The Model Wife (10 page)

He cringed, thinking about the dinner at Dean’s. Hannah would have lit up the whole room with her raucous laugh and spirited gossip. Poppy, on the other hand, had contributed about as much to the evening as one of the silly scented candles on the mantelpiece, spending half the evening hiding in the kitchen. All right, she was the most beautiful woman there by a mile. But – just as with Hannah – Luke found it increasingly difficult to be sexually attracted to his child’s mother. He didn’t know why, it just didn’t seem right.

So, even though he’d sworn he’d turn over a new leaf, since Clara was born there’d been a steady stream of women. Nothing serious: a waitress he met in a coffee shop in Denmark where he was covering race riots; a quick fling with an American political researcher he’d met when he was covering the US primaries. No one on home turf, apart from that insane dalliance with Foxy, which had only hammered home the fact that you should never piss on your own doorstep.

He had to admit, Thea was looking especially hot right now. She’d always been a good lay, but Luke had never been that bothered about her: she was too dark, her tits were too small and, although her professionalism made her a joy to work with, it was also distinctly unfeminine. He knew she was besotted with him, that if he said ‘limbo dance’, she would immediately reply ‘how low?’, and he found that devotion rather a turn-off. But then again, she had always known how to make Luke laugh, and laughs were in rather short supply at the moment. He wondered if she was seeing anyone. They should have a drink soon. Catch up.

Dahlia stuck her head round the door.

‘Mr Norton, Dr Mazza is ready to see you now.’

Dr Mazza was a perma-tanned Italian, who pulled off the challenging trick of looking both baby-faced as proof his needle worked and swarthy so as not to put off the macho men like Luke. He came over to London from Milan twice a week working a fourteen-hour day to satisfy demand. He examined Luke’s face like a forger might the work of a great master.

‘Mmm. Not bad. I ’ave seen worse. But
terrible
sun damage. I think you don’t use the SPFs, Mr Norton. And you smoke!’ He said this last in the same tone reserved for accusing someone of having sex with their pet hamster.

‘Not any more. I gave up twenty years ago.’

‘Still, the damage is done now.’ Dr Mazza sighed. ‘Yes. What a shame you didn’t come to me twenty years ago. Then I could ’ave really helped you. Now, it is not so easy. Of course you are already a long way behind most of your rivals. They all have regular work.’

‘Who? Jon Snow? Huw Edwards?’

‘Naughty! Naughty!’ Dr Mazza wagged a finger. ‘You know I can’t breach patient confidentiality. All I’m saying is you won’t be the first newsman to come to me. Or the last.’

He pulled a black marker pen from a drawer and started dabbing it all over Luke’s forehead. He looked as though he was about to undergo a weird tribal initiation rite in Papua New Guinea.

‘This won’t hurt. I promise.’

He was right, it didn’t hurt too much. At the end, Dr Mazza stood Luke in front of the same mirror. His face was covered in dozens of tiny red blotches as if he’d been stung by a wasp.

‘Don’t worry,’ Dr Mazza reassured him. ‘They will fade in a few hours. Couple of days at the most. You’re not planning to go anywhere this weekend are you?’

‘No, I’m having a family weekend.’ He sighed as he thought how he was going out for lunch with the children tomorrow. In the old days his birthdays had been riotous affairs, involving one of Hannah’s most delicious cakes and a drinks party for all their friends, including the Lyonses. But now they meant forking out a fortune in Royal China in St John’s Wood while the kids texted their friends from boarding school and made snide jokes about ‘Snotty’ as they called their stepmother, before he drove them back to their boarding schools just outside the M25. Then he’d return home, depressed, to what would no doubt be another badly-cooked dinner by Poppy. She tried so hard to feed him well, but the cooking gene just wasn’t there.

He shouldn’t be so hard on her, he told himself as he settled up with Dahlia. It wasn’t Poppy’s fault he’d married her out of a twisted mixture of guilt and revenge. He should stop brooding on her lack of cordon bleu skills and focus instead on her loving heart and how she laughed at his jokes, the way she devotedly watched the programme and plied him with questions about it that he was usually too tired or preoccupied to answer. She was trying; he had to cut her some slack.

The roads were empty and he was home in just fifteen minutes. The light was on in the living room. As he inserted his key in his front door, he could hear the television blaring in the living room. Face tingling, he opened the door to be greeted by the sight of his wife, fast asleep on the sofa with Clara beside her. He looked down at her, his exasperation melting at the sight of their two angelic faces. Luke could never admit it publicly, but Clara was the most gorgeous of all his children, a wonderful blend of his and Poppy’s beauty, and for her presence he could be nothing but grateful.

Sensing him there, Poppy stirred.

‘What time is it?’

‘Eleven. Sorry I’m so late.’

‘Are you OK? What’s happened to your face?’

‘I’ve been to the dentist. He gave me a filling.’

Poppy sat up, concern etched on her brow in a way that no patient of Dr Mazza’s could ever emulate. ‘Oh, poor you. I didn’t know you had toothache. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I thought I did,’ Luke said, as usual feeling irritated by her concern. He picked up Clara. ‘Come on, missy, let’s get you to bed.’

‘It’s nearly midnight,’ Poppy said, ‘almost your birthday. I’ve got a lovely surprise planned for tomorrow.’

Bugger. Luke hadn’t told her he was having lunch with the children. But he wasn’t going to lose a valuable chunk of their limited sleeping time by breaking that news now. He’d disappoint her in the morning when he’d have regained just enough energy to deal with her tears.

How I Lost a Husband but Rediscovered My Sex Life

hannah creighton, 48, is the ex-wife of the
Seven Thirty News’s
anchorman Luke Norton. A mother of three, she was devastated when Luke left her for a 22-year-old model. Here, in a hilarious and moving piece every woman will relate to, she reflects on the pros and cons of her new life as a divorcee.

It was dawn on Sunday morning. I opened my eyes. Something didn’t feel right. Had I left the gas on? I wondered dreamily. And then it clicked: no children. They were with their father for the weekend. Silence. Tranquillity. No screaming. No demands to help with homework. No stamping feet demanding we get in the car and drive to a mall to buy the latest brand of trainers. No announcements that they had all gone vegan and would I please throw out all the cheese in the house and replace it with Quorn.

Heaven. I decided to get up and make breakfast. But, delightfully, as I pulled back the duvet, my new boyfriend grabbed me and we stayed in bed until lunchtime. Ah, ha! Now I remembered how I used to fill my time BC (before children). Yowza! As with everything, there are upsides and downsides to being a divorcee. The pros are more plentiful than I anticipated, the cons surprisingly few. And one of the biggest pros is sex. Like every couple I know, after eighteen years together and three children Luke and I didn’t see much bedroom action. Twice a month was about average. Sleep was far more important and – to be honest – I often granted my husband his conjugal rights while mentally composing the next day’s shopping list. But now I am with my new boyfriend I think nothing of staying up half the night, contorting myself into positions from the Karma Sutra. In comparison, just last week, the postman rang the doorbell with a package to sign for. I’d ‘accidentally’ opened it before I realized that – whoops – it was meant for my ex-husband. He has a nubile young wife, so why does he feel it necessary to order Viagra on the internet? One of life’s great mysteries like the
Marie Celeste
and why there’s always one odd sock in the wash.

If I sound cruel, I have to confess there are still many, many downsides to my new life. I wanted to be with Luke until death did us part. That’s something every girl aspires to along with a music box with a revolving ballerina and Jennifer Aniston hair. It’s only recently I have forced myself to remove my beautiful wedding and engagement rings, putting them in a drawer – for what? I can hardly give them to my daughters; they’re so ill-fated. It was the end of a long-held dream and made me weep bitter tears.

Even more humiliating, although Luke and I are long divorced and despite his many, many failings, I still can’t help missing the old fool, just as I might miss some moth-eaten cardi even though it’s shapeless and long, long out of fashion.

The children and I took a summer holiday this year in Norfolk – a far cry from the jollies we used to enjoy in Florida or Tuscany, but of course Luke has another family to take to exotic places now. We had a wonderful time, but they missed their old dad. At the end of the summer Luke called and said he’d missed me too. I suppose any couple who’s shared so much is going to remember occasionally that life together wasn’t totally terrible. Call me vindictive, but I can’t help being just a little chuffed that now nappies and sleepless nights have entered the picture Luke isn’t finding life with the Bimbo quite as glamorous as he expected.

12

Ever since dinner at the Cutlers’, Luke had been grumpier and grumpier. He said he was stressed about all the changes at work.

‘But you won’t lose your job, you’re far too important,’ Poppy had said trying to reassure him.

‘Want to bet?’ he’d growled. ‘Marco’s regularly hosting the Saturday night show now, Emma’s doing more as well. I’m going out of fashion, like flares in the eighties.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Christ, I keep forgetting you were Clara’s age then.’ He sighed and pushed his half-eaten plate of pasta away (OK, it was a bit
too
chewy, Poppy had been aiming for al dente, but perhaps she’d got carried away). ‘Anyway, even assuming I
do
hold on to my job, the question is do I want it any more now it’s all pop stars and old ladies in Torquay getting locked in the lavatory for a week?’

‘No! Did that happen? Poor woman, how awful.’

‘I was being facetious,’ Luke growled, standing up. ‘I’m going to have a bath. Unwind.’

‘There are other ways to unwind,’ Poppy said, in what she hoped was her sexy voice, though she suspected it just made her sound like she had a bad cold.

Luke paused for a second and then said, ‘No, I really fancy a bath.’

As she cleared away the half-finished dinner, Poppy wondered what she could do to make Luke proud of her. Perhaps she should start an Open University degree? Something to do with architecture or history of art, so she could find out more about those hidden corners of London she was so passionate about. But a degree would cost money and Poppy was tired of being another expense on Luke’s long list. Maybe she should find a job? But then what would she do with Clara? Farrah Cutler had texted her Brigita’s details, but the idea of handing her daughter over to another woman still made Poppy deeply uneasy.

‘I don’t know,’ she confided to Glenda the following morning, as she followed her and her can of Mr Sheen round the flat. ‘I mean, I don’t think things are quite as good as they could be between me and Luke. Sometimes I wonder if he’s having an affair, he’s out late so often, but I don’t think so.’

‘I’m sure he isn’t.’ Glenda, who was privately convinced he was, reassured her. ‘Not when he’s married to such a pretty woman as you, Poppy.’

‘We hardly ever see each other. We need to spend more time together. It’s his birthday on Saturday, so I thought I’d take him out to lunch. A bit of time alone together, getting to know each other.’ The thought crossed her mind that perhaps this was something they should have done before they married, but she hastily put a lid on it. ‘You’re not free to babysit on Saturday, are you?’

‘Oh darling, I wish you ask me earlier. I’m looking after the Bristow children that day.’

‘Oh.’

‘You could ask your mother. That is what I would do.’

‘I don’t think your mother is the same as my mother,’ Poppy said gloomily, comparing Anna-Maria who was currently bringing up Glenda’s brood with Louise, who complained regularly that she’d hoped for a few years respite from childcare.

‘This is the real problem, I think, Poppy. You have no one to help you with Clara. Maybe it would be good to have a break from her some time. You haven’t had a night away from her in two years. It’s a long, long time for any woman to do alone.’

Not you too! The problem was that on one level Poppy agreed with Glenda, she just hated to admit it for fear of sounding like her mother. ‘You know I love being at home with Clara,’ she said defensively.

‘You need time off every now and then. You’ve been a hero, Poppy. No Clara, don’t pick that up, darling. No, it has bad, dirty things in it. No, listen to Auntie Glenda. No, is not for drinking!’

‘I’m hardly a hero,’ Poppy argued above Clara’s anguished shrieks as Glenda removed the bottle of Flash to the highest bathroom shelf. ‘What about you? You’ve got all those kids at home and here you are…’ Cleaning my toilet, Poppy thought, but instead she let the sentence trail off.

‘Yeah, but when they were babies it was much easier for me than you. I had my mum, my aunties, my cousins around to help. You have nobody.’

‘I’d be happy leaving Clara with you for a couple of days a week,’ Poppy hinted, but Glenda sighed regretfully.

I2C)

‘You know we’ve been here already, Poppy. I got no work permit. Luke’s already worried I’ll be caught cleaning your house and he’ll be in trouble for employing an illegal.’ Seeing Poppy’s disappointed face, she continued, ‘You should look for someone else. You can’t just think about Clara’s happiness, you know. You’ve got to be happy too. I know you, Poppy, you’re not happy right now because things aren’t going too good with Luke.’

‘But I’ve told you, I’m working on that. If Mum will look after Clara, I’m taking him out to lunch.’

And to Poppy’s amazement, Louise had agreed to babysit.

Poppy woke up some time around six on Saturday, brimming with excitement.

‘I’m taking Luke out for a surprise lunch at Orrery, which is where we went after our wedding,’ she told her invisible interviewer. ‘I think it’s really important to spoil each other, don’t you?’

No time to start like the present. She rolled over and gently kissed Luke on the cheek.

‘Good morning,’ she breathed.

‘Uh? Wuh?’

‘Happy birthday.’ She slipped her hand under the duvet and into his pyjama trousers. Still floppy. Never mind. Poppy set to work.

‘Mmmm,’ said Luke.

‘An early birthday present.’ She grinned.

‘Mummeeee!’ came floating through the door.

‘Oh, no,’ they both groaned.

‘Ignore her,’ Luke implored.

‘Mummeeee!’

‘Come on.’

‘No! I can’t.’

Luke groaned again. ‘You’ve got to stop running to that child,’ he said, but Poppy had already crossed the hall to her daughter’s room. ‘Hey, gorgeous,’ she said to Clara, who was standing up in her cot, grinning at the sight of her. ‘Come into bed with us. It’s Daddy’s birthday. Will you say happy birthday, Daddy?’

‘Ha’ee birthday,’ said Clara, as Poppy plonked her down beside her groaning father.

‘Aah. That’s so cute.’ Poppy kissed her. ‘Now I’m going to tell Daddy what I’ve got planned for today. Granny Louise is coming over and so Mummy is going to take Daddy out for lunch.’ She realized uneasily that more and more she communicated with Luke through the medium of their daughter.

‘Oh?’ said Luke. He sounded less than delighted.

‘Yes, I’ve booked Orrery.’ She looked at him. ‘Is that OK?’

‘It’s just…’ Luke sighed. ‘Sorry, darling, I should have told you. But I’ve got to go somewhere.’

Poppy felt as if she’d been hit. ‘What?’

‘I’m really sorry. I meant to tell you. It slipped my mind. The children are taking me out for lunch. So…’ He flailed around like a drowning wasp. ‘It’s great that Louise is going to babysit, though. Why don’t you take advantage of it? Go out. Meet your friends. Or something.’

‘I was all excited about our lunch,’ Poppy said in a small voice.

‘We could go out for dinner.’ Luke’s heart sank at the thought of two big meals. His hand drifted down to his waist. He could definitely pinch more than a couple of inches. He was haunted by the ghost of his chubby younger self. He glanced in the mirror. His face was still a little red, he just hoped Dr Mazza was right about it fading over the weekend.

‘I don’t think we can get a babysitter,’ Poppy said. ‘Glenda can’t do it this weekend. That’s why I asked Mum. Ow, Clara. Stop pulling Mummy’s hair!’

‘Well, we’ll go out at some point in the week.’ Luke rolled out of bed and padded into the en suite. Poppy lay trying to cuddle Clara, who was completely uninterested, preferring to rip pages out of a toy catalogue. Tears pricked Poppy’s eyes. She’d been so keyed up about taking Luke out for a romantic lunch, coming back to a – hopefully – empty house and making love and then, perhaps, having that discussion again about another baby. But as ever, Luke’s other family took priority. And as ever, Poppy could hardly complain, given how she’d stolen him from them.

Luke emerged from the shower. ‘I tell you what: why don’t I take Clara down for breakfast and you can get some more sleep.’

‘But it’s your birthday!’

Luke smiled ruefully. Poppy was still at an age where birthdays were something to celebrate rather than to make you groan in horror. ‘That’s why I’d like some quality time with my daughter. Come on, Clah-Clah. Shall we have breakfast together?’

‘Croissant!’

‘I got croissants for a special birthday breakfast,’ Poppy explained. ‘And your present’s on top of the fridge.’ She peered at him. ‘Ow! Your face does look sore. Are you sure it was a dentist and not a butcher you saw?’

‘It looks worse than it feels,’ Luke said abruptly, kissing her on the forehead. ‘Now go back to sleep.’

Poppy didn’t think she’d be able to. She lay listening to Clara clashing pan lids and Luke opening and shutting cupboard doors, still brooding on her disappointment. Still, she thought, Luke was right, she could do something with this unexpected time off. But what? She thought of activities where Clara was distinctly unwelcome. The cinema, maybe? But only losers went to see films alone. A museum? Usually Clara came with her, but it might be an idea to go somewhere like the John Soane Museum in Holborn, which was so densely packed with trinkets it had been a bit of a nightmare to negotiate with a buggy. On her own Poppy could take a really good look at things.

Cheered at the idea, she drifted off to be woken a couple of hours later by the doorbell ringing and then voices in the hall. Of course, Mum had said she’d come about eleven. Rolling out of bed, she went to the landing. Sure enough, she could hear her mother talking to her husband.

‘Happy birthday, Luke. Fifty-two, eh? God, how does that feel? It’s bad enough being forty-five. You are looking very well on it, I must say. Is that a shaving rash? Your skin is a little bit blotchy.’

‘Granny!’

‘Now you know I don’t like to be called that, Clara. I’m Louise. Louise who has brought the most
gorgeous
party dress for you. It was in the Moschino sale. I just do hope you won’t put your sticky fingers all over it.’ She knelt down and clapped her hands so her discreet silver jewellery rattled. Clara giggled and Poppy felt a little surge of hope. All right, so Louise hadn’t been the best mother, but maybe it wasn’t too late for her to redeem herself.

‘Hi, Mum,’ she said, coming down the stairs and inhaling the familiar aroma of Obsession. As usual, her mother was dressed more for a day trawling Bond Street than rolling on the floor with her granddaughter. Louise’s tiny figure, maintained through a diet endorsed by Gillian McKeith and a weekly regime of two step classes, one power-yoga session and daily sit-ups, was encased in a knee-length denim skirt, a black leather jacket and a cream silk blouse that radiated dry-clean-only vibes. Her black hair gleamed, her make-up was subtle but immaculate. As ever, Poppy wondered if two such different physical types could truly be related. She presumed she got her Viking looks from her father, but she’d never know for sure.

‘Hello, darling,’ Louise said, eyeing her stained dressing gown warily as if it might be contagious. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine. I—’

‘I have the most
appalling
headache again,’ Louise continued. ‘And my hay fever’s started already.’

‘Oh, poor you.’

‘Yes. Well. That’s the price you pay for working every hour God sends to build up a business.’

‘It was really kind of you to take time out to babysit,’ Poppy said humbly. She knew the script backwards.

Louise looked down at her tan, knee-length boots. ‘Um. Actually. There’s a bit of a problem about that, darling.’

Familiar disappointment thudded in Poppy’s breastbone. ‘Right,’ she said cautiously.

‘You see my chiropractor just called and she can fit me in at half past one, which is just as well as my neck is killing me. So I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to babysit over lunchtime after all.’

‘Mum!’

‘I can stay for an hour now, if you like. I don’t see why it’s a problem. You can take Clara with you, can’t you?’

‘I—’ Poppy began, as Luke interrupted, ‘Well, that’s a shame, Louise. But don’t worry, I understand. And luckily your services aren’t needed because as it happens I’m going out to lunch with my other children. So all’s well that ends well.’

Louise turned to Poppy, outraged. ‘What? You mean you got me to babysit for nothing?’

‘You weren’t going to do it anyway. You could have said!’

‘No,
you
could have said.’

‘Luke only told me this morning.’ Poppy pushed her hair away from her eyes and grabbed Luke’s arm. ‘Did you open your present?’ she said softly.

‘Oh yeah. Thanks.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘It’s great. I’m going to get dressed.’

Poppy felt steamrollered. She’d spent a purgatorial morning pushing a very vocal Clara round the shops finding the perfect cashmere T-shirt to match the colour of Luke’s eyes. She’d paid a vast price for it – well, Luke had paid really, but still… and this was all the thanks she got. She felt like an old pair of socks that no one could be bothered to retrieve from the bottom of the laundry bin.

Louise cleared her throat. ‘I don’t suppose a cup of tea would be too much to ask for?’

The kitchen was its usual clutter of dirty cereal bowls, the floor was covered in plastic toys. Sometimes it made Poppy despair that she spent all day tidying up only for Clara to displace it all again. Louise navigated her way through the mess, wrinkling her nose.

‘This place is a tip, Poppy. I can’t believe you have a cleaner.’

‘She only comes once a week.’

‘And what do you do on the other six days? Honestly! You should be so lucky. When you were Clara’s age I certainly didn’t have the luxury of someone to help me out.’

‘You had an au pair,’ Poppy said softly.

‘Sorry?’ But Louise was never that interested in what anyone else had to say. ‘Have you got any herbal? Tea and coffee is incredibly bad for the skin, you know, sweetheart. All that caffeine. Makes you old before your time. Like kids.’

‘So what’s the news, Mum?’ Poppy said, determined not to rise to the bait. ‘How’s Gary?’