and I are a team—”
“She
works
for you,” I correct. “She isn’t here out of the goodness of her heart, or because she wants to help you. She may love your children, but it’s a mercenary kind of love, and it certainly doesn’t mean she loves
you
. She’s not your friend. She’s here because you’re
paying
her.”
Clare looks hurt. “It’s not like that. Things are different these days. I’ve told you, we’re a
team
. And anyway, I’m quite used to dealing with staff, thank you, Davina. As I’ve told you. I’ve been running a very successful business for years.”
“Hardly the same thing, darling. You must admit you have a tendency to fraternize with domestics—”
“Fraternize
? God, Davina. How very Orwellian of you.”
“How much do you really know about this girl?” I pin Clare with a hard look. “Those scars on her arms, for instance. The sprained wrist. If she’s involved in an unsuitable relationship, you don’t want the chaos spilling over into your life. And you need to consider Marc in all of this”
“What do you mean?”
“He seems very quiet, Clare. And he looks very tense. It can’t be easy for him, having to get used to a stranger living in his home. It doesn’t give him much privacy. Men like to retreat from the world. Their home is their castle, don’t forget. You want to be very careful he doesn’t start to feel left out. It’s hard enough to get used to sharing you with the twins—”
“He wanted a baby as much as I did!”
“Rather more, I suspect.”
“And whose fault’s that?” She shoves back her chair; I wince as it scrapes against the antique tiled floor. “I’ve had to learn everything about being a mother from scratch, out of books, because I certainly haven’t been able to learn from
your
example! All you’ve ever done is undermine and criticize me, and that’s on the odd occasion you’re not ignoring me altogether! Yes,” she shrieks, as I point tactfully towards Poppy, “I can see my daughter is crying! I have eyes in my head, Davina! I may not be a perfect mother, I may in fact turn out to be an utterly dreadful one, but unlike you, at least I am
trying
!”
I pour myself a glass of water, pleased to note that my hand doesn’t tremble. “Really, Clare. I don’t know where
that
came from.”
She sucks in a breath. “No,” she says tightly. “I don’t suppose you do.”
“What
is
that dreadful noise outside? Mrs. Lampard really should see to it. And some more tea, I think—”
The door opens. “Excuse me, Lady Eastmann—”
“Please, Jenna, no need for that. Davina is perfectly fine—”
“Oh, don’t go all democratic now,” a voice drawls behind me. “Not after you’ve had Guy pony up millions for that title.”
“Alexander,” I say, proffering a cheek without turning. “How lovely.”
“Hello, Mother,” he says.
———
If Clare takes after her father, then I suppose I must claim Alexander as mine.
Women love him, in the beginning. By the time it ends, as it inevitably does—whether “it” is a few days (sometimes), a few weeks (usually), or a few months (once)—they have run the full gamut of Shakespearean emotion from infatuation, through devotion, obsession, and jealousy, to end in hatred and despair. One poor child threw herself, like Ophelia, into the river; taking her homage to the Bard a little too far, I felt.
Alexander knows the lethal effect he has on women. With disingenuous insouciance, he washes his hands of it. “I never lie,” he protests. “I always
tell
them I’ll leave.”
Which is precisely the attraction, of course.
“I didn’t expect you this weekend,” I reprove, as Alexander flings himself into a chair next to Clare.
“What can I say? I felt the need to nestle in the bosom of my family.”
He’s staring intently at the nanny. It’s an expression I’m familiar with.
“Have you met Jenna?” I ask, watching him carefully. “Your sister’s new nanny.”
“A
“She
works
for you,” I correct. “She isn’t here out of the goodness of her heart, or because she wants to help you. She may love your children, but it’s a mercenary kind of love, and it certainly doesn’t mean she loves
you
. She’s not your friend. She’s here because you’re
paying
her.”
Clare looks hurt. “It’s not like that. Things are different these days. I’ve told you, we’re a
team
. And anyway, I’m quite used to dealing with staff, thank you, Davina. As I’ve told you. I’ve been running a very successful business for years.”
“Hardly the same thing, darling. You must admit you have a tendency to fraternize with domestics—”
“Fraternize
? God, Davina. How very Orwellian of you.”
“How much do you really know about this girl?” I pin Clare with a hard look. “Those scars on her arms, for instance. The sprained wrist. If she’s involved in an unsuitable relationship, you don’t want the chaos spilling over into your life. And you need to consider Marc in all of this”
“What do you mean?”
“He seems very quiet, Clare. And he looks very tense. It can’t be easy for him, having to get used to a stranger living in his home. It doesn’t give him much privacy. Men like to retreat from the world. Their home is their castle, don’t forget. You want to be very careful he doesn’t start to feel left out. It’s hard enough to get used to sharing you with the twins—”
“He wanted a baby as much as I did!”
“Rather more, I suspect.”
“And whose fault’s that?” She shoves back her chair; I wince as it scrapes against the antique tiled floor. “I’ve had to learn everything about being a mother from scratch, out of books, because I certainly haven’t been able to learn from
your
example! All you’ve ever done is undermine and criticize me, and that’s on the odd occasion you’re not ignoring me altogether! Yes,” she shrieks, as I point tactfully towards Poppy, “I can see my daughter is crying! I have eyes in my head, Davina! I may not be a perfect mother, I may in fact turn out to be an utterly dreadful one, but unlike you, at least I am
trying
!”
I pour myself a glass of water, pleased to note that my hand doesn’t tremble. “Really, Clare. I don’t know where
that
came from.”
She sucks in a breath. “No,” she says tightly. “I don’t suppose you do.”
“What
is
that dreadful noise outside? Mrs. Lampard really should see to it. And some more tea, I think—”
The door opens. “Excuse me, Lady Eastmann—”
“Please, Jenna, no need for that. Davina is perfectly fine—”
“Oh, don’t go all democratic now,” a voice drawls behind me. “Not after you’ve had Guy pony up millions for that title.”
“Alexander,” I say, proffering a cheek without turning. “How lovely.”
“Hello, Mother,” he says.
———
If Clare takes after her father, then I suppose I must claim Alexander as mine.
Women love him, in the beginning. By the time it ends, as it inevitably does—whether “it” is a few days (sometimes), a few weeks (usually), or a few months (once)—they have run the full gamut of Shakespearean emotion from infatuation, through devotion, obsession, and jealousy, to end in hatred and despair. One poor child threw herself, like Ophelia, into the river; taking her homage to the Bard a little too far, I felt.
Alexander knows the lethal effect he has on women. With disingenuous insouciance, he washes his hands of it. “I never lie,” he protests. “I always
tell
them I’ll leave.”
Which is precisely the attraction, of course.
“I didn’t expect you this weekend,” I reprove, as Alexander flings himself into a chair next to Clare.
“What can I say? I felt the need to nestle in the bosom of my family.”
He’s staring intently at the nanny. It’s an expression I’m familiar with.
“Have you met Jenna?” I ask, watching him carefully. “Your sister’s new nanny.”
“A
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