My Husband's Wives (9 page)

Anyway, here she was, standing in the middle of Café en Seine, squared up against Susan Lyndsey and, honestly, if a pin had dropped, it would probably have shattered the sound barrier.

‘Darling!' Susan had her by the shoulders, mwah, mwah, air-kissing the heavily aromatized space about them. ‘I haven't seen you in so long, how have you been, you look just…' Susan had managed to develop an accent that parked itself somewhere on Madison Avenue, via Sloane Square. Their last meeting had not been so happy. There had been a party in The Four Seasons, everyone who was anyone was there. Annalise had been upset. It was just days after she handed the crown back, and she'd said exactly what she and all the fashion scene knew about Susan: Susan was gleefully shagging every young male model that came her way. As far as everyone else was concerned, Susan was seeing a junior minister in the Department of Finance. She'd even accompanied him on a trade mission to Japan. She was meant to be cleaner than a
Tatler
editor's contact lenses. Susan was on course to become Ireland's answer to Carla Sarkozy, without the scary Botox and stretching. Their spat had brought them both crashing down to earth.

It wasn't classy and, once more, Susan managed to come out on top. Susan became instantly cool; almost a post-cocaine Kate Moss. Within a month, she was all over London Fashion week, while Annalise morphed into a tragic failure. It made for great celebrity news. To this day, Annalise froze into morbid and complete embarrassment at the memory of it.

‘Hi Susan.' Annalise managed to collect herself. She heard the wobble in her voice, but just over Susan's shoulder, she spotted her agent – or maybe her ex-agent. So she smiled at Susan, a flicker that didn't reach her eyes, and walked towards the seat that was waiting for her.

‘I swear, she's got a huge spot on her chin,' Annalise whispered across to Gail Rosenstock as they pretended to look down through the menu. Of course, Gail was on a diet. She had been beautiful in her day. Unfortunately, not since she was thirty-six had she fitted into anything less than a size-fourteen dress. In the fashion business, fourteen was rhino-sized – bordering on elephant. In the normal world, of course, it was just womanly. The world through Gail's eyes was not normal. She ordered warm lemon water for starters and, later, she played plate hockey with a winter salad.

‘So, you're ready to come out of hibernation, are you?'

‘I think I am.'

‘They certainly still love you.' Gail pushed across her mobile. Even today, three days later, celebrity gossip sites were raving about her ‘vintage' Ellie Saab. ‘A genius idea of course,' Gail sniffed at her. ‘Who styled you?'

‘No one styled me.' Annalise was on the water too. It seemed a little unfair to have anything else; anyway, she could grab a rice cake on her way to pick up the boys.

‘Never mind.' Gail looked wistfully at the gown. ‘The question is how to follow that up?' She was thinking aloud. ‘You could come back as a very different package. Before, you were all short skirts, tight tops and flirty.' She drummed her fingers for a minute. ‘But with this… would you consider doing
OK!
?'

‘
OK!
, the magazine?' Annalise repeated the letters wistfully as though they represented exotica she'd dreamed of for the last few years. ‘Have they asked?'

‘No, but they're always on the lookout for something a little different.' Gail's tone was delicate; it was one she reserved for times when she could go either way. Annalise knew she was on unsteady ground and if she wasn't careful, she could find herself without an agent anymore.

‘So you'd flog me as a comeback beauty queen?'

‘You could make a nice career out of it; don't knock it. A bit of self-promotion, you might even get a social diary column in one of the dailies.' They both knew Annalise had difficulty writing much more than her name. ‘You wouldn't actually have to write the thing; just let them slap your photo over it.'

‘Right, I'll have to think about it.' She observed the table opposite where a familiar-looking newscaster sat with a woman she imagined must be his wife. Life was going on here, while she was slowly withering. ‘Don't take this the wrong way, but I was hoping to get a TV gig.'

‘Darling, you have a little way to go before you're bagging those ones…'

‘But it went well the last time. They even said then, they'd love to see me again. Of course, I'd probably need to be pregnant for that.'

‘They say that to everyone. Take it from me, do
OK!
And then we'll see what comes out of it.'

‘What about…' Annalise cast her eyes longingly to where Susan Lyndsey was sitting.

‘Annalise, she's high fashion; she has that serious edgy look going on; you can't compare.' Gone were the soothing words, Gail was packing away her phone and nodding towards the waiter. ‘Back in the day you were fun. You've never been cool enough to carry off high fashion.'

‘I'll get this,' Annalise said; she kept the hurt from her voice. ‘You've kept me on the books?' Gail glowered in response. She'd always been a frowner. Annalise didn't take it personally. There hadn't been a call though; until Friday night's appearance, she'd been yesterday's news.

‘The scene is changing all the time, Annalise, you know how it is. You look great this week, but everyone has a window. Think about what I said…' And she was gone, rushing out into the afternoon sunshine.

Annalise thought about nothing else for probably hours, until her head began to hurt from digesting what her current career options might be. She could try to find a new agent, but really Gail was the best around. She thought about
OK!
magazine. She'd love to see herself decked out in the latest labels, sprawled across an animal-skin rug, covering the magazine's centre pages. The problem was, she knew Paul wouldn't feel the same way. That evening, when she told him, he couldn't understand why she'd want to go back to that scene.

‘Why would you want to go back to that? We're happy as we are, aren't we?' Paul said as they eyed each other over the kitchen table. The takeaway half eaten, a bottle of champagne begun – she wanted it to be a celebration. ‘Aren't you happy?' In that moment, something flashed between them. She couldn't say what. Maybe it was a realization, but there it was, just one second.

‘I thought I was, but I'm just not sure anymore.'

‘Oh.' It was all he could manage. They didn't play games in their relationship; Annalise simply couldn't. There was no mystery, no hidden agenda. If she wanted something, then she said it. It made for an uncomplicated life, something Paul told her he valued in their relationship. ‘I see,' he said and walked from the table to where he kept a bottle of Powers whiskey, her dad's drink. He poured himself a large measure and returned to the table, champagne cast aside. ‘So, you want to go back to work.' He swallowed the amber liquid and Annalise winced. Even the smell of the stuff made her think ‘old man'. ‘Back to modelling?'

‘Maybe, to start, but I have plans, I want to…'

‘You don't need to… we don't need you to.' He shook his head, she loved that his hair was greying slightly at his temples. It gave him a look of sophistication, a modern-day Cary Grant. ‘I've always looked after you, haven't I? I've taken care of you. You don't need anything more. Think back Annalise, did it really make you happy before I met you?'

‘I… no, maybe not then. Things have changed; I've changed. I need something more out of life.' She knew she sounded ungrateful for all the good stuff they had together. ‘Paul, I totally get that you have taken care of me and, I do appreciate that, but maybe…' She searched for the words. She didn't want to hurt him. ‘Maybe I need to be able to take care of myself a little more.' She smiled at him, leaned across to brush her lips on his nose, make everything better.

‘I see.' He got up from the table, her light kiss fell somewhere along his arm. ‘And you've made up your mind already?'

‘I think it's important that I have a career – not full-time.' She couldn't manage five days a week or anything near it. It took more and more time with each passing year to become the swan the world would expect her to be.

‘Oh?' There it was again and she realized he was getting older.

‘Gail would like me to think about doing a spread for
OK!
magazine.'

‘I can't do this,' he said simply. Paul didn't ‘do' celebrity events. It would be rubbing his ex-wife's nose in it. It would be an invasion. They'd married in an intimate affair in Mauritius – just the two of them, her parents and Adrian. It had been perfect. If she'd missed the whole big do in a fancy castle, she'd more than made up for it in a luxury hideaway. They only had a couple of photographs Madeline took on her phone to remind her of that idyllic paradise. The photographer Paul booked had never shown up. It was a pity, because she could have given one to the magazine, used it as backstory; far better that than any other reference to the past.

‘I have to do it,' she said, suddenly realizing that this might be a way of facing her demons. Her way of making peace with having humiliated herself and having to walk away from the Miss Ireland competition. Maybe too, it would help her to quell the spectre of his successful first wife who loomed larger with every passing day in Annalise's mind, even if she didn't want to admit it. By comparison to Grace Kennedy, she was a failure. Not quite good enough to fill her shoes, had she won him only on a sympathy vote, swayed by youth and prettiness? Was it enough to hold onto Paul? Okay, so maybe it had started out with a vacuous wish to be photographed; but the more she thought about it, the more she needed to do this. They sat there, both set, for the first time in their marriage, maybe for the first time in Annalise's life, both determined to get their way.

‘I've never asked anything of you, Annalise.' He waved his hand about the kitchen. ‘We're living the life you've chosen for us, everything here, down to the lime green en-suite; you've had your own way.' He stopped for a moment; she thought he might actually begin to cry. ‘I'm begging you, for both of us, don't do this magazine.' Then he got up from the table, filled up his glass and headed for the spare room. It was, although Annalise did not realize it at the time, the beginning of the end.

She rang Gail as soon as she dropped the kids off on Monday morning. ‘I'll do it,' she said. This could be her last chance and really, Paul always let her have her way. He would come round, she was quickly convincing herself. This would soon blow over and he would be proud of her at the end. Gail would put the call through, probably have it all arranged before the week was out.

‘Maybe,' she said lightly, ‘whoever shoots it, might do a few head and shoulder shots for your portfolio, something a little more up to date than I have here.' Of course the unsaid words were, you're getting older, hitting a different market. Falling out of low-cut dresses with a gloop of lip gloss isn't going to cut it when you're headed for your thirties, dear.

The shoot went off fantastically well. Of course, Paul wasn't in it, but at least she'd managed to get the boys included. He promised to sue the ass off the magazine if they so much as mentioned his name, and from the vehemence that underscored his voice, she had a feeling he actually meant it. When they published the spread, Annalise was delighted with it. She'd written down, in advance, all the answers to the questions they normally asked. Gail had helped her to frame her words about future career plans. To read the piece, you'd swear that television companies were battering down her front door. As it turned out, they didn't, but life took on a slightly more glamorous tint. She spent Mondays and Fridays in town. If she didn't have any look-sees, then she spent them on maintenance. She finally succumbed to the urgings of Gail and had shots of Botox injected into her brows to relax her frown lines. Not that she had actual frown lines; preventative was the word the doctor used. ‘Does Carol Vorderman have them?' Gail had countered. Annalise wasn't sure she wanted to look like Carol. The woman was just scary as far as she was concerned, but then clever girls always creeped her out.

Things didn't improve with Paul either and it wasn't just him cooling his heels. It was as though he pulled a door closed between them. He didn't even pretend to be interested in her days anymore. He made plans for him and the boys – the playground, the cinema, or the local pool. She thought it would pass. After a few weeks though, it started to get to her.

‘Maybe I'll come along,' she said one day as he was struggling to get Jerome into his new Burberry jacket.

‘No thanks, we'll be fine,' he said pleasantly enough, but she knew, from the way he wouldn't meet her eyes, he didn't want her tagging along. The time they spent together had grown into one long empty silence. That evening she had to say it to him.

‘Don't you love me anymore, Paul?'

‘Do you love me?'

‘I thought we didn't play games?'

‘I thought you loved me.' He said the words simply, but he knew. She knew that he knew. More often these last few weeks, she looked at him and thought, I'm married to a man old enough to be my father. It was fine in the beginning. He'd given her everything she needed – security, unconditional love, and he was attractive. What he lacked in a muscled torso, he more than made up for in technique. When he kissed her, he hardly skimmed her lips, leaving her with a longing that almost tore her up. She often wondered at the effect it had on her. Had he any idea?

‘I did…'

‘Ah, I see, you did – but not anymore, is that it?'

‘No, it's not like that. I still love you, Paul, it's just that everything else…' As her words petered off into a vast hollow of despondency, she knew this was an ending of sorts. It was a silent, undramatic parting of ways. All kinds of thoughts were dashing about her brain. Other couples talked about staying together for the kids, or was that just her parents' generation who thought like that? Wasn't Paul her parents' generation? God, she couldn't think about this now.