As luck would have it, Olivier found a parking place a few yards from their house in Brunswick Gardens, beneath a leafy cherry tree that had not yet begun to turn. Angelica hurried up to the front door and waited for Olivier to join her with the key. She smiled as she thought of Jack and how close she had come to getting into trouble with her husband. There was nothing wrong with a flirt, she thought blithely. She felt more alive than she had in years. Perhaps the secret of happiness was in living dangerously. But how to make that feeling last?
3
Thinking positively will attract positive things into your life.
In Search of the Perfect Happiness
The following morning Angelica was awoken by the children climbing into her bed. Olivier had risen early to go to work, turning on the light and waking her up, but once he had gone she had drifted back to sleep and into Jack’s big embrace. She had felt a warm sense of belonging there, like a ship docking after a long time at sea. The children’s voices seemed distant, like gulls in a faraway sky, and she yearned to remain in those strong, protective arms. But the cries had grown into loud squawks, forcing her back into the present, where Joe and Isabel were fighting over the television control.
Sleepily, she took over and chose Tom and Jerry for them, then lay back on the pillow to savor the remaining traces of her dream. It was a new feeling to fancy someone. Since meeting Olivier in Paris in her mid-twenties she had had eyes only for him. Sure, he could be difficult and demanding, like a petulant child who expects his every whim to be indulged and sulks when he feels unappreciated, but she had always been dazzled by him. He had the power to send her spirits soaring and, as so often happens with mercurial men, the same power to pull her down. Her attraction to him had never waned, and she had always relished his touch, even though it was rare these days.
Jack had made her feel attractive in a way Olivier no longer could. There was nothing like the first spark of desire. She had forgotten the magnetic pull of another human being, the invisible force that held her attention wherever he was in the room, the sense of loss when he was out of sight. Those bees in the pit of her belly that made it impossible to eat or sleep. It had been a decade since Olivier had made her tremble with nerves. Her meeting with Jack was like an invigorating wind sweeping through her sails, shaking them out, reminding her that she was still attractive.
She breakfasted with the children, a dance in her step, an Abba tune on her lips. Then they skipped off to play in the garden, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She sat in front of the newspaper, a cup of tea in her hands, lost in the sunlight flooding the kitchen. It didn’t matter if she never saw him again: he had caused something to shift inside her and now everything looked more radiant.
She jumped when the telephone rang at nine. It was Candace. “Hey, Angelica, you’re still alive!”
“Oh God, I’m more alive than ever.”
“So you had a fight, then made up in the most degenerate way possible.”
“No.” She sighed dreamily. “I fell in love last night.”
“I get a feeling this isn’t about Olivier.”
“You’re right. It was nothing more than an innocent flirt, but God, I feel fantastic this morning.”
“Who was he?”
“Some friend of Scarlet and William’s from South Africa.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It’s just that I haven’t fancied anyone in years, and I’d forgotten how good it feels.”
“Did Olivier suspect?”
“No, he was too busy flirting with Caterina Tintello.”
“Oh, that old reptile. She’s anyone’s!”
“Well, he was welcome to her. She diverted his attention, so I had Jack all to myself. God, he’s attractive. Scarlet warned me, and she’s absolutely right, he’s bad news, but . . .”
“But?”
“There’s nothing wrong with a harmless flirt.”
“After that belt comment I’d say it’s what Olivier deserves!”
“He doesn’t think before he speaks. He’s so French.”
“Well, honey, I’m glad you’ve realized you’ve still got it. It won’t do Olivier any harm. He takes you for granted. I’m not saying you need to do anything drastic, but a little flirt every now and then will remind him that if he doesn’t play his cards right, you might find someone else who does.”
“What about you? Has Harry forgiven you?”
“I told him I’d been at the back for the whole second half. Fortunately, I heard a couple of old biddies discussing it in the ladies’ room afterwards and just repeated their opinions.”
“Have you heard from Kate?”
“Yes, she rang at dawn, God love her. I was fast asleep!” She growled a laugh. “Pete gets back tonight, so she’s got to pull herself together. I suggested we all meet up for lunch at Cipriani tomorrow to console ourselves after the kids have gone back to school. I know most mothers long for the end of the summer vacation, but I’m going to be bereft. I’m dreading it.”
“She might listen to some advice.”
“Not old Groundhog! Oh, she’ll listen as if her life depends on it, but the minute you walk out that door she’s forgotten all the wise words you’ve given her and is off to make the same mistakes all over again. I have more success reasoning with my dog.”
“What’s she going to do?”
“I know what she should do.”
“Which is?”
“Get rid of it.”
“She’ll never do that.”
“God will understand.”
“Hers won’t.”
“It’s better than the alternative. If Pete finds out it’s not his, he’ll leave her. Period. I’d hate to have to support her through a divorce. Besides, I don’t think she’d survive it. She’s very fragile.”
“But what if the baby comes out looking like someone else?”
“Depends who that someone else is.”
“Any ideas?”
“No, but I’m working on it. Whose shoulder does she cry on?”
“Not my husband’s, at least. Olivier finds her intolerable.”
“But it could be anyone else’s!”
“I’d better call her.”
“Then bring the kids over for lunch.”
Angelica went upstairs to dress. She put on a CD, and the throaty voice of Amy Winehouse filled the house. Sunshine flooded her bathroom, bouncing playfully off the marble and mirrors, a rare sunny day in what had been the very grayest of summers. She knew she should start on a new book, but continuing in the same mold didn’t inspire her at all, and today, she felt wildly free from care. Perhaps she didn’t have it in her to write any more novels. Five was a decent number, after all, and they had done pretty well. She hadn’t hit the big time, but they sold all over the world, and she had broken into America with the last one, which was based in Arizona. Her latest, The Silk Serpent, was due out in March, and her publicist was trying to get her to go and promote it in Australia. She was big in Oz, apparently. Perhaps she should quit while ahead and float about having lunches with her girlfriends and pondering the meaning of life. Olivier didn’t like her working anyway. He made no secret of the fact that she was a wife and mother first and that her writing was merely a hobby. But what would she do if she didn’t write? Candace was busy with her charities; Letizia was a contributing editor for Vogue; Scarlet ran her own PR company, Bright Scarlet Communications; and Kate modeled, for catalogues mostly. Writing was the only thing Angelica was good at. She brushed her doubts away. Today, she was free of care. Jack’s memory hadn’t faded, and when she looked in the mirror she saw an attractive, sensual woman, Spanx or no Spanx!
She slipped out of her nightie and opened her underwear drawer, where the neat rows of matching Calvin Klein lace panties and bras lay unused. With a shiver of guilty pleasure she chose a set in ivory. So, she didn’t have the lean, slender figure of her youth, but she was undeniably All Woman. Riding on the crest of this most enthusiastic of w
aves, she decided to join Candace’s Pilates class in Notting Hill. It was about time she took a grip, and David Higgins’s classes promised quick results. Candace was blessed with height and the long legs of a racehorse, but she insisted her flat stomach and sculpted waist were down to David’s rigorous regime. Angelica would never be tall like Candace and no miracle could lengthen her legs, but she could tone up and lose weight. Not for Olivier, not even for Jack, but for herself. The handsome South African had inspired her to get in shape.
She pulled on a pair of jeans, pink trainers, and a floral blouse from Paul & Joe, leaving her unruly hair to fall over her shoulders in shiny curls. She felt the underwear clinging to her skin and smiled at her own daring, as if she were wearing it especially for Jack to take off.
Before leaving the house she telephoned Kate, who sounded a lot better in spite of her hangover. “Candace asked me for lunch today as well,” Kate said, “but Mum is bringing the children back and having lunch with me here. I have an idea, which I’ll share with you tomorrow at Cipriani.” Angelica wished she’d share the identity of the Other Man. “Thank you for coming over yesterday. You didn’t get into too much trouble with Olivier, I hope?”
“No, he was fine,” she lied.
“He knows how much I need you. I don’t know what I’d do without all my friends.”
Without an audience there’d be no play, thought Angelica cynically. “That’s what friends are for,” she said. “To pick you up when you fall.”
“I’ve fallen very hard this time.”
“Nothing you can’t cope with.”
“I’m not sure, this time. I think I’ve really gone and blown it!”
“No, you haven’t. These things are sent to make us stronger.”
“Would it make me stronger to lose Pete . . . and the children?”
“You’re not going to lose anyone. Look, you said you had a plan.”
“Yes, I do.” The strength returned to Kate’s voice.
“Hold that thought until tomorrow, then we can all discuss it over a glass of wine and a delicious meal.” She forgot that Kate didn’t eat.
“Okay, thank you again, Angelica. I owe you one.”
Angelica put down the telephone and wondered what it was that compelled them all to buzz around Kate like worker bees around the queen. Was it her vulnerability that inspired them all to look after her? Or her charm, of which she had an inordinate amount? How could someone like Kate be taught the art of happiness—or even the art of serenity?
• • •
Angelica spent the morning in Harrods buying shoes for the children and picking up the uniforms she had ordered in July but forgotten all about. Efficient mothers, like Candace and Letizia, had complete winter sets in the right sizes by June, all name-taped and folded in the children’s cupboards for the beginning of the autumn term. They returned to London from the South of France or the Hamptons with nothing more than the odd haircut to organize. Angelica, on the other hand, squeezed all the back-to-school tasks into the week before term started, dragging the children around town in a fever to buy the long list of things they required. They’d return from each shopping trip armed with toys that Angelica had been too weak to deny them. Every year she cursed her lack of organization, but every year it was the same last-minute rush.
She arrived late for lunch at Candace’s, the boot of the car filled with shiny green Harrods bags. Candace lived in leafy Notting Hill, where the pavements were wide and tree lined, and shiny Mercedes and BMW four-by-fours were parked among Porsches and the odd Aston Martin. Her silver Great Dane greeted them at the door, alongside the Filipina maid in a pink-and-white uniform. Candace’s children scampered upstairs excitedly to hide, followed by Joe and Isabel, who hurried past their mother to chase after them. Candace was on the telephone in the immaculately weeded garden, lying on a sun lounger, a glass of fruit juice on the table with the October issue of American Vogue. When she saw her friend, she waved. “Isn’t this glorious!” She pushed her Dior sunglasses to the top of her head, sweeping her thick hair off her face.
“I see you’re making the most of it,” said Angelica, descending the steps to join her.
“It’ll rain tomorrow.” Candace had the sleek brown skin of her Latina mother and the pale green eyes of her father, a stunning combination that enhanced her fine features. “Come and join me. How hungry are the kids?”
“They’ve all disappeared upstairs.”
“Great, let’s lie out a little longer. They’ll come down when they want to eat.”
“Mine had doughnuts in Harrods.”
“Did you get everything done?”
“Just about.” Angelica dropped her handbag to the grass, ignoring the lip gloss that rolled out, and flopped onto the lounger beside Candace. “I spoke to Kate. She says she has a plan.”
“I wonder what that could be?” Candace laughed dismissively. “I’m not holding my breath. You do realize we’ve got nine months of this soap opera?” Candace sipped her juice. “Ringside seats.”
“Why do we all flock around her? What is it that makes her so compelling?”
“Because our lives would be dreadfully dull without her little dramas to entertain us.” Candace grinned mischievously. “Why don’t you have a little drama for a change?”
“My life is very drama free, thank God.”
“It was until last night.”
“Where it began and ended.”
“It just shows that you’re ripe for an affair.”
“Oh really, Candace, the sun has gone to your head.”
“No, I’m just putting it out there.”
“Well, pull it back in again, fast! You think I have time for an affair?”
“What? Too busy, like JFK, Lloyd George, and Clinton?”
Angelica laughed. “You think I’d risk all that I have for a fling?”
“That’s the fun of it, apparently. The risk, the excitement.”
“I prefer sitting in the audience watching Kate’s life spiraling out of control. I couldn’t live like that—it’s exhausting.”
“You’d be surprised how many women have affairs at our age. Ten years of marriage, bored of the monotonous plod, plod of their daily lives. Then some handsome, dashing stranger walks in and ignites a flame they thought had died.”
“The flame Olivier ignited all those years ago is still burning strong, I assure you.”
“I hope so. But you felt the frisson of attraction last night, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. But I can leave it at that. I really don’t care if I never see him again.”
“But there might be another Jack around the corner. You’re on receive. I’ll bet there have been countless Jacks in the last ten years, but you haven’t noticed them because you haven’t been on receive. It doesn’t mean you don’t love Olivier, just that you are ready for a little excitement. Just warning you to be careful.”
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
“I have the knowledge but not the experience. I just observe what goes on around me. I don’t know what it is about me, but people confide in me. Look at you. I’ll bet you haven’t told Kate, Scarlet, or Letizia about last night.”
“You’re right. I haven’t told anyone.”
“There you go. I’m the keeper of secrets, the sacred vault.”
“You should be the one writing the book.”
“How’s that going by the way?”
“It’s not.”
Candace put her glasses back on and curled her glossy lips into a smile. “All you need is a little inspiration.”
That evening Angelica and Olivier had dinner alone together in the kitchen. Angelica had cooked a root vegetable soup and Thai noodles with ginger, but not even his favorite dish could raise her husband’s spirits. He told her about his day, his fear that the City was on the brink of collapse, speculating that thousands of jobs were under threat. The financial world was about to implode, and Olivier was right in the midd
le of it. He looked gray and tired.
“I’ve got a sore throat,” he added gravely, as if that was the worst thing to befall him. “I had it this morning when I woke up.”
“Have you taken anything for it?”
He shrugged helplessly. “Only aspirin.”
“You should gargle with TCP.”
“I can’t abide the taste of that stuff. I’ll have an inhalation and sleep in the spare room.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“If I can’t sleep I want to watch television.”
“Take Night Nurse, that’ll knock you out.”
“And make me feel drugged in the morning.” He took a spoonful of soup. “This is very soothing.”
“Good.”
“I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning. I can’t afford to take time off work at the moment.”
“Oh, you’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.”
“I don’t know . . . these things tend to linger.”
Angelica recalled the times she had been nearly incapacitated with flu and still managed to look after the children. She grinned into her bowl. Throughout history, men had fought bloody battles with incredible acts of bravery, and yet nothing could slay a man more surely than a sore throat.
Olivier retreated to the spare room after fumigating the kitchen with his Karvol inhalation. Angelica had a bath, lighting candles and scenting the water with aromatherapy oils. She lay back and closed her eyes, letting her mind wander wherever it chose, reining it in when Jack’s face surfaced and his arms spread wide to hold her. It was still early when she climbed into bed. She didn’t have the will to read—other people’s books just reminded her of her current lack of imagination—so she put on a DVD instead. An old movie, one of her favorites: Falling in Love, with Meryl Streep and Robert De Niro. She had seen it countless times but still managed to cry when they found each other on the train at the end.
She switched off the light and lay in the semidarkness listening to the distant drone of cars and the sudden roar of a motorbike as it sped up Bayswater Road. The bed was large, and she felt small lying there, alone. When the children were younger, they’d pad across the landing to climb in beside her. She had relished those nights snuggled up against their warm little bodies, listening to the reassuring rise and fall of their breathing. Now the children slept soundly down the corridor, and Olivier was wallowing in self-pity in the spare room upstairs. Tonight, there was no one to hold but in her dreams.
The Perfect Happiness Page 4
