Who Loves You Best Read Online Free PDF Page B

decent wages. It’s a bit too near home—I don’t want to run into Jamie at the supermarket—but other than that, it seems ideal. Until the father puts his hand on my bum as he shows me around and tells me he and his wife are very comfortable with nudity.
    “You said no babies,” Annabel retorts, when I complain. “That rules out an awful lot of nice families.”
    “It’s too hard.” I sigh. “I fall in love with them. It’s going to break my heart to leave Tati. There must be
some
thing else—”
    “Are you quite sure you actually
want
to leave Maggie, Jenna?”
    I hesitate. Maggie pays good money, and the children are OK, really; I could probably limp on in this job for another year, till Galen’s at kindergarten. But the situation with Jamie won’t wait. I can’t give up on him completely, after what happened to him. But I’m not going to stick around to be his punching bag. I have to move out now, ease him into the idea of us splitting up gently.
    “Fuck it. OK, what the hell,” I tell Annabel. “Give me babies.”
    “
One
baby, Annabel,” I mutter, staring up at the smart Chelsea townhouse with its shiny black front door and gold door-knocker. “No need to go overboard.”
    I’m tempted to keep right on walking. Not just because it’s twins (“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Annabel said innocently, after I’d already agreed to the interview. “Never mind, if you split your focus, you won’t get so attached”); but because I know people who live in Cheyne Walk are never going to hire someone common like me. The leafy street is lined with Bentleys and Jags; as I skulk on the front steps, an old woman with more bling than Elizabeth Taylor walks past, giving me a dirty look and the kind of wide berth youreserve for dog shit. These people can afford a posh Norland Nanny in a cap and uniform who knows the difference between napkins and serviettes. Forget it. Even if they give me the job, I don’t want to spend my life being treated like a bloody serf.
    “Are you—are you Jenna?”
    I turn back. A tall, fragile woman is peering around the shiny door, one infant cradled awkwardly in her thin arms, another strapped to her chest in a filthy baby sling. Her fine blond hair needs a good wash, and her pale face is etched with tiredness. Baby puke stains both shoulders of her cashmere sweater, and she’s barefoot, despite the freezing February weather.
    “Mrs. Elias?”
    “Oh, thank God!” she cries, and bursts into tears.
    In one swift motion, I shoo her into the house, take the baby she’s holding, unfasten the other infant from her chest, and settle us all in the lounge, nudging a box of tissues towards her with my elbow.
    “I’m so sorry,” she sobs. “You must think I’m a complete disaster. I’m just so
tired
—two of them—never sleep—no idea how much
work
—hungry
all
the time—”
    I let her cry it out, not understanding most of what she says, rocking the babies in my arms. The Corcorans’ two boys were only eleven months apart, so I’ve had a bit of practice handling two wrigglers at the same time. I dip my head to them. God, I’d forgotten how
yummy
babies smell.
    The twins stare up at me with the intense, old-soul gaze of very young infants. They don’t look a bit alike. The girl (dressed in the kind of pink-and-white smocked toponly posh people who’ve never had babies buy) is dark and plump and the color of honeycomb, with eyes like Maltesers; the boy (in a navy sailor suit you know will run in the wash) is more of a Milky Bar kid, all pale angles and ashy hair and velvet-gray eyes. Neither of them cries. I love them already.
    Their mother blows her nose, and leaps up. “I’m a terrible hostess. What must you think? Did you have a good journey? Can I get you a cup of tea?”
    “I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Elias—”
    “Please, call me Clare. You must be thirsty. Or hungry. Are you hungry? I’ve got some lovely—”
    “Mrs.—Clare—it’s OK. Really. I’m sure