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Authors: Tess Stimson
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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
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
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