“The City will recover. It always does,” she said instead.
“But it could take years.”
“Well, until it does we’ll just be careful.”
“You’ll see, even those big-time spenders like Kate and Candace will have to close their purses.” She couldn’t imagine their doing anything so rash.
“So how are the children? How was their first day back at school?”
“They had a fabulous day. Loved every minute.”
“Who did you see?”
“Usual crowd. Scarlet, Letizia, Candace . . . Oh, I bumped into the dreadful Jenna Elrich.”
“Now, she’s a sexy woman.”
Angelica’s mouth fell open. “God, Olivier, have some taste!”
“She’s very stylish. I like her look.”
“You and Joe both,” she muttered. “I suppose she looks glamorous to the uninitiated.”
“She’s well dressed.”
“Overdone like a Christmas tree.”
“Talking of which, I suppose we’re going to spend Christmas with your family.”
“I’m as unenthusiastic about them as you are.”
“And then visit mine in France.”
“I don’t know whose is worse.”
“Oh, yours win, hands down. No contest! But they redeem themselves by giving me lots of amusement!”
“I’m glad they amuse you. They depress me.”
“So, cheap presents this Christmas.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “This isn’t the year for spending money, so don’t go mad.”
“I know, it’s the thought that counts.”
“If it were the thought that counted, they’d get nothing at all! If I remember rightly, you forgot to bring presents for my sisters last year, which just goes to show how little you think of them.”
“They’re charming, adorable women,” she said, sucking in her cheeks. Olivier narrowed his eyes, but his lips curled up at one corner.
After dinner Olivier retreated to their bedroom with a mug of hot tea and honey. He switched on the news and ran a bath, taking his clothes off and hanging them neatly in the closet, scowling at his wife’s clothes carelessly discarded on the floor along with Joe’s Ben10 toys and damp bath towels.
Angelica went to check on the children. They were fast asleep in their bedrooms, their faces innocent in the darkness. She pulled the duvet up over Isabel’s exposed shoulders and stroked Joe’s flushed cheek. Then she heard Olivier turn off the tap and climb into the water. Conquered by curiosity, she climbed the stairs to check her e-mails one last time before bed. If Olivier knew she was in her office, he would think it very strange. She never worked in the evening, let alone read her e-mails. But there, as she had hoped, was one from Jack.
Dear beautiful Sage, I think the dog would rather slit his throat than face a life of no rabbits. I know I would! Besides, doesn’t it depend on the rabbit? Who’s to say the rabbit can’t keep the dog interested? I think you should consider the rabbit and not just dismiss her as a plaything for the dog! As for yearning, it is part of the pleasure of life. Without yearning there are no dreams—as a writer you should know the importance of dreams—and without dreams how can we reach our full potential? Sleep well, lovely Sage. I am on my porch, but my dreams are making me a happy dog. DOP
The City might be collapsing around her husband’s ears; she might have to stop shopping; they were probably going to spend a miserable Christmas with her eccentric parents—but Jack made her feel desirable. He shone a light onto a part of her that no one else saw, and in the glow of that light she felt that hidden part awake and stir into life.
6
Being generous and loving spreads happiness that is then returned to you tenfold.
In Search of the Perfect Happiness
Olivier had gone to the spare room again, so Angelica lay in bed alone, composing her next e-mail to Jack. She wished Joe or Isabel would come to keep her company. She missed the gentle sound of their breathing and the warmth of their bodies beside her. She didn’t miss Olivier; he smelled of Vicks and snored.
By Saturday morning she had caught Olivier’s sore throat. She heaved a sigh and staggered into the bathroom, her eyes heavy with sleep, and rummaged in the medicine cupboard for some Day Nurse. Unlike Olivier, she wouldn’t moan and groan, but treat the symptoms with the right drug and push through her day with typical British stoicism. She knocked back a little cup of orange liquid and retched at the taste.
She returned to bed and squeezed in between the children, who had come to join her, a pillow over her head to drown out the sound of Bug’s Life on the television. She thought of Olivier asleep upstairs and felt her heart harden. He accused her of running around Kate like a lady-in-waiting, but she was expected to run around him like a devoted mother.
They had met at a summer wedding in Paris and spent all night dancing in the cobbled courtyard beneath a canopy of stars. Knowing how much she loved books, he always went out of his way to find her things he thought she might like to read. He had been spontaneous then, always one step ahead of her desires, surprising her with his thoughtfulness. He had taken her to the opera and the ballet, out for dinner at the Ivy, for romantic weekends in the Georges V, holidays on the Riviera. He had bought her little presents whenever he had traveled abroad on business, and left notes on her pillow telling her how beautiful she was and how much he loved her. Occasionally, his notes had been more imaginative: Claridge’s, 3:30 p.m., room 305 and they had met like strangers and made love all afternoon, ordering dinner from room service. Then they had married and had children, and she had morphed into his mother. He no longer took her out for dinner or arranged treats, but complained about his throat or his stomach or whatever was troubling him, and asked her advice on which medicine to take. Yes, she had morphed into his mother. No wonder Jack made her feel attractive; it wasn’t very hard to make her feel like a woman.
It was a bright, clear day, so she took the children into Kensington Gardens. The sun was warm and the park filled with children on scooters, people walking their dogs, joggers running along the paths, cyclists weaving down the Broad Walk. If only the summer had been like this, she thought, basking in the heat. Isabel and Joe made a beeline for the Diana Memorial Playground, scaling the mast of the pirate ship like monkeys. She sat on a bench and watched them, marveling at how much they had grown over the summer months. Then her mind sprang back to Jack and the e-mail she was going to send him. The anticipation of a reply was enough to cure her sore throat.
When she got home, Olivier had left a message on the kitchen table. “Gone for coffee. Be back at midday. What shall we do for lunch?” She imagined him sitting in Starbucks on the High Street reading the papers and munching on a croissant, wrapped in his scarf and jacket, and wished she had the nerve to take the children off to Birdworld, leaving him to organize his own lunch. Instead, she left them climbing the magnolia tree in the garden and went up to her office.
Poised over the computer, she felt her irritation dissolve in the excitement of this small, secret act of defiance.
Dear Dog on Porch, You see how difficult it is to put these things into practice!
As a little aside and something else to get your teeth into, isn’t suffering part of this great school of life? Doesn’t it make us wiser, stronger, and more compassionate? If life was a blast without pain or sorrow, would we die any better for having lived?
It’s a beautiful day here in London—I hope the sun is shining on your porch and that all the rabbits are safely in their burrows. From your ever more confused Sage
She turned off her computer and joined the children in the sunshine, sitting at the table to watch them play. It wasn’t long before Olivier returned with the newspaper. As predicted, he wore a scarf to emphasize his ailing throat.
“I had a bad night. It was agony this morning, I couldn’t lie in. I’m feeling much better now I’m up and have had my coffee.”
“I was thinking of taking the children to
Birdworld.”
“Good idea. I’ll stay here and take it easy.” She didn’t bother to mention that she, too, now had a sore throat. Olivier never liked to share the limelight when he was unwell.
“I might take them off now. We can have lunch there.”
“Is there anything for me to eat?”
“There’s some soup in the fridge. That’ll be good for your throat.”
“What time will you be back?”
“I don’t know. Fourish.”
“Okay.” He looked disappointed.
“You can always come with us. It’s not very strenuous walking around Birdworld.”
He put his hand to his throat. “No, I’d better rest. You know what my sore throats are like.” He hunched his shoulders, looking sorry for himself.
“Why don’t you watch a DVD or something? You need to give your body a chance to recover. I’ll make you a hot drink before I go.” He seemed to swell beneath her apparent concern.
“Perhaps I will have a spoonful of that Manuka honey.” He didn’t make a move to get it.
“Good idea,” she said getting up dutifully. “That’s meant to be excellent for sore throats.”
Angelica didn’t really want to go out on her own. She would have liked Candace to go with her, but Candace spent every weekend at their house in Gloucestershire. Kate and Letizia were bound to be doing something more glamorous. Then she had a bright idea. She’d ask Scarlet. She was the sort of girl who relished a plan cooked up at the last minute, and William was notoriously easygoing.
As fortune would have it, Scarlet thought it a fabulous idea. She suggested all going together in her BMW, as it had ample room for two adults and four children. When she rang the bell, Olivier answered to find her in a denim miniskirt and pale brown suede boots. His mood lifted at the sight of her tanned thighs, and for a moment Angelica thought he might change his mind and come with them.
“I’m a little under the weather,” he explained, torn between his desire to see more of her legs and his inclination to sulk in front of the television feeling sorry for himself.
In the end it was Scarlet who made the decision for him. “I don’t want you infecting my children with whatever undesirable bug you happen to have,” she said firmly. “I think you’d better go back to bed and sleep it off.”
Olivier watched them drive away, wondering what he was going to do all afternoon without Angelica to look after him. He resented her for deserting him when he was ill. The least she could have done was rustle up something more interesting for lunch. As it was, he faced boring old soup. He brightened a little at the thought of dinner, certain that she would cook something more inspiring to make up for having abandoned him.
“I bet you’re pleased to be out of the house,” said Scarlet as they drove down Holland Park Road.
“He’s like a bear with a sore head.”
“More like a sheep!”
“I know, he’s pathetic when he’s sick. He brings out the worst in me. I’m irritated that he can’t look after himself and guilty that I’m not nursing him as I should.”
“All men are the same. It’s Man-Flu. When William’s sick, he starts talking like his old nanny. ‘I think I need a little Vicks on my chest and a little lemon and honey.’ Everything in the diminutive and delivered in his most wretched voice.”
“Do we blame their mothers? Are our sons going to end up the same because of our overindulgence?”
“I hope not, but I fear so.” Scarlet glanced at the four children in the back. The boys were playing Nintendo, the girls flicking through Isabel’s owl book.
“I don’t know whether Olivier’s more annoyed that I’m abandoning him for the day, or that I haven’t cooked him anything for lunch.”
“Oh dear, what’s he having?”
“Soup.”
“Shame on you, Angelica!”
“I know. I haven’t got round to filling the fridge. I’ll find something more substantial for dinner, even if it means ordering out. You know what’s annoying, though?”
“That he wouldn’t cook for you if you were ill.”
“Exactly. It’s all one way. I’m the one who has to buy the food, put meals on the table, take his jacket to the dry cleaner—which reminds me, I still haven’t picked up his Gucci jacket and trousers. Damn!” She sighed in frustration. “There’s so much to do and so little time in the day! I have to think of all the domestic stuff, and yet I have a career, too.”
“William’s the same. I’m at the office all day, juggling my clients and my children, and yet he expects dinner on the table when he gets home—and not just soup and salad. That’s men for you. Especially an old-fashioned man like Olivier.”
“A Frenchman like Olivier.”
“At least you have that sexy French accent to listen to on the pillow.”
When he’s there, Angelica thought bitterly.
Once at Birdworld in Farnham, the children rushed into the shop, picking up furry toys of exotic birds and squeezing them to make them tweet. Scarlet’s son Charlie made straight for the sweet stand. Scarlet strode in after them in her high-heeled suede boots and large sunglasses, turning every head.
Outside, Charlie munched from a bag of jelly beans while the others ran from cage to cage feeding the birds from the packets of seeds and dried worms their mothers had bought for them at the admissions desk. Scarlet and Angelica wandered after them, chatting, enjoying the sunshine and the sight of their happy children entertaining themselves.
“This was a fine idea, Angelica,” said Scarlet, impervious to the stares she was getting, even from the birds.
“It’s easy entertainment. I’d like to have a country place like Candace.”
“We once rented a cottage near Tetbury, but now we’ve bought a place in Mustique there’s no point. I can’t cope with too many homes.”
“I’d like to take the children somewhere hot for Christmas, but Olivier has decided to stay here and spend a long weekend in cold Provence with his ghastly family.”
“He’s wise: the depression’s only going to get worse, and he’s right in the thick of it. Glad we bought our house in Mustique before things went apeshit.”
“I need sun at Christmas. I can’t bear the short days. It’s nighttime by three in the afternoon.”
“You should come and stay with us in Mustique.”
“If only. I had already looked into renting a house near Cape Town.”
Scarlet’s face lit up. “Oh, you could go and visit your friend Jack Meyer.”
Angelica laughed casually. “He’s not my friend.”
“He’d like to be.”
“I think he probably has enough ‘friends.’”
“I’m sure he does.”
“What’s his wife like?”
“Lovely. She’s South African, too. Very bright and clever, but really nice. They met at Harvard.”
“Sounds rather terrifying.”
“God no! She’s so laid back she’s practically horizontal—does a lot of yoga and meditating.”
“Well, that’s just up my street.”
“She’s a little too New Age for my taste. You know, crystals, incense, and angels! But she’s a saint. Jack was very sick a few years back. He had cancer.”
Angelica was shocked. “How awful. Is he okay now?”
“Oh yes, totally. He shrugged it off in that effortless way of his. You’d never have known there was anything wrong with him, except that he lost all his hair.”
“My God, that must have been terrible. He has fabulous hair.”
“A fine head as any I’ve seen. Now he’s like a shaggy old lion again. He might be an incorrigible flirt, but he’s devoted to Anna. He owes her a lot.” Angelica didn’t want to hear how much he loved his wife. “I think men just need to flex their muscles every now and then. They’re not monogamous by nature. In fact, I think it’s quite a struggle for most of them. So long as they feel attractive to other women, they’re content to stay on the porch.�
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Angelica smiled at her friend’s reference to the porch. “I’m sure Jack stays firmly on his.”
Scarlet grinned at her mischievously. “I’m not so sure. Some dogs can’t help themselves, however devoted they are to their wives. It’s in their blood, like wolves or foxes. There’s simply no taming them.”
They had lunch at the café, then sat on little benches to watch a demonstration with owls. Scarlet hid behind a tree to make a phone call while the children watched the owls, enraptured. Angelica thought of Jack suffering from cancer and wondered whether his ordeal had inspired his reflections on life and its purpose. An illness like that could change a person profoundly. He hadn’t mentioned it, so she decided she wouldn’t, either. She wondered whether he had replied to her message.
They got home from Birdworld at six. Charlie and Joe fell asleep in the car. The girls listened to High School Musical and stared out of the window in silence. The day had exhausted them. Olivier appeared at the door, took in the delicious sight of Scarlet’s smooth thighs, then asked Angelica what was for dinner.
“Steak,” she replied, waving Scarlet off, a sleepy Joe leaning against her hip.
“Good, I’m ravenous!”
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“So so.” He shrugged in that French way of his. She noticed his scarf was still tied around his neck. “I think I’ll have another hot drink.” She knew she was expected to make it.
“The children loved Birdworld,” she volunteered, irritated that he hadn’t asked.
When she finally managed to get to her desk after putting the children to bed and making Olivier a Lemsip, there was no e-mail from Jack. She pressed Send and Receive again just to make sure, but no messages were displayed. She bit her bottom lip and frowned. Perhaps he had gone away for the weekend. No one checked their e-mails on a Saturday. She’d look again tomorrow, but realistically there was no point looking until Monday.
She went downstairs to run a bath to find the room filled with a cloud of eucalyptus. There, slouched in the armchair, a towel thrown over his head, sat Olivier inhaling a bowl of boiling water and Karvol. My knight in shining armor, she thought, rolling her eyes. Sometimes I want to kick this dog right off the porch!
The Perfect Happiness Page 7
