The Perfect Happiness

by Santa Montefiore

  4

  If you love yourself, you open yourself up to being loved in return.

  In Search of the Perfect Happiness

  The following morning Angelica woke the children early for their first day back at school. They had spent the whole summer going to bed late and waking up at eight, so she had to open their curtains and stroke their faces, coaxing them out of their deep sleep with gentle words of encouragement. They lay inert, their warm bodies curled up beneath their duvets, their pale faces buried into their pillows. She felt sorry for them. There was nothing pleasant about being woken for school, even if it was the most luxurious in London.

  Isabel rolled over and stretched like a cat, blinking in the weak light of a gray day. Joe staggered into the bathroom, where he hovered dangerously by the loo, eyes half closed, barely aware of his aim. Angelica rushed to steady him so that he didn’t wee all over the floor.

  Once awake, they recovered quickly, rushing about with excitement, throwing their pillows at each other while Angelica struggled to get them washed and dressed. She knew how important it was for them to look polished for their new class teachers. She hadn’t expected them to be concerned about her.

  “Mummy, I hope you’re not going to wear that into school,” said Joe.

  Angelica looked down at her wide-leg jeans and trainers. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “All the other mothers will look cool. You look like you haven’t tried.”

  Angelica was mortified. Her jeans weren’t any old pair, but Hudson’s most fashionable, and her trainers were shiny new silver ones. “What do you think, Isabel?”

  “I want you to wear your big shoes.” She meant the new Tory Burch platforms Letizia had brought back from America.

  “Well, if you really mind, I’ll change.”

  “Zeus’s mummy’s very cool,” said Joe.

  Angelica couldn’t disagree. Jenna Elrich was famously glamorous, if somewhat overdone in Angelica’s opinion. She was one of those girls who wore cream in midwinter, real fur, a lot of big gold jewelry, and oversized sunglasses even when there was no sun.

  “She is cool, Joe darling, but I’ll never be as cool as her. I haven’t the time to spend my mornings being blow-dried at Richard Ward.”

  Joe wasn’t listening: he was too busy sneaking his favorite Power Ranger toys into his backpack. Angelica changed into a pair of J Brand jeans, the brown platforms Isabel had requested, and a Burberry khaki jacket.

  When Joe saw her, he nodded his approval. “That’s better,” he said.

  She threw on a gold Yves Saint Laurent necklace for good measure and wondered whether other mothers were dictated to by their children.

  The scene at the school gates was pandemonium. The road was partially blocked by shiny chauffeur-driven cars. One or two bodyguards with important-looking devices plugged into their ears trailed their small charges, while handsome fathers in suits and long-legged Prada-clad mothers, with straightened blond hair and suntans, tried to control their excited children as they greeted their friends and gossiped on the pavement. The air was thick with perfume and voices and the odd irritated mutter from a local trying to get to Kensington Gardens to walk his dog. Angelica lived close enough to school to walk and stopped to chat to those she knew on the way.

  They shook hands with the headmistress, who remarked how much they had grown and how much the sun had bleached their hair. “We spent the summer with Olivier’s family in Provence,” Angelica told her, aware that it sounded far more glamorous than it really was. The women in his family were a coven of grumpy, dissatisfied witches bent on making everyone around them as miserable as they were. The only consolation was his father, who was dashing and charming, with old-fashioned manners and a dry, cynical wit that made her laugh, mostly at his wife’s and daughters’ expense.

  She was happy to find Candace and Letizia in the hall, talking to Scarlet. When she saw her, Scarlet grabbed her arm exuberantly. “You have a fan, Angelica!”

  “She has many fans,” Candace interjected.

  “Sure, but this one’s very smitten.”

  “Who is he?” Letizia asked.

  “A devilishly handsome South African I put her next to at dinner. I didn’t notice that you two had hit it off.”

  Angelica blushed and tossed her hair casually. “He was fun.”

  “Well, he thinks you’re gorgeous! He called to tell me what a rare and special woman you are. Duh! Tell me something I don’t know!”

  “I hope he knows she’s married,” said Letizia.

  “He’s married, too, but it doesn’t stop his flirting as if he were single.” Scarlet laughed huskily. “You know, I was in Clapham yesterday seeing my acupuncturist, and I spotted him knocking on a little door at the end of the street. He looked really nervous. I was about to shout out and wave, but knowing him as I do, and what a terrible old rogue he is, I left him to his business.”

  “A lover perhaps?” asked Candace.

  “Without doubt,” Scarlet agreed. Angelica was surprised to feel the twist of jealousy in her gut. Scarlet continued, “He might be badly behaved, but he’s very attractive.”

  “He wasn’t badly behaved with me,” Angelica retorted nonchalantly. “He just flirted a little.”

  “I hope Olivier noticed,” said Scarlet. “It would do him good to swallow some of his own medicine.”

  The four of them took the children to their new classes. None of them looked as immaculate as Candace’s children, with their perfectly ironed uniforms and polished shoes, their hair shining like silk. When it came to saying good-bye, Candace bent down and hugged them as if they were embarking on a long voyage rather than a short day at school. “I hate leaving them,” she said, her eyes glittering with tears as they walked back down the corridor.

  “They love it here,” said Angelica.

  “Oh, I know they do, but what about me? I’m a wreck.”

  Angelica laughed at the absurdity of such a suggestion. Candace, with her manicured nails, sleek hair, and beautiful face was nowhere near a wreck. She looked typically pristine in skinny jeans and flat shoes, an olive cashmere vest worn over a crisp white shirt. Her beloved Birkin handbag hung on her arm, almost eclipsing the enormous diamond ring Harry had bought her on his last business trip to Hong Kong. Angelica doubted Candace’s children had ever criticized her choice of clothes. “They’ll be out in less than seven hours.”

  “I know, but the first day is always hard. I hate the emptiness in the house. All I can hear is the scuffle of feet as Florencia goes up and down the stairs to clean and Ralph lies in his basket sulking because the children aren’t there to play with him. Thank God we’re having lunch somewhere nice today. I don’t think I could bear being at home on my own watching the clock.”

  “I’m going to get to my desk, finally,” said Angelica, wondering what she was going to do there.

  “I’m going shopping. Screw the credit crunch!”

  “I would say the credit crunch demands it. There’s no point adding to the misery by denying the shopgirls their commission.”

  “I’m so glad you see it that way. I thought I’d pop into Harvey Nichols—fancy a little wander around the first floor?”

  “Much as I’d love to, I’d better try to do something. Besides, I haven’t checked my e-mails in weeks.”

  They made their way through the throng of parents to the street, where Candace was met by her chauffeur. She climbed into the front seat and waved a bejeweled hand at Angelica. “See you later,” she shouted, already pressing her telephone to her ear.

  Angelica turned towards home, imagining Joe and Isabel settling into their new classes, when a voice shouted at her from the other side of the street. It was Jenna Elrich. Her heart sank. Jenna held her son’s hand and crossed the road without a glance at the Range Rover that had to brake suddenly to let her pass. “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’m great,” said Angelica, taking in the big hair and giant sunglasses that made he
r look like an insect. She was tanned the color of her Gucci handbag, but her face had the remains of a frosty beauty.

  “How’s Joe?”

  “Thrilled to be back.”

  “Zeus didn’t want to come to school today. I had to drag him out of bed complaining. ‘Mais Maman, je ne veux pas aller a l’école!’ Isn’t that right, Zeus?” Angelica was startled by such pretentiousness. Her own children had a French father, but she wouldn’t dream of showing off so shamelessly.

  “Oh, he’ll be fine when he gets inside. Miss Emma’s incredibly sweet.”

  “We’ve had such a busy summer. I’m exhausted. We’ve just finished the house in Mustique, but there are terrible delays on the chalet in Gstaad. I’ve told John that if they don’t finish it by Christmas, I don’t want it. Then Jennifer got sick and had to be flown back to London, so I had to have the children on my own for two weeks in Biarritz without a nanny! Imagine the horror of it! So now I’m interviewing for a new nanny, if you hear of anyone who’s looking.”

  “I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”

  “Well, I’d better get on, or Zeus will be the last boy to arrive, and that won’t be a good way to start the new year.” Then as an afterthought, she added, “You look great, by the way. I wish I could do that tousled, just-got-out-of bed look, but I always end up looking polished.” Angelica watched her stride off in her leather boots and big coat and hoped she’d boil to death in the heat of the school building. Tousled, just got out of bed! she thought indignantly, marching up the road. If there’s one woman I can’t abide, it’s Jenna Elrich.

  At last she sat down at her desk in her office at the top of the house overlooking the garden. With its pale walls and New England furniture, leafy plants and bookshelves, it was her little sanctuary, where Olivier couldn’t complain about the scented candles and her choice of music, a room of her very own where she could meditate without disturbance and dream without distraction. With a sigh of pleasure she sat in her chair and switched on the computer. It had been a long summer away, and it felt good to be back. While the computer was starting up she lit a candle and switched on her iPod.

  The sight of the seventy e-mails was alarming at first, but after scanning the list she realized that most were spam and could be swiftly deleted. There was one from her agent, Claudia Hemmingway, and a couple from her editor in New York. She replied briefly, skipping the ones from friends asking them for dinner and printing out long epistles to read later. Then her eyes caught sight of a familiar name: Jack Meyer. With a rush of curiosity she clicked on his name. How on earth had he found her?

  Dear Sage, I hope you don’t mind my writing to you. I’ve been thinking about the idea for your book (which I think is great, by the way). I’m back in Rosenbosch now. It’s spring. The air is infused with the smell of flowers and camphor. I love this time of year: everything is new and exciting. I think you should come out—it would really inspire you. I enjoyed meeting you in London very much. I love your Web site by the way, though there aren’t enough pictures of you and the ones that are there are not as beautiful as the real woman. From Dog Safely on Porch

  She stared at the words in amusement. What a devil to have taken the trouble to find her Web site. He knew she was married. Judging by his adventures in Clapham, he obviously got a kick out of living dangerously. She read it again, dwelling on the best bits. She could hear his voice in her head, the lilt of his accent, his gravelly tone, and she smiled. She could imagine the Dutch vineyard of Rosenbosch settled beneath a bright blue sky, surrounded by camphor trees and budding flowers, and visualized his lying on the grass with a pair of binoculars, watching the birds.

  So, what to do? It would be rude not to reply. After all, there was nothing wrong in lighthearted e-mailing. Wasn’t it possible for two married people to be friends? Wasn’t it presumptuous to assume he wanted to sleep with her? He hadn’t overstepped the mark at dinner, and she hadn’t encouraged him. She looked at the date: he had sent it yesterday. With a mounting sense of guilty pleasure, she placed her fingers over the keys and pressed Reply.

  Dear Dog on Porch, Thank you so much for your e-mail. It’s nice to hear from you. I’m sitting at my desk pondering my new idea, but feel blocked and uninspired—if you come up with any gems, do send them. I need all the help I can get! How heavenly to be enjoying spring. We’re in autumn as you know, and it’s only going to get bleaker! Oh for sun and the smell of camphor! Rosenbosch sounds delightful. Olivier and I would love to visit you there one day.

  She crinkled her nose at the mention of her husband. That’s very childish, she thought, and swiftly deleted it.

  Rosenbosch sounds delightful. Would love to see the porch! It must be as big as Olivier’s. Sage

  She read it over a few times. It wasn’t flirtatious; she didn’t want him to think that she fancied him. Her finger hovered a moment over the Send icon. What harm can it do to have a cyber friend? She pressed the key and watched the message disappear off her screen, suffering a sudden, though fleeting, stab of regret.

  She imagined his receiving it. Would he write back immediately? She waited a moment, staring at the screen, expecting to hear the ping of a new message, but none came. Finally, she clicked out and went into Word, opening a new blank document on the screen.

  There was nothing more disconcerting than a blank document with nothing to write on it. So she typed the working title: In Search of the Perfect Happiness by Angelica Garner, then played around with the typeface, settling on large flowery letters in pink. This took up a few minutes, during which time she listened for the ping of an incoming message.

  After writing down as many ideas as she could think of on the big subject of Life, she picked up the telephone and called Candace. Her friend was in the McQueen department at Harvey Nichols.

  “He’s e-mailed me,” she stated simply. “He found me through my Web site.”

  “Oh my God! What did he say?”

  “I’ll read it to you.”

  “Wait, I have to sit down. Wait, wait, wait! Oh, for a chair . . . Don’t they have anywhere to sit in here? What about the old or disabled, or simply demented like me! Okay, I’m sitting down, fire away.”

  Angelica read her the e-mail.

  “He’s mad about you.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Of course. The fact that he went to the trouble to find you speaks for itself.”

  “He’s just being friendly.”

  “You’re just being naïve.”

  “I’ve written back.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a little cyber chatting. After all, it’s very presumptuous of me to assume that he wants to get into my knickers.”

  “No, it’s not, it’s intelligent. I told you, you’re ripe for an affair.”

  “I’m not going to have an affair.”

  “Look, they always start like this. A little chatting, a little flirting, then it’s lunch . . .”

  “He lives in South Africa.”

  “He was in London. Trust me, Angelica, he’ll ask you to lunch. Would you tell Olivier?”

  “Sure.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. Are you going to tell him about this e-mail? Of course not. It’ll be your little secret, and you’ll love every minute of having one. Every time Olivier loses his temper or gets grumpy or whatever, you’ll have your little secret to smile about.”

  “Are you suggesting I shouldn’t e-mail him?”

  “No, I’m just warning you. Keep him at a distance. Don’t write anything you wouldn’t want your husband to read and don’t ever, ever write an e-mail under the influence of alcohol!”

  “You know your stuff.”

  “Like I said, I’m the sacred vault.”

  “Well, Sacred Vault, I’ll call you if he e-mails back.”

  “Honey, it’s not a question of if but when.”

  Angelica checked her e-mails once more before leaving to meet the girls for lunch, but there was only spam of
fering her discounted Viagra. The sun had come out, shining through a break in the clouds, and Angelica turned her face to it, wondering whether it was shining on Jack, too, safely on his porch.

  She wasn’t the last to arrive at Cipriani. Candace, Letizia, and Scarlet sat discussing Kate over Bellinis.

  “Darling, we’ve ordered you one,” said Letizia, reaching out to greet her.

  “Guess who I bumped into this morning?” Angelica said, kissing Candace and Scarlet in turn.

  “Who?”

  “The ghastly Jenna Elrich.” She sat down next to Letizia and recounted how Jenna had imitated her son speaking to her in French. “It was so pretentious,” she complained.

  “You know what? You should have replied like this,” said Candace, clearing her throat. “‘Why, that’s so funny, Jenna, because Isabel woke up this morning and said “Mama, tengo ganas de ir al colegio,” then Joe piped up: “Anch’io voglio andare a scuola!” ’” She pulled a face, clearly pleased with herself.

  “Brava!” Letizia declared in delight.

  “Now you’re showing off.” Angelica laughed.

  “I’m a natural linguist,” said Candace. “What can I say?”

  Angelica leaned into the table. “You know what else she said? That she wishes she could have my tousled hair that looks like I’ve just got out of bed and haven’t bothered to brush it, but every time she tries she just ends up looking perfect and polished.”

  “And plastic,” Scarlet added.

  “How rude!” said Letizia.

  “I think she’s hilarious.” Candace laughed. “She’s barely able to say a sentence without bigging herself up. If she mentions a man, he fancies her; if she mentions a woman, she’s jealous of her; if she pays you a compliment, it’s a backhanded one designed to pull you down. She came for dinner once and complimented me on my ‘quaint country cooking.’”