happy to reverse over him, but Clare makes him stop, then leaps out and helps Xan into the back of the car. She totally mothers Xan, but having met Davina, I can kind of
see why. The woman has all the maternal instinct of a flesh-eating virus. Clare may not be the perfect mother herself, but at least her heart’s in the right place.
I study Xan, passed out in the boot. It’s just as well he’s not really interested in me. It’d never work. Never mind the whole money and class thing; the boy’s a total
fuck-up.
Gently, I tuck my sweater around him.
Fuck. This is the trouble with living in. It’s like sleeping at the bloody office.
I roll over and glance at the luminous green dials. Six-ten. Jesus. I hope Clare gets up to see to them soon. I’m knackered.
I clamp the pillow over my ears. I can tell it’s Rowan. Poppy’s cries are cross, but Rowan always sounds so
lonely
.
It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain their mother favours Poppy. I don’t think Clare really dislikes Rowan; it’s more that she doesn’t seem to know how to handle him.
It’s a shame; now he’s over the colic, he’s actually a real sweetheart. He’ll lie for hours peacefully gurgling at his mobile. Poppy’s adorable, too, of course, but
she’s got a temper on her. She always seems to be thirsty. When she’s awake, she demands your undivided attention.
Shit. I can’t just lie here listening to Rowan scream.
I throw back the covers and pull on my sweats. Clare’s probably still lying dead to the world in a cloud of post-coital bliss, I think crossly. These walls are paper-thin. It’s
almost as bad as listening to your parents getting jiggy.
I’m not jealous or anything. I could get laid too, if I wanted to. It just really pisses me off when girls drop you like a snotty tissue the moment a man shows up.
This is why I’ve never lived in before. I’m never quite sure when I’m off duty. Clare loves all this girly togetherness, the two of us cooking in the kitchen, watching chick
flicks like we’re at some sort of sleepover, but she’s not, like, my best friend. I don’t want to spend every night with her. I
work
for her. Who wants to spend all their
time off with their boss?
I shuffle into the nursery and pick Rowan up.
Fuck.
He’s got the shits again; bright yellow crap has leaked through his nappy all over his sheets.
Poppy pushes herself up on her tummy when she sees me, and starts to wail.
‘Sorry, Poppy, you’ll have to wait,’ I say tersely.
I can’t put Rowan down anywhere while he’s covered in shit, so I’ve no choice but to hold him while the bath runs. Now I’m covered with shit too. I bet it bloody
stains.
I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.
I bath Rowan, dress him in this gorgeous tartan outfit I bought last weekend, and then sort out his sister. I have to bath her too, which means emptying out the dirty water, cleaning off the
lumps of shit ringing the bath, and running it again. Finally, we’re ready to go downstairs. I feel as if I’ve run a marathon already.
I’m halfway through feeding them breakfast (baby rice and formula; I’m supposed to mix it with breast milk, but Rowan won’t eat it, so let’s not tell Clare) when she
finally comes down, looking smug.
‘You’re up early,’ she says brightly.
Poppy smacks her hand in her bowl, splattering me with baby rice. ‘It’s eight-fifteen,’ I snarl, wiping cereal off my face.
Her smile fades. ‘I didn’t realize. Marc must have turned the baby monitor off when he got up for work. Jenna, I’m really, really sorry. Let me do that—’
I snatch the bowl away. ‘We’re up now.’
‘I’ll pay you overtime. Or you can take some time off instead if you like?’
I scrape the twins’ bowls into the waste disposal. Clare’s nice, she’s nowhere near as bad as Maggie Hasselbach, but she still doesn’t know how good she’s got it.
She wasn’t much older than me when she met Marc, and look at her now: