by Tess Stimson
But in one single, simple moment, everything’s changed. She could no more choose between the twins now than split the moon in two. I can see it in her eyes.
There’s an unexpected lump in my throat. Lost for words, I give Clare a clumsy hug, trying to let her know: I get it. “You’re going to be fine,” I tell her. “You and Rowan and Poppy.”
We leave the office with the bashful, tearful-but-happy expressions you see on women as they walk out of tear-jerker chick flicks. We had a Moment, I think. I wish I was close enough with my Mum to ring and tell her.
As we struggle down the steps to the street, two grannies step aside and wait for us to maneuver the pushchair past them.
“Oh, twins!” one exclaims. “Look, Joan. Aren’t they beautiful?”
The other peers into the stroller, and then smiles at Clare, instantly identifying her as their mother, even though I’m the one pushing the pram. “You must be so proud!”
Clare pinks with pleasure, and squeezes my shoulder. “We are.”
Tears threaten again. She didn’t have to include me like that. The old biddies probably think we’re a couple of dykes, but I don’t care. For the first time, I realize Clare actually means it when she says we’re a team.
Except … except the twins still aren’t mine, are they?
I feed them, I wipe up their shit and vomit; I play mind-numbing games with soft balls and sing them endless dumb nursery rhymes. I schlep around in hideous sweats and trainers so it doesn’t matter if they’re sick on me, and have short, stubby nails so I don’t scratch them by mistake. I’m putting in all the hard work, and at the end of the day, I’ll have nothing to show for it.
But that’s the deal. The twins aren’t mine, will never be mine. They’ll never even remember me. It’s like pouring all your money into renting a flat, when you could buy one and keep it forever.
At times like this, I wonder how much longer I can keep working as a nanny. Every time I say goodbye to one of “my” babies, a little piece of me goes with them. One day, there’ll be nothing left.
We reach the car, and strap the twins into their car seats. Together, we wrestle to fold the cheap stroller I stole at the London Eye, which has the perverse personality of a seaside deck chair. It’s already taken the skin off my knuckles several times.
“I must remember to get a new pushchair,” Clare pants, as she slams the car boot. “This thing is driving me crazy.”
“It’s my fault we lost the Bugaboo. I’ll pay for it—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They cost a fortune. If anyone’s going to pay for it, it’s Xan.”
Silence makes a sudden space between us.
I swallow. “Clare. You know what Xan said that night at the police station. About Marc cheating. I’m … I’m sure it wasn’t true. He was drunk, he didn’t mean it. Marc would never have an affair—”
“Oh, Jenna. Of course he wouldn’t.” She starts the car, and turns to me, her eyes as flat and cold and hard as blue pebbles. “I’m afraid it’s much, much worse than that.”
Coares
PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL COARES & CO.
Mr. Marc Elias 220 STRAND
97 Cheyne Walk London
London WC2R 0QS
SW3 5TS
Telephone 020 7753 3000
www.coares.com
March 2, 2009
Dear Mr. Elias,
I write with reference to your letter dated February 28, 2009.
We would be prepared to provide a short-term loan for a period of one year in the amount you requested, £750,000, using your wife’s portfolio with us as collateral. I enclose the necessary paperwork, which both you and your wife will be required to sign.
I can confirm there will be no arrangement fee for this facility. Our interest charges are 6% above the Bank’s Funding Rate, currently 4.25% per annum (subject to variation from time to time).
I look forward to receiving your completed application in due course. In the meantime, if you have any questions please contact me on 020 7597 2638.
Yours sincerely,
Joanna Yeates
Private Banker
Calls may be recorded.
CHAPTER SIX
Marc
“Screwed her yet?” Felix asks.
The screen turns red. “Wait till it hits two hundred!” I yell into the phone. “Fuck you,” I tell Felix amiably.
“Don’t tell me: The nanny turned you down—”
“She didn’t fucking turn me down. I said two hundred!”
“You sad bastard.” Felix shakes his head and swivels back to his desk. “Wife’s got you bloody pussy-whipped, Elias.”
I tune him out, watching the screen intently. It’s another bloodbath in the markets, but so far Voyage is holding up. Health and pensions are where it’s at these days. Straightforward demographics. Even in a bear market, you can still walk away with a shitload of money if you keep your nerve—
“Jesus Christ!” I shout, leaping out of my seat. “What the fuck?”
“What’s up, mate?”
I slam my phone shut, abruptly cutting off my broker. “Voyage!” I yell, pointing at the screen. “What the shit is happening to Voyage?”
Felix grabs his keyboard and types furiously. “Class action in Mississippi. Just hit the wires. Some cholesterol drug causing seizures—”
“Can’t be. Voyage doesn’t do pharmaceuticals. They’re strictly insurance.”
“Says here they bought out GITA, the Indian drug company, last summer. Used a shell to make the deal.”
I collapse into my chair. The price has steadied, but I’m already out four hundred thou. I just lost four hundred thousand pounds.
“Mate? You’re not exposed, are you?”
“Four hundred.”
“Peanuts, mate. Hamish lost three mill last Friday—”
I laugh shakily. “Not the bank. Personal.”
Felix whistles. “Nasty.”
“It was a done deal,” I plead, running my hand through my hair. “Voyage has been steady as a rock for years. I had a couple bad trades, I was counting on my bonus to put things right, but after the crash last year, it never bloody happened, did it? I needed to get a foot back on the ladder, so I ran a spread bet. Voyage seemed like a safe haven. It was a done deal,” I repeat.
“You can probably go back in and pick it up on the turn. What are you out for, total?”
“One point eight.”
“Christ, Marc!” Felix exclaims. “One point eight million?”
“It’s been a fucking roller-coaster this year,” I snap. “We’ve all taken a hit.”
“Yeah, with someone else’s money. This is a fucking lousy market to take a punt on, mate. What were you thinking?”
“It’s no big deal,” I bluster. “You win some, you lose some, right?”
Felix slaps my shoulder. “Yeah, sure. At least you’ve got the wife to bail you out if it all goes south. Looks like you better keep on giving the nanny a wide berth for the time being.”
“Tits like fried eggs,” I lie.
“That’s the spirit.” He hesitates. “Look, mate. It’s Lyle’s stag do tonight at Spearmint Rhino. Why don’t you change your mind and come? Reckon you could do with drowning your sorrows.”
“Yeah. Yeah, why not? Might as well live it up while I still can. It’ll give my brilliant wife the chance to earn a few more million before I get home,” I add bitterly.
One point eight million. Felix is right. What the fuck was I thinking?
I stare into my whisky glass. None of this would’ve happened if it wasn’t for Clare. I just wanted to prove I could bring something to the table, too.
It started when I got this hot tip last summer. Clare was newly pregnant, and we’d just squeezed under the wire with a huge mortgage on the new house before the credit crunch hit. Cash flow was a bit tight. We weren’t desperate, but some extra cash could certainly come in handy. The tip was a shoo-in. My source was solid as a rock; I’d done b
usiness with him a thousand times. Legally, I was sailing a little close to the wind—the bank has a strict zero-tolerance policy on insider trading—but he reckoned I could make a hundred percent return in six months. I had a couple hundred thou in bonds set aside from my last bonus. I knew Clare would never OK it, she’s anal about anything she calls “shady,” but I’d double my money and put it back before she even knew about it. On the strength of the deal, I even blew eighty grand on a top-of-the-line new Range Rover.
Then the company filed for Chapter Eleven, another victim of the sub-prime fallout. My source was mortified, but the damage was done. Two hundred twenty thousand, down the drain.
I couldn’t tell Clare. The twins were only a few weeks old, her hormones were all over the place, and anyway, I wasn’t going to run to Mummy like a naughty schoolboy, and admit I’d put my hand in the cookie jar and got caught out. She’s not a risk-taker; she wouldn’t understand. Hell, she could have a hundred flower shops up and down the country by now if she’d listened to me.
I play the markets all day for a living. I’m head of pan-European equity sales, I manage a team of forty people, I have CEOs and major hedge-fund managers on speed-dial! I generate a huge amount of business for the bank. I knew I could make back a measly couple hundred grand in no time. But I needed seed money. With annual bonuses off the table again this year, courtesy of the recession, and short-selling newly outlawed, I was screwed. Clare had her own portfolio with Coares, of course, but I couldn’t borrow against it without her signature and agreement. The house, though, was in my name; Clare’s idea, to protect us from creditors if PetalPushers ever went belly-up.
I pulled in a few favors, finagled a second mortgage— punitive fucking rates, but what choice did I have?—and got straight back on the horse. I made everything back in the first few trades. I was riding high. I was going to give Clare a check for a million on her birthday. She wasn’t the only entrepreneur in this family.
So, I lost a few deals again. That’s the nature of the beast. It’s why you need balls to stay in this business. You don’t see many women on the trading floor.
Fucking Voyage! I’d be free and clear if they’d come through.
I knock back my drink, my head pounding in time with the music. One point eight. One point eight. If I don’t get out and settle the bet now, it could get much worse, but how the hell am I supposed to explain that to Clare?
It’s so goddamn unfair. I’ve wanted kids practically since the moment I clapped eyes on Clare. It took years to talk her into starting a family. And now that the twins are finally here, I’m too damn stressed to enjoy them.
A woman’s arms slide around my shoulders, bringing with them the stench of cheap perfume and stale sweat.
“Baby, you look like a man who needs to relax,” she purrs in my ear. “Feel those knots. You’re so tense, baby. I know how to fix that.” Sharp fingers knead my shoulders, then slide down the sides of my ribcage and reach towards my groin.
I push her away, and lean across to Felix. “I’m out of here,” I yell over the music.
“Don’t be an old woman, Elias,” Felix yells back, his eyes on the hooker. “I’ve already paid her. I want my money’s worth.”
The girl puts her hands on her knees and bends over, treating me to a peek-a-boo glimpse of her slit. Felix leans forward and puts another bill in her G-string, and she gyrates over to him. He buries his face in her silicone cleavage. Her eyes meet mine, flat and dead.
I stand up abruptly, pushing my way through the crowds towards the door. I’ve sunk a bottle of champagne and Christ knows how many shots, and it hasn’t even begun to take the edge off.
I adore my family. I only did it for them. I want the twins to have the best of everything. Is that so wrong?
It takes forever to find a taxi. I’m surprised the lights are still on when I get home, and then glance at my watch and see it’s not yet ten. It seemed much later at the club.
I dump my briefcase in the hall. Maybe if I can just explain it to Clare properly, I can get her to see where I’m coming from. She could bail me out, easy. A couple of million is back-pocket change to her family.
“Christ, I’ve had the most fucked-up day,” I call to Clare, as I go into the kitchen. I pour myself a stiff drink. This is one conversation I really don’t want to have.
Suck it up. There’s nowhere else to run.
I tug off my tie as I walk into the sitting room. “This recession is killing us. Another two of the big U.S. banks just wrote down huge losses. We can forget about bonuses again this—”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Oh. Jenna. I didn’t realize you were here.”
“Hi, Marc.”
I wait for her to get up and make herself scarce, but she just sits there and carries on watching television. I seethe. I should never have agreed to the girl moving in. I’ve got no damn privacy anymore. If I want a glass of water in the night, I have to get dressed in case I run into her in the hallway. It’s like having a permanent houseguest. Clare and I are reduced to whispered conversations through rictus smiles and gritted teeth. We can’t have a row and clear the air like we used to.
“I need to talk to you,” I tell Clare, nerves making my tone sharper than I’d intended.
She frowns. “What about?”
“Do you mind if we go upstairs and discuss it?”
“We’re watching Sex and the City,” Jenna says.
Is it really asking too much to come home after a fucking hard day and expect a few minutes’ conversation in private with my wife?
Strike that. What I really need is another Scotch and thirty minutes on my own, no phones, no interruptions. No one climbing up my ass and wanting things done yesterday. All I need is some bloody peace and quiet to unwind.
What I don’t need is to get in and find my wife glued to some subversive anti-men American shit on TV, while the bloody nanny sits there in my chair drinking my wine and acting like she owns the place.
Clare finally throws me a bone and puts down her glass. “It’s OK, Jenna. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Don’t do me any fucking favors.
“Doesn’t she know to take a hint?” I demand. “It’s after ten o’clock! When do we get to spend time alone in our own house?”
Clare pushes me up the stairs. “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.”
Clare winds her arms around me. I’m uncomfortably reminded of the girl in the strip club. “Why,” she murmurs, “would we need privacy?”
I want to tell her where to stick her drunken come-on, but despite my mood, the Scotch, and one point eight going round and round in my head, my cock jerks painfully against my pants. Can’t help it. She’s a bit scrawny since she had the twins, but Clare still knows how to get me hot.
It was her voice that suckered me in first. When she leaped out of that crappy old van at four in the morning and started bitching at me, all I could hear was her accent. So fucking classy.
I’d never met a woman like Clare Sterling. At the time, I’d only been in the UK for two years. Having graduated magna cum laude from Toronto Business School with a profitable sideline brokering trades for my classmates, I’d blagged my way into a job as the new hotshot wunderkind with Canada Central Bank, and been sent straight to their London office to shake things up. I was greener than a new-mown lawn. I hadn’t left Canada since moving to Montreal when I was four. My parents had fled Lebanon when I was a kid, so that Dad wouldn’t get drafted into the civil war, and had been too paranoid to let any of us leave the country since. I spoke fluent French, Arabic, and English, but when it came to women, I wasn’t quite as worldly-wise as I made out. My previous girlfriends had all been straightforward, wholesome farm girls from rural Quebec with pink cheeks and shiny ponytails. They put out on the fifth date, gagged on my cock, and invited me home at Christmas to meet their p
arents.
London girls were different. They drank beer, threw up in the street, forgot to wear knickers, and bought their own condoms. I dated a bunch of them at the same time; none of them seemed to care. Marriage and babies were the furthest thing from their minds.
Clare was in another league. I knew that straight away. The accent, the clothes—she dressed nice, but not cookiecutter preppy—the gold signet ring on her pinkie. I’d worked with enough London bankers by then to know that ring meant family. I nearly pissed myself when she told me her mom was a Lady, even if, as she pointed out, her stepdad had bought the title by shelling out enough cash in donations to the right government fixer. My grandfather had been a fisherman in Tyre; he’d lived and died in a one-room shack.
Dating Clare catapulted me into the same elite club as Felix and Hamish and the rest of them. In an instant, I was One of Us. And—the icing on the cake—I genuinely liked her. She had a Plan. She was ambitious; she knew what she wanted out of life, and how to get it. We had that in common at least.
The age thing didn’t bother me one way or the other. Sure, I got a kick out of hooking an older woman, but I didn’t have this whole Sugar-Mommy complex. She’ll be pushing eighty when I’m seventy: So what? I grew up with five older sisters; I don’t see it as a big deal. At least, I didn’t use to. These days, the whole Clare-knows-best routine is starting to grate. It was fine having her take charge when I was twenty-three, but I’m fucking thirty years old in a few months. She needs to let go of the reins a little.
She pulls my head down now and crushes my lips beneath hers, hot and demanding. I can’t remember the last time she was this horny. I put the money out of my mind. I’m not going to ask my bloody wife for it. I’ll figure it out myself.
I press my face into her hair, wishing, just for a moment, it was the two of us again.