The Perfect Happiness

by Santa Montefiore

  “I’m sorry I’m hard to live with at the moment. Ask any of your friends who is married to a banker. It’s not fun anymore. I can’t even tell you to go and spend a few grand in Gucci.” He shrugged helplessly.

  “I’m far too busy writing anyway.”

  “This is very good.” He rolled another pancake. “We should have this more often. I had forgotten how much I like Mr. Wing.”

  Before she went to bed she sent Jack a text: I’ll meet you at eleven tomorrow night. X Sage. No sooner had she sent it than a message came winging back: I’ll wait at the end of the street in a taxi. What’s the address? DOP.

  Olivier slept beside Angelica, but the gap between them was as big as Siberia. Angelica lay on her side facing away from him, dreaming of Jack and riding across the South African veld on a beautiful chestnut mare. Everything about him was romantic. The way he was so happy to discuss life. The way he spoke about his feelings. The way he loved nature. The way he noticed her. With him she felt attractive, feminine, mysterious, and cherished. With Jack she was someone totally different, someone Olivier had forgotten. And she liked that someone very much.

  The following morning felt unlike any other. Olivier had gone to work. The children were getting ready for school, Sunny was preparing breakfast downstairs, she was dressing . . . but the air around her had changed; it was now charged with possibility. She walked the children to school and kissed them at the door. She had coffee with Candace, Letizia, Scarlet, and Kate. She listened to Kate’s arrangements for Art’s party: she had filled the house with silver helium balloons so that you couldn’t see the ceiling; she had ordered a cake from Jane Asher that was “to die for”; she had Mustard doing the catering; and she had hired a karaoke machine for all those aspiring singers to show off their talents—and yet Angelica moved through her day knowing that, whatever happened, at eleven o’clock her world would change. She sensed it like a bird sensing an earthquake.

  She had lunch with Scarlet at Le Caprice, then picked up the children at three-thirty. They walked through the park, feeding the geese on the Round Pond. She sat on a bench while the children played with the birds, considering her life and the fork in the road that lay ahead of her. She didn’t want to leave Olivier; in spite of his moodiness she loved him. But Jack had injected her life with excitement and given her a high from which she was reluctant to come down.

  The children grew tired and hungry. They walked back past Kensington Palace, Joe bending down to pat every dog, Isabel hanging off the railings like a parrot. Sunny gave them tea. Angelica supervised their homework at the dining room table. Everything was the same as always, except in her head, where everything was different.

  She dressed for dinner, choosing a vintage midnight-blue dress Olivier had bought her in Paris the first year of their marriage. She had always loved that dress, but it was only since losing weight that she was able to wear it. Olivier threw a shadow across the room. He stood in the doorway, watching her. Without asking he turned up the lights and wandered in, taking off his jacket. “So you’re going out.”

  “Yes, to Kate’s party for Art.”

  “Oh yes, I forgot.” He ran his eyes up and down her body. “You look très jolie.” He pulled a face. “Shame you’re going out. I’d like to take that dress off.”

  “No time, I’m afraid,” she said, slipping past him.

  “You smell nice, too.”

  “Oranges.”

  “Nice.” He looked at her longingly and a little lost.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t be too long.”

  “Why, are you going to miss me?” She hadn’t meant to sound so sharp.

  “Of course. I like your company.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not still angry with me for last night?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I haven’t seen you for ages.”

  “You saw me last night.”

  “That doesn’t count. We should spend more time together.”

  “Sure.” She grabbed her evening bag and tossed her hair.

  “I’m sad that you look so ravishing, but not for me.”

  “It’s not my fault you’re not coming. You still can.”

  He dithered, and for a terrible moment she thought he might change his mind and go with her. “No, I’m tired. Just don’t be too long.”

  “It’ll go on all night, Olivier. You know what Kate’s karaoke evenings are like.”

  “Karaoke! I’m definitely not coming to hear a bunch of Hoorays singing out of tune to YMCA!” He laughed unhappily. “Let’s go out for dinner tomorrow night, just the two of us.”

  “No, let’s stay in. I’ll be tired.”

  “I thought you might like a night out, just us.”

  “I would, but not tomorrow.”

  He threw himself onto the bed, crossing his feet. “What’s for supper?”

  • • •

  Angelica arrived at Kate’s just as Scarlet and William were ringing the doorbell.

  “Where’s Olivier?” William asked.

  “Not coming. Hates karaoke.”

  “Well, that makes two of us. That’s the point where I think I’ll leave you all to it,” he added.

  “And when the party will really get going.” Scarlet giggled as William nudged her playfully.

  Inside, the guests waited in the sitting room for Art and Tod to arrive. The effect of all those silver balloons was magical. Candles covered every surface and were reflected in the big ornate mirrors that hung above the mantelpieces. Waiters weaved through the throng with trays of champagne and cocktails. Angelica took a glass of champagne and found Candace talking to Letizia and Kate. All the husbands were there except Olivier, but Angelica wasn’t in the least bit upset. All she could think about was eleven o’clock.

  At last the couple arrived. Tod flung open the door and Art’s face was a picture of astonishment and pleasure. He swept his eyes over the faces of his friends and settled finally onto Kate’s. “You naughty girl!” he said, throwing his arms around her small frame and lifting her off the ground. “I love you, I love you, I love you!” he breathed into her ear.

  “Happy birthday!” she exclaimed, raising her glass, and everyone in the room raised theirs.

  “Let the party begin!” Tod shouted, and, as if by magic, the lights were turned up and music resounded through the rooms.

  13

  Live in the present because it’s all there is.

  In Search of the Perfect Happiness

  “Angelica, darling, you look peachy,” said Art, towering over her. At six feet four he was handsome in an aristocratic, chiseled way, with intelligent gray eyes and glossy brown hair that flopped over his face.

  “Happy birthday, Art,” she said, smelling his spicy perfume as he bent down to kiss her.

  “What is that scent? It’s delicious,” said Candace. “Though kind of overpowering!”

  “State secret,” he replied. “I don’t want you all smelling like me.”

  “You don’t look anything like fifty,” said Angelica.

  “Don’t mention the five, please, it hurts. You’re as old as you feel.”

  “Or as old as the woman you feel,” said Angelica with a giggle. “That’s what my father always says.”

  “Not in my case. Tod is nearer the six, but don’t tell him I said so.”

  “Kate has really pushed the boat out on this one,” said Candace, gazing around the room.

  “She loves me,” he said casually.

  “Don’t we all?” It was impossible not to think the world of Art.

  “You two are enough to turn a gay man straight. I’d better circulate, or I’ll get into trouble. There’s no such thing as a free dinner.”

  “Isn’t he adorable?” Candace asked as he made his way through the throng.

  “Adorable!”

  “You don’t think . . . ?” She scrunched up her face as if trying to conjure an impossible mental picture.

  “What?”

  “
That he’s the mystery man?”

  “You mean, Art and Kate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Absolutely not. He’s devoted to Tod, and he’s gay. Anyway, she’s convinced herself that Pete’s the father.”

  “Well, she might be right. But we’ll know when he’s born and doesn’t look anything like Pete!”

  “I wager he looks nothing like Art.”

  “Come on, let’s take a look around. He’s sure to be in here somewhere.”

  They worked their way through the room. Candace sized up every man with eyes as sharp as an eagle’s. Angelica watched the clock. Minutes passed slowly, and sometimes, when she looked, they seemed not to pass at all. She felt dizzy with nerves, unable to concentrate on what anyone said. She forgot people’s names and blundered into more than the odd faux pas. Raising her glass cheerfully, she blamed the champagne. Due to her somewhat daffy charm, she got away with it.

  Dinner was buffet style, and Angelica helped herself to a small portion of salad, which she picked at on the sofa with Candace and Letizia, too anxious to eat. Kate flitted about in a short cashmere dress that barely covered her bottom. Her belly was still as flat as a biscuit, which prompted the girls to question whether she really was pregnant.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s making up the whole thing,” said Candace. “Then we’ll all be swept into the drama of the miscarriage.”

  “She’s just skinny. I showed even before I was pregnant,” said Angelica.

  “She should be showing by now, especially as it’s her third child. But that stomach is as tight as a trampoline.” Candace watched her take Art’s cigarette and sneak a quick drag. “Would she be smoking if she was pregnant?”

  “I don’t think she’s making it up. She was in a real state, remember? And we all saw the lines go blue on the tests,” said Letizia.

  “True, you can’t manufacture that,” Angelica agreed.

  “She’s not holding back on the alcohol, either. Actually, I’d go further and say I think she’s tipsy.”

  “If the child is like his mother, he’ll have the constitution of an Irish navvy.” Angelica laughed.

  “She’s a mystery. Where’s Pete, by the way?”

  “Probably with Olivier—they both hate this sort of party.”

  “He’s in Russia,” Letizia interjected. “But you’re right: he hates karaoke, and he’s not fond of Art, though I can’t think why. Everyone loves Art.”

  “Look, Art’s a ladies’ man,” said Candace. “Heterosexual men don’t get him. He makes them feel nervous because he’s such a beautiful creature. It’s a crying shame for women that the best-looking men are gay.” Not all, Angelica thought, and glanced at her watch.

  It wasn’t long before the karaoke started. William left with a few other husbands who found the sound of tuneless shrieking too much to bear. Kate kicked off with “It’s a Heartache,” followed by Scarlet and Tod singing a harmonious rendition of “I Got You Babe.” Nothing could persuade Angelica to take to the floor, even fortified with champagne and the anticipation of disappearing into the night to meet Jack. She sat back on the sofa and laughed at the sight of her friends blithely making fools of themselves.

  The next time Angelica looked at her watch it was eleven o’clock. The world stood still as her stomach plummeted. She had waited so long for this moment, but now that it was here she shied away, like a pony at too high a jump. She paled and drained her champagne glass, driven by the sense of inevitability that had propelled her through her day. Without a word to anyone she got up and slipped out into the hall. A waitress retrieved her coat, and she wrapped it tightly around her as she stepped out into the cold. It was crisp and clear outside, the sky studded with stars; at the end of the street a taxi waited beneath a bright lamp.

  Angelica walked towards it, her steps accelerating, tap-tapping over the pavement. She could see him through the back window, silhouetted against the light of the lamp, and her heart inflated like one of Kate’s silver balloons. She reached the cab, and the door flung open. Glancing back to make sure she wasn’t being watched, she climbed in. Jack didn’t wait to ask permission. He pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers hungrily. Angelica wasn’t surprised or horrified that he had broken his word; his kiss felt like home.

  The old cabbie looked in his rearview mirror and grinned. If he wrote about everything he’d seen going on in the back of his taxi, he’d have a best seller to boast of. The trouble was, he could barely manage to write a shopping list, let alone an entire book. He shook his head regretfully and pulled out into the street.

  Jack’s mouth was warm and soft, his chin rough against hers, his embrace the firm hold of a man reluctant to let her go. He slipped his hand beneath her coat, and she felt the heat in it up and down her dress. She yearned for him to touch her skin, to feel his fingers caress her dark and secret places, and her desire made her forget herself. He kissed her neck and throat, sending an exquisite tremor through her body, and she let out a deep moan, pressing herself against him.

  As the taxi swung around corners and stopped at traffic lights, Jack and Angelica clung to each other, savoring the magic, aware that tomorrow a plane would take him away to the other side of the world.

  The taxi drew up outside Number 11 Cadogan Gardens, and Jack climbed out. The sight of the hotel and the rush of cold air as he opened the door brought her to her senses. She shrank back into the seat in terror. “I can’t . . .” she faltered. He leaned in and reached for her hand. But she shook her head and looked away, embarrassed. “You know I can’t.”

  He said something to the cabbie, but Angelica couldn’t hear for the ringing in her ears. For a dreadful moment she thought he was telling the man to take her home, that he was going to walk away in displeasure, but he climbed in beside her, closed the door, and drew her back into his arms, kissing her temple and nuzzling her cheek.

  “It’s okay,” he said gently. “I shouldn’t have presumed. I couldn’t help myself. Forgive me.” She lay against him, relieved that he didn’t think less of her. “I have all these good intentions when I’m not with you, then the minute I see you I just want to carry you upstairs and make love to you.”

  She lifted her face. “I can’t go home to Olivier smelling of you. What will he think if I turn up in the early hours of the morning? I’m the kind of girl who’s in bed by eleven.”

  “You don’t have to explain. I’ll take you home. But not before I’ve kissed you again. Just drive, cabbie. Anywhere you like.”

  • • •

  The taxi drove around Bayswater and Notting Hill, while Jack and Angelica sat entwined in the backseat, nuzzling and kissing each other like young lovers. It was past midnight when it rattled up Kensington Church Street and into Brunswick Gardens.

  “So, it’s good-bye, Sage.” He took her face in his hand, and she pressed her cheek against it. It had all happened so quickly. A few meetings, a dozen e-mails, and now a brief taxi ride, and yet they felt there had never been a time when they hadn’t known each other. His eyes were sad as they swept over her features, as if this was the last opportunity he’d ever have to feast on them. His sentimentality moved her, and she turned her head to kiss his palm. “I’m already missing you,” he murmured. “Let me memorize every feature so I know you by heart.”

  “Come back soon,” she whispered, fighting back tears.

  “You come to South Africa. I’ll take you up to Lowry’s Pass, and we’ll drink wine and watch the sunset. There’s no place more romantic. I’ll hold you until the last flicker of light disappears behind the hills.”

  “Oh, Jack. If only . . .” She felt her throat constrict.

  “Promise me you’ll come.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then just pretend. I want to hear you say it.”

  She stared into his pleading eyes. “All right. I’ll come. I promise.”

  The tension in his face melted. “Then I’ll wait for you there.”

  He cupped h
er face and kissed her for the final time, then watched her open the door and step into the street. She took a moment to compose herself, standing beneath the streetlamp, smoothing down her coat. He would have walked her to her door, but it was too risky. Instead, he watched her walk quickly up the pavement, arms folded, shoulders hunched against the cold, her figure growing smaller as she was swallowed into the darkness. At last, she arrived at her house. She turned and stood there a moment, staring back at him. Then she gave a small, cautious wave. Reluctantly, he told the driver to take him back to the hotel.

  Angelica watched until the taxi was out of sight. She remained on her doorstep for a few minutes, wiping her face and scrunching her hair between her fingers. Then she took a deep breath and unlocked the door. Stepping into the light of her home, she should have felt guilty, but she just felt sad. The dream dissolved in the glare of reality, and once more she was reminded of where she belonged.

  She took off her coat and kicked off her stilettos, then padded up the stairs in her stockinged feet. Olivier was lying in bed watching television. It was midnight: he had waited up. He glanced at her and registered at once her stricken face. “Are you all right, Angelica?” He sat up in alarm.

  “I’m fine. Just desperately tired.”

  “You look like you’ve been crying.”

  She forced a laugh. “Crying with laughter probably, at all those terrible karaoke singers!”

  She walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She undressed, watching her reflection with grim satisfaction, as if it didn’t belong to her but to a deceitful, conniving stranger. She didn’t care that Olivier would think it odd that she showered in the middle of the night: she felt compelled to soap away her guilt. It hurt to think of Jack flying off the following day, but she knew it was for the best. She had played with fire and nearly burned her whole family. Standing under the water, her hair squashed into a shower cap, she closed her eyes and emptied her mind. The burden of so much emotion was too much to carry. She listened to the water fall about her like rain and felt the comforting warmth wash over her skin.