The Model Wife (32 page)

A man laid his hand on Hannah’s shoulder. He had wispy grey hair in a bad combover and wore a rust-coloured raincoat that was shiny with age. He was an obvious all-day drinker, who only saw daylight since the smoking ban had forced him to nip outside for a twice hourly cigarette. Thea’s stomach squelched the way it always did when approached by a down and out. Was he going to harass Hannah for spare change? But instead, he was holding out his hand.

‘Hello, I’m Jay, Hannah’s boyfriend.’

‘I… uh… I’m Thea.’

43
⁸

‘Come on, Jay,’ Hannah snapped. The end of her nose had turned an unfetching pink. Thea realized she was mortified. ‘Nice to see you,’ she said briskly to Thea. ‘We should catch up properly soon. Have lunch.’

‘Lovely,’ Thea muttered, just as Dunc returned with his wine glass.

‘Lovely to meet
you
, Duncan. Look after this lady, she’s very special.’

‘Er, yeah.’

She moved off, just as Rachel reappeared.

‘Was that who I thought it was?’

‘It was,’ said Thea. She felt as if she’d just been drenched by a bus driving way too fast through a puddle.

‘Shit. What did she say to you?’

‘She thought I was Thea’s boyfriend.’ Dunc chortled as if this was as ridiculous a prospect as finding a Burger King open on Mars.

With an enormous effort of will, Thea got a grip on her tilting self. ‘More importantly though, have you seen
her
boyfriend?’ To her relief, her voice sounded normal. She nodded towards the corner where Hannah and Jay were sitting. He was nursing a pint, she had a glass of wine. They weren’t exactly indulging in hilarious repartee, more looking as if they were mulling over a suicide pact.

‘Christ, I’d imagined some Enrique Iglesias stud. Are you sure that’s her boyfriend, not her granddad?’

‘That’s what happens to women on the verge of fifty,’ said Dunc with infuriating smugness. ‘Doesn’t matter how much Botox you’ve had, how much jogging you do. You’ve still got to scrape the bottom of the barrel just to find someone to go for a drink with.’

‘What a ridiculously sexist thing to say,’ Thea snapped. But the evidence lay before them. Her head swam as she tried to take in all this new information. She was Luke’s Miss Moneypenny – while Hannah’s stud was a sad old man in a raincoat. Could it be that all Hannah’s other boasts about being so ridiculously happy were just as shaky? Was everyone lying? Thea was beginning to think it might be time to start telling the truth.

46

Thea slept badly that night. The Miss Moneypenny remark taunted her like a playground bully, forcing her eyes open, even as Luke slept silently beside her. Hannah was right. Even if she wasn’t a desk-bound secretary, she’d still been his stooge, sitting up straighter every time he entered the office, yearningly watching his departing figure, smiling indulgently when faced with his flings, masking her inner torment. She’d always kidded herself she and Luke were equals, when in fact he’d been laughing at her. She’d thought she’d played it cool, but now she realized he’d always known about her devotion and had been happy to abuse it.

All the doubts that had been building about being with Luke exploded like a giant, pus-filled spot. In the red glow of the digital clock, Thea looked at the man she’d been in love with for so long and shook her head. Disgust at so many wasted years consumed her. Years when she could have learnt another language, studied astrophysics, written poetry, cultivated a garden. Well, OK, maybe not the garden, but she could have become editor of the
Seven Thirty News
rather than sticking in a producer’s role so she got to spend more time with Luke. Years which she could have spent forming relationships with sensible, down-to-earth men. Even if they did look like Hobbits. Thea knew there was no point following that line of thought.

44
^:

She didn’t want to waste any more time; she had to end things as soon as possible. She’d do it subtly she decided, as the dawn chorus began. She’d already broken up one family through her thoughtless selfishness, so she’d try to mend another by pushing him back in Poppy’s direction, so poor little Clara would have a father again.

They had a silent breakfast over the papers. At the end, Thea asked, ‘Are you going to see Clara soon?’

She expected the usual ‘I don’t know,’ but instead Luke replied, without looking up from the
Guardian
. ‘I texted Poppy this morning, while you were in the shower. I’m going over there tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ll bring back some of my stuff.’

Thea looked up in alarm. ‘How much stuff? There’s not a lot of room here.’

‘Just a few boxes of books. I need them if I’m going to get on with researching mine. I told you the publishers want it out sooner than later, now I’m controversial.’ He waggled his fingers in the form of quote marks. Thea hated people who did that. How had she never noticed before? ‘You’ll have to meet Clara at some point, I suppose. Though she might be a bit wary of you initally. Maybe Brigita could chaperone her.’

‘Brigita?’

‘Her nanny. And then maybe meet the other kids. If Hannah’s OK with it.’

Thea’s head jerked up.

‘Hannah?’

‘Well, yeah. I might as well tell her sooner rather than later. I guess she might be a bit weird about us, seeing as she knows you and everything. But my sense is she’ll prefer you to Poppy because you’re not young, blonde and gorgeous.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘And you’re obviously not a bimbo.’ A thought struck Luke. ‘God, I wonder what she’ll call
you
in the column? Should be interesting.’

‘Luke,’ said Thea after a cautious pause, ‘have you told anyone else about… ?’ She wanted to say ‘us’ but it seemed the wrong choice of word. ‘About the fact you’re living here?’

‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Like I say, I’ll tell the children first, then Hannah. Then we can make it official.’

Poppy was keeping herself busy. She was going out virtually every night. Days were full now too: if she wasn’t sleeping off the night before, she was having treatments or meetings with various companies who wanted her to endorse their products. Without officially agreeing to anything, Brigita was working five days a week and big chunks of the weekend and her wages were so high Poppy was barely breaking even, despite the money she was making. She thanked heaven that the joint account still seemed to be working, while trying not to worry about how she’d manage when it was inevitably stopped. She knew if she divorced Luke she would get some kind of settlement, but the idea of pursuing a Heather Mills type vendetta appalled her. So long as he gave Clara something, Poppy didn’t want to take a penny.

Finally, Luke rang. They had a terse conversation when he said he’d come over on Saturday to see Clara.

On Saturday Clara was very grouchy, even by her own high standards.

‘Daddy’s coming to see you,’ Poppy told her over breakfast. When there was no reply, she asked, ‘Darling, are you going to eat your cereal?’

‘No.’ Clara pushed her plate away.

‘Has it got too much milk in it?’ That was usually the crime.

‘Uf.’

‘Or maybe there’s not enough?’

‘Oog.’

‘Just have a bite. One for Mummy.’

‘Nowagh!’ Clara began howling. Poppy tried to keep her cool.

‘A bite for Brigita.’

‘Go ’way, Mummy.’ Clara continued to weep bitterly. ‘I wanna sleep.’

‘Really?’ Poppy felt a flicker of alarm. Farting loudly in public places, getting water all over the bathroom floor and refusing all green vegetables were part of Clara’s repertoire. Sleep was not. ‘Don’t you want to watch CBeebies?’

‘Nooo!’

So she put Clara back in her cot and had an unexpectedly peaceful morning in a scented bath. Wrapped in a towel, she went to check on her daughter. An hour later she crept in again. Clara was still asleep, her blonde hair sweaty and tousled. Poppy felt her forehead. She was definitely hotter than normal, so she let her carry on sleeping until lunchtime. Then Clara woke up, quickly drank two beakers of water, ate a small piece of bread, screamed the house down when Poppy tried and failed to take her temperature and went back to sleep.

Poppy was wondering if she should call NHS Direct when the doorbell rang. Opening the door, she caught her breath. She’d forgotten how handsome Luke was, she’d also forgotten how old. He looked much more tired than she remembered: greyer, looser somehow, as if the stuffing had been taken out of him.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi. Where’s my fairy monkey?’

‘She’s asleep. I think she’s got some kind of a bug.’

Luke looked as if he’d been slapped in the face. ‘Can’t I see her?’

‘Of course you can. But I don’t think she’s going to be much company.’

‘I’ve missed her so much.’

Poppy bit her lip. ‘She’s missed you too. Come in.’

Clara was still fast asleep. Her breathing was laboured, her cheeks were very red.

‘Is she OK?’

‘Like I say, I think she’s got a bit of a bug. She wouldn’t let me take her temperature. When she wakes up I’ll give her some Calpol.’ Poppy looked at her husband. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘Just sit by her for a while. When she wakes up I’ll read to her.’

‘I’ll go out then. How long do you want?’

‘A couple of hours,’ Luke shrugged.

‘Fine. I’ll come back at four. Call me if you think she’s getting worse.’

She could have gone shopping, looking for a necklace to set off the yellow and green top she planned to wear that night, but her heart wasn’t in it, so instead she walked down to the canal, where she sat on a bench and watched a family of ducks drift by. Tears splashed down her face. Seeing Clara with Luke made her realize how horribly she’d messed up. Another child was going to grow up without a father, with a mother who had to work every second of the day just to survive. Poppy thought she’d broken the cycle by marrying Luke, but it seemed there was no escaping her destiny.

She thought ahead to the evening. She was meant to be going to a party in Regent’s Park to celebrate the opening of a new art gallery. For once Meena couldn’t come with her, ordered back to Wembley to celebrate her brother’s birthday. A month ago, there was no way Poppy would have gone on her own, but now the prospect didn’t bother her. She was more concerned about whether she should leave Clara if she was ill.

It sounded like a very glamorous event and Poppy liked galleries. If the people were boring, she’d look at the art. But that was beside the point. She had to go because this was her job now, rather than just a way of earning pin money. She couldn’t just duck in and out at will; she had to think about how to support herself and Clara. Still, Clara’s health came first. Brigita was coming at six; she’d take her advice on what was the best thing to do.

She returned home on the dot of four to find Luke holding a very rumpled-looking Clara in his arms, her arms shielding her eyes.

‘Is bright, bright, Mummy. Wanna go back to bed.’

Poppy held out her arms. Luke passed her to her. ‘Sweetpea, are you OK?’

‘Bright!’

‘Have you had a drink?’

‘She had a beaker of water,’ said Luke. ‘And I gave her some Calpol at three. You’ll call the doctor if she gets worse?’

‘Of course!’

He knelt down and kissed Clara. ‘Darling, Daddy has to go now, but I’ll see you soon.’

A look of devastation crossed Clara’s face. ‘Don’t go, Daddy.’

‘I have to.’

She flung herself at him, screaming, wrapping her arms round his legs. Luke tried to prise her off. Poppy swallowed back the tears.

‘Darling, Daddy has to go, but he’ll be back very soon. I promise.’

‘Noooooo!’

‘I love you.’ Over the bawling, he spoke to Poppy. ‘You and I need to talk properly.’

‘I know.’

‘Maybe one day next week. We could have lunch.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘I’m free every day.’

‘I’m quite busy next week. A lot of meetings and some modelling jobs. I’ll look at my diary and let you know what I can do.’

‘OK.’ Luke knelt down and kissed his sobbing child.

‘My angel, I love you. I’ll see you very soon. We’ll go to the zoo.’

Clara screamed for the next hour. Poppy tried to feed her, but she threw all her supper on the floor. It was a huge relief when Brigita arrived.

‘Do you think she’s OK? Should I go out tonight?’

Brigita frowned. ‘She has temperature and a little rash. I think maybe she is having the poxy.’

‘The what?’

‘The chicken’s poxy. Is very common in children. And not serious.’

‘I should stay at home,’ Poppy said.

‘No, no, Mummy. Dinna you fret. This is not serious condition. You go out. Enjoy. Brigita can cope.’

‘Are you sure?’ Poppy was torn. She felt she should be at home, but what – realistically – could she do? She thought of the episode on Toby’s birthday. Little children were always getting sick and then getting better in the time it took to run a bath.

‘I am completely sure,’ Brigita said. ‘If Clara gets worse I will call you. Now go and get dressed. Don’t wear the black dress, it makes yer knees look funny.’

The party was in a marquee in the middle of Regent’s Park. Poppy had to run the gamut of photographers to leave the flat and then another gamut when she arrived. Walking under the long awning that led to the main marquee, she saw Toby standing at the cloakroom. For a second she froze. She turned to an expressionless waiter, took a glass of champagne from his tray and downed it in one. Then she stalked up to Toby.

‘Hello,’ she said coolly.

‘Oh! Hi!’ He bent down and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘How nice to see you.’

‘And you,’ she said haughtily. She hadn’t meant to check in her denim jacket or her bag but she wanted to keep Toby talking, so she handed them over to the young French woman behind the desk. Her emotions were seesawing. She’d dismissed Toby as dodgy, as a lightweight, but seeing him again she still felt the urge to prove herself to him, to see him grovel for his dilettantish behaviour.

‘How have you been?’ she said.

‘Really well. Look. I… I’m sorry, I’ve been meaning to call you, but it’s all been frantic. For you too, I’m guessing.’

‘Yes, it’s been really busy.’

‘Shall we?’ he said, flicking his head towards the main marquee where the party was buzzing away.

Poppy followed him in. It was quickly apparent that this was a more upmarket do than normal. The glamour models and boyband members who normally made up the numbers had been replaced by beaky-nosed men and women with accents so cut-glass they could double as trifle bowls. As usual, Toby seemed completely at ease, moving from group to group, shaking hands, laughing. Ill at ease, Poppy followed him like a shadow. She’d dismissed Toby as a stupid fling, but seeing him again she couldn’t deny the attraction that crackled between them like a force field, nor the fury she felt at how he’d treated her.

She focused her attention on a young man in a green Nehru jacket with a name Poppy knew would sprain her tongue if she tried to repeat it back to him.

‘How do you know Toby?’

‘Oh, just from round and about,’ she said airily.

‘So you must know Inge too?’

A shard of unease pierced Poppy’s breastbone. ‘Um, no,’ she said with a forced smile.

The man looked horrified. ‘Oh Christ! Have I put my foot in it? I’m always doing that.’

Poppy gave a hollow laugh. ‘Goodness, Toby’s not my boyfriend. He’s just a… mate.’

‘Thank God. I thought I’d really gone and goofed. Mind you, it wouldn’t have completely surprised me if they’d split up. Their relationship’s always been pretty volatile but since he moved into her place in Shoreditch it seemed to be on stronger ground. The thing is she’s away so much for work and a lot of temptation comes his way and… Are you OK?’

Thea was the happiest she’d been in weeks. Luke had left late that morning to visit Clara and after that he was taking Tilly and Isabelle to the theatre. She’d got her old Saturday back: a swim at the scuzzy local pool, a film at the Ritzy in Brixton with a family pack of Skittles. Now, as the sun started to go down, she turned Bob up loud on the stereo and ran a scalding Jo Malone bath. This was the life.

‘All by myself,’ she warbled as she climbed into the scalding water, ‘and it’s blooooody great!’

But it wasn’t really funny. She had to give Luke his marching orders. Maybe tonight when he got back. No, he’d still have to sleep there; it would be ludicrous. She’d tell him in the morning, giving him all day to make alternative arrangements. Hopefully seeing his children that day would have pricked his conscience enough to make him realize he had to go home.