only a few days a week—”
“I know. I’ll see you tonight.”
He leaves without kissing me, though he drops a butterfly kiss on Poppy’s forehead, and ruffles Rowan’s pale halo of white curls on his way out.
Five minutes later, Jenna’s glossy bob appears around the door. “Marc didn’t look too happy,” she says, rolling her eyes. “He had a face on him like a slapped arse. Oh, Rowan, baby, are you still waiting for breakfast? You must be starving!”
“I’m just finishing with Poppy—”
She picks up my son. “Don’t worry, I’ll sort out his bottle. Everything OK?”
“Yes, fine.” I hesitate. “Well. Actually, Marc and I had words.”
“Yeah, me and Jamie had a few over the weekend—”
“He doesn’t want me to go back to work.”
She snorts. “I’d like to see him giving up the expense accounts and company car to change shitty nappies.”
Instantly, I regret my impulsive confidence. I’ve got no right to criticize my husband in front of the nanny.
“He’s under a lot of pressure,” I say quickly. “This recession—the bank—”