Who Loves You Best

by Tess Stimson

  Clare would never cheat on me with another man; she’s far too honest, too upright, to look at another guy. Plus she doesn’t like sex much; never has.

  But with a woman? With Jenna?

  Slowly, the pieces start to slide into place. Clare putting a second pot of coffee on in the morning, just for Jenna; the nanny buttering a hot bagel for my wife when she comes down for breakfast. Clare leaving Jenna a surprise scarf to thank her for helping out at the shop, and Jenna hand-washing Clare’s cashmere sweater in return. Fixing Jenna’s hair, going off on girly shopping trips, sharing confidences over a bottle of wine in front of the TV. No wonder my wife and I never sit down and talk anymore. That fucking cuckoo has kicked me out of my own nest.

  “You do realize that if we go down this route, things could get very dirty?” Morton asks, watching me carefully. “If we have to go to court, she’ll hire lawyers who’ll fling plenty of their own mud your way. It could become very unpleasant for you.”

  “I’ll deal with it,” I say harshly. “Do whatever you have to, Morton. Just make sure we win.”

  I nurse my second Scotch as I wait for Clare to get home, buoyed by the alcohol and my conversation with the lawyer. If my dear wife refuses to play ball, I’m confident he’ll be more than a match for anything her hired guns can throw at us.

  Personally, I’m pretty sure Clare will agree to give me custody, especially as I’m willing to compromise and let her keep the house; it’s mortgaged to the hilt anyway. It’s not like she spends any time with the twins. She’ll probably welcome the excuse not to have to bother with them. Regardless of my promise to Morton, I’ve no intention of giving up my job, so she’ll only have to fork out for child support. I’ll even give her reasonable access, as long as it’s supervised; and not by Jenna. Thank Christ that lesbian bitch is out this evening. Last thing I need is her sticking her nose in.

  I finish my drink. I’m almost looking forward to this.

  The front door opens, and I hear Clare calling my name. I wait for her to find me.

  “Here you are,” she says, pushing open the door to my study and switching on the light. “What are you doing, sitting all alone in the dark? Where’s Jenna?”

  “She’s out. Another date with her mystery man. It’s lucky she was in when I got home—my key jammed in the bloody lock.”

  Clare’s lips tighten. “I told her she couldn’t take the night off.”

  “I wanted to have the house to ourselves.” I force a warmer note into my tone. No need to start things off on the wrong foot. “There’s a couple of things we need to talk about, Clare. Why don’t you come in and sit down?”

  “I’d rather talk in the sitting room.”

  Sure, Clare. Let’s make sure you’re comfortable.

  She shrugs off her coat. “I’m just going to get some tea. Would you like some?”

  “Another Scotch, please.”

  A few minutes later, she joins me in the sitting room with my drink, and a mug of that shit-awful green tea she drinks. Way to go, sweetheart. Live dangerously, why don’t you?

  As she hands me the glass, I notice she’s wearing a short, clingy dress I haven’t seen before. Makes a change to see her bloody legs; I hate women in pants. No mystery who she’s getting all gussied up for.

  “How was your day?” I ask, as she settles in the armchair opposite.

  “Busy. I spent most of it stuck in traffic.”

  “Have you decided what to do when Wendy goes on maternity leave?”

  She looks surprised. “I told you about that? Jenna solved it for me. Remember Lucy George?”

  “Not really,” I shrug, irritated that, once more, Jenna is in the room with us.

  “She retired from the Putney shop about six months ago. She got bored sitting at home, and came in to see about coming back to work the day Jenna was holding the fort in Fulham. Somehow, Jenna talked Wendy and Lucy into a job-share. It’s the perfect solution. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

  “Clare,” I say impatiently, “there’s something important we need to discuss.”

  “Oh, Marc. Please don’t,” she sighs, “tell me you’ve lost more money.”

  Jesus! Is she ever going to let me forget it?

  “It’s not about money.” I fight to keep my anger in check. “Look, we both know things haven’t been good between us recently. We’re constantly at each other’s throats. I’m miserable, and I’m sure you are, too.”

  Clare hesitates. “All right. Yes. It’s been difficult.”

  “We can’t go on like this. It’s not good for either of us, or for Rowan and Poppy.”

  “I can’t remember the last time we sat down and really talked.” She sighs again. “We never seem to have a moment to ourselves.”

  Whose fault’s that?

  “Marc, I know you don’t like me working, but to be honest, sometimes it’s the only way I get any peace. It’s not that I mean to shut you out—”

  “I’m not blaming you. I just want to find a way to work this out without fighting.”

  Her eyes are suddenly wet. “You’ve been so distant recently—”

  “I talk to you,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my tone. “You just don’t listen.”

  “Have you any idea how hard I’ve been working?” Clare exclaims. “It was bad enough before you got us into debt, but now it’s a thousand times worse. We could lose everything if I don’t find a way out of this mess! I’m exhausted, Marc. Is it any wonder I don’t have time to listen to your problems?”

  “You don’t have time for anything except that damn company—”

  “If it wasn’t for that damn company, we’d be out on the street!”

  “Oh, change the fucking record, Clare!”

  I leap up and lean heavily on the mantelpiece. Play the long game, Marc. This isn’t the way to get her to agree. I’ll go to Court if I have to, but it’d be so much easier if I can get her to sign off on things amicably.

  “I don’t want to argue with you,” I say wearily. “I don’t intend to end up one of those couples who still aren’t talking when their children walk down the aisle. Let’s sort this as quickly as possible so we can both move on. I’ve been talking to someone about the best way to—”

  “So have I,” Clare says unexpectedly.

  I swing around. “You have?”

  She blushes. I can’t remember the last time I saw my wife disconcerted.

  “I didn’t want to go behind your back, but I thought one of us had to do something,” she stumbles. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve made an appointment for us on the twenty-eighth—”

  “Both of us?”

  “Well, yes. You can’t go to this sort of counseling on your own.”

  “I’m not talking about counseling, Clare. Christ! I’m talking about divorce!”

  I’ve never seen anyone turn gray before, but Clare does. The color drains from her face, quite literally, like a cartoon. Unexpectedly, I find myself wanting to laugh, and struggle to hold myself in check.

  “Divorce?” she whispers.

  “Isn’t that what we’ve been talking about?”

  “Divorce,” she tries again, as if she doesn’t understand the word.

  “Come on, Clare. Don’t tell me this is a surprise. We’ve barely spoken, let alone had sex, for months. How did you think this was going to end?”

  “Is there … is there someone else?”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned. What about you?”

  She can’t meet my eyes. “Of course not.”

  My anger flares again. What about the flowers, you lying bitch? Never mind new dresses and sneaking around and the girly whispering in corners. You and that fucking mouthy dyke.

  “I don’t want this to get messy,” I say, dropping all pretense at friendliness. “If we can agree to everything ourselves, without getting lawyers involved—”

  “But the twins are only six months old! They need us, they need a family!” She grabs at my arm
. “Please, Marc. You don’t mean this. I know things have been difficult recently, but it’s just a rocky patch. It hasn’t been much fun for me either, but we’ll get through it. We can go for counseling, spend more time together. Jenna can take the twins one weekend, and—”

  I shake her off. “I’m doing this for Rowan and Poppy.”

  “Think how they’ll feel when they’re older, shuttling between us, spending alternate Christmases … oh, Marc, please, you can’t want that—”

  “It’s better,” I say coldly, “than being poisoned.”

  “How can you say that?” she whispers, shocked. “I didn’t poison Poppy! You know I didn’t! The doctor said she has salt diabetes; you can’t blame me for that!”

  “One doctor. One opinion. And I only have your word as to what that was. For all I know, it’s something else entirely. Something you caused.”

  “But Jenna was there! She heard her!”

  “She’d say anything if you paid her enough.”

  “I would never do anything to hurt either one of my children!”

  “Really? The thought’s never even crossed your mind?”

  She opens her mouth, then closes it again, guilt written all over her face.

  My resolve hardens. However ugly this gets, however much she begs and pleads, I’m not letting her anywhere near my children. Not now, not ever.

  “This discussion is going nowhere,” I tell her roughly. “I’m sorry it all seems such a shock to you, Clare, but that’s hardly my fault. If you’d paid the slightest attention to me, you’d have seen it coming. I suggest you go to bed and sleep on it. We can discuss your access to the children tomorrow, when we’ve both had a chance to calm down—”

  “What do you mean, my access?”

  “You can’t possibly think I’m going to give you custody.”

  “They’re my babies!” Clare gasps. “You can’t take them away from me!”

  “Oh, please,” I snarl. “Don’t pretend you want them. Ever since they were born, all you’ve done is dump them on someone else.”

  “That’s not true—”

  I lean over her, experiencing a nasty thrill of satisfaction as she flinches away. “Your company has always come first with you, hasn’t it, Clare? For Christ’s sake, what kind of woman waits till she’s thirty-seven to start a family?”

  “We said … we decided …”

  “You decided. You always decide, don’t you? Well, not this time. You think I’m going to let you keep the children so you can try to kill them again?”

  “Don’t be so ridiculous! I love them! I’d never do anything to harm them!” She sucks in a breath. “This is the twenty-first century, Marc. Millions of women work, but it doesn’t mean they don’t love their children. You can’t take the twins away just because I have a job.”

  “You’ve made your choice. You can keep your damn company. But I’m keeping the kids.”

  Clare springs out of the chair with such force, I take a step backwards. Her eyes burn like chips of blue ice in her pale face.

  “You … will … not … take … my … children,” she spits. “I don’t care if I have to give up every single shop. I won’t let you take them away from me.”

  For the first time, I realize this isn’t going to be a slamdunk after all.

  I head towards the door. “You’re an unfit mother. You abandoned your children, and now, when it suits you, you think you can claim them back. Well, forget it. By the time I’ve finished with you, you won’t be allowed in the same room as the twins, never mind get custody.”

  “You’ll never win! No court in the country will let you take two tiny babies from their mother!”

  “Watch me,” I tell her, and slam the door behind me.

  Fisher • Raymond • Lyon

  8–12 Andrew Street, London EC4A 3EA •

  Tel 020 7668 3100 • Fax 020 7668 3101

  name@frl.co.uk

  Lady Davina Eastmann

  Long Meadow

  Islip

  Oxfordshire OX5 2RX

  Our Ref: TDR/1708-1/ea June 29, 2009

  Dear Lady Davina,

  Re: Elias v. Elias

  Many thanks for your letter dated June 27, 2009, which made most interesting reading. Whilst it will have no direct bearing on the matrimonial proceedings between your daughter and son-in-law, it will certainly be given appropriate weight during the forthcoming custody hearing. I am most grateful to you for drawing it to my attention.

  In line with your request, I will not make this information known to your daughter unless I fear we have no other option. I will, of course, alert you to this eventuality in time for you to have the option of breaking the news to her yourself.

  Yours sincerely,

  Nicholas Lyon

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Clare

  “It’s the third time she’s gotten me a parking ticket,” I fume. “It’s not like I needed her to renew her passport yesterday. We’re not going to Montreal until October. She could have gone to the passport office any time. She certainly didn’t need to park my car on a double yellow to do it. Never mind the congestion charge during peak hours on a weekday—”

  “I don’t want to interrupt you mid-rant, but are you sure you don’t want to come back to mine for a cup of tea?” Fran asks mildly. “Or something stronger?”

  I make room for her to sit down next to me on the front steps. “I can’t. We’ve got to wait for the wretched locksmith now, thanks to Jenna. I can’t believe she’s locked us all out. I told her the keys were on the hall table.”

  “C’mon, Clare. Don’t you remember what it felt like to be so mad about some bloke you wandered around with your head up your arse?”

  “Frankly,” I snap, “no.”

  “Give me a break. You were crazy about Marc. You rang me up after every date to give me chapter and verse. ‘Oh, Fran, when he kisses me, I can feel it in my—’”

  “OK, OK.” I shush her impatiently. “We don’t need the world to know.”

  “What happens to all that?” Fran reflects sadly. “Rod was nuts about me when we first met. We spent entire weekends in bed, and only got up to find more condoms or answer the door to the pizza guy. How did I end up stuck in Fulham on my own at forty with three kids, saggy tits, a roof that leaks, and a back that goes out more often than I do?”

  I smile ruefully. “Tell me about it. I’m sorry to be such a pain in the rear, Fran. I’m just a bit fed up with Jenna at the moment, that’s all. I really feel she held me hostage over the Olivia business—”

  “That bitch! I hope you spread the word.”

  “She won’t be welcome in rather a lot of holiday homes in Provence this summer, certainly. Do you remember when we all avoided friends we thought might be after our husbands? Now it’s the nanny-poachers we worry about.”

  “How much did you have to pay Jenna to stay?”

  “More than I can afford.” I frown as Fran lights up a cigarette; she gives an apologetic smile, but doesn’t stub it out. “I wouldn’t mind quite so much if she was a bit, well, grateful. But she’s been really off with me all week. You know how she can get when she’s in a mood.”

  “She’s Mother Teresa compared to bloody Kirsty,” Fran says darkly.

  “It’s my own fault. Davina warned me not to try to be her friend. I just didn’t want to be one of those horrible uptight bosses that nannies complain about all the time. Maybe I did blur the boundaries a bit. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been quite so relaxed—”

  Fran sucks hard on her cigarette. “We all do it, darling. We’re so terrified they’ll leave. I give in to Kirsty far more than I ever did Rod. We’re like battered wives. We should form a support group.”

  “It’s just gotten out of hand, Fran. I didn’t mind at first, sitting down for a bit of a chat in the morning when the twins were napping. I thought it was good to build up some kind of rapport with her. But now, she thinks that if I’m home, that entitles her to stop pretending to work so we c
an both settle down for a cup of tea and a good natter. She even gets all narky when I ask her to do something, like take the twins on a play-date.” Crossly, I bat cigarette smoke away. “It’s not like she’s a guest. I am actually paying her to do a job.”

  “Oh, dear. The honeymoon’s really over, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Darling, next you’ll be telling me she doesn’t understand you.” She licks her thumb and finger and pinches out her cigarette. “Look, the romance has worn off, that’s all. If you were married, you’d be at the stage where you slump in front of the TV in your old dressing gown and have sex once a month. The magical aura of the heroine who rescued you from a lifetime of shit and nappies has faded. It happens to us all. Soon you’ll be bickering over cleaning up the kitchen or how much time she spends on the phone to her boyfriend.”

  “So what am I supposed to do? Buy her chocolates?”

  “That’s up to you. The point is, now you have to decide if you want to stick with each other for better or worse, or get divorced.”

  “I know which Marc would rather.” I sigh.

  “Talking of which, why on earth didn’t you ask him to come home and let you in? He’s got his own keys, surely?”

  I smooth my skirt over my knees. “I tried to call him, but his secretary said he’s gone to an important meeting and couldn’t be reached. Anyway, I’d rather not drag him all the way back home on a fool’s errand.” I hesitate. “He’s been rather … tricky … to deal with lately.”

  Fran says nothing.

  “I think we just need to spend a bit more time together,” I add defensively. “What with the twins and work, we’ve barely seen each other for weeks. I can’t remember the last time we sat down and talked.”