The Nanny (34 page)

‘Name, rank and serial number. I get it.’

‘You need to understand what you’re letting yourself in for.’

‘You said. Forget it, Cooper. I’m in.’

She has balls, I’ll give her that.

Clare returns downstairs. I notice other men in the bar watching her. Exhausted and sick with nerves, she still has an indefinable
something
that turns heads.

Her eyes flicker around the room, and then find mine. Her shoulders relax slightly. Or do I just imagine that?

‘I’m going to bed,’ Jenna yawns. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

Clare takes the seat she’s just vacated. ‘I’ll be up in a minute, Jenna. Can you leave me the bed next to the phone?’

‘How was Poppy?’ I ask, as she picks fretfully at the arm of her chair.

‘How was Davina, you mean,’ Clare says tiredly. ‘Jenna must have powers of persuasion I don’t: Davina would never have agreed to mind Poppy if I’d asked. Anyway,
they’re all fine. Davina spoke to Nicholas this evening. He’ll file a residence order as soon as we get home. That should make it much harder for Marc to leave the country if he tries
to take Rowan again.’

Josef has already asked if I want Marc to be permanently taken out of the picture, an offer I reluctantly declined. He finds our Western reliance on the rule of law a strange way to do
business.

‘Clare, we
will
get Rowan back,’ I reassure her. ‘We know where he is. Someone’s been watching the house since we found them. Marc’s not going to get away
again.’

She drops her gaze to her lap. ‘But what about afterwards?’ she whispers. ‘What’s to stop him doing this again? I can’t play ping-pong with my children. Maybe next
time Marc will take both of them. Maybe I . . . maybe I
should
let him keep Rowan. At least I’d still have Poppy.’

‘Marc may be planning to come back for Poppy anyway,’ I say gently. ‘It was only luck she wasn’t with Rowan. You can’t think like that, Clare. Your son needs
you
.’

Her expression is anguished. ‘I know I’m not a good mother, Cooper, but I don’t deserve to lose my children, do I? First Poppy nearly died, and now Rowan’s been taken
from me. What do I have to do to show I’m sorry?’

‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ I say forcefully. I take her hands in my own, forcing her to look up. ‘Clare, listen to me. You
are
a good mother. But good
doesn’t mean perfect. Good doesn’t mean you won’t get tired and angry and make mistakes. No one gets it right all the time; or even most of it. You do your best, you fuck up, you
figure out where you went wrong, and you fuck up again. You aren’t perfect, and neither are your kids. But you’re their mother, and you love them. In the end, that’s all that
counts.’

‘Jenna’s so patient and
organized
—’

‘You think they give a damn how neat their closets are?’

‘It’s not just that—’

‘You’ve got to get this idea that you’ve failed out of your head. This isn’t a test. There aren’t any perfect scores. What are you looking for, someone to tell you
you’ve made class valedictorian?’

She blinks back tears. I fight not to pull her into my arms.

‘Give yourself a break, Clare,’ I say softly. ‘So you’re not Soccer Mom of the Year. You have a job. Sometimes your kids cry and you don’t know what’s wrong.
Do you think any of that really matters?’

‘Oh, Cooper. This isn’t the kind of mother I ever intended to be . . .’

I thumb her tears away.

‘None of us are the kind of parents we intended to be. If we even intended to be parents in the first place.’ I think suddenly of Jackson, the closest I will ever get to a son.
‘Clare, you’re tearing yourself to pieces wondering if you’re good enough. Don’t you get it? The fact you even ask the question is your answer. Rowan and Poppy are lucky to
have you.’

She catches my hand, and holds it against her cheek. ‘What must you think of me? This is the second time you’ve rescued my children—’

‘Next time,’ I promise, ‘it’ll be you.’

‘If we are to do this,
habibi
, we must do it soon,’ Josef mutters. ‘People are starting to ask questions about Wissam Ghanour.’

I glance back along the street. Josef and I have taken it in turns to keep watch on the house for the past two days, while Jenna and Clare stay out of sight at various cafés and diners
nearby. At night, I’ve made them return to the hotel, though not without a great deal of protest from Jenna.

So far, the only person to enter or leave is an old woman dressed in black, who arrives each day with a plastic bag of groceries and stays for a few hours. I figure she must be the new
babysitter. I know Marc’s still there; I’ve seen him moving about the house. But until he leaves Rowan alone with the sitter, we can’t do anything. Josef is right; the longer we
stay, the more risky this gets.

I leave him watching from a diner down the street, and drive back to the café where the girls are dragging out their fifth cups of coffee.

Clare looks up hopefully as I enter. Even though it’s not my fault, I feel a bastard for letting her down yet again.

‘He can’t spend the rest of his life in there,’ Jenna groans. ‘Sooner or later he’s going to drop his guard.’

‘How has he managed to arrange all this?’ Clare frets. ‘He doesn’t know anyone in Lebanon. How can he have rented a house and found a babysitter and done all this so
fast?’

‘It’s not difficult. Money talks, and Marc had a lot of cash to throw around.’

Jenna looks at her feet.

‘Sorry, kid.’

‘I keep telling her it’s not her fault,’ Clare says. ‘Even if I’d known Marc had so much cash, I’d never have thought he’d do something like this.
I’d have assumed he was trying to steal my money, not my children.’

‘Why don’t we just bribe them more than he has?’ Jenna suggests after a moment.

The thought has already occurred to me. Josef followed the old woman to a rundown tenement in the Armenian quarter the first day. I just don’t know how likely she is to stay bought, by
Marc or by me. If she double-crosses us, Marc could vanish again, and next time it might not be so easy to find him.

‘We need to go,’ I say, standing up. ‘There’s another—’

My phone rings.

‘He’s just left,’ Josef says.

Clare’s hand finds mine. Adrenalin that has nothing to do with the task in hand pumps round my body.

‘Come on, Cooper,’ Jenna snaps from the doorway.

The spell is broken. I have to let go of Clare’s hand to drive, but every electron in my body zings with energy. I could move mountains.
Forty-nine years on the planet, and I never
knew. Christ, what in hell have I been doing with my life?

With a supreme effort, I force myself to concentrate.

‘Are you sure about this, Jenna?’ I ask for the final time as I park up a block away from the house. ‘You know what to do?’

‘Enough, already. Just keep your fucking phone switched on, all right?’

I hand her the temporary Lebanese cell. ‘Hit nine on the speed-dial. I can be with you in two minutes.’

‘You’d better be.’

We watch nervously as she walks towards the house. She’s a tourist, we’ve decided; she’s got lost, and wants to use the phone to call her friends. As soon as she sees Rowan,
she’s to grab him and bolt for the door. We don’t have time for fancy cover stories, and anyway, none of us can think of one that’ll seem halfway plausible. By the time Marc finds
out, we should be on our way to Syria. The plan is to fly out of Damascus, less than three hours’ drive from here, rather than from Beirut: if Marc does give chase, he won’t be
expecting that.

Clare reaches for my fingers again, and squeezes so hard I lose all feeling in my hand.

‘I don’t know why you’re doing this for me, but thank you,’ she says quietly. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough.’

‘You will,’ I say. ‘And you do know.’

The next ten minutes are the best and worst of my life. I feel as elated and confused as a teenager. I want to jump up and down on the hood of the car and scream her name; I want to flip down
the seat and have her, here and now; I want to go down on one knee and ask her to marry me. More than anything, I want to make her smile again; to wipe that haunted, desperate expression from her
eyes. Everything hangs in the balance. It all depends on Jenna.

The front door of the house opens again. Suddenly Jenna is running towards us, almost stumbling in her haste. She’s holding something in her arms.

‘Oh God,’ Clare breathes, as I fling open the rear door.

Jenna throws herself into the car. ‘I locked her in the loo, and pulled the sofa across the door,’ she pants. ‘It should give us another ten minutes.’

The bundle in her arms lets out a bewildered cry. Clare reaches between the seats for Rowan, tears streaming down her face as she pulls him into her arms. I can’t stop smiling.

‘Fucking hell, Cooper!’ Jenna yells. ‘Move it, would you!’

I throw the car into reverse, and pull a sharp 180. Clare buries her face in her child’s hair, bracing herself against the dash with one hand. I glance in my rear-view as we pull out on to
the main road, dirt spinning beneath our wheels. No one is following us. The street behind is empty.

I join the slip-road on to the highway, my eyes flicking constantly to the mirror. Another hundred yards, and we’ll be free and clear.

Abruptly, we grind to a halt. I wind down the window and crane my head out. A few cars in front of us, two moped riders argue in the middle of the street, their scooters crumpled on the ground
between them. A painted van covered with bells and harnesses noses out into the flow of traffic coming the other way. Within seconds the entire road is gridlocked. Bystanders gather round, adding
their ten cents to the heated debate. I scan the side streets nearest to me, searching for a way around the chaos.

Clare moans softly and shrinks back in the front seat, clutching Rowan.

Threading his way through the traffic, a carton of cigarettes swinging from a clear plastic bag in his hand, is her husband.

Marc spots her seconds after she sees him. His astonished expression would be comical in any other circumstances.

For a moment, he seems frozen; then, with a howl of anger, he drops the cigarettes and launches himself towards us, ricocheting off the gridlocked traffic as he thrusts his way between cars.
Vehicles are jammed ahead of and behind me, bumper to bumper: I have nowhere to go.

I reach across Clare, and open the passenger door. ‘Get out. Double back and find Josef. I’ll deal with Marc.’

‘I can’t just leave you—’

‘Come on, Clare!’ Jenna yells, tumbling out of the back seat and grabbing Clare’s hand.

‘Go on!’ I urge. ‘Josef will get you to Damascus. I’ll meet you there. Please, Clare!’

She struggles out of the front seat. Rowan is screaming now, his face red and shiny with tears. Marc is just two cars away. Jenna reaches for Rowan, but Clare simply cradles him tighter against
her chest.

I slam open my door, but a rust-bucket has crept up on my inside and blocked me in. With a snarl of frustration, I jam the door against the side of the ancient Mercedes and force myself through
the gap. My coat snags, and I simply shrug it off.

Horns blare all around us. Marc puts his hand on the hood of a BMW and vaults across it, landing just feet from Jenna. She yanks Clare’s hand and pulls her between two buses. I lose sight
of them as I cut behind the painted van, flinging myself recklessly over cars and around motorcycles.

We’ve started to attract attention of our own. Volleys of Arabic fly from all directions. A Lebanese cop breaks off arguing with the two scooter riders to stare at us. His hand moves
reflexively to the gun at his waist. My pulse quickens. The last thing we want is to involve the police.

Marc is the bigger and younger of the two of us, but he’s clumsy and out of shape. I reach him just as the cop hitches up his belt and starts to head towards us.

With a loud laugh, I clap my arm round Marc’s shoulder. ‘
Habibi!
My friend, I’ve missed you! It’s good to see you! How are you? How’s the wife?’

He tries to pull away, but my grip is steel.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Marc splutters.

‘Your worst nightmare,’ I hiss in his ear. I raise my voice, smiling broadly. ‘It’s been too long! I was starting to think you’ve been avoiding me!’

The cop hesitates, and turns back to the two riders. I shove Marc in the direction of the sidewalk, forcing him into the shadow of a bakery shop doorway. Behind me the traffic starts to move
slowly around the scooters. Our vehicle, stationary in the middle of the street, is an island in the tide.

‘I don’t know who the fuck you are, you bastard,’ Marc pants, freeing himself, ‘but I’m going to break your fucking legs if you touch me again!’

‘I don’t think you’re in any position to—’

‘Wait.’

We both swing round. Clare is pale, but composed. In her arms, Rowan hiccups, and she drops a brief reassuring kiss on his forehead.

‘I’m so sorry, Cooper,’ she says, moving over to her husband, ‘but I’ve changed my mind.’