The Model Wife

by Julia Llewellyn

  ‘That sounds good,’ Luke said. ‘You should take Farrah up on that, Poppy. Word of mouth is always the best way to find a nanny.’ He gave Farrah his most dazzling smile. Watching him, Thea’s heart felt as if it had been ripped in two. She’d thought she’d got over Luke, but she’d just been in remission. And now, just like that, she had relapsed.

  ‘Do you have children, Thea?’ Farrah was enquiring.

  ‘No.’ A tiny pause and then, ‘I don’t want any.’

  Silence fell like a safety curtain in front of a stage set. People always reacted like this when Thea told them she didn’t want children. Anyone would have thought she’d confessed to a fondness for fried puppies in a burger bun. It infuriated her the way everyone assumed she must either be a heartless witch or, worse, that she was actually desperate to breed and putting a brave face on things. But the truth was as predictable as E = mc2, rivers running downhill or your boyfriend wanting all the details about how you French-kissed your best friend at a party when you were fifteen. Thea wanted a family as much as she wanted to ski down Mount Everest dressed in a chicken suit.

  Farrah laughed.

  ‘Very sensible, I must say. If you should be stupid enough to change your mind you can always adopt mine.’

  ‘That’s our Thea,’ said Luke, who had somehow joined the group. ‘She’s the ultimate career girl. Too busy burning the candle at both ends to fit in a family.’

  ‘Well, I’ve managed,’ Emma said sharply. She turned to Roxanne Fox, who was hovering on the sidelines. ‘And so have you, haven’t you, Roxanne?’

  ‘Managed what?’ For a woman who liked to sack six people before breakfast, Roxanne had a bizarrely babyish voice to match her china-doll face. There was something about her Thea found creepy.

  ‘Manage to have kids and a career.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Roxanne didn’t sound pleased by this conversation. Thea grinned. There was a famous story in the office of Roxanne calling home and declaring, ‘Hello, darling, it’s me!!’ There was a pause before she snarled: ‘Your mummy, darling.’

  She hid her smile as Roxanne said, ‘And how are you, Thea? Good to have you back.’

  ‘Good to be back,’ Thea said for the umpteenth time, just as Farrah put her arm on hers.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but it’s time to go in for dinner.’ She turned to Emma. ‘Hi, Emma, we haven’t been introduced. I’m Farrah, Dean’s wife. Just wanted to say that necklace you were wearing last night on the programme was beautiful. Where did you get it?’

  10

  Poppy was seated between Marco Jensen and a middle-aged man called Bill.

  ‘Do you work for the Seven Thirty?’ she asked as they sat down.

  ‘Christ, no! I’ve got a real job.’

  ‘Oh.’ Poppy nodded and smiled at Dean, who was hovering behind her with two bottles of wine. ‘Red, please.’ Another glass, she hoped, would make this evening, which had started so horribly, pass a little quicker.

  ‘I’m a writer,’ Bill continued, ‘do a little bit more for my money than her indoors.’ He nodded at Emma Waters. The penny dropped.

  ‘You’re Mr Waters!’

  ‘Mr Pearce actually,’ he corrected snippily. ‘Emma kept her maiden name. Unlike you.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  He laughed. ‘Everyone knows who you are. You’re the bimbo.’ Luke, who was deep in ingratiating conversation with Farrah Cutler, looked up, annoyed. ‘I don’t know how you put up with it.’ Bill continued, ‘It must be so humiliating.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ Poppy said with all the sincerity of Prince Philip asking a factory worker if he enjoyed his job. ‘It’s just fish and chip paper. What kind of writing do you do?’

  ‘Bill’s a civil servant,’ Emma cut in icily.

  ‘That’s not true, darling. What about my play?’

  ‘Oh yes, the play.’ Emma sounded as if she was referring to a particularly large dog turd on her front path. She turned back to Dean and started chattering vivaciously.

  ‘What’s the play about?’ Poppy felt bound to ask.

  ‘Just something I’ve been working on for a while. It’s influenced by Anouilh. Do you go to the theatre much?’

  ‘Well, no, I’ve got a baby so…’

  But Bill had suddenly turned his back on her and was making animated conversation with Marco’s girlfriend, Stephanie, who – Poppy knew from Luke’s bitching – worked in the City and earned about five million pounds a second.

  ‘Of course I love Jean Genet,’ she was saying earnestly. Bill nodded and smiled. Poppy winced, took a large gulp of wine and a mouthful of her pomegranate and feta salad. She wondered how on earth she was going to get through the night. She felt so intimidated by all those other confident, eloquent, older women. Look at Thea, laughing vivaciously at something Dean had just said. Why had she shot her down so vilely about Cuba? She’d only been being polite.

  Poppy looked at her again. Something about Thea made something in the depths of Poppy’s mind stir, like a long-sleeping beast. She realized with a jolt that she was the perfect woman she’d seen talking to Luke that first morning at Sal’s. That was the kind of woman her husband ought to be with, she thought sadly. A woman who talked about what was on the Booker Prize shortlist and what to do about global warming rather than the fact their toddler hadn’t yet started potty training, but they were going to get round to it soon. A woman who had been friends with Hannah and showed admirable loyalty by her disdain for her successor.

  ‘Did you have a good Christmas?’ she said to Marco, on her other side.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘How was your Christmas? Did you go away?’

  ‘Uh. Yeah. Steph and I hired a chalet in Verbier.’ Marco wasn’t making eye contact, his expression was fixed on Dean, a few tantalizing places away, who right now was in intense conversation with Emma. Poppy glanced again at her husband, who was gallantly laughing at Farrah’s every word. She was saying, ‘And I looked at Highgate, but it’s really very academic and – I don’t know – I’ve got a feeling maybe the boys are more creative. It’s a tricky one, schools. Where do your kids go?’

  ‘Are you good at skiing?’ Poppy tried.

  ‘Sorry?’ Marco zoned in on her. ‘Um. Yeah. I’m pretty good. Do you ski?’ He sounded as if he’d just come round from a general anaesthetic.

  ‘No, no. I’ve always wanted to. My mum would never let me go on the school trips. Said she couldn’t afford them. But I’m not very coordinated anyway, so—’

  ‘Sorry, sorry, Dean!’ Marco shouted. ‘Did I just hear correctly? Did you say the show’s being cut down?’

  A murmur went round the dinner table.

  ‘That’s right,’ Dean said. ‘As of next month, the channel’s cutting fifteen minutes from the show, so it will end at eight fifteen instead of eight thirty.’

  Fantastic. Luke will be home fifteen minutes earlier.

  io5

  But Poppy’s delighted thought was drowned out by the cries of protest.

  ‘But this is outrageous!’

  ‘How could this be allowed to happen?’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Guys, guys! Don’t shoot the bloody messenger, all right?’ Dean threw up his hands. ‘I’m just telling you what the channel has decided. I can’t say I’m exactly thrilled about it, but what can you do? Having a news programme that finishes at eight thirty is no good for the schedule. Sadly, we’re taking up too much of the all-important eight p.m. slot. When people turn on the telly after their Vesta curry they want to watch a movie with George Clooney or, failing that, Peter and Jordan going shopping for a new cot for Princess. They don’t want to see Luke interviewing the prime minister of Japan.’

  ‘Oh come now, you’re not saying Luke isn’t every bit as delectable as the Cloonester?’ There was a sarcastic note to Emma’s question.

  ‘Of course he is. And you, darling, are Britain’s answer to Nicole Kidman – we all know that. And Marco is…’r />
  ‘I think he looks a bit like a young Val Kilmer,’ Farrah said dreamily.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’ Luke had got where he was partly because his voice could cut across a room and hold everyone’s attention. ‘Listen to how this conversation is degenerating already. Look, this is a disgrace. The Seven Thirty is one of the last bastions of decent TV journalism still standing and you’re telling us that our paymasters are cutting fifteen minutes of it in order to feed the masses more Hollywood pap.’

  Dean and Roxanne looked at each other.

  ‘That’s the long and short of it, yes,’ Dean said.

  Roxanne hastily interrupted. ‘Look, guys, I know this must seem like a dramatic step, but then dramatic measures are needed. You know how badly viewing figures – not just for the Seven Thirty but for the channel as a whole – have been falling. We had to do something about it urgently.’

  ‘Look on the bright side,’ Dean continued. ‘Fifteen minutes less work a day for you all.’

  ‘And of course no one is taking a cut in salary,’ Roxanne added.

  ‘I think it could be a good thing,’ Marco said quickly. ‘It could make the whole show sharper. Snappier.’

  ‘Thanks, Marco.’ Dean beamed.

  Luke’s look couldn’t just have killed Marco, it could have disembowelled, diced, sautéd and braised him overnight.

  ‘And what about the content?’ he snarled. ‘Are we dumbing that down in accordance with our shorter running time?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say dumbing down—’ Roxanne said.

  ‘But we will want more of an emphasis on showbiz,’ cut in Dean.

  ‘And human interest.’

  ‘Fewer foreign stories.’

  ‘Focus groups are telling us they just aren’t interested in what happens abroad.’

  ‘Unless the sun’s shining and they can buy cheap lager and fags there.’ Dean guffawed. Roxanne rolled her eyes. Farrah got up and started collecting plates. Poppy jumped to her feet.

  io7

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Poppy.’ No one glanced at her as she collected the crockery, they were all too busy being aghast.

  ‘The budget is going to be cut overall by fifteen per cent, so that will leave far less funding available for foreign travel,’ Roxanne was saying.

  Poppy followed Farrah into the gleaming kitchen, where a sour-faced woman was garnishing a vast tray of roast lamb.

  ‘Is it nearly ready, Elisa?’

  ‘Very nearly, Mrs Farrah.’

  ‘Hello, I’m Poppy.’

  Elisa looked startled. So did Farrah. ‘Oh yes, this is Elisa, our housekeeper. Elisa, Poppy’s looking for a nanny. I told her she should call Brigita.’

  ‘Yeah, good idea,’ Elisa said glumly. Raised voices filtered in through the half-open door.

  ‘Oh shit, Dean’s put the cat among the pigeons, hasn’t he?’

  ‘It’s not his fault,’ Poppy said. ‘I mean, he’s just obeying orders, isn’t he?’

  ‘Like the SS.’ Farrah giggled. ‘You’re very sweet, Poppy. Sounds like you’ve had a bad rap. Got any pictures of your little one you’d like to show me?’

  Poppy got out her phone and she and Farrah spent a happy ten minutes cooing over photos of each others’ children.

  ‘We’d better go back in now,’ Farrah whispered to her, as if they were naughty school girls, who’d been sneaking fags behind the bike shed. ‘I don’t know about you, but I find these corporate-wife evenings a right pain in the backside. I don’t understand half the shop talk and no one wants to know about me because I’m just a mother.’

  Poppy smiled nervously. She longed for another glass of wine.

  ‘They don’t seem to understand that we do the hardest job in the world. I mean, you can’t imagine Dean or Luke putting up with more than a morning of wiping bottoms or making Lego towers. Mind you,’ she continued before Poppy could say that she could quite understand why no one wanted to hear about Farrah building a Lego tower, ‘you need a break or you’d go bonkers. If I didn’t get my me-time at the gym I don’t know what I’d do. That’s why you should call Brigita, Poppy. You’ll be amazed how much better you’ll feel with an extra pair of hands.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Poppy said evasively. She hated the idea of a nanny; it brought back too many memories of her own miserable childhood. Even if things weren’t quite right between her and Luke, at least Clara was happy at home with her mummy.

  ‘Just gives you time to get dressed properly,’ Farrah continued with a kind wink. ‘Know what I mean?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I should have told you earlier, but I didn’t want to embarrass you in public – your top’s on inside-out. Now, I think the meat’s rested long enough, Elisa. Let’s take it in. Poppy, if you could bring the gravy that would be a real help.’

  11

  A week had passed. Luke Norton’s heart was beating fast: faster than when he had found himself under fire from the Taliban in Afghanistan, or even when Hannah had confronted him about Poppy. He’d finished presenting the show half an hour ago and now he was sitting in the back of a cab negotiating its way through London’s doctorland, the streets that lie between Regent’s Park and Oxford Street. Behind the anonymous Georgian facades, smooth doctors wrote stressed businessmen prescriptions for Valium and legendary beauties got out their credit cards in return for losing their stretch marks. Every problem could be solved here, as long as you had the cash to pay for it and knew the right address. Or so Luke hoped.

  ‘What number Harley Street did you want?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Ninety-five.’

  ‘Here we are then.’ They pulled up outside a discreet grey door.

  Luke got out and paid. ‘A receipt, please.’ He’d put the taxi fare down on expenses, everyone did.

  ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’ the driver asked.

  Normally Luke loved that question. But not tonight.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You look very familiar.’

  ‘Can’t help you, mate.’ As the cab drove off, Luke inspected the names attached to the various doorbells. Complementary health clinic. Oculoplast. Foetal medicine. He put his finger on the bell for Dr Mazza.

  ‘Hello?’ squawked the intercom.

  Luke glanced over his shoulder. ‘Um, hello, I’ve got an appointment.’ He lowered his voice and whispered into the grille. ‘Luke Norton.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Luke Norton,’ he repeated just as an enormous lorry trundled past.

  ‘I can’t hear you above the traffic noise. You’ll have to speak up.’

  ‘LUKE NORTON TO SEE DR MAZZA.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Norton. I’m sorry. Do come in. You know where we are. Second floor.’

  The door buzzed open. After months of surreptitious research and phone calls, on the eve of his fifty-second birthday Luke found himself climbing a thickly carpeted stair, pushing open a heavy door and entering a gleaming reception area filled with orchids. The platinum blonde behind the desk smiled at him.

  ‘Mr Norton. Welcome. I’m Dahlia, Dr Mazza’s assistant.’

  Luke felt a faint flicker of alarm. Dr Mazza had obviously used her for practice and the results weren’t quite as impressive as one might have hoped. Her face was frozen in a semi-smile and it looked as if there were ping-pong balls under her cheekbones. But before Luke could bolt down the stairs, Dahlia continued, ‘Oh hello, Mrs Lyons. How are you feeling?’

  Luke swung round. Kelly Lyons stood behind him, proffering her credit card. Shit, shit and double doo-doo. Of all the people in the world: one of Hannah’s closest friends from the school-run crowd. Their eyes met. To his relief, even though Kelly’s face was paralysed, her eyes were full of panic.

  ‘Shh,’ she said, raising a manicured finger to her plump lips. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’

  ‘OK.’ Luke gulped. Well, well. Kelly. Whose fresh features Hannah had always envied. ‘Why do her kids sleep through the night?�
� he remembered Hannah wailing after their annual Christmas drinks when Kelly had looked peculiarly energized for someone who had just bought and wrapped thirty-seven presents and sent two hundred and three Christmas cards. Well, it turned out they probably didn’t, but Dr Mazza had helped hide the evidence. For a mad second, Luke itched to get out his mobile to text his ex-wife the news.

  Kelly smiled at the receptionist. ‘Thank you, Dahlia. I’ll see you in three months then.’

  ‘Lovely, Mrs Lyons. Take care.’

  ‘You too.’ She turned again to Luke. ‘Not a word. All right?’

  ‘Never,’ Luke said, as earnestly as if they were two members of the French Resistance agreeing on a plan to smuggle British soldiers to the coast.

  As she departed, Dahlia turned to him smiling apologetically. ‘Sorry about that, Mr Norton. It’s very unusual for our clients to recognize each other. As you know, this is Dr Mazza’s late night for his very favourite clients – he only fitted Mrs Lyons in because she’s got her sister’s third wedding next week and she’s such a regular. But don’t worry, I’m going to put you in the celebrity waiting room now, so no one else will spot you.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Luke said, chuffed his status had been acknowledged.

  ‘Gianluca’s running a bit late,’ she said as she ushered him to a small room decorated with prints of Scottish lochs. ‘Would you like a glass of champagne while you’re waiting?’

  ‘Why not?’ Luke said, picking up an Economist from the pile of magazines in front of him. But he couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t believe it had come to this, that he, Luke, the brave war correspondent, was reduced to secret appointments with a Botox doctor. His thoughts turned to Kelly Lyons. Christ. He’d always fancied her, and they’d once had a slightly too-long kiss under the mistletoe at another Christmas party, but now Luke was glad he hadn’t fucked her. The knowledge she was having Botox diminished her in his eyes, though he didn’t pause to wonder what she might think of him.

  Luke’s attitude towards women was schizophrenic, to put it mildly. An only child, his mother had been a rather cold and distant figure who made it plain to him from a very early age that he ranked far, far below her husband in her affections. Luke couldn’t help suspecting she would have loved him more if he hadn’t been three stone overweight. Unsurprisingly, as a fatty, he found it hard to get a girlfriend. His teenage years were filled with girls laughing at him when he asked them to dance and lonely Saturday nights masturbating in his bedroom.