The Model Wife (17 page)

For years I too stood by my husband. Unlike you, I didn’t even have a job. I had given up work to concentrate on raising my family and I didn’t know how I would be able to make a go of things financially without him. But finally the discovery of an email made it impossible to avoid the truth any more. When I learned he’d knocked up the little floozy, I had no choice but to kick him out. And do you know what? I survived – though admittedly at times it was touch and go – by focusing on my own well-being and by starting to work again. Today, I am more confident and happier than I ever have been. I have a great new boyfriend and relations with my ex are cordial, if cool.

Carla, I know what hell you are going through. As one woman to another, I urge you to distance yourself from Duane and find strength from friends and family members. Concentrate on
your
career as a tracksuit designer. Have some nights out with the girls.

However hard you may find it, you
must
find out if Duane has strayed. Call those involved yourself. What you hear may be unbearably painful but it may also set you free, because the ball will be in your court as to whether to continue with your marriage or not.

You have a long life to look forward to overflowing with adventures and promise. You have your beautiful children. But if you carry on behaving like an ostrich, it may mean the end of not only your marriage but also your sanity. And, believe me, no man is worth that.

Thinking of you Hannah Creighton

23

Time was dragging for Poppy. With Brigita coming four days a week, she quite simply had nothing to do. It was a catch-22 situation: until she had childcare she couldn’t work, but until some work materialized she had to pay someone to look after her daughter (well, OK, technically Luke had to pay, but what was his was hers) when she would have preferred to be doing it herself.

She knew Luke had hoped by employing a nanny they’d eventually be earning more money, but in the short term their expenditure went up. To get back in shape for modelling Poppy joined the Harbour Club just up the road where she managed to eke out her days doing slow lengths of the pool, drinking smoothies in the bar and leafing through old copies of
OK!
magazine. The place, after all, was full of other bored mothers who sat in huddles bitching about their lazy housekeepers and swapping tips on holiday destinations with kids’ clubs. But, as usual, they were all at least ten years older than Poppy and she knew she’d have nothing to say to them, so she watched them timidly out of the corner of her eye, while reading about Lindsay Lohan’s new boyfriend.

She spent a lot of time cooking elaborate meals for Luke, but she always burnt them or put in too much sugar or too little salt. When she apologized, he’d shrug and say it was OK, he wasn’t very hungry anyway and the rest of the meal would be eaten in silence.

Luke grunted. Poppy cleared up the plates in silence, watched a bit of television and went to bed early.

‘Are you all right?’ Poppy asked after a couple of nights of this.

‘I’m fine,’ he replied unconvincingly. ‘Work is stressful. The shareholders are putting on pressure to bump up the viewing figures. Give the channel a more youthful image.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means,’ Luke snapped, ‘that my job is on the line. I’m over fifty and the channel wants viewers who don’t know who Adolf Hitler was. They want to watch baby faces like that hairdresser Marco Jensen.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Poppy said unthinkingly. ‘Someone I saw at the school reunion works for
Wicked
magazine. She was off to interview Marco.’

Even as she finished the sentence, she saw Luke’s face turn purple. ‘See, that is typical of the way things are going at the moment. It’s all about who looks like they belong in a boyband, not about who’s got experience.’

‘Clara sat on the potty today.’ Poppy tried to change the subject. ‘Brigita says she’s doing really well.’

She wanted to make a cake for Clara’s second birthday, but when Brigita caught her digging around for scales and a mixing bowl in the kitchen, she was outraged.

‘That’s my job, Mummy. You sit back. Relax.’

The cake Brigita made in the form of a chocolate hedgehog with flakes for prickles and cherries for eyes was much nicer than anything Poppy could have created.

Brigita invited some of her nanny friends and their charges over for a birthday tea and, as usual, Poppy hovered on the edges of the group not knowing quite who to talk to and feeling vaguely resentful at having to share her daughter’s special day with strangers.

She was so bored she even resorted to looking at the link her mother had sent her for Jean-Claude. She found a video clip of a tall, white-haired, self-consciously groovy man in his late thirties giving a lecture on ‘Roland Barthes: from Phenomenology to Deconstruction’. Poppy wasn’t exactly sure what he’d have in common with a woman whose favourite read of all time was
Flowers in the Attic,
but Poppy’s was not to reason why.

Louise had called her when she was stuck in traffic on the M27 to tell her the latest news.

‘He didn’t get back to me, so I called him. He was ever so surprised to hear from me, but he said he’d take me out for dinner next time he’s in London.’

‘And when will that be?’ Poppy said teasingly.

‘He didn’t say. But it’s not a problem because I’ve decided to go on a spa weekend to Marseilles at the end of the month and surprise him, so we can have dinner there.’

It was a relief when, on Thursday morning, Michelle née Migsy Remblethorpe rang.

‘Hi!’ said Poppy, as obsequiously as Jonathan Ross greeting Madonna. ‘How
are
you?’

‘Fine. How are you? I thought of you because I’ve just been reading Hannah Creighton’s article about Carla Bryonne. It’s savage, isn’t it? I felt for you. Everyone at work’s talking about it, saying how awful it must be to be publicly known as “The Bimbo”.’

‘I haven’t read it,’ Poppy said, feeling slightly sick.

‘Haven’t you? Oh well, don’t, that’s my advice. It’s so gratuitously nasty. But it made me think. It was so much fun us bumping into each other at the reunion and I was hoping we could meet for lunch.’

‘Today?’

‘Today? I don’t know. It’s press day; we’re quite up against it. But I could sneak out for an hour if you met me near our offices. We’re in Farringdon, so how about Smith’s of Smithfield?’

‘That would be lovely,’ Poppy said.

Excited that Migsy Remblethorpe wanted to know her, she carefully applied some make-up, put on her cleanest pair of jeans and headed to the Tube. At the little newsagent’s in the concourse she bought the
Post
and read the article. The usual cocktail of emotions jiggled inside her: one part anger at Hannah’s viciousness mixed with two parts meek acceptance because she deserved no less.

‘I’m sorry, Hannah,’ she breathed, ‘I didn’t know what I was doing.’

But it was too late now, she thought as she walked up the steps at Farringdon Tube. This had been her regular stop when she’d worked at Sal’s. But then Luke took me away from all that, she’d always tell her interviewer.

But what had he actually taken her away from? Poppy wondered now. She’d been happy at Sal’s, earning a pittance but spending hours gossiping in the kitchen with him and his wife, Maria, then strap-hanging home to Kilburn where she’d sulk a bit about the appalling state her flatmate had left the kitchen in, but then cheer up when Meena got home. They’d spend hours getting dressed up to go into town while swigging from a bottle of wine and dancing to Kiss FM.

But I didn’t have Clara, she reminded herself as she tapped along the cobbled streets. But I’m not happy. But you
have
to be happy, you have a beautiful, healthy daughter. But I’m not. Maybe I’m too greedy. What else do I want from life?

Even though she was five minutes late, she still had to wait twenty minutes for Migsy. A happy twenty minutes, though, at a sunny table on the roof terrace with a magnificent view over the dome of St Paul’s. She relished being in a restaurant without free crayons, high chairs and children’s portions, browsing a menu without being in a perpetual state of alertness in case Clara stabbed herself in the eye with a fork or ate all the sugar cubes.

‘Poppy, hi! Sorry I’m late.’

Yet again Migsy looked immaculate.

‘It’s so great to catch up,’ she twittered as she sat down. ‘Wasn’t the reunion fun?’

‘Mmm,’ said Poppy, who’d left about five minutes after her conversation with Migsy when it became apparent Meena was so drunk she was going to have to drive her home.

‘Did you talk to Laura Lightman? She’s a sex therapist now and she changed her name to Laura Lightwoman.’ Migsy tittered. ‘Who would have thought it? But who would have guessed
you
were the Bimbo. A bottle of sparkling please,’ she said to the waiter. ‘By the way, I had
such
fun interviewing Marco Jensen. Isn’t he cute? He was telling me all about the
Seven Thirty News
; what an honour it is to work with a veteran like your hubbie. Said he really respects him, like he does all the old-timers.’

‘Oh that’s nice,’ Poppy said.

A waiter hovered. ‘Hi.’ Migsy smiled. ‘Right, I’ll have the pear and fennel salad. Poppy?’

‘Um, I’ll have the pheasant,’ said Poppy, naming the first thing she spotted on the menu.

The waiter disappeared. Migsy leant forward.

‘I’m going to cut to the chase because I can’t stay long. Busy, busy, busy. You know how it is, I’m sure.’

‘Oh, yes, indeed.’
Indeed?
Poppy sounded like the host of a religious-affairs programme. She really did need to get out more.

Migsy continued, ‘We’re looking to launch a new column. A sort of It-girl about town diary. You know, the parties you’ve been to, the shops you’ve shopped in, the celebrities you’ve hobnobbed with. I think you’d be perfect for it because you’re a model, which is what all our readers aspire to be, but you’re also a mum, which they are too – poor cows – so you can give us a few cute little anecdotes about your baby which other mums seem to like for some reason. Oh, and don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re also “The Bimbo”. I mean, obviously you’re not really, but that’s how people know you because of Hannah’s columns.’ She waved away the proffered bread basket before Poppy could help herself to a delicious-looking crusty roll. ‘So what do you think?’

Poppy felt like Dorothy after the hurricane struck Kansas.

‘Um…’

‘Don’t worry, I know you can’t write,’ Migsy continued. ‘That will be my job. You’ll chat to me once a week about what you’ve done. The pay’ll be three hundred pounds a column to start with, and then if it goes well we can talk about a rise.’

‘I…’

The food was placed in front of them. Migsy skewered a fennel leaf and placed it between her lips. Poppy lifted her knife and fork. Why the hell had she ordered pheasant? As soon as she attacked it, the bird started skidding round her plate like a drunk on an ice rink. She tried to saw off a corner and ended up with enough to sustain a very thin flea.

‘What do you think? I’d like an answer now, because we’ve got a new editor and I need plenty of ideas to impress her.’

‘I never go to parties,’ Poppy confessed. ‘I haven’t really had a social life since my daughter was born.’ Or much of one before, she could have added.

‘That’s fine,’ Migsy said airily. ‘We can sort out all that for you.’

‘What, you can get me invited to parties?’

‘Course we can.’ Migsy fumbled in her bag. ‘Here’s a few to get you started. Look. The
Murder Police
première. It’s tomorrow night. Meant to be amazing. Brad Pitt’s in it. And an after-show party at the Natural History Museum.’

‘Really?’ Poppy looked at the colourful piece of cardboard. ‘And all I have to do is tell you what it was like?’

‘And who you saw. It’s the easiest job in the world. Up there with being an usherette.’ Migsy snorted. ‘I’ll call you once a week on Thursday morning, say at eleven, if that’s not too early, and we’ll have a chat about what you’ve done that week. Basically, two parties, a couple of comments about someone in the news – Kerry Katona, for example – and something cute your baby’s done. Then I’ll email you a version of what I’m going to write, and that’s that.’

Poppy leafed through the pile of stiff-backed cards, not knowing where to begin. She bit her lip.

‘I think I’d better just run this past my husband.’

Migsy shrugged. ‘If you want to, but I don’t see why he’d mind.’

‘Maybe not. I’m sure not. He says he wants me working again. But all the same…’

‘Sure, sure, well run it by him,’ Migsy said a tad more impatiently, as her mobile rang. ‘Oh, excuse me. Yes? Shit! OK. Well, don’t worry, I’ll be straight back.’

She hung up. ‘Crisis. There’s a rumour Minnie Maltravers is going to adopt a baby. We’ve got to alter the whole front cover. I need to get back. You know how it is, Poppy, but don’t worry. You take your time here. Linger. Have a dessert.’ She stood up. ‘Really nice to see you again. So thrilled you’ll be working for us.’

With a jaunty wave, she was gone. Poppy stared after her retreating form in bemusement.

She stared out of the window at the higgledy-piggledy rooftops. A proper job. Just like Hannah had. The chance to go to parties, leave the house again. And a column in a magazine. The thoughts that raced round her head would finally get some kind of outlet. I’m so busy with my column, but I still manage to make as much time as I can for my daughter. Motherhood is the most important thing in the world to me…

Back home, Clara was sitting on the floor, scribbling on a large piece of paper. Brigita was washing up at the sink, her phone tucked under her chin.

‘Mmm. Hmmm? Well, I love you… No, I love you more.’ She giggled girlishly, then sensing Poppy’s eyes on her, whirled round. ‘Oh! Got to go, me duck. Bye, then. Yes. Ta, ta.’ She put the phone down on the kitchen counter. ‘Hi, Mummy. I didn’t hear you come in. How is your day been? Is a little parky outside, no?’

‘Good,’ Poppy said, wondering if she dared ask Brigita to stop calling her Mummy. She squatted down to her daughter’s level. ‘Hey, chickabiddy. How are you?’

Clara grunted, not even looking up.

‘She’s been really good,’ Brigita said fondly. ‘Did another weewee in the potty. Soon she will be using the big bog. We made star chart. Show Mummy.’

‘No. Wanna draw!’

‘OK, you show me later.’

Clara continued scribbling. Brigita returned to the sink. More than ever, Poppy felt like a stranger in her own home.

‘Was that your boyfriend you were talking to?’ she asked.

Brigita turned round, flicking a damp strand of hair out of her eyes. ‘Sorry, Mummy. Usually I don’t make personal calls during work time but it was an emergency, he…’

²
35

Poppy waved her excuses away. ‘What’s his name?’

Brigita smiled and her usually puddingy face was suddenly transformed. ‘Phil,’ she said lovingly.

‘What does he do?’

‘He’s a roofer.’

‘How long have you been together?’

‘Two years. Our dream is to make enough money to go back to Yorkshire, buy a house, then I can continue to study for my PhD.’

Don’t go home too soon, thought Poppy, appalled at the idea of Brigita abandoning her now she had this new opportunity. But she said, ‘Oh, how lovely.’

‘Dinner’s is ready, Clah-Clah. Wash your hands, please, angel.’

Obediently, Clara jumped up and padded over to the sink. Poppy watched in astonishment. How come it took her hours to persuade her daughter to do something as simple as sit in her high chair? An unexpected wave of inadequacy crashed over her. On paper, she was so much more fortunate than Brigita: far prettier and with a handsome, rich husband, gorgeous daughter and lovely flat. But she and Luke never spoke on the phone in the way Brigita had to Phil. And it had been a long, long time since mentioning Luke’s name had made her light up like a firework display.