The Model Wife

by Julia Llewellyn

  ‘Hi!’ said Poppy, as obsequiously as Jonathan Ross greeting Madonna. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine. How are you? I thought of you because I’ve just been reading Hannah Creighton’s article about Carla Bryonne. It’s savage, isn’t it? I felt for you. Everyone at work’s talking about it, saying how awful it must be to be publicly known as “The Bimbo”.’

  ‘I haven’t read it,’ Poppy said, feeling slightly sick.

  ‘Haven’t you? Oh well, don’t, that’s my advice. It’s so gratuitously nasty. But it made me think. It was so much fun us bumping into each other at the reunion and I was hoping we could meet for lunch.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Today? I don’t know. It’s press day; we’re quite up against it. But I could sneak out for an hour if you met me near our offices. We’re in Farringdon, so how about Smith’s of Smithfield?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Poppy said.

  Excited that Migsy Remblethorpe wanted to know her, she carefully applied some make-up, put on her cleanest pair of jeans and headed to the Tube. At the little newsagent’s in the concourse she bought the Post and read the article. The usual cocktail of emotions jiggled inside her: one part anger at Hannah’s viciousness mixed with two parts meek acceptance because she deserved no less.

  ‘I’m sorry, Hannah,’ she breathed, ‘I didn’t know what I was doing.’

  But it was too late now, she thought as she walked up the steps at Farringdon Tube. This had been her regular stop when she’d worked at Sal’s. But then Luke took me away from all that, she’d always tell her interviewer.

  But what had he actually taken her away from? Poppy wondered now. She’d been happy at Sal’s, earning a pittance but spending hours gossiping in the kitchen with him and his wife, Maria, then strap-hanging home to Kilburn where she’d sulk a bit about the appalling state her flatmate had left the kitchen in, but then cheer up when Meena got home. They’d spend hours getting dressed up to go into town while swigging from a bottle of wine and dancing to Kiss FM.

  But I didn’t have Clara, she reminded herself as she tapped along the cobbled streets. But I’m not happy. But you have to be happy, you have a beautiful, healthy daughter. But I’m not. Maybe I’m too greedy. What else do I want from life?

  Even though she was five minutes late, she still had to wait twenty minutes for Migsy. A happy twenty minutes, though, at a sunny table on the roof terrace with a magnificent view over the dome of St Paul’s. She relished being in a restaurant without free crayons, high chairs and children’s portions, browsing a menu without being in a perpetual state of alertness in case Clara stabbed herself in the eye with a fork or ate all the sugar cubes.

  ‘Poppy, hi! Sorry I’m late.’

  Yet again Migsy looked immaculate.

  ‘It’s so great to catch up,’ she twittered as she sat down. ‘Wasn’t the reunion fun?’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Poppy, who’d left about five minutes after her conversation with Migsy when it became apparent Meena was so drunk she was going to have to drive her home.

  ‘Did you talk to Laura Lightman? She’s a sex therapist now and she changed her name to Laura Lightwoman.’ Migsy tittered. ‘Who would have thought it? But who would have guessed you were the Bimbo. A bottle of sparkling please,’ she said to the waiter. ‘By the way, I had such fun interviewing Marco Jensen. Isn’t he cute? He was telling me all about the Seven Thirty News; what an honour it is to work with a veteran like your hubbie. Said he really respects him, like he does all the old-timers.’

  ‘Oh that’s nice,’ Poppy said.

  A waiter hovered. ‘Hi.’ Migsy smiled. ‘Right, I’ll have the pear and fennel salad. Poppy?’

  ‘Um, I’ll have the pheasant,’ said Poppy, naming the first thing she spotted on the menu.

  The waiter disappeared. Migsy leant forward.

  ‘I’m going to cut to the chase because I can’t stay long. Busy, busy, busy. You know how it is, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed.’ Indeed? Poppy sounded like the host of a religious-affairs programme. She really did need to get out more.

  Migsy continued, ‘We’re looking to launch a new column. A sort of It-girl about town diary. You know, the parties you’ve been to, the shops you’ve shopped in, the celebrities you’ve hobnobbed with. I think you’d be perfect for it because you’re a model, which is what all our readers aspire to be, but you’re also a mum, which they are too – poor cows – so you can give us a few cute little anecdotes about your baby which other mums seem to like for some reason. Oh, and don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re also “The Bimbo”. I mean, obviously you’re not really, but that’s how people know you because of Hannah’s columns.’ She waved away the proffered bread basket before Poppy could help herself to a delicious-looking crusty roll. ‘So what do you think?’

  Poppy felt like Dorothy after the hurricane struck Kansas.

  ‘Um…’

  ‘Don’t worry, I know you can’t write,’ Migsy continued. ‘That will be my job. You’ll chat to me once a week about what you’ve done. The pay’ll be three hundred pounds a column to start with, and then if it goes well we can talk about a rise.’

  ‘I…’

  The food was placed in front of them. Migsy skewered a fennel leaf and placed it between her lips. Poppy lifted her knife and fork. Why the hell had she ordered pheasant? As soon as she attacked it, the bird started skidding round her plate like a drunk on an ice rink. She tried to saw off a corner and ended up with enough to sustain a very thin flea.

  ‘What do you think? I’d like an answer now, because we’ve got a new editor and I need plenty of ideas to impress her.’

  ‘I never go to parties,’ Poppy confessed. ‘I haven’t really had a social life since my daughter was born.’ Or much of one before, she could have added.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Migsy said airily. ‘We can sort out all that for you.’

  ‘What, you can get me invited to parties?’

  ‘Course we can.’ Migsy fumbled in her bag. ‘Here’s a few to get you started. Look. The Murder Police première. It’s tomorrow night. Meant to be amazing. Brad Pitt’s in it. And an after-show party at the Natural History Museum.’

  ‘Really?’ Poppy looked at the colourful piece of cardboard. ‘And all I have to do is tell you what it was like?’

  ‘And who you saw. It’s the easiest job in the world. Up there with being an usherette.’ Migsy snorted. ‘I’ll call you once a week on Thursday morning, say at eleven, if that’s not too early, and we’ll have a chat about what you’ve done that week. Basically, two parties, a couple of comments about someone in the news – Kerry Katona, for example – and something cute your baby’s done. Then I’ll email you a version of what I’m going to write, and that’s that.’

  Poppy leafed through the pile of stiff-backed cards, not knowing where to begin. She bit her lip.

  ‘I think I’d better just run this past my husband.’

  Migsy shrugged. ‘If you want to, but I don’t see why he’d mind.’

  ‘Maybe not. I’m sure not. He says he wants me working again. But all the same…’

  ‘Sure, sure, well run it by him,’ Migsy said a tad more impatiently, as her mobile rang. ‘Oh, excuse me. Yes? Shit! OK. Well, don’t worry, I’ll be straight back.’

  She hung up. ‘Crisis. There’s a rumour Minnie Maltravers is going to adopt a baby. We’ve got to alter the whole front cover. I need to get back. You know how it is, Poppy, but don’t worry. You take your time here. Linger. Have a dessert.’ She stood up. ‘Really nice to see you again. So thrilled you’ll be working for us.’

  With a jaunty wave, she was gone. Poppy stared after her retreating form in bemusement.

  She stared out of the window at the higgledy-piggledy rooftops. A proper job. Just like Hannah had. The chance to go to parties, leave the house again. And a column in a magazine. The thoughts that raced round her head would finally get some kind of outlet. I’m so busy with my column, but I still manage
to make as much time as I can for my daughter. Motherhood is the most important thing in the world to me…

  Back home, Clara was sitting on the floor, scribbling on a large piece of paper. Brigita was washing up at the sink, her phone tucked under her chin.

  ‘Mmm. Hmmm? Well, I love you… No, I love you more.’ She giggled girlishly, then sensing Poppy’s eyes on her, whirled round. ‘Oh! Got to go, me duck. Bye, then. Yes. Ta, ta.’ She put the phone down on the kitchen counter. ‘Hi, Mummy. I didn’t hear you come in. How is your day been? Is a little parky outside, no?’

  ‘Good,’ Poppy said, wondering if she dared ask Brigita to stop calling her Mummy. She squatted down to her daughter’s level. ‘Hey, chickabiddy. How are you?’

  Clara grunted, not even looking up.

  ‘She’s been really good,’ Brigita said fondly. ‘Did another weewee in the potty. Soon she will be using the big bog. We made star chart. Show Mummy.’

  ‘No. Wanna draw!’

  ‘OK, you show me later.’

  Clara continued scribbling. Brigita returned to the sink. More than ever, Poppy felt like a stranger in her own home.

  ‘Was that your boyfriend you were talking to?’ she asked.

  Brigita turned round, flicking a damp strand of hair out of her eyes. ‘Sorry, Mummy. Usually I don’t make personal calls during work time but it was an emergency, he…’

  235

  Poppy waved her excuses away. ‘What’s his name?’

  Brigita smiled and her usually puddingy face was suddenly transformed. ‘Phil,’ she said lovingly.

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a roofer.’

  ‘How long have you been together?’

  ‘Two years. Our dream is to make enough money to go back to Yorkshire, buy a house, then I can continue to study for my PhD.’

  Don’t go home too soon, thought Poppy, appalled at the idea of Brigita abandoning her now she had this new opportunity. But she said, ‘Oh, how lovely.’

  ‘Dinner’s is ready, Clah-Clah. Wash your hands, please, angel.’

  Obediently, Clara jumped up and padded over to the sink. Poppy watched in astonishment. How come it took her hours to persuade her daughter to do something as simple as sit in her high chair? An unexpected wave of inadequacy crashed over her. On paper, she was so much more fortunate than Brigita: far prettier and with a handsome, rich husband, gorgeous daughter and lovely flat. But she and Luke never spoke on the phone in the way Brigita had to Phil. And it had been a long, long time since mentioning Luke’s name had made her light up like a firework display.

  But she wasn’t going to think like that any more. She’d been offered a job. An exciting job. She would be going to parties and earning money again. As soon as Luke got home from work, she’d run it past him, but she didn’t see how he could say no. She’d prepare him a lovely dinner and open a bottle of wine and they’d make love, which they hadn’t done for quite a while. Just then her phone beeped.

  Having dinner with a minister. Back midnight-ish. Big kiss to C, L x

  Oh. Well, never mind. She’d talk to him when he got back. Or no, she had a better idea.

  ‘Brigita, I know it’s a long shot but you’re not free to babysit tomorrow night, are you?’

  ‘No worries!’ Brigita said instantly.

  ‘Great. I’m going to book Orrery. It’s where Luke and I had our wedding lunch. I’ll take him out for a romantic dinner and tell him some news I have.’

  ‘You are up t’duff again?’ Brigita’s hand flew up to her mouth. ‘’Appen as I think your tummy is getting a little porky, but I don’t like to say.’

  ‘No, no. Nothing like that.’ Quite the opposite, Poppy thought, as she picked up her phone and scrolled down contacts for Orrery’s number. But her phone bleeped again.

  Change of plan. Off to Paris now to cover riots. Hope to be back Sunday depends how story develops. Will call from Eurostar if I get chance. x

  Poppy stared at the phone in disbelief. Another lonely weekend with just her and Clara. She turned to Brigita to tell her babysitting was off. But then she thought again.

  237

  Tomorrow was the Murder Police party. To which she had two invitations. She might as well go. What did she have to lose? All she needed was a date, and Poppy knew someone who’d be delighted to come.

  She scrolled down her address book and pressed Meena’s number.

  24

  Naturally, Meena was thrilled.

  ‘A film première? Yay, Poppy! I’ll take the day off work.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that. It starts at seven thirty.’

  ‘But we’ve got to get ready. That’s gonna take hours. I’ll be round yours at three.’

  True to her word, Meena was on the doorstep the following afternoon as punctual as a Japanese bullet train.

  ‘Ta-dah!’ she cried, flicking her long black hair over her shoulders and gesturing to the vast Samsonite suitcase she was wheeling behind her. ‘I’ve bought outfits! Where’s Clara? I have a fairy number for her.’

  ‘She’s with her nanny.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re a proper trophy wife now. Staff and everything. Well…’ She produced a bottle of cava from a plastic bag. ‘With no child to keep up appearances for, let’s get ourselves in the mood.’

  They turned the radio dial from Luke’s Radio 4 to Kiss FM and Meena set to work with her tools. It was just like old times.

  ‘Though really we should have got in a make-up artist and hair stylist,’ Meena declared, mouth gaping as she applied her fourth layer of mascara.

  Poppy laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. That would cost a fortune.’

  239

  ‘Yeah, but you’re a professional It-girl or whatever now. You need to dress up properly for these things. Paparazzi will be taking your photo.’ Meena hugged herself in excitement. ‘Oh my God, do you think Prince William will be there tonight?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Brad Pitt? He’s the star, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s married.’

  ‘No, he isn’t. He and Ange won’t tie the knot until American law changes so gays can get married too.’ Meena’s knowledge of such things was encyclopedic.

  ‘I’m still not sure I fancy getting into a fight with Angelina. You can imagine her getting nasty down a dark alleyway.’

  ‘Whatever. There’ll be plenty of chances now to meet famous guys. Because if you do this column, you’ll get invites like this all the time.’

  ‘If I do the column,’ Poppy said cautiously.

  Meena placed both hands on her hips and glared ferociously at her.

  ‘What do you mean if ? It’s a no-brainer. You’re getting paid to attend parties every night. And you’ll be famous. I mean properly, glamorously famous, not like your boring husband sitting behind a desk reading an autocue. God, if you weren’t my best friend I’d want to kill you I’d be so jealous.’

  ‘I need to check with Luke first.’

  Meena snorted just like one of the ponies all the other Brettenden girls had been brought up with. ‘Luke wanted you to get a job and you have one. So what’s the deal? He’s off swanning round Paris. Why can’t you have fun?’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine about it. I just think I should check with him first. As soon as he gets back I’ll ask him.’

  Meena sat down on the bed. ‘Poppy, you’ve never said it in so many words but you’ve had it hard the past couple of years: you’ve basically been a single mum; you’ve hardly gone out, you’ve missed out on so many laughs and you’ve never once complained. I’m proud of how you’ve dealt with things, but I bloody think you deserve to have some fun now.’

  Poppy felt a lump in her throat. Happily, she was spared from some kind of wind-beneath-my-wings moment by Meena, who’d been teasing her hair into a ponytail, saying, ‘What outfit is it going to be then?’

  ‘I’m not sure, I thought maybe my blue dress.’

  ‘No, no, it needs to be much funkier for a
première.’ Meena started briskly leafing through Poppy’s wardrobe. ‘God, I can’t stand it. Don’t you own anything except fleeces and tracksuit bottoms?’

  ‘They wash easily.’

  ‘Oh, listen to you.’ She flicked on. ‘Right. These jeans. With this jacket.’

  The jeans were an old pair of Radcliffes that were too smart for Poppy ever to wear now; the jacket a sequinned silver number she’d been given after a shoot and packed away at the back of the wardrobe because she suspected it made her look like a crooner on a cruise ship.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I do. Put the jeans on.’ Poppy obeyed dumbly. ‘And now the jacket.’

  ‘But I need a T-shirt or something underneath.’

  ‘No you don’t; it’ll be far sexier without.’

  Dubiously, Poppy followed her orders.

  ‘Perfect. Now… how about this necklace.’ Meena fastened a black jet number round her friend’s neck. ‘And those shoes.’ She pointed at a pair of snakeskin stilettos.

  ‘I can’t walk in those. I’ll break my ankle.’

  ‘Girlfriend, looking like you do, you ain’t gonna need to walk anywhere.’ She pushed Poppy in front of the cheval mirror. ‘Look.’

  Poppy looked. As always, she was amazed at what a difference several litres of make-up and a decent hairdo could make.

  ‘Wow! Either I look like a complete tit or I look fantastic.’

  ‘The latter,’ Meena said smugly.

  ‘Are you sure? How do you know?’ Poppy twisted and turned.

  ‘Mummy pretty,’ Clara cooed, toddling in, Brigita behind her.

  ‘Hey! Brigita, this is my friend Meena. What do you think of our outfits?’

  Brigita sucked her teeth, like a surgeon about to embark on a coronary bypass. ‘Yes, this jacket is good for you Poppy. It covers the top of your arms.’ She turned to Meena. ‘With that bum, I think this no skirt. Wear a trousers instead?’

  ‘I can’t believe Migsy Remblethorpe is responsible for this,’ Meena gasped, as the Bakerloo Line whisked them to the West End. ‘She always hated us. Used to call us the chav sisters.’