The Perfect Happiness

by Santa Montefiore

  7

  People treat you according to how you allow yourself to be treated.

  In Search of the Perfect Happiness

  On Monday Angelica met Candace in the reception room at Ten Pilates in Notting Hill. Candace, immaculate in a beige tracksuit, smiled broadly and dropped her mobile telephone into her chocolate-brown Birkin.

  “You look glamorous for the gym,” said Angelica.

  “This isn’t just a gym, honey. This is the hottest ticket in town!”

  Angelica looked around at the tall, willowy girls coming out of their classes, dabbing their necks and faces with towels. Among them she saw a face she recognized.

  “Hey, doll,” said Scarlet breathlessly. “It was hell today. David’s on a roll.” She turned to Candace. “Have you warned her about the Higgins Ten?”

  “What’s that?” Angelica asked nervously.

  Candace enlightened her. “It’s David’s trademark. He counts ten and you think you’re going to die, you’ve already done a minute or so and your ass is killing you. But just when you think it’s over, he demands ten more. Does it every time. Don’t be fooled by the countdown. There’s always another ten.”

  “Hence Ten Pilates,” said Angelica brightly.

  “I’m not sure that’s exactly what he had in mind,” said Scarlet. “More likely the ten torture beds you see before you.” She registered Angelica’s anxious face. “Don’t panic, he’ll be kind to you as you’re a beginner. Have you had a pedicure?”

  “No!”

  “Keep your socks on then. Don’t embarrass yourself!”

  “She’s joking,” said Candace. “Trust me, he’s not looking at your toes—that man’s only interested in muscle!”

  Angelica filled out the required health form, then followed Candace into the studio, where ten Reformer beds were lined in two rows in front of an enormous mirrored wall. Candace dropped her bag on the sofa and put her long hair into a ponytail. “Hey, David, I want you to meet my friend Angelica Lariviere.” A lithe Australian with a thick mop of dark brown hair extended his hand.

  “Good to meet you,” he said with a smile. Angelica was not encouraged. I’m going to have to sweat and heave and groan in front of that Adonis? “Have you done this before?” he asked, and Angelica tried to look past his boyish good looks to the professional instructor who was going to turn her into a supermodel.

  “No, it’s my first time.”

  “Well, let me show you how these Reformers work.” Thank GOD he didn’t say bed. She followed him over to what looked like a rack of torture with ropes and springs, trying to take it all in so as not to make a fool of herself. “How fit are you?” he asked.

  “Not fit at all. Two children, too much cake, sitting at a desk all day—you get the picture.”

  “No worries, we’ll get you in shape.” Angelica wished she’d had that pedicure.

  “If you get confused, just watch me,” said Candace, taking the Reformer beside her friend and lying on her back. “It’ll soon become second nature.” She put her legs in the air, threw a ring over her feet, and proceeded to stretch. “So, what’s the news on the e-mail front?”

  “Hot and heavy,” Angelica replied, lying down and trying to stretch like Candace but barely managing to straighten her legs.

  “You’re crazy, Angelica. Where’s it going?”

  “It’s not going anywhere. It’s just fun.”

  “Perhaps, but be careful.”

  “Olivier’s driving me insane at the moment. This is a distraction.”

  “It might get out of hand. Has he asked you out for lunch yet?”

  “Of course not. He’s in South Africa.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Right, girls!” It was David, striding into the room, which was now full of stretching women. He turned the music up loud: Madonna singing “Hung Up” to the Abba sound track. “Let’s get going. One foot on the foot bar and push it away.”

  “My leg’s aching already,” Angelica moaned.

  Candace made it look easy. “Remember the Higgins Ten.” Angelica began to sweat. “And by the way, this is just a warm-up.”

  “I’m in hell. Did you say it’s an hour?”

  “Just under. But think of the body you’re going to have.”

  “It had better be worth it.” Think of Jack. I’m doing this for you, Jack. One, two, three, four . . . By the end of the hour Angelica could barely stand, her legs were trembling, and the muscles in her stomach ached, even in repose. Her inner thighs had never worked so hard. “So how do you feel?” David asked. There was a mischievous curl in his smile.

  “I think I’d rather give birth than go through that again.”

  “If you can just get through a couple of weeks, your body will adapt and you won’t find it so hard.”

  “Or painful?”

  “Or painful.”

  “He’s born in the wrong century,” said Candace. “He’d have found his niche in the Tower of London manning the rack—and probably enjoyed it!” She took a swig from her water bottle. “Look at him! He’d be so disappointed if we skipped out having not even broken into a sweat.”

  “No chance of that!”

  “We keep coming back because you’re the best, David,” said Candace, raising her bottle in a toast.

  “If I looked like you, Candace, I’d keep coming back, too,” said Angelica.

  “You will,” David encouraged.

  “No amount of lunges can give me those legs.” She looked at her friend, beautiful in spite of the sweat that stained her T-shirt.

  “Everyone’s different,” said David. “The point is to be the best you can be. So do you want to sign up for more classes?”

  “I’ll buy fifty,” said Angelica. “God help me!”

  “A woman on a mission.” Candace gave Angelica a knowing look. “D’you think I can get you to Richard Ward as well?”

  “Not if I come out looking like Jenna Elrich.”

  “Only Jenna can look like Jenna, and she’s stuck with that for life, poor darling!”

  When Angelica got home, she ran a hot bath and poured a whole sachet of Elemis Musclease under the tap. The water went brown and smelled as medicinal as Olivier’s Karvol inhalations. She restrained herself from going upstairs to check her e-mails, not due to any lack of enthusiasm but because she didn’t think she’d make it, her thighs hurt so much. She put on Dolly Parton and lit a couple of candles, dimming the lights because she loathed looking at her flesh in such an unforgiving glare. With a sigh, she slid into the water and rested her head, letting the warmth ease away the pain. In spite of her discomfort she was inspired by the Pilates class. David had a gift for motivating his clients, and she had left invigorated and determined to get back into shape. Candace had told her that it would take three weeks to see a real difference, but she could already feel it working. She closed her eyes, ashamed to find Jack’s face bobbing to the top of her thoughts like a cork. The anticipation of another witty message from him sent a pleasurable ripple through her cramping stomach.

  She climbed out of the bath and dried herself, taking her time. The wait would make his e-mail all the more satisfying. She rubbed cream into her body, adding a few drops of juniper essential oil for water retention, and sprayed herself with Jo Malone Red Roses. Feeling sensual, she delved into her Calvin Klein underwear drawer, choosing a bra and panties in dusty pink. It gave her a thrill to know that beneath her jeans and shirt she was wearing exquisite lingerie.

  Angelica wore little makeup. She had naturally youthful skin and the pink cheeks of a girl raised in the fresh country air. With a touch of mascara and lip balm, she was ready to read her mail. Her excitement mounted as she climbed the stairs, her pace quickening in spite of her painful muscles. It took a while for her computer to start, but finally, the screen went blue and her icons appeared in neat rows. She clicked on Mail and the list appeared. She scanned the names in bold, but there was nothing from Jack. She pressed Send and Recei
ve just to make doubly sure, but the words “No New Mail” appeared at the bottom of the page.

  With a sinking heart she had no option but to face the blank page of her next novel. For a moment she considered writing to him. Did it matter that he hadn’t responded to her last e-mail? Did their e-mails have to go back and forth like a tennis game? Even in tennis the opponent didn’t always return the ball; often he missed, or hit the ball in the net. This was like a friendly tennis match—winning wasn’t the aim. And she wasn’t playing hard to get—she wasn’t expecting to be got at all. This was an innocent friendship, and friends could write when they felt like it.

  But then doubt set in. Perhaps he had got bored. Maybe his wife had found out and banned him. Or he might have gone away for a few days and forgotten to take his BlackBerry. What time of year was it in South Africa? He had said it was spring. He must be busy with the vines, surely. God, the list of possibilities was endless. The fact was, he hadn’t replied and that was that. She was surprised by the depth of her disappointment.

  She clicked onto In Search of the Perfect Happiness by Angelica Garner and sat staring at the pink letters and white page that followed. She sat there for half an hour without writing a single word. It began to rain. Light drizzle was blown about on the breeze like dust. Celine Dion sang “All by myself . . . don’t wanna be all by myself . . .” and Angelica felt empty, like a well of dried-up ideas. As often as she lowered the bucket it came back as light as when it went down. Her agent was expecting another fantasy novel for children, laced with magic and monsters. She was never going to be Tolkien—she didn’t have the patience or the genius to write such powerful allegories—but she usually enjoyed sinking into her imagination and spinning any reality she desired. But her imagination was as cloudy as cauliflower soup.

  Her fingers hovered over the keys. The blank page stared back at her, goading her to spoil its perfection. Then an idea popped into her head from nowhere. An evil, unhappy sorceress falls in love with a good man and attempts to attract him with spells and potions. Nothing works because nothing ever does on good people. So she has to learn how to be good like him, because only a pure heart will win him. For every good deed she does she loses a little of her evil nature. Gradually her good deeds begin to make her happy and the less evil she becomes. She sets out on a quest and learns the secret of happiness.

  Angelica was quite pleased with her idea. It was a mere husk—she’d have to fill it in and build it up—but at least it was a start. Forgetting her empty mailbox she began to develop her magical world, inventing names and language, customs and laws.

  By three o’clock she had a better idea of her fantasy land, and, feeling happier for having started, she saved what she had written and closed down her computer. She clicked on her mailbox to find Jack still hadn’t replied. She shrugged it off bravely; perhaps it was for the best.

  It was raining, so she walked under an umbrella to pick up the children. It felt autumnal. The leaves in the park were beginning to turn yellow and brown. The skies were gray, the pavements shiny and wet. Only the pigeons seemed not to notice and hopped about cheerily as if every day was a picnic.

  Outside the school, mothers gathered among nannies, huddling under umbrellas or sitting in their cars parked on yellow lines. As she approached she heard her name above the rumble of engines. It was Candace, waving exuberantly out of the window of her car. “Get in, Angelica.” As she crossed the road Candace hissed at her. “She’s told Pete she’s pregnant!” Angelica peered through the window. Letizia and Kate sat in the backseat deep in conversation. The driver stared ahead, pretending not to listen. “Get in!”

  “He doesn’t suspect it’s not his?” Angelica asked, squeezing in beside Kate.

  “Why on earth would he? He’s the philanderer in our marriage, not me—well, at least that’s the way he sees it. He’s over the moon. He says we’ve got to have marriage counseling, though, so we’re strong for the new baby. A friend of his has recommended this woman called Betsy Pog.”

  “Great name,” said Letizia with a giggle.

  Candace laughed cynically. “You don’t need marriage counseling, he just needs to keep his pooch in its pouch.” They all laughed.

  “No, really, Betsy Pog is my kind of woman. She’s meant to be fantastic.”

  “She better be fantastic,” Candace added.

  “We’re going tonight for our first session.” Kate shivered with excitement. “What shall I wear?”

  “A hair shirt?” asked Candace.

  “Oh, I was thinking much more along the lines of a little Prada dress with my red Louboutins.”

  “Well, at least it’ll look like you’re trying,” said Angelica.

  “I never try,” Kate retorted. “My style is effortless and effervescent.”

  “You might as well wear it while you can,” said Letizia.

  “God, don’t remind me. The thought of maternity trousers and big shirts again! Hideous!”

  “Darling, pregnancy is no excuse to dress badly,” Letizia reproached her. “A woman is at her most beautiful when bearing a child.”

  “Sometimes you are so Italian!” Kate retorted, envisaging flat shoes with dismay.

  “So is it public knowledge yet?” asked Candace.

  “Have you told your mother?” Angelica added.

  “Same question,” said Candace.

  “No, I haven’t had my twelve-week scan. Don’t breathe a word to anyone.”

  “Does your lover know?” Candace asked more keenly.

  “He’s not my lover.”

  “Whatever. Does he know?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t think he’ll work it out when he hears you’re pregnant?”

  “I know he won’t work it out.”

  Candace raised an eyebrow. “That’s interesting, what is he? A priest?”

  “Look, he’s forgotten it even happened.”

  “But we haven’t,” said Candace with a grin.

  “I’m not going to tell you,” Kate retorted. “Not because I don’t want to. You know I share everything with you three. But I promised him I wouldn’t, and I must keep my word.”

  “What, because you always do?” said Candace. Kate was notoriously feckless.

  “No, because I owe it to him and because the consequences of it getting out are too horrible to imagine.”

  Angelica narrowed her eyes. “So we know him.”

  “The plot thickens,” said Letizia. “He’s not one of our husbands, is he?”

  Kate laughed. “You’d have to pay me to sleep with one of your husbands!”

  “Me, too, honey,” Candace joked, lifting her finger into the light. “I think I’m due another diamond.”

  The week passed without an e-mail from Jack. Angelica continued her Pilates classes and bore the consequent stiffness with fortitude. She buried herself in her writing and tried not to be too disappointed about Jack’s sudden disappearance. It was inevitable that their correspondence would end at some stage. She had been naïve to imagine they could continue flirting indefinitely. He had probably moved on to someone else he had met at another dinner party—someone who was prepared to take the flirtation further, like his “friend” in Clapham. It had been fun. He had made her feel alive. She picked up the children from school, listened to Candace and Scarlet worrying about the credit crunch’s effects on fund-raising and spending, and tried to shrug off the heavy feeling of anticlimax.

  Then on the following Wednesday morning the world shifted back into place. She received a large royalty check from Holland and an e-mail from Jack:

  Dear beautiful Sage, I’m sorry I didn’t reply earlier, I’ve been away. I think we need to discuss things in person. This dog is getting restless here on the porch and was wondering whether he might persuade you to allow him to take you out for lunch when he comes to London in October. You’re no ordinary rabbit. DOP

  Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! What to do? Angelica wanted to have lunch with him more than
anything in the world. But what would Olivier say? No, she knew exactly what he would say: “Mais non, mon ange.” NO. That had to be avoided at all costs. But she couldn’t lie, in case she was spotted. They couldn’t go somewhere low-key in the back of beyond because if they were discovered they’d look even more suspicious. They’d have to go out in Chelsea and risk it. What am I doing? I don’t want an affair! I really, really don’t. I just want a little fun. I just want to feel attractive. He doesn’t want an affair either, for sure. Of course he doesn’t.

  She reread the e-mail twenty times. Her mind was as clear as glass and whirring away like a new clock. If I say no, I’ll look churlish and presumptuous. And besides, I want to see him. I’m nearly forty years old. I think I’m entitled to do what I want. So Olivier can’t be told. I’ll say I’m having lunch with the director of my publishing house, then I’m covered if I’m spotted with a strange man. Olivier has never met my publisher, let alone my agent—actually, he’s never met anyone from my working life. Schmuck! as Candace would say. Serves him right!

  Dear Dog on Porch, I think it’s about time you used up that slack on that lead of yours. Too flirty! What am I thinking? I’ve gone mad!

  Dear Dog on Porch, I’d love to have lunch. It will be fun to see you again. Where do you want to go? Let me know when you’re over and I’ll book . . . No, that’s far too keen! Typical woman wanting everything tied up neatly with a bow!

  Dear Dog on Porch, I’d love to have lunch. October is a good month for dogs. So many leaves to truffle through in the park! I think you’ll find I’m actually a rather ordinary rabbit. On the subject of lunch—shall I put it down to research? From Curious Sage

  As soon as she sent it she telephoned Candace. “Candace, it’s me.”

  “Hi, honey, what’s up?”

  “Book me into Richard Ward at once.”