need to—”
“Davina, I run a
business
. I’m not volunteering to do the church flowers!”
“Yes, dear, I understand that. But surely the whole point of being the boss is that you don’t have to go in every day. You can manage things from home. It’d be a shame to miss out on—”
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Clare cries. “It’s bad enough when you correct the way I fold a napkin, but if you think I’m going to sit here and listen to
you
, of all people, tell me how to raise a family—”
“You’re upsetting the babies, Clare.”
Marc picks Rowan up and puts him against his shoulder. “You know I’m behind you a hundred percent,” he adds firmly, “but your mother’s right. I don’t want you pushing yourself too hard. It’s been a really tough few months, and now that we’ve got Jenna, you should take a break and relax while you can.”
Clare looks on the verge of tears. “If I’m worrying about PetalPushers, I can’t relax. You know how much the company means to me.”
“Don’t bite your nails, darling,” I murmur. “Ugly habit.”
“It’d be different if you needed to work, Clare. But I’m earning enough now; we could manage for a bit—”
“I need to work for
me
,” Clare pleads.
I really don’t understand my daughter at all.
“Oh, Christ.” Marc laughs, leaping up. “He’s puked all over me! Jenna, would you mind holding him for a moment?”
“But that’s a new shirt,” Clare complains. “It cost a fortune—”
“It doesn’t matter. I just need to sponge it out, it’ll be fine.”
He disappears to clean up. I don’t miss Clare’s sour expression as she glances Rowan’s way. How ironic, that Marc should take so naturally to fatherhood. It must be his Arab genes. They’re very big on family in that part of the world, I understand. At least, as far as boys are concerned.
I knew as soon as Clare brought Marc home that it was going to be a disaster. Oh, he’s definitely very charming.Good at handling women; that’s five older sisters for you. But not the one for Clare. Absolutely the wrong choice.
Have you noticed how certain sorts of girls—Italians, for example—bloom early? By the time they’re twenty-eight, no matter how pretty they were at fifteen, they’re overblown and spent, already turning into their mothers. Genetics, you see. Some young men seem so liberal and open-minded at twenty; but by thirty, their genes have won out and they’ve reverted to type. Just like their fathers and grandfathers before them, they expect dinner on the table when they get home and a wife who runs around picking up their socks. Marc may adore his children, but I have a feeling he won’t expect to do the dirty work—the
women’s
work—involved in actually raising them.
Nothing wrong with that, of course. Except that Clare was never the type to play Jane to his Tarzan.
Clare wouldn’t listen, of course. Kept insisting it was his age and family background that bothered me. (Well, I wasn’t
thrilled
, especially after I had a private detective do a little digging, but that’s not the point.) It’s a question of compatibility. Opposites may attract; but they seldom last.
Jenna stands up now, cradling Rowan affectionately. “Why don’t I go and give him a bottle?” she asks Clare. “It’ll give you a chance to get Poppy settled.”
“But it’s your day off.”
“Clare,” Jenna says firmly, “this isn’t the kind of job where you watch a clock. I’m sure there’ll be times things will work the other way. Now please stop worrying. I’ll settle him down, and everything will be fine.”
It’s quite clear who’s in charge in
this
relationship.
“You can’t let her take over like that,” I tell Clare after Jenna’s gone in the house. “I realize she’s only trying to help, but that’s not the point. She needs to know who’s boss.”
“Davina, this isn’t
Upstairs Downstairs
. It’s the twenty-first century. Jenna
“Davina, I run a
business
. I’m not volunteering to do the church flowers!”
“Yes, dear, I understand that. But surely the whole point of being the boss is that you don’t have to go in every day. You can manage things from home. It’d be a shame to miss out on—”
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Clare cries. “It’s bad enough when you correct the way I fold a napkin, but if you think I’m going to sit here and listen to
you
, of all people, tell me how to raise a family—”
“You’re upsetting the babies, Clare.”
Marc picks Rowan up and puts him against his shoulder. “You know I’m behind you a hundred percent,” he adds firmly, “but your mother’s right. I don’t want you pushing yourself too hard. It’s been a really tough few months, and now that we’ve got Jenna, you should take a break and relax while you can.”
Clare looks on the verge of tears. “If I’m worrying about PetalPushers, I can’t relax. You know how much the company means to me.”
“Don’t bite your nails, darling,” I murmur. “Ugly habit.”
“It’d be different if you needed to work, Clare. But I’m earning enough now; we could manage for a bit—”
“I need to work for
me
,” Clare pleads.
I really don’t understand my daughter at all.
“Oh, Christ.” Marc laughs, leaping up. “He’s puked all over me! Jenna, would you mind holding him for a moment?”
“But that’s a new shirt,” Clare complains. “It cost a fortune—”
“It doesn’t matter. I just need to sponge it out, it’ll be fine.”
He disappears to clean up. I don’t miss Clare’s sour expression as she glances Rowan’s way. How ironic, that Marc should take so naturally to fatherhood. It must be his Arab genes. They’re very big on family in that part of the world, I understand. At least, as far as boys are concerned.
I knew as soon as Clare brought Marc home that it was going to be a disaster. Oh, he’s definitely very charming.Good at handling women; that’s five older sisters for you. But not the one for Clare. Absolutely the wrong choice.
Have you noticed how certain sorts of girls—Italians, for example—bloom early? By the time they’re twenty-eight, no matter how pretty they were at fifteen, they’re overblown and spent, already turning into their mothers. Genetics, you see. Some young men seem so liberal and open-minded at twenty; but by thirty, their genes have won out and they’ve reverted to type. Just like their fathers and grandfathers before them, they expect dinner on the table when they get home and a wife who runs around picking up their socks. Marc may adore his children, but I have a feeling he won’t expect to do the dirty work—the
women’s
work—involved in actually raising them.
Nothing wrong with that, of course. Except that Clare was never the type to play Jane to his Tarzan.
Clare wouldn’t listen, of course. Kept insisting it was his age and family background that bothered me. (Well, I wasn’t
thrilled
, especially after I had a private detective do a little digging, but that’s not the point.) It’s a question of compatibility. Opposites may attract; but they seldom last.
Jenna stands up now, cradling Rowan affectionately. “Why don’t I go and give him a bottle?” she asks Clare. “It’ll give you a chance to get Poppy settled.”
“But it’s your day off.”
“Clare,” Jenna says firmly, “this isn’t the kind of job where you watch a clock. I’m sure there’ll be times things will work the other way. Now please stop worrying. I’ll settle him down, and everything will be fine.”
It’s quite clear who’s in charge in
this
relationship.
“You can’t let her take over like that,” I tell Clare after Jenna’s gone in the house. “I realize she’s only trying to help, but that’s not the point. She needs to know who’s boss.”
“Davina, this isn’t
Upstairs Downstairs
. It’s the twenty-first century. Jenna
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