The Nanny (35 page)

‘I’m so sorry, Cooper,’ I say, moving over to Marc, ‘but I’ve changed my mind.’

Jenna grabs my hand. ‘Clare, come on! We don’t have time for this!’

I don’t move. We stare at one another, frozen in place like exhibits in a museum. Rowan presses his wet face into my neck, his tiny body heaving with silent sobs. Over his head I meet
Cooper’s eyes, willing him to understand:
I’ll do anything for my children. Whatever it takes.

Before I had the twins, I’d heard people talk about maternal love, of women who’d fight like a tigress for their child. I’d heard of it, but I didn’t quite believe it.
Now, I cannot imagine a world without Rowan and Poppy. To love a man is one thing, but to love a child is something else, something so consuming and all-encompassing, so
visceral
, it
leaves room for nothing else.

Cooper was right. Being a good mother doesn’t mean sewing in name-tapes and making potato-print paintings at the kitchen table. It has nothing to do with how many bedtime stories you read,
the lavishness of the birthday parties, whether you work in an office or stay home to change nappies yourself. Nor is it even your willingness to throw yourself under a car for them, to take that
speeding bullet. Being a good mother is a thousand, a hundred thousand, tiny sacrifices, a lifetime of putting someone else first. It’s going without a new pair of shoes. It’s never
sleeping in on a Saturday morning.

It’s putting up with a rotten marriage for twenty-five years because you have two children who need a family, a mother and a father, at home, together.

Cooper’s words echo in my mind:
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. 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.

‘I need to talk to Marc,’ I say. ‘Alone.’

‘You can’t be serious!’ Jenna cries. ‘Cooper, you can’t let her do this! She’s just scared, that’s all. She doesn’t mean it!’

For the first time, Marc seems to register what’s going on. He steps forward, pushing his face into Cooper’s. ‘You heard my wife,’ he snarls. ‘Back off.’

Cooper doesn’t flinch. ‘Is this what you want?’ he asks me curtly.

His expression is as cold and hard as granite. He could be a stranger. No trace, now, of the man who wiped my tears away with a touch so gentle and erotic that my body liquefied beneath it. I
can still feel the electrifying brush of his skin against mine, and smell the clean, citrus smoke scent of his hair. I know exactly what I am giving up.

Whatever it takes.

‘Yes,’ I tell Cooper.

He turns away.

My heart thudding, I hand Rowan to Jenna. He clings to me in silent protest, fisting his small hands in my hair, too bewildered even to cry. Gently, I prise his fingers open. ‘I
won’t be long, Jenna. You can wait in the car.’

Marc starts. ‘Wait a minute—’

‘Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere without my son.’

Two doors down, a small shop sells fizzy drinks and coffee. On the pavement in front of it are three iron tables emblazoned with faded brewery logos, and a couple of plastic chairs. I sit down
at one of them while Marc buys two cans of cola. He puts one down in front of me with a grimy glass and a plastic straw in a paper wrap. I push the glass away and open the straw.

Despite his belligerent expression, Marc seems diminished somehow, less sure of himself. There are new lines around his eyes, and he’s gained weight. For the first time, I wonder at the
toll this has taken on him. He’s lost his job, his home, his family. He’s effectively on the run, living out of a suitcase with a diminishing pile of cash. I realize he may want to find
a way out of this as much as I do.

I wait for him to speak, letting him take control of the conversation. We may have found Rowan, but he still holds all the cards.

‘So,’ he says, with an unpleasant over-confidence that tells me he’s just as nervous as I am. ‘Who’s the American heavy?’

‘A friend. How long are you planning to stay here?’ I ask pleasantly.

‘We were doing fine, if that’s what you mean. We don’t need you.’

I smile nicely. ‘I can see that. Rowan looks wonderful. He’s really grown. Poppy’s been missing him terribly, of course. She’s just cut another tooth, by the way. She
kept us up for three nights while it came through.’

‘You should have rubbed whisky on her gum. That always helps.’

I nod. ‘Yes, of course. I should have thought of that.’

‘Rowan’s missed her too,’ he adds, grudgingly. ‘Especially at night.’

‘Well. They’re used to sleeping next to each other.’

Marc picks up his sweating can of cola, and studies the Arabic writing on its side like a biblical scholar presented with the Dead Sea Scrolls. I wait him out. I know my husband. He’s a
defiant child, bewildered at the way his small rebellion suddenly got out of hand. He wants nothing more than to come in from the cold, if only his pride will let him.

‘You wouldn’t listen,’ he accuses me suddenly. ‘I tried to talk to you, but you wouldn’t listen.’

‘Is that why you took Rowan?’ I ask mildly. No rebukes. A simple question.

‘I didn’t think you wanted him. Either of them. You were always busy working, or else there was Jenna. I didn’t think you’d even miss them. You said you wished
you’d never had children. I thought I’d be doing you a favour.’

‘I didn’t mean it, Marc. I was just tired and overwhelmed. You knew that.’

He spreads his hands on the metal table and stares down at them.

‘Clare, I’ve been thinking,’ he says awkwardly. ‘Things got a bit . . . heated . . . before I left. Maybe I said things I shouldn’t have. These lawyers: they should
know when you’re just letting off steam. They twist things and make them sound so much worse than you mean.’

‘Do you really think I poisoned Poppy, Marc?’

Startled at my bluntness, he looks up.

‘No,’ he says, after a long moment. ‘No, I don’t think that. Not any more.’

‘I’m their mother,’ I say quietly. ‘I know I’m not perfect, but they need me. We can’t snatch them back and forth like trophies. We have to put them first.
They need me,’ I repeat.

Marc stares in surprise. I realize I’ve never actually stepped forward and claimed my role as mother before.

‘You never seemed interested in them. It was always the bloody shops—’

‘And that made it OK to just
take
him?’

He scowls. ‘I never meant things to go this far. Even when I borrowed the cash from Hamish, I didn’t really mean to go through with it.’ He glances at the chaotic street, the
vendors selling soft pretzels, the women in black chadors, the unfamiliar shop signs in Arabic, as if seeing it all for the first time. ‘It just . . . it got out of hand. I’ve wanted to
call you. Rowan was so much more upset than I thought he’d be. I tried to find him a babysitter, but—’

‘Marc. Please. Let me take him home.’

For a long moment, he hesitates. And then he nods, once.

I close my eyes, sick with relief. Cooper has been wonderful, finding Rowan; but I couldn’t have lived with the fear and uncertainty of never knowing when Marc would try to kidnap my
children again. Stealing my son back from him would have meant depriving the twins of their father for ever. I couldn’t do that to them. And, despite everything he’s done, I
couldn’t do it to Marc either.

‘They need you too,’ I add.

His eyes blaze with sudden hope. My heart unexpectedly twists with pity.

‘Do you – do you think we – not now, but maybe—’

I should despise him, for what he’s done to me. The past four weeks have been unimaginable. I’ve missed Rowan so much, some days I haven’t wanted to get out of bed. The only
thing that made it even slightly bearable was the knowledge that at least my child was with his father; at least he was cared for and loved. I cannot begin to comprehend how the mothers of children
who are abducted by strangers cope. Their lives must simply stop.

But I can’t find it in me to hate him. He’s the father of my children. He’s been my partner for seven years, and I can’t just switch off my feelings. It may not have been
a passionate marriage, or a meeting of minds, but until recently it worked. I just dropped the ball, that’s all. If I really try, maybe it’s not too late to put things right.

Pity isn’t love.

‘I don’t know,’ I say honestly.

Marc nods again, satisfied for now.

A horn blares near us, making us both jump. Jenna beckons to me from car. In the driver’s seat, Cooper is staring straight ahead, his eyes on the road.

‘You should go,’ Marc says.

‘Yes.’

He puts his hand on my sleeve. ‘Kiss Poppy for me.’

I climb into the car. Rowan is asleep in Jenna’s arms, worn out with crying. I twist round in the back seat, watching Marc diminish through the rear window. His head is bowed as if in
prayer, and I know without being able to see his face that he’s crying.

Cooper doesn’t fly back to London with us. Josef drops us at Beirut Airport, since we no longer need to flee to Damascus, and without a word Cooper books himself on a
flight back to the US via Paris. I buy tickets to Heathrow for Rowan, Jenna and me, my heart aching. I can’t blame Cooper. I know how he feels about me, and I know exactly what I’ve
just done.

He doesn’t even glance at me as we check in separately, much less say goodbye. I watch him pass through security, his back rigid, his long coat swirling angrily around his ankles. I
can’t bear to leave things like this. I never made any promises, but I have to explain. Somehow, I have to make him understand.

‘I’m going to take Rowan to the bathroom,’ Jenna says, watching Cooper. ‘I’ll see you at the gate.’

I find him hunched over a small cup of thick, black Arabic coffee at a bar to one end of the long marble concourse. The chrome stools on either side of him are free, but I hesitate to sit down.
I can tell from the way his shoulders stiffen that he knows I’m there, but he doesn’t look round.

‘Cooper, I’m sorry,’ I say nervously. The words sound hopelessly inadequate, even to me. ‘You’ve been wonderful, and I couldn’t bear—’

‘We got Rowan back. He’s safe with you. That’s what we came for.’

‘I know, but I wanted to explain what—’

‘No need.’

‘Cooper, could you at least turn round?’ I say desperately.

He pushes himself away from the bar and turns, folding his arms. His navy eyes are hard and opaque.

‘Can’t we discuss this?’

‘Why?’

I know this man can talk. I’ve read his prose, eloquent and moving. Yesterday he spoke to me as no one ever has before, making me feel normal and human and capable of this impossible feat,
motherhood
, for the first time since the twins were born. When he cares about something, he is passionate and fluent. And yet most of the time he communicates in terse Neanderthal
monosyllables.

‘Why are you making this so difficult?’ I demand. ‘What exactly have I done wrong? I persuaded Marc to let me take Rowan home. Isn’t that what we wanted? Why are you
treating me like I’ve just done a deal with Stalin?’

‘Point made.’

He turns back to his coffee. I experience a blinding rush of anger. Does he think this is easy for me either? Does he think I don’t
care
?

‘If you want to wall yourself off from the rest of the human race, fine. I can’t stop you,’ I say furiously. ‘You’ve been doing it for forty-nine years, so I guess
you’re used to it. But I can’t. After everything that’s happened, I’m not letting you pretend it meant nothing! You know how I feel about you! If it wasn’t for the
twins—’

‘Do you think that helps?’ Cooper snaps. ‘You think it’s some sort of consolation?’

‘He’s their father! I have to give him another chance!’

‘So go. Do it.’

‘I don’t understand. What is it you want from me?’ I cry helplessly.

His dark eyes blaze, and there is such raw heat in his expression that a fierce answering pulse of lust beats between my legs. My nipples tighten, and suddenly I can feel his warm mouth on them.
His hands are skimming the surface of my skin, following the curve of my hips, sliding into the damp shadow beneath my breasts, exploring the warm, wet folds and crevices of my most intimate
places. He hasn’t touched me, and yet I can feel him in every cell of my body.

‘I can’t,’ I whisper. ‘The twins need their father. I can’t just turn my back on Marc. He needs me—’

‘I need you.’

‘You’re stronger than he is. You’ll be fine without me. In a few weeks’ time you won’t even remember—’

‘Your husband needs a wife. A housekeeper. Someone to look after him. I need
you
.’ He pulls me into a tense embrace, his hands on my shoulders, his mouth inches from my ear.
‘No one else sees you, Clare. No one else knows you the way I do. You don’t need another child to look after. You need a man who can butt heads with you and win. It won’t be easy.
It’ll be hard, and we’ll have to work at it every single day. But it’ll be worth it, because we’ll have each other. Don’t settle for second best. Don’t take the
easy way out.’

‘What easy way? There is no easy way!’

‘What do you want, Clare?’

‘It’s not that simple—’

‘Stop thinking about what the twins need, what Marc needs! What about what
you
need? What is it you want, Clare?’

‘I can’t just—’

‘Damn it, Clare!
What do you want?
’

I break away, panting as if I’ve just run a mile. Cooper drops his hands and opens his arms, letting me go. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t.’ I turn and run, as
if the hounds of hell are behind me.

For four weeks, all I could think about was ‘when Rowan comes home’. My entire being was focused on that one event, like a small child looking forward to Christmas,
unable to imagine a day that might come afterwards. I should – I
do
– feel relieved, thankful, grateful and happy. I bathe my babies, savouring their laughter, revelling in the
extraordinary resilience of childhood. They wake the next morning in bed beside me, squawking for breakfast, warm and soft and sweet-smelling, and my heart sings as I pull them into my arms. I feel
lucky, blessed, as if I’ve been given a rare second chance.