The Model Wife (5 page)

‘Capeesh,’ Luke agreed.

‘You are a happily married man, Luke. You’ve found true love with your pretty, young second wife and your baby girl. End of story.
N’est-ce-pas?
’

‘Absolutely.’ Luke’s heart was off again. Shit. Did he know? How could he?

Dean winked. ‘So it won’t bother you in the slightest to hear that Thea Mackharven is coming back from New York as a senior producer. She’s an excellent journalist and I’m delighted she’s agreed to return to be part of my crack team.’

Thea? Luke almost collapsed in relief. Did Dean think she was an old girlfriend? Of course there’d been the odd shag over the years, but that hardly made them Romeo and Juliet.

‘That’s excellent news,’ he said sincerely. ‘She’ll be a great asset to the show.’

‘I’m glad you think so. She was wasted in the States.’ Dean grinned, showing a row of pointy teeth, then stood up, indicating the talk was at an end. ‘It’s great to have finally met you, Luke. I’ll arrange dinner for us all to get to know each other asap.’ He pronounced it
ay-sap
. ‘In the meantime, just remember, not everyone’s on your side but
I am
.’

‘That’s great to hear. And it’s great to have you on board. I know the show’s going to improve hugely with you at the helm.’ Luke cringed at his disloyalty to Chris, but what could he do? Everyone knew the rules. They’d all join Chris in the Bricklayer’s tonight for his impromptu leaving do. They’d get plastered, swear they couldn’t work without him and in the morning they’d get up, take some Resolve and start sucking up to Dean. The editor was dead, long live the editor.

5

On that same grey Tuesday, oblivious to the upheavals in her husband’s life, Poppy Norton was pushing a buggy containing her toddler, Clara, round Tesco’s in Maida Vale. She was desperately trying to remember what she’d written on the shopping list she’d so carefully compiled then left lying on her kitchen table. Organic milk for Clara. Orange juice. Glenda, the cleaner whom Luke had hired even though Poppy had protested she was perfectly capable of cleaning the house herself, had wanted some kind of product for getting limescale off the bath, but for the life of her Poppy couldn’t remember its name.

And then there’d been all the ingredients for the dinner she was going to cook for Luke on Friday, which was both his day off and their second anniversary. Poppy had decided to treat him to salmon – Luke loved fish – in a creamy herb sauce, but what were the herbs again?

Damn. Poppy had been quite excited about her culinary foray. When she and Luke had got together he’d been shocked at her lack of cooking skills, demanding how anyone could seriously exist on a diet of Pot Noodles and long-life apple juice. ‘And what’s this?’ he’d asked, brandishing her pot of Crème de la Mer she’d pinched from a photo shoot.

‘Don’t eat that! It costs about two hundred pounds a jar!’

5°

‘Christ,’ he’d sighed, ‘two-hundred-pound face cream and there’s not even any decent bread and butter in the house.’ He paused, then added, ‘Any more,’ making it clear Hannah had always paid attention to such details.

When Poppy had dreamt about marriage and children it had been a misty montage involving a lot of scampering and cuddling and certainly no wiping of filthy bottoms and laundering of stained bibs. If the vision was more concrete, she saw herself as Maria in the
Sound of Music
with dozens of children snuggled up in bed round her as a thunderstorm raged outside.

It hadn’t occurred to her that having them still snuggled in bed with her at three a.m. when her grumpy husband wanted sex might not be quite such fun. Not that her imaginary husband was ever grumpy – oh no, he was an adoring man gazing at her across a crystal-laden, candle-lit dinner table saying things like ‘You have made my life complete’. It hadn’t crossed her mind that
she
would have to put that crystal and candles on the table, that
she
would have to make the dinner, satisfying Luke’s demands for home-cooked food. That
she
would have to make sure there were always three different types of muesli in the house, plus ‘decent’ bread, posh French butter, chunky marmalade, Bonne Maman jam, Marmite.
Good
coffee (i.e. Lavazza not Nescafé). Fresh orange juice. And that was just breakfast.

‘Usually Luke leaves for the office about ten,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘And in the evenings, of course, he’s presenting the news and usually has dinner either in the work canteen before the show, or goes out afterwards with colleagues. So usually I just microwave a baked potato for myself and then I have a tub of Skinny Cow ice cream while I watch Luke on TV.’

Poppy couldn’t remember when she’d started giving interviews. Some time after Clara was born, she’d begun to enjoy little chats in her head explaining to a sympathetic lady from a magazine about how she was rooting for Nisha, the former children’s TV presenter, to win this year’s
Strictly Come Dancing
. How she’d just been to visit Hogarth’s House in Chiswick and couldn’t believe such an oasis of tranquillity existed just off one of the busiest roads in London. How Clara’s favourite thing at the moment was to feed the ducks in the canal while shouting ‘Quack, quack.’ All the little things she longed to share with Luke but which he was rarely around to listen to; and even if he was they seemed to bore him.

‘Mummeeee!’ Clara interrupted her mother’s train of thought.

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Mummeee, Clara get out.’

‘In a minute, darling. Just let Mummy finish her shopping.’ She looked up and caught the eye of another buggy-pusher. Tall, dark, probably quite pretty once, but old, at least forty, and haggard. Poppy recognized her from the baby clinic. They’d both been regulars in the hellish newborn days when Poppy had been so tired she’d once scattered formula powder over Luke’s pasta thinking it was Parmesan and cleaned Clara’s filthy bottom with a Flash floor wipe. Poppy smiled at her.

‘Hi!’

The woman frowned as she tried to place her. ‘Oh, hi, how are you?’

‘Fine.’ She smiled into the buggy at the woman’s little boy, whose name she couldn’t remember. ‘How are you sweetie? Wow, you’re so big now.’

‘She’s sweet,’ the other woman said dutifully, eyeing Clara. ‘What’s her name again?’

‘Clara.’

‘Oh? I know two other Claras. And a Clare.’

‘Right.’ How was Poppy supposed to react to this? Change her child’s name? ‘I’m trying to find something to get limescale off the bath,’ she said with a little laugh. ‘Do you know what it might be called?’

‘Viakal,’ the mother said, jabbing a finger in the direction of cleaning products. Then her expression lit up as she saw another buggy-pusher, this one with grey hair in a bun. ‘Marcia! Hey, how are
you
? You weren’t at Gymboree yesterday. Do you have time for a coffee?’

‘Bye,’ said Poppy. ‘Thanks.’ But she was ignored. It was always the same. Because she was so young, the other mums seemed to think she was beneath their contempt. She’d tried the mother and baby groups, the music sessions, but all the mums were so much older. Occasionally, she’d see someone of her own age and her heart would quicken, but when she spoke to them they always turned out to be the nanny or the au pair, always with their own network of nanny and au pair friends, who regarded mothers in the same way the Palestinians did the Israelis.

That was the main thing that had never featured in Poppy’s fantasies: that as a wife and mother she’d be so lonely; that she’d have days when her only adult exchanges would be with the bored-looking Indian men at the supermarket checkout. Days when she actively listened for the postman because, if she timed it right, she could collar him on the doorstep and engage him in a couple of minutes’ chat about the weather – despite the fact he was all the while backing away.

Luke was frequently away and he often neglected to call for days, ignoring her anguished messages and texts. Poppy would send them frantic with worry that he’d stepped on a landmine, only to turn on the news at seven thirty and see him right as rain. ‘Sorry, darling,’ he’d say absently when she tackled him about it. ‘Often we have no signal and when I’m on a deadline I don’t do personal stuff. I will try harder.’ And he did for a while, but then the calls dropped off and Poppy eventually got used to it, just as she got used to him being very terse with her when she did call, and to life alone with a baby. The early, sleepless days had been incredibly hard with a screaming baby, no friends in the same boat and no support from her mother. ‘Babies are a nightmare. I went to hell and back with you,’ had been Louise’s helpful contribution.

Luke did find Clara sweet, but he just wasn’t around much, either working late, or away on foreign trips and, despite his three children, could offer no advice. ‘Hannah did the baby side of things,’ was all he said vaguely whenever Poppy asked him for tips on burping or weaning.

But gradually things had got easier. She’d always loved Clara even at her screechiest worst and now she was walking and talking, she had become Poppy’s little buddy. They spent long days together reading stories, watching the ducks drift down the canal and, especially now Clara was older and marginally more civilized, exploring hidden corners of London. Together, they’d discovered the graceful church of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe in Black-friars with its cosy wood interior; the magnificent paintings of the Wallace Collection with its enclosed garden and fountain with a golden snake; the quirky Middle Eastern shops on the Edgware Road with their piles of pomegranates and dill, unripe mangoes and dusty Turkish Delight.

‘Mummeee!’

‘Yes, darling, Mummy will just pay and then you can walk home.’

Now her basket contained organic milk, orange juice, Cheerios (the health visitor had told Poppy she should be giving her daughter porridge for breakfast but Clara loathed it and threw it at the walls) and Viakal. Sod the fish. She’d buy some tomorrow from the fishmonger in Chapel Street market. That would be the day’s project. Poppy had long since realized that one of the skills for making motherhood bearable was time management. She never bought more than a basket of stuff because, firstly, if she put too many bags on the back of the Maclaren buggy it tipped over, and, secondly, because she needed an excuse for leaving the house tomorrow.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the new
Tatler
on the magazine rack. Grinning from the cover was Daisy McNeil, Poppy’s biggest rival from her modelling days. They were both healthy-looking, blue-eyed blondes with big teeth and had always been sent for the same jobs. Usually Poppy got them, but not any more, obviously. Below it, with the newspapers, was a
Daily Post
. Oh fuck, it was Tuesday. Which meant… yes, there above the masthead was a grinning Hannah. THE DEMISE OF THE TROPHY WIFE, the paper screamed and underneath ‘Hannah Creighton on the death of the bimbo spouse’.

Oh, no. Oh, no. Not another attack. Hannah had been silent for a few weeks. But just as you knew the axe-wielding serial killer in a horror movie was pretending to be dead, so he could suddenly jump up and terrify the heroine, Poppy knew she could never relax as long as she and Luke’s ex-wife shared the same planet.

It had been a nasty shock when just a few weeks after Clara was born Poppy had opened the
Daily Post
to see a huge picture on page eighteen of Luke and a pretty redhead with their arms round each other, next to a headline screaming: MY HUSBAND, THE BIMBO AND ME by Hannah Creighton. The picture caption read ‘Luke and Hannah in Happier Times’ and there was a smaller picture of Poppy looking particularly stupid in a red, flowery hat, with the caption ‘The Other Woman – Poppy Price’.

There then followed the heartbreaking story of Hannah’s marriage break up. Since when, there had been a weekly bulletin about Hannah’s wonderful new life as a divorcee, overflowing with friends, exotic holidays, interesting work and incredible sex.

At the same time, frequent digs were made at the ‘cad’ and the ‘bimbo’ (after the first column she had never again mentioned Poppy by name, which was something, Poppy supposed). Hannah described how she had heard the marriage had run into trouble once the baby had been born, how she couldn’t help but feel sorry for Poppy lumbered with a man who bought Viagra on the internet.

Of course, the columns raised all sorts of questions. Timidly, Poppy tackled Luke about them and he responded furiously. ‘Of course I didn’t beg her to get back with me; of course there weren’t dozens of women before you; of course I didn’t order Viagra on the internet.’ After the last, he softened. ‘Why would I do that? Do I need any help in the bedroom?’ Poppy had had to believe him or she would have gone insane, but the doubt still lingered just under the surface, like a splinter the tweezers couldn’t quite grasp.

Initially, there’d been a flurry of calls and letters and emails from various newspapers, including the
Post
itself, asking if Poppy would like to give an interview defending herself. She’d been up for the chance to put her side across, but Luke had said absolutely no way in a tone that brooked no argument and after a while the approaches had stopped, even though Hannah’s attacks continued.

Glancing round the supermarket, Poppy stuffed the paper in her basket as if it were a porn mag. She paid, and outside, released Clara from the buggy for the torturously slow walk home, with stops to examine every stone, twig and cigarette butt that lay between Clifton Gardens and Blomfield Road. Poppy’s phone rang in her pocket. Meena. Bored at work again.

‘Hi, gorgeous.’ Poppy tried to sound chipper.

‘Hiiii, trophy wife. I’ve just read that bitch in the
Post
slagging you off again. Silly cow. She’s just jealous because you’re young and beautiful and she’s a forty-something has-been.’

‘Oh right. I haven’t seen it,’ Poppy lied. Meena always got cross with Poppy for letting Hannah get to her.

‘Good. Don’t. It’ll just upset you. So how are things?’

‘Well, Clara’s had a bit of diarrhoea but—’

‘Too. Much. Information.’ Meena was very sweet to Clara when she saw her, pulling faces and tickling her, but like most childless people she had simply no inkling of the gigantic space a child took up in your life. Poppy didn’t blame her, not so long ago she’d been equally clueless. ‘So what have you been up to?’

‘Oh, the usual. Shopping.’

‘In Westbourne Grove?’ Meena perked up.

‘No, Tesco’s, you muppet.’

‘Poppy! I don’t get it. You’ve married a rich man, why don’t you spend more time flexing his plastic?’

‘You know I don’t like shopping much. It’s boring.’ Plus, the joy of wandering around boutiques, flicking through racks of clothes and fingering fabrics, was somewhat diminished when your daughter had a habit of lifting up the changing-room curtain just as you’d thrown your bra on the ground, or dashing off into the shop when you were wearing nothing but knickers and tights. But Poppy wasn’t going to go into that. In any case, Meena was moving on.

‘Listen, you’ve got to help me. Dan’s texted.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Dan was a banker from Goldman’s or Salamon’s – Poppy forgot which – who Meena occasionally slept with. ‘What did he say?’

“‘R U around Saturday nite?” What do you think? Do you think that’s good?’

‘Of course it’s good.’ Poppy never quite understood the arcane rituals surrounding Meena’s love life. Because her only proper boyfriend had been Luke, she’d missed out on the rite of passage that was flirting in bars, one-night stands, waiting for texts, studying his page on Bebo, all the things that dominated her friend’s existence. Poppy tried to give useful advice, but she felt often as if she were trying to translate that day’s
Financial Times
into Mandarin, so limited was her vocabulary in the language of emoticons and poking.