The Model Wife

by Julia Llewellyn

  ‘Don’t eat that! It costs about two hundred pounds a jar!’

  5°

  ‘Christ,’ he’d sighed, ‘two-hundred-pound face cream and there’s not even any decent bread and butter in the house.’ He paused, then added, ‘Any more,’ making it clear Hannah had always paid attention to such details.

  When Poppy had dreamt about marriage and children it had been a misty montage involving a lot of scampering and cuddling and certainly no wiping of filthy bottoms and laundering of stained bibs. If the vision was more concrete, she saw herself as Maria in the Sound of Music with dozens of children snuggled up in bed round her as a thunderstorm raged outside.

  It hadn’t occurred to her that having them still snuggled in bed with her at three a.m. when her grumpy husband wanted sex might not be quite such fun. Not that her imaginary husband was ever grumpy – oh no, he was an adoring man gazing at her across a crystal-laden, candle-lit dinner table saying things like ‘You have made my life complete’. It hadn’t crossed her mind that she would have to put that crystal and candles on the table, that she would have to make the dinner, satisfying Luke’s demands for home-cooked food. That she would have to make sure there were always three different types of muesli in the house, plus ‘decent’ bread, posh French butter, chunky marmalade, Bonne Maman jam, Marmite. Good coffee (i.e. Lavazza not Nescafé). Fresh orange juice. And that was just breakfast.

  ‘Usually Luke leaves for the office about ten,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘And in the evenings, of course, he’s presenting the news and usually has dinner either in the work canteen before the show, or goes out afterwards with colleagues. So usually I just microwave a baked potato for myself and then I have a tub of Skinny Cow ice cream while I watch Luke on TV.’

  Poppy couldn’t remember when she’d started giving interviews. Some time after Clara was born, she’d begun to enjoy little chats in her head explaining to a sympathetic lady from a magazine about how she was rooting for Nisha, the former children’s TV presenter, to win this year’s Strictly Come Dancing. How she’d just been to visit Hogarth’s House in Chiswick and couldn’t believe such an oasis of tranquillity existed just off one of the busiest roads in London. How Clara’s favourite thing at the moment was to feed the ducks in the canal while shouting ‘Quack, quack.’ All the little things she longed to share with Luke but which he was rarely around to listen to; and even if he was they seemed to bore him.

  ‘Mummeeee!’ Clara interrupted her mother’s train of thought.

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘Mummeee, Clara get out.’

  ‘In a minute, darling. Just let Mummy finish her shopping.’ She looked up and caught the eye of another buggy-pusher. Tall, dark, probably quite pretty once, but old, at least forty, and haggard. Poppy recognized her from the baby clinic. They’d both been regulars in the hellish newborn days when Poppy had been so tired she’d once scattered formula powder over Luke’s pasta thinking it was Parmesan and cleaned Clara’s filthy bottom with a Flash floor wipe. Poppy smiled at her.

  ‘Hi!’

  The woman frowned as she tried to place her. ‘Oh, hi, how are you?’

  ‘Fine.’ She smiled into the buggy at the woman’s little boy, whose name she couldn’t remember. ‘How are you sweetie? Wow, you’re so big now.’

  ‘She’s sweet,’ the other woman said dutifully, eyeing Clara. ‘What’s her name again?’

  ‘Clara.’

  ‘Oh? I know two other Claras. And a Clare.’

  ‘Right.’ How was Poppy supposed to react to this? Change her child’s name? ‘I’m trying to find something to get limescale off the bath,’ she said with a little laugh. ‘Do you know what it might be called?’

  ‘Viakal,’ the mother said, jabbing a finger in the direction of cleaning products. Then her expression lit up as she saw another buggy-pusher, this one with grey hair in a bun. ‘Marcia! Hey, how are you? You weren’t at Gymboree yesterday. Do you have time for a coffee?’

  ‘Bye,’ said Poppy. ‘Thanks.’ But she was ignored. It was always the same. Because she was so young, the other mums seemed to think she was beneath their contempt. She’d tried the mother and baby groups, the music sessions, but all the mums were so much older. Occasionally, she’d see someone of her own age and her heart would quicken, but when she spoke to them they always turned out to be the nanny or the au pair, always with their own network of nanny and au pair friends, who regarded mothers in the same way the Palestinians did the Israelis.

  That was the main thing that had never featured in Poppy’s fantasies: that as a wife and mother she’d be so lonely; that she’d have days when her only adult exchanges would be with the bored-looking Indian men at the supermarket checkout. Days when she actively listened for the postman because, if she timed it right, she could collar him on the doorstep and engage him in a couple of minutes’ chat about the weather – despite the fact he was all the while backing away.

  Luke was frequently away and he often neglected to call for days, ignoring her anguished messages and texts. Poppy would send them frantic with worry that he’d stepped on a landmine, only to turn on the news at seven thirty and see him right as rain. ‘Sorry, darling,’ he’d say absently when she tackled him about it. ‘Often we have no signal and when I’m on a deadline I don’t do personal stuff. I will try harder.’ And he did for a while, but then the calls dropped off and Poppy eventually got used to it, just as she got used to him being very terse with her when she did call, and to life alone with a baby. The early, sleepless days had been incredibly hard with a screaming baby, no friends in the same boat and no support from her mother. ‘Babies are a nightmare. I went to hell and back with you,’ had been Louise’s helpful contribution.

  Luke did find Clara sweet, but he just wasn’t around much, either working late, or away on foreign trips and, despite his three children, could offer no advice. ‘Hannah did the baby side of things,’ was all he said vaguely whenever Poppy asked him for tips on burping or weaning.

  But gradually things had got easier. She’d always loved Clara even at her screechiest worst and now she was walking and talking, she had become Poppy’s little buddy. They spent long days together reading stories, watching the ducks drift down the canal and, especially now Clara was older and marginally more civilized, exploring hidden corners of London. Together, they’d discovered the graceful church of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe in Black-friars with its cosy wood interior; the magnificent paintings of the Wallace Collection with its enclosed garden and fountain with a golden snake; the quirky Middle Eastern shops on the Edgware Road with their piles of pomegranates and dill, unripe mangoes and dusty Turkish Delight.

  ‘Mummeee!’

  ‘Yes, darling, Mummy will just pay and then you can walk home.’

  Now her basket contained organic milk, orange juice, Cheerios (the health visitor had told Poppy she should be giving her daughter porridge for breakfast but Clara loathed it and threw it at the walls) and Viakal. Sod the fish. She’d buy some tomorrow from the fishmonger in Chapel Street market. That would be the day’s project. Poppy had long since realized that one of the skills for making motherhood bearable was time management. She never bought more than a basket of stuff because, firstly, if she put too many bags on the back of the Maclaren buggy it tipped over, and, secondly, because she needed an excuse for leaving the house tomorrow.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the new Tatler on the magazine rack. Grinning from the cover was Daisy McNeil, Poppy’s biggest rival from her modelling days. They were both healthy-looking, blue-eyed blondes with big teeth and had always been sent for the same jobs. Usually Poppy got them, but not any more, obviously. Below it, with the newspapers, was a Daily Post. Oh fuck, it was Tuesday. Which meant… yes, there above the masthead was a grinning Hannah. THE DEMISE OF THE TROPHY WIFE, the paper screamed and underneath ‘Hannah Creighton on the death of the bimbo spouse’.

  Oh, no. Oh, no. Not another attack. Hannah had been silent for a few weeks. But jus
t as you knew the axe-wielding serial killer in a horror movie was pretending to be dead, so he could suddenly jump up and terrify the heroine, Poppy knew she could never relax as long as she and Luke’s ex-wife shared the same planet.

  It had been a nasty shock when just a few weeks after Clara was born Poppy had opened the Daily Post to see a huge picture on page eighteen of Luke and a pretty redhead with their arms round each other, next to a headline screaming: MY HUSBAND, THE BIMBO AND ME by Hannah Creighton. The picture caption read ‘Luke and Hannah in Happier Times’ and there was a smaller picture of Poppy looking particularly stupid in a red, flowery hat, with the caption ‘The Other Woman – Poppy Price’.

  There then followed the heartbreaking story of Hannah’s marriage break up. Since when, there had been a weekly bulletin about Hannah’s wonderful new life as a divorcee, overflowing with friends, exotic holidays, interesting work and incredible sex.

  At the same time, frequent digs were made at the ‘cad’ and the ‘bimbo’ (after the first column she had never again mentioned Poppy by name, which was something, Poppy supposed). Hannah described how she had heard the marriage had run into trouble once the baby had been born, how she couldn’t help but feel sorry for Poppy lumbered with a man who bought Viagra on the internet.

  Of course, the columns raised all sorts of questions. Timidly, Poppy tackled Luke about them and he responded furiously. ‘Of course I didn’t beg her to get back with me; of course there weren’t dozens of women before you; of course I didn’t order Viagra on the internet.’ After the last, he softened. ‘Why would I do that? Do I need any help in the bedroom?’ Poppy had had to believe him or she would have gone insane, but the doubt still lingered just under the surface, like a splinter the tweezers couldn’t quite grasp.

  Initially, there’d been a flurry of calls and letters and emails from various newspapers, including the Post itself, asking if Poppy would like to give an interview defending herself. She’d been up for the chance to put her side across, but Luke had said absolutely no way in a tone that brooked no argument and after a while the approaches had stopped, even though Hannah’s attacks continued.

  Glancing round the supermarket, Poppy stuffed the paper in her basket as if it were a porn mag. She paid, and outside, released Clara from the buggy for the torturously slow walk home, with stops to examine every stone, twig and cigarette butt that lay between Clifton Gardens and Blomfield Road. Poppy’s phone rang in her pocket. Meena. Bored at work again.

  ‘Hi, gorgeous.’ Poppy tried to sound chipper.

  ‘Hiiii, trophy wife. I’ve just read that bitch in the Post slagging you off again. Silly cow. She’s just jealous because you’re young and beautiful and she’s a forty-something has-been.’

  ‘Oh right. I haven’t seen it,’ Poppy lied. Meena always got cross with Poppy for letting Hannah get to her.

  ‘Good. Don’t. It’ll just upset you. So how are things?’

  ‘Well, Clara’s had a bit of diarrhoea but—’

  ‘Too. Much. Information.’ Meena was very sweet to Clara when she saw her, pulling faces and tickling her, but like most childless people she had simply no inkling of the gigantic space a child took up in your life. Poppy didn’t blame her, not so long ago she’d been equally clueless. ‘So what have you been up to?’

  ‘Oh, the usual. Shopping.’

  ‘In Westbourne Grove?’ Meena perked up.

  ‘No, Tesco’s, you muppet.’

  ‘Poppy! I don’t get it. You’ve married a rich man, why don’t you spend more time flexing his plastic?’

  ‘You know I don’t like shopping much. It’s boring.’ Plus, the joy of wandering around boutiques, flicking through racks of clothes and fingering fabrics, was somewhat diminished when your daughter had a habit of lifting up the changing-room curtain just as you’d thrown your bra on the ground, or dashing off into the shop when you were wearing nothing but knickers and tights. But Poppy wasn’t going to go into that. In any case, Meena was moving on.

  ‘Listen, you’ve got to help me. Dan’s texted.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Dan was a banker from Goldman’s or Salamon’s – Poppy forgot which – who Meena occasionally slept with. ‘What did he say?’

  “‘R U around Saturday nite?” What do you think? Do you think that’s good?’

  ‘Of course it’s good.’ Poppy never quite understood the arcane rituals surrounding Meena’s love life. Because her only proper boyfriend had been Luke, she’d missed out on the rite of passage that was flirting in bars, one-night stands, waiting for texts, studying his page on Bebo, all the things that dominated her friend’s existence. Poppy tried to give useful advice, but she felt often as if she were trying to translate that day’s Financial Times into Mandarin, so limited was her vocabulary in the language of emoticons and poking.

  She knew Meena thought she had the perfect life, but often Poppy felt a little jealous of her friend who had nothing more to worry about than whether to wear the red or the green top to Boujis on Friday or alter her Facebook status to ‘in a relationship’, while Poppy – who’d thought Luke would free her from all cares – found herself hassling the landlord to send someone round to mend the dishwasher. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror, she was surprised at the fresh, unlined face that stared back at her, so staid and careworn did she feel inside.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Meena was musing, ‘I think he thinks I’m easy. He always gets in touch, just like that out of the blue. It’s not respectful. I think I’m going to ignore it.’

  ‘But you like him, don’t you?’

  ‘Mummmee. Whassat?’

  ‘Just a minute, darling. I…’

  ‘Mummeee!’

  Poppy shrieked. Clara was holding out a clear plastic bag containing a fresh dog turd.

  ‘No! No! Put that down. Dirty! Dirty! Dirty!’

  Clara burst into tears as her mother threw the offending object into the road. Help! Poppy was sure dog shit had some bug in it that made you blind.

  ‘Clara, don’t touch your eyes, don’t touch your eyes.’ She picked her up. ‘Come on. We have to get home quickly and wash your hands. Meena, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘What about the school reunion?’

  ‘Oh…’ They’d been invited to a reunion at Brettenden in a month’s time and were still debating about whether to go or not. Meena was pro, Poppy had been anti. But right this second, she was more concerned with saving her daughter’s eyesight. ‘Say yes, if you like. I’ll talk to you later.’

  They marched up the road, Poppy pushing the buggy laden with shopping with one hand, while under her other arm a thrashing Clara screamed at a volume that could have been put to good use in Guantanamo Bay. A passing man in a suit averted his eyes in horror. Not so long ago he’d have scanned Poppy admiringly. But now Poppy was another victim of buggy blindness syndrome, which made all women pushing children completely invisible, except to dotty old ladies and other women pushing children. Poppy sometimes thought she should offer her services to MI6 as an undercover agent. So long as she had the Maclaren with her, she could infiltrate meetings to nuke London without anybody being the wiser.

  Her phone rang again. Luke. Probably warning her not to read the Post. She’d promise him she wouldn’t, then had to remember to hide her copy carefully at the bottom of the recycling.

  ‘Hello, darling?’ she said, adding to Clara, ‘It’s Daddy.’

  ‘Down, Mummeeeee!’

  ‘Is she OK?’ Luke asked, then without waiting for a reply, ‘Listen, can Glenda babysit on Friday?’

  Poppy’s heart soared like a lark. He’d remembered their anniversary.

  ‘I don’t know. I expect so. I’ll ask her right now.’

  ‘I bloody hope so, because there’s a work do we have to go to.’

  ‘Oh.’ Poppy might once have begged to go to Luke’s work gatherings but now she was regretting it. As soon as they arrived he would disappear into the crowd, leaving his shy wife to move from group to group, smiling ner
vously. But everyone simply carried on talking vociferously and even though, here and there, people moved aside to let her pass, nobody interrupted conversations for her. She looked pretty, but she didn’t look important enough to actually talk to. And when she did finally find Luke and attach herself to him, the men would lech at her, while the women greeted her with the same enthusiasm they’d reserve for a dose of chlamydia.

  ‘It’s non-negotiable. Chris Stevens has been sacked and his replacement Dean’s having a small dinner.’ There was a pause. ‘You do know who Chris Stevens is, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course!’ Poppy tried very hard to keep abreast of all Luke’s work matters; it was what a good wife should do. ‘Your editor. That’s terrible.’

  ‘It is. It’s the end of an era. But now we’ve got to schmooze Dean. Mightily. It’s very important I show up with my wife.’

  Poppy stalled. ‘Now I think about it Glenda might be busy on Friday.’

  ‘Glenda seems to be busy a lot these days,’ Luke said sharply.

  ‘She babysits for a lot of people,’ Poppy lied, feeling guilty because she knew Glenda would love the cash. Maybe she’d just slip her some extra.

  ‘If Glenda can’t do it, you’d better find someone else. I’ve told you, Poppy, it’s really important you accompany me to this party. It’s the kind of thing good wives do for their husbands.’

  ‘OK,’ she said.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m recording an interview with the head of the TUC. But call Glenda. You need to get over this fear of going out before we become more of a laughing stock than we already are.’

  So he’d seen the Daily Post. ‘I’m not frightened—’ Poppy tried, but Luke said, ‘Gotta go. See you later,’ and the phone went dead.

  6

  The paper boy, in the village of Dumberley, Surrey, made his way up the crazy-paving path of ‘Stumpers’ and pushed the Mackharvens’ copy of the Daily Post through the brass letter box.