The Perfect Happiness

by Santa Montefiore

  8

  Think, speak, and act for the Higher Good, and you will be a lucky person.

  In Search of the Perfect Happiness

  So the e-mails began again. Jack was coming to London for five days beginning the week of October 13, and Tuesday, October 14, would be a fine day for lunch. He’d book somewhere and let her know nearer the time.

  Angelica went into a spin, torn between her desire to see him and her sense of loyalty as a wife and mother. Her moods swung from ecstasy to panic. Her head throbbed with the weight of her dilemma. As she lay awake at night unable to sleep, her nails bitten down to the quick, her heart raced with that elusive, mislaid magic.

  She stopped eating cake and worked out four times a week at Ten Pilates. David began adjusting the springs to make the exercises more challenging, and soon she found that her body no longer suffered such agonizing stiffness afterwards. Her toenails shone fuchsia pink, and her figure began to change. The waist that wasn’t now was, and she belted her dresses with pride. The Calvin Klein underwear drawer was opened on a daily basis, but Olivier, so preoccupied with the FTSE 100, didn’t notice. It didn’t matter. The girls did, and even Jenna Elrich found something nice to say.

  “You look great!” she commented at the school gates one afternoon as they waited in the autumn sunshine to pick up their children. Jenna was taking advantage of the cooler weather to show off her new Burberry cape and boot-cut purple trousers. Her shiny Gucci loafers were so high she towered over Angelica. Around her neck she wore a silk Hermès scarf with just the right shade of purple flowers on it to tie in with the trousers, and hiding most of her face was a large pair of brown Chanel sunglasses. “What have you been doing? You’ve lost so much weight.” That was classic Jenna, insinuating that Angelica had previously been the size of a hippo.

  “Pilates.”

  Jenna looked her up and down. “You’re unrecognizable.”

  “Hardly.”

  “No, really. I barely recognized you. You look fabulous. I’m surprised. Is it just Pilates, or is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Sex,” Angelica stated simply. “I’m just having an awful lot of sex.”

  Jenna’s face crinkled with sympathy. “You poor darling. You need to go to the pharmacy and ask for some husband repellent.”

  Angelica laughed at the absurdity of the woman. “Does it work for you?”

  “If only such a thing existed! I give my husband a minute. I’m like, ‘Okay, darling, you’ve got sixty seconds. Go!’ and I close my eyes and think of those Manolo shoes I want or that perfect little cashmere from Ballantyne. ‘Right, minute over! Enough!’”

  “Sounds like you’re ready for an affair.”

  “Oh, there’s no shortage of men who admire me.” She laughed as if that idea was preposterous. “But John would divorce me, and right now, the way things are, I don’t think I’ll find anyone richer.”

  “Better hang on to him, then.”

  “Until he tells me to stop shopping. Really, if I was one of those wives, I would take a lover, for sure.”

  Angelica managed to extract herself and found Kate huddled in a group with Scarlet, Candace, and Letizia, telling them about her latest advice from Betsy Pog. “It’s going really well. We have to tell each other three things we like about each other over breakfast and before we go to sleep at night.”

  “Can you find three things first thing in the morning?” Angelica asked.

  “Can you find three things, period?” added Candace.

  “It’s a struggle, but I make them up if I can’t.”

  “That’s naughty, darling,” said Letizia. “You have to give it a chance and do it properly.”

  “What does he say about you?” Scarlet asked.

  “Oh, that’s easy. The list is as long as the Mississippi.” She giggled. “I think he’s falling in love with me all over again. Then, we have to whisper a word, just a single word, into the other’s ear when we’re in public.”

  “Like what?” Candace asked.

  “Sexy, horny, delicious, manly . . . that sort of thing.”

  “That’s hilarious!” Scarlet laughed. “What does he whisper to you?”

  “I can’t say—I’m too embarrassed!” She bit her bottom lip, then relented. “It really turns me on. He’ll sidle up and whisper ‘Juicy’ then wander off again, leaving me quivering with excitement.”

  “Oh p-lease!” wailed Candace.

  “There are many roads to Rome. Besides, it must be working,” said Letizia. “You’re glowing like an oven.”

  “He can’t get enough of me. I think being pregnant turns him on. It makes him feel virile.”

  “Little does he know,” said Candace.

  Kate shot her a look. “It’s his. I’m sure it’s his. I was just being overdramatic.”

  “Not you,” Candace added with a grin. “You’re never that.”

  The day before Angelica’s lunch with Jack, she sat beside Candace at Richard Ward’s Metro Spa in Duke of York’s Square, sipping Earl Grey tea and waiting for Thomas to come and highlight her hair. The ruggedly handsome James was already adding lights to Candace’s rich brown locks. Being a natural blonde, Angelica had never felt she needed dye, but Candace had convinced her that Thomas would lift her look while keeping it natural.

  “Thomas will hide all your little flaws. He’s a genius,” she told her, extending one hand to the manicurist, who sat on a stool at her feet. “And he’s a vault like me. He knows where all the elephants lie buried and will take that knowledge to his grave. Trust me, no code breaker can crack him.”

  The salon was vast—room upon shiny room of mirrors and sleek black chairs; legions of black-uniformed juniors washing hair and standing to attention behind the technicians, who were all frighteningly cool, suntanned, and good-looking; the air infused with the smell of Kérastase. “Ah, you must be Angelica,” said Thomas, breezing in followed by a pretty junior with waist-length blond hair.

  “This is she,” said Candace. “You’re to make her even more beautiful than she already is.”

  “Oh really!” Angelica protested, embarrassed.

  Thomas scrutinized her hair. “I know just what you need. You have lovely hair, by the way—very thick and in good condition. You’re lucky, it has a natural wave, but not frizzy—a cross between Farrah Fawcett circa 1974 and Meg Ryan of When Harry Met Sally fame. Leave it to me.”

  Angelica glanced at Candace, terrified. “Relax. Thomas knows what’s good for you. Lie back and enjoy it.” She grinned at James in the mirror. “She’s a virgin, but she’ll learn to be a hair whore like me.”

  James laughed. “The word ‘whore’ sounds strange coming from your pretty lips.”

  “You’d be surprised what I can come out with when pushed,” she replied, giving the manicurist her other hand. “My angelic face fools people into thinking I’m a pushover, but my acerbic tongue gets me what I want.”

  “So, Angelica, you’re determined to have lunch with Jack?”

  “You think I’m mad.”

  “You know what? I do think you’re crazy, but I also think you’re entitled to have some fun. Just be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “You have a nice life. Don’t go screw it up over a flirt. It’s not worth it. Once you lose Olivier’s trust, you’ll never get it back.”

  “I won’t lose it, Candace. I’m not intending to have an affair.”

  “Few women go out with the intention of having an affair. One thing leads to another, but it usually starts with lunch.”

  “He’s a nice guy. I’m enjoying the attention. But that’s all it is, I promise.”

  “I don’t want to have to pick up the pieces.”

  “You won’t have to. It’ll just be lunch.”

  Candace caught James’s eye in the mirror. He didn’t look at all surprised. In his seven years at Richard Ward he had heard just about everything.

  Thomas returned with bowls of dye and sheets of tin foil, a
nd began pinning up her hair. Duffy’s husky voice rang out from the sound system: “I’m begging you for mercy, why won’t you release me.” Candace flicked through In Style magazine with her free hand. “So where’s he taking you?”

  “Daphne’s.”

  “That’s a little dangerous, isn’t it?”

  “It’s better to go somewhere normal than be seen in some obscure restaurant in Richmond.”

  “You have a point. What are you going to tell Olivier?”

  “That I’m having lunch with my publisher.”

  “Whom he’s never met.”

  “Correct.”

  “And if you see someone you know? How will you introduce him?”

  “As Jack.”

  Candace raised an eyebrow. “You’re really playing with fire.”

  “I know.”

  After Thomas had finished coloring her hair, a junior led Angelica into a room full of sinks and reclining chairs that looked more like beds. Vast flat-screen televisions playing CNN were set up on each wall. She lay back and let the girl wash her hair and give her a deep conditioning treatment and massage. She shut her eyes and emptied her mind of thoughts.

  “Are you dead?” Candace leaned over her. “Oh, you can’t be, you’re snoring.”

  Angelica awoke with a start. “God, did I doze off?”

  “You certainly did.”

  “Was I really snoring?”

  “No, that was a joke. When you’re finished, I want you to meet Robert. He usually does my hair. Today, he’s going to do yours.”

  “I don’t know how you find the time to do this every six weeks.”

  “Every six weeks? Honey, you’ve got to be kidding! I’m in here every week for a wash and blow-dry! Don’t forget your bag,” she added, dropping it into Angelica’s lap. “You left it in the other room—with your brain!”

  Angelica followed Candace through a couple of rooms full of clients reading magazines; having lunch in their chairs; getting pedicures, manicures, blow-dries, and haircuts. It was a glamorous world she was excited to be part of. Robert awaited her, a cherubic-looking man with gray hair and a bashful smile. “Over to you, Robert,” said Candace, waving her manicured hand. Robert combed her hair into a middle parting. “You should have had a manicure,” said Candace.

  “That’s one beauty treatment beyond me.” Angelica looked at her short nails. “I can’t do the Park Avenue princess look.”

  “You wouldn’t want to, honey. That look is so over. The trick is to look polished without looking like you’ve had the sex appeal ironed out of you.”

  “You want to keep your curls?” Robert asked, scissors poised.

  “I’d like to look like I’ve just got out of bed—looking perfect,” Angelica replied.

  Angelica buried herself in the October issue of Vanity Fair, trying to read an article on Marilyn Monroe and not sneak a look at her hair before it was finished. Her stomach was in a knot, and she wasn’t sure whether it was at the thought of having lunch with Jack—or of having lunch with Jack with horrid hair. Their e-mails had heated up over the last few weeks. She hadn’t gone too far, but she had certainly said things she might not have dared say to his face—with her husband sitting at the other end of the table. She was now worried that she would disappoint him. That she had looked better in candlelight. That in the bright glare of day she wouldn’t look like the girl he had been flirting with by e-mail, and suddenly wish he hadn’t.

  “What if he doesn’t fancy me?” she said to Candace, without taking her eyes off the page.

  Candace shouted over the roar of the hair dryer. “It doesn’t matter. You’re not going to have an affair with him anyway.”

  “That’s not the point. I want him to think I’m beautiful.”

  “If he doesn’t fancy you, he’ll stop e-mailing you and that’ll be that—and a good thing, too.” She looked across at her friend, and her face fell. “Oh dear.”

  “What?” Angelica nearly dropped her teacup. She was too afraid to look at her reflection. “Is it bad?”

  “Bad, bad, bad.”

  “How bad?”

  “Take a look.”

  Angelica’s stomach swam on a wave of nausea. She raised her eyes. Then her fears evaporated at the sight of her ravishing bed head. “Oh my God. It’s stunning.”

  “Go figure!”

  “Robert. You really are a genius!”

  “Thank you.” He fluffed it up with his fingers. “The color’s good, too.”

  “It really is.” Angelica was thrilled. “Clever Thomas. I must thank him as well.”

  “There’s no chance he won’t fancy you. Unfortunately!” said Candace, staring at her with approval.

  “I hope you’re right. I just want to be adored.”

  “From afar.”

  “From afar.”

  Candace put down her magazine. “I think I should go with you.”

  “Well, think again,” said Angelica, getting up with a new confidence. “I’m nearly forty years old. It’s my time to have fun. The first step to happiness is good highlights and haircut.” She delved into her wallet and pulled out a crumpled note. “This is for you, Robert, for putting down the foundation stone of my inner temple of happiness.”

  Angelica picked up the children at three-thirty. The only person not to compliment her hair was Jenna Elrich, who was too busy shouting into her mobile telephone like a sergeant major. But Angelica noticed her glance in her direction a couple of times, her face as green as granite. Letizia, Kate, and Scarlet were very impressed. “Anyone would think you were having an affair,” said Scarlet.

  “If they didn’t know her better,” Letizia added.

  “She’s married to a Frenchman. Looking good is what he expects,” Kate said. “Betsy Pog told me to dress for Pete, so I went to Selfridges and bought a whole heap of lingerie. Pete is a real silk-and-lace man. Betsy says it’s worth putting on just so that he can take it off.”

  “So what have you got on now?” asked Angelica.

  Kate pulled down her jeans to reveal red lace knickers. “The bra is adorable.”

  “Divine,” breathed Letizia.

  “Nice,” agreed Scarlet. “But I’m more fascinated by your stomach.”

  “What stomach?” Candace exclaimed.

  Kate pulled up her sweater to show off her belly, still brown from her summer in the Caribbean, but as flat as a board. “Oh, it’s growing,” she said, patting it.

  “Only you’d know,” said Angelica.

  “Has Betsy Pog told you to eat more?” asked Candace. Kate frowned at her. “She should. There’s a starving baby in there!”

  “It’s early days,” said Kate.

  “Well, the poor creature can’t survive without food.”

  “Speaking of which, don’t forget my surprise dinner for Art next Thursday.” Art was Kate’s best friend, married the year before in a gay ceremony to Tod. “He hasn’t the slightest idea, which is astonishing. I’m not known for my ability to keep secrets!”

  “You’re on your way,” said Candace. “Which is a great shame.”

  • • •

  When Angelica returned home, she set about doing the usual duties: homework, tea, bath, and bedtime stories. Every time she passed a mirror she glanced at herself with pleasure and a growing sense of unease. What on earth was she doing having lunch with Jack Meyer? And without telling her husband? She didn’t dare consider the consequences were she to get caught. Candace was right, she was crazy. But she was confident that she would be able to keep it to a friendly flirt. That she’d be in control. That the last thing in the world she would do would be to risk the good life she had.

  Olivier came home early to find her sitting on Joe’s bed with Isabel on her knee, reading Stone Soup, her favorite children’s book. Olivier stood in the doorway watching the trio in the soft light of the bedroom, noticing at once his wife’s new hair and appreciating her changing figure. She caught his eye and smiled, registering the admiration in his gaze.


  She finished the story and took Isabel to her room. As she walked past her husband, he took her arm and looked at her intensely. “You look really good, Angelica.” She walked on, guilt clawing the inside of her stomach. She kissed her daughter and tucked her in, placing Splat the duck against her chest for her to cuddle. Then she put her son to bed, wrapping her arms around him for the Full Joe. He liked the routine and held her tightly. Olivier kissed their foreheads and chatted a little about their day and what they’d been doing. It was rare that he returned home in time to see them before bedtime.

  They met in their bedroom. Angelica recognized the look on her husband’s face from those long-ago trysts at Claridge’s and the irony was not lost on her. He had taken off his jacket and tie and stood appraising her lasciviously.

  “You look different tonight,” he remarked, narrowing his eyes.

  “I’ve had my hair colored.”

  “It’s not just that. You’re looking slimmer, too.”

  “I noticed you didn’t like me wearing belts.”

  He looked surprised. “So you decided to make an effort for me?”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m flattered. Women don’t often go to the gym for their husbands.”

  “What are you suggesting? That I have a lover?”

  He dismissed such a ridiculous idea with a laugh. “Of course not. Women go to the gym to compete with their friends.”

  “I couldn’t begin to. They’re all taller and thinner than me.”

  “But you have sex appeal, Angelica. That’s what I like about you. So you worked out for me, eh?”

  “Yes.” Her lie prevented her from looking him in the eye. She made to walk past him, but he pulled her into his arms.

  “Just because I told you not to wear a belt?”

  “You said my waist was the widest part of me.”

  “I did not!” He was genuinely apologetic. “Did I?”

  “You did.”

  “I’m sorry. What a careless thing to say. If I hurt you, I apologize. So what do you do?”

  “Pilates, Olivier. I realized I’d let myself go. I didn’t want to be voluptuous anymore.” She squeezed his firm shoulders. “Especially as you work out. I didn’t want to end up looking ten years older than my buffed husband.”