Free Who Loves You Best by Tess Stimson Page A

actually
up
, though, aren’t I?”
    “I’d give my fucking eyeteeth to stay at home with the kids instead of slaving away in an office all day,” Marc says bitterly. “Women don’t know how damn lucky they are to have the choice.”
    “Choice?”
I demand lividly. “Is
that
what you call it?”
    We glare at each other over Poppy’s head. It feels as if the ground is shifting beneath my feet. I’ve never heard Marc talk like this before. Since when did we become one of those strung-out couples who bicker over whose turn it is to take out the rubbish and indulge in
I’m-more-tired-than-you
competitiveness?
    Since we had children and our lives as we knew them ceased.
    The truth is that, even though he agreed to it in the end, Marc hasn’t forgiven me for hiring Jenna. I’ve tried to explain how desperate I was, how fretful and anxious, that every time the babies cried it felt like a slap in the face. I tried to describe the endlessness of it, the relentless demands and chaos and incessant neediness. “You said you wanted this,” Marc responded, confused. “You wanted a baby, you
wanted
to stay at home for a while.”
    The dreadful thing is, he’s right: This
is
what I wanted. I just had no idea what it really meant. I wanted children, yes; but when I pictured motherhood, what I saw in my head was the baby, not me
with
the baby. I had no idea how much work one child would be, never mind two. But even more than the sleeplessness, the relentless routine, the effort required just to get through the day: I hate being needed. I hate the repetitiveness, the mind-numbing
boredom
. My mother’s right. I can’t do it. Usually unflappable, I’ve been flapping away like a dodo trying to take flight since the birth of the twins. I’ve done everything recommended in all the books, I’ve approached child-rearing like I have everything else in my life, by reading and studying and becoming an expert; and instead of the success that has always rewarded my efforts until now, I’ve failed.
I’ve failed
.
    There was only one thing I could do to put things right: hire someone who
was
an expert, someone who could succeed where I had fallen short. Marc’s a professional, a businessman. Surely he can understand that?
    “Look, I’m sorry,” Marc says unexpectedly, rubbing his hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’mjust stressed out. I’ve had a bitch of a time at the bank. Of course you should work if that’s what you want.”
    “It’s only a few days a week—”
    “I know. I’ll see you tonight.”
    He leaves without kissing me, though he drops a butterfly kiss on Poppy’s forehead, and ruffles Rowan’s pale halo of white curls on his way out.
    Five minutes later, Jenna’s glossy bob appears around the door. “Marc didn’t look too happy,” she says, rolling her eyes. “He had a face on him like a slapped arse. Oh, Rowan, baby, are you still waiting for breakfast? You must be starving!”
    “I’m just finishing with Poppy—”
    She picks up my son. “Don’t worry, I’ll sort out his bottle. Everything OK?”
    “Yes, fine.” I hesitate. “Well. Actually, Marc and I had words.”
    “Yeah, me and Jamie had a few over the weekend—”
    “He doesn’t want me to go back to work.”
    She snorts. “I’d like to see him giving up the expense accounts and company car to change shitty nappies.”
    Instantly, I regret my impulsive confidence. I’ve got no right to criticize my husband in front of the nanny.
    “He’s under a lot of pressure,” I say quickly. “This recession—the bank—”
    “Jamie’s the same. All macho,” Jenna says, kissing Rowan’s bare toes.
    I feel a pang of something bittersweet as I watch my son gurgle and reach for her; it hurts my chest, my breasts. I’m glad that my children love her, I
want
them to; and yet.
    And yet.
    She lifts his soft shirt and blows a raspberry on his round belly. “Jamie thinks the man should be the provider, though he