The Model Wife

by Julia Llewellyn

  Thea felt a lump in her throat. For a second, she’d been worried she’d lost Rachel. But maybe there was still a chink of hope. All the same, as her taxi accelerated down a virtually deserted, Sunday night Upper Street, Thea felt a bleakness inside, a realization that in her absence her London life had changed unalterably. She’d better find a hot foreign story quickly to take her away for a bit. The joy of life on the road was that you lived in a bubble where you didn’t have to worry about the mundanities of everyday life. Tomorrow she’d start scouring the foreign sections for something that could take her away from this new, earthbound existence.

  16

  Having decided at least to give Brigita, Farrah’s nanny, a try, Poppy was surprised how easy it was to organize. After her call, Brigita came over the very next morning with a big smile and a cuddly elephant for Clara.

  ‘Now then!’ she cried from the doorstep. ‘Good morning, Mummy. Pleased ta meet you.’ She had a very peculiar accent, half Slavic, half Yorkshire. She bent down and chucked Clara’s cheek. ‘And you too, my beautiful princess.’

  ‘G’waaay!’ shrieked Clara, burying her face in Poppy’s crotch.

  Poppy smiled. She’d been hoping for a matronly type in a brown uniform and cap. But Brigita seemed a good second best. She was in her late twenties with cropped brown hair tidily framing a round face. She wore a long patchwork skirt, a baggy brown jumper, sturdy lace-ups and blue woolly tights. She looked like the kind of nanny whose days would be spent making toys out of old egg cartons and romping round the playground, while at night she would be tucked up in her bed at ten with a mug of cocoa and a copy of the Bible.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Poppy asked, leading her into the house.

  ‘From Latvia!’ Brigita cried, as if she’d said from Jupiter. ‘But my boyfriend he is Englishman. From ’artlepool. I come here to study astronomy but I need to earn money and I discover a real love for children, so I get a job with Farrah and I am… oh… I am as ’appy as a pig in muck with her. But now she don’t need me any more, because the boys are both at school so she say to me, “Go and work for Poppy and Luke. They are good ’uns. They will treat you right.”’ She looked Poppy up and down. ‘Farrah say you are model, but this is no true, I think?’

  ‘I used to be. Before Clara.’

  ‘Well, the bairns they make the women fat. This is the life.’

  ‘Er…’ Nonplussed, Poppy gestured at the sofa. ‘Sit down. Would you like a glass of water?’

  ‘No, Mummy! Don’t be like this. I get you a glass of water. Tell me, where is the kitchen?’

  ‘No, it’s OK.’

  ‘No, really! I find it.’ Before Poppy could stop her, Brigita had disappeared into the kitchen. It was a while before she returned.

  ‘Here you go, Mummy. I’m sorry, kitchen is dirty so I need to clean up first. And I can find no ice. Would you like? I can go and search in freezer again.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Poppy said faintly.

  She tried to conduct a bit of an interview, though that was a total misnomer since, unless Brigita had confessed to a penchant for freebasing, the job was hers. But in any case, Brigita surpassed herself by pulling a print-out from her bag with a list of toddler activities in the area and asking which ones Clara attended.

  ‘None of them,’ Poppy said, embarrassed. She’d tried, of course, but she found it so difficult sitting alone on a hard chair, watching Clara fighting with other children for a battered doll’s buggy, while all the other mothers sat in tight, cliquey circles she hadn’t a clue how to infiltrate.

  ‘Oh right. So what do you do all day together?’ She chucked Clara under the chin. ‘Pretty girl. You don’t look nothing like your mummy.’

  Potter about. ‘You know,’ Poppy shrugged, ‘go to the playground. Read stories.’

  ‘Of course, Mummy. But it’s time Clara was mixing a bit with other children, I think.’

  Then she asked a lot of questions about allergies and what Clara liked to eat and potty training, and then Clara did a poo right on cue, so Brigita rolled up her sleeves and changed her nappy without visibly holding her breath, then blew a big raspberry on her tummy to make her giggle. Poppy said the job was hers, four days a week, if she wanted it and Brigita said she did, very much indeed. Could she start a week on Monday? Poppy asked.

  ‘I can start tomorrow if you like!’

  ‘Oh no, no, no,’ Poppy said. The thought of being catapulted so abruptly from her old life into her new one was more than she could take. She needed a week to prepare herself and Clara mentally for the new regime.

  ‘As you wish.’ Brigita shrugged. ‘I’ll come at eight, Mummy.’

  ‘Eight? That’s a bit early, isn’t it?’

  ‘I start for Farrah at eight.’ Brigita looked taken aback.

  ‘Maybe nine?’ Poppy bargained.

  ‘Well, if you are really sure. I mean, Farrah she is fair throng.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Very busy,’ Brigita said a little impatiently. ‘She always goes to gym every morning for one hour before work.’ She looked Poppy up and down again and shrugged. ‘But every woman has the different priorities, I guess.’

  Poppy had meant to say they’d have a trial period of a month, she meant to discuss pay and holidays and the things Luke had told her to ask, but in the flurry of it all, she totally forgot. Never mind. They’d talk about it later.

  And so, a week on Monday, the doorbell rang at nine sharp. Brigita bustled in and before Poppy knew it, Clara was sitting in her high chair eating a large bowl of porridge.

  ‘That’s amazing,’ said Luke, entering the room in his suit. ‘Clara usually chucks the healthy stuff on the floor.’

  ‘I make a smiley face out of these blueberries,’ Brigita said with false modesty. ‘That makes her hungry.’

  ‘She’s great,’ Luke mouthed at Poppy, as he switched the kettle on. Poppy nodded, dumbstruck with jealousy and nerves.

  Brigita lowered her voice. ‘Now, don’t take this the wrong way, Mummy, but I think is best if you stay out me way today. If you’re around Clara, she will get confused and be a little monkey. The more time we are alone together the quicker she will get to know and love Brigita.’

  ‘OK,’ Poppy agreed meekly.

  Not quite knowing what to do with herself she had a shower and dressed. Poppy couldn’t deny it: it was a joy to perform these two seemingly simple tasks without Clara exploiting her mother’s brief unavailability by either throwing soap and toothpaste in the loo or deciding to climb in with her fully dressed. But Poppy was too anxious to enjoy her new freedom. She dried and dressed as hastily as she could then dashed downstairs to find Brigita buttoning Clara’s coat without any of the screaming (Clara) or yelling (Poppy) that usually accompanied this deceptively simple-looking manoeuvre.

  ‘We’re going to the playgroup at the church,’ Brigita said. ‘Come on, Clara, let’s go!’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Poppy said, as her daughter skipped out of the door without even a backward glance. As the door slammed, she stood slightly dazed. She’d anticipated tears and resistance and clinging to Mummy. Instead, it was as if she’d never existed.

  A sudden vision of the future presented itself to her: a vision of Clara getting older, going to school, making friends, not needing her any more. It had started already. So what was she going to do? Both short and long term, Poppy hadn’t a clue. She glanced out of the window. The sun was shining in a watery blue sky. She felt as redundant as Jake the Peg’s extra leg. She could go for a walk on her own, she supposed, it might be more relaxing, but she didn’t think that was why Luke had wanted a nanny.

  ‘I keep myself very busy, you know, running the house. Doing a bit of charity work. Working out…’

  Her phone rang. Mum.

  ‘Hello?’ For once Poppy was quite glad to hear from her.

  ‘Just calling to see how the new girl’s settling in.’ Louise was clearly behind the wheel of her Porsche Boxster. She only ever called when she was bore
d and stuck in traffic.

  ‘She only started an hour ago, but I’d say really well.’

  Louise snorted. ‘Typical you, Poppy, ever the optimist. Well, you won’t listen to my advice because you never do, but I’ll tell you anyway: lock up your booze and put a code or something on the phone. God, when I remember the trouble I had with your girls—’

  ‘OK, Mum.’ Poppy decided to needle her. ‘How’s Gary?’

  ‘Gary?’ Louise sounded like Scary Spice learning she wasn’t allowed to fly business class. ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Weren’t you going on holiday with him?’

  ‘Was I? I don’t think so. No, no.’ Louise lowered her voice. ‘Actually, there’s someone new on the horizon. Jean-Claude.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Poppy’s heart sank. She’d heard this hushed, excited tone so many times and it always spelt disaster. ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘When Christine and I went on our girls’ spa trip to Malaga. He was in the same hotel as us for a conference. He’s a professor of linguistics at the University of Marseilles. So good-looking, Poppy. I can send you a link with his photo.’

  ‘So he’s French?’

  ‘Mmm. Isn’t that exciting? But he speaks excellent English.’

  ‘How much time did you spend with him over the weekend?’

  ‘He joined me and Chris for dinner on our second night and then the next morning I had a lovely chat with him at the breakfast buffet which was very lavish, I must say, though I forced myself to steer clear of the croissants. I gave him my card and he said he’d be in touch.’

  ‘And has he?’

  ‘No. So yesterday I googled him and found his email address and sent him a nice email with my number on it, because he probably lost it, you know what men are like, and now I’m waiting for him to get back to me. He’s wonderful, Poppy, I know you’ll like him, he’s really clever and—’

  Poppy couldn’t bear it. She resorted to her usual standby. ‘Mum, Mum! I’m really sorry but there’s someone at the door. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Oh. All right.’ Louise was miffed. It was her role to end calls. ‘Call me later and let me know how the girl’s settling in. And I’ll email you Jean-Claude’s details.’

  ‘OK. Thanks for calling.’

  ‘Oh, and just one more thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Now you have this girl, what are you going to do with yourself all day?’

  ‘I’ve just called my agency,’ Poppy lied. ‘They’ve got loads of work lined up for me and I’m going in to see them about it this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh yes? Well, that’s very good.’ A noise of honking. ‘Oh, thank heavens, finally we’re moving. All right, Poppy, speak soon. Bye!’

  Exhausted from the conversation, Poppy flopped back on the bed. Talking to her mother always left her drained. Perhaps she’d go back to sleep for a bit. But then she thought about the lie she’d just told and the same new icy resolve that had made her call Brigita tingled in her veins. Wanting to feel businesslike, she went into Luke’s study, shut the door and, heart doing a samba in her ribcage, dialled her agency.

  ‘Hello, Prime Models. Jenny speaking.’

  A new receptionist since her day. ‘Hi. Could I speak to Barbara please?’

  ‘Who may I say is calling?’ Jenny yawned.

  ‘It’s Poppy.’

  ‘Poppy who?’

  ‘Poppy Norton. I mean, Price.’ It had been a while since she’d used her old, unmarried name. It took her back.

  ‘Will she know what it’s in connection with?’

  ‘I’m a client of hers,’ Poppy said stiffly. She was starting to remember why exactly she’d hated modelling so much; how soul-destroying it was to be constantly treated as if you were something to be scraped off a shoe.

  ‘Hold, please.’

  As she waited to the strains of Amy Winehouse, Poppy looked round the room. The walls were covered with pictures of the highlights of her husband’s career: Luke in a flak jacket in the desert in Iraq; Luke shaking hands with the Queen; Luke with President Bush. As so often, Poppy had the sense of being a visitor rather than the mistress of this flat, where the furniture had been chosen by David, their landlord, and delivered in a John Lewis van and virtually everything that made a house a home – pictures, ornaments, books, CDs, DVDs – belonged to Luke, Poppy having had virtually no time in her short life to acquire mementoes. She’d thought about redecorating, because she had a vague idea that was what stay-at-home mothers were supposed to do, but when she’d suggested it to Luke he’d pointed out that David wouldn’t be too pleased.

  ‘Poppy!’ cried a voice that sounded as if it had been gargling bleach. ‘Long time, no hear. We were wondering what the hell had happened to you. How’s it all going?’

  ‘Really well, thanks, Barbara. Still alive, despite the baby, ha ha.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the baby. How is he?’ Poppy could hear Barbara tapping rapidly on a computer.

  ‘It’s a she, actually.’

  ‘Sorry, she.’ Now she sounded as if she was opening a giant-sized packet of crisps. ‘Do you think you’re about ready to return to the real world, Poppy? After all, it’s been – what – more than two years?’

  ‘Something like that. And yes, I do think I’m ready. I’ve got a nanny now you see, so—’

  ‘Great, great. Well, come in and see us. Soon. Bring some baby piccies.’

  ‘Oh yes, I will. I’ve got some lovely ones of her on the slide. She looks—’

  ‘Ah. Bless. Sweet.’ Barbara sounded as interested as if Poppy had tried to tell her about last night’s dream.

  ‘I could come in on Friday,’ Poppy gasped, desperately trying to keep Barbara’s attention like a bad comedian with a drunken audience. She wanted to say ‘today’ but she knew it would sound too eager.

  ‘Friday? Well, I suppose so,’ Barbara said reluctantly.

  ‘About eleven?’

  ‘All right, then. Oh, sorry, gotta go. See you Thursday.’

  ‘Friday!’ Poppy shouted at the handset. She remembered how Barbara had once chased her round the swimwear section at Harvey Nicks desperate to get her signature on the contract. Now she was lower on her priority list than a packet of Japanese rice crackers. But she wasn’t going to dwell on such thoughts. Poppy wasn’t going to be a leech and a parasite. She would go and wow Barbara on Friday and she would make Luke proud.

  17

  Thea had spent that Monday in a hospital in North London putting together a story about a doctor who’d given a child a near fatal dose of medicine. Now, at five, two hours before the show began, she was in one of the editing suites checking the astons – the names that appeared under each talking head. Astons were very important: the times when Hillary Clinton had been billed as the Duke of Westminster or Nelson Mandela as Johnny Rotten were legion. But it had never happened on Thea’s beat. And it never would.

  Satisfied that all was in order, she opened the sound-proofed door and was back in the buzz of the newsroom. As the deadline approached you could almost touch the adrenalin. Reporters gesticulated as they gabbled into their phones. Producers barked as they tried to lure interviewees on to the show. Monica Thomson, that day’s programme editor, was trying to persuade Emma Waters to go to Heathrow where a man had breached the perimeter fence and run naked across the runway.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Monica. I’m not going to Heathrow! It’s bloody raining out there.’

  ‘Please,’ Monica tried timidly. She was newly promoted to the job and, like dogs, the reporters could smell her fear.

  ‘No.’ Emma gestured at Bryn Darwin, one of the oldest and laziest reporters, who was bent over his sudoku. ‘Send Bryn. Go on.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ Monica said and scuttled off nervously to try him.

  Dean strode through the room like Napoleon overseeing his troops.

  ‘Have we got a fat teenager yet?’ he shouted at the room in general. ‘Well, why the fuck not? I want a roly-poly. Hoisted into the studi
o with a crane preferably. Come on, everyone. Find me a lardbutt. Fifty quid for the winner.’

  ‘Got one!’ shouted creepy Rhys, one of the GAs – general assistants – much mocked for his over-eager manner. ‘Sixteen. Twenty-three stone. Lives on Coke, crisps and KFC. Claims she’s got a hormonal problem.’

  ‘Bingo, my boy. Well done! Details to Amanda.’ Dean nodded at the guest booker, who was responsible for interviewees arriving at the studio.

  ‘She says she’ll need a people carrier,’ Rhys told Amanda, ‘and even then they may have to move the seats to fit her in.’

  Thea grinned. She loved the way that at work there was scarcely time to breathe, let alone think. Thinking too much wasn’t healthy; she’d had a near sleepless night brooding about whether her friendship with Rachel could ever be the same.

  ‘How’s your day been?’ asked Alexa Marples, who was sitting at the desk behind her. Smart and ambitious, Alexa reminded Thea a lot of herself ten years ago, except Thea would never have had the confidence to wear such low-slung jeans. Before Thea could answer, she continued. ‘God, I’ll be glad when today’s over. Woke up with a mouth like a dog’s bum. Too many Bacardi Breezers last night.’

  Thea smiled. ‘I know that feeling.’

  ‘Do you?’ Alexa looked as if the Queen had just told her she was feeling a bit bunged up but hoped a vindaloo would clear it. Since she’d got back, Thea had had a few exchanges like this. She’d only been gone two years but in that time the office appeared to have been repopulated by babies who spent all day updating their profiles online and rushing off as soon as work was over to get bladdered in Shoreditch. Thea was no longer part of that gang, but on the other hand she wasn’t part of the late-thirties office crowd who rushed home immediately after the debrief to read their kids a bedtime story. Just as she had at Rachel’s, Thea felt a flicker of unease, a sense of not belonging anywhere.

  At the newsdesk, Luke was practising tonight’s headlines. ‘Six out of ten teenagers are obese,’ he intoned in his crisp, clear voice as Dean and Georgina, the lawyer, listened intently. ‘The Mexican earthquake: two hundred feared dead. The doctor who accidentally poisoned a toddler—’