The Model Wife

by Julia Llewellyn

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ Poppy said.

  ‘Still, seems a bit weird to me, her suddenly being so nice to you. But I’m not complaining if it means loads of party invitations.’

  ‘I don’t know about loads. We’ll have to see how it goes.’

  They emerged from the Tube at Piccadilly Circus. Three searchlights were combing the sky. Above Leicester Square floated a huge airship bearing the words Murder Police over the pouting features of Brad Pitt.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Meena screamed, linking her arm through Poppy’s. They crossed the square, passing nutters praising the Lord from soapboxes, cartoonists on fold-out stools doing bad drawings of grinning tourists, Peruvian Pan-pipers and a man selling roast chestnuts, hen-night parties, legs blue from the unseasonably chilly night, to the far corner of the square where a crowd was gathered round a metal gate, guarded by two bouncers. A white limo drew up and disgorged a tall, black girl in a purple taffeta balldress.

  ‘That’s Vonzella from Celebrity Love Island,’ Meena said. ‘That must be the way into the cinema. Quick, get out the invitations.’

  Diffidently, Poppy showed them to the bouncers, convinced they’d be rejected as forgeries. They brusquely nodded them through.

  ‘We’re on a red carpet!’ Meena had always been fond of stating the obvious. It wasn’t quite like Poppy had imagined it would be. She’d had the impression you floated up it alone while adoring fans scrutinized your every sartorial decision. But in fact it was as busy as Selfridge’s on the first day of the sales with gaggles of sequin-clad women posing for the camera phones on the other side of the barrier. At the northern end a gang of photographers stood like cattle behind a pen, shouting at a small woman who expertly twisted and turned before them.

  ‘Amanda, here! Amanda, this way! Amanda, smile a bit more. Show us some leg, love.’

  ‘That’s Amanda Holden,’ Meena whispered. ‘Do you think we should pose for them?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Poppy said, ‘they don’t know who we are.’

  ‘They soon will. Oh my God – there’s Trinny and Susannah!’ She fumbled for her phone. ‘Do you think it would be really uncool if I took their photo?’

  ‘Yes,’ Poppy said firmly, as a voice said, ‘Meena!’

  ‘Hey, Toby!’ Meena flung herself on the most handsome man Poppy had seen in a long time. Tall, with bushy brown hair, big eyes and a slightly hooked nose like a Red Indian chief. He was dressed in black jeans and a grey shirt.

  ‘Poppy, this is Toby. He used to work out at the club. What’s happened to you? I missed you.’

  ‘I moved to Shoreditch.’ He turned to Poppy and his eyes widened like a five-year-old in front of a cake-shop window. ‘Hi, Toby Hastings.’

  ‘Poppy Norton.’

  A beaky-faced woman in a black suit wearing a headset hurried over to them.

  ‘Guys, you’ve got to take your seats now. The film’s beginning in five.’

  ‘Coming to the party afterwards?’ Toby said in a low voice to Poppy. ‘Oh, yes.’ ‘Come on, guys!’

  25

  Poppy found it hard to concentrate on the film. So, it seemed, did everyone else in the audience who, despite dire warnings on the tickets banning mobile phones, seemed to spend the entire two hours texting their friends, talking to each other, munching loudly on the free (‘Free!’ Meena cooed) bags of M&Ms or getting up to go to the loo. None the less, at the end everyone clapped wildly. Then they all trooped outside and across the square to Panton Street where a line of coaches waited to carry them like children on a school trip, to the Natural History Museum.

  ‘How lovely,’ Poppy breathed, entering the cathedrallike room with its dinosaur skeleton in the middle. She’d been here a dozen times with Clara but the place had been transformed with huge stands of exotic flowers and the vaulted ceilings with sparkling fairy lights. Two clowns in illuminated body suits were hopping round on stilts. A smoke machine tucked in a corner breathed out puffs of pseudo mist that whirled across the room and round the ankles of a group of toned men wearing dinner jackets and bearing wide, silver trays.

  ‘Canapé?’ said one.

  ‘Yes please! What are they?’

  ‘Deep-fried halloumi with a lemon dressing.’

  Poppy took two, then had to cram them both in her mouth as another man with a tray of champagne approached. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to mumble, seizing a flute.

  ‘This is the life,’ said Meena, as they clinked glasses. ‘To many more of these.’

  ‘Assuming I can get a babysitter,’ Poppy said.

  ‘What’s that Brigita for? Or why can’t Luke do his share? I told you, you’ve sat in nearly every night for two years while he’s been out on the town. It’s your turn.’

  ‘I was hoping I’d see you again,’ said a deep voice behind them.

  They turned round. It was Toby Hastings. Poppy felt suddenly nervous.

  ‘Did you enjoy the film?’ she twittered.

  He shrugged. ‘Not really. A bit derivative, I thought. What about you?’

  ‘Oh, I thought the same,’ Poppy said, as Meena chimed in. ‘Oh my God, I see cocktails. I’m going to get one.’ She dashed off into the crowd.

  ‘How do you know Meena?’ Toby asked. Poppy’s dull reply was interrupted by a skinny girl with blonde dreadlocks. ‘Tobes! How are you, sweets?’

  ‘Irina!’ He turned his back on Poppy. She stood, nursing her glass looking nervously from side to side. It was just like being at a party with Luke. No one wanted to talk to her. She’d been a fool to think the column could ever work. She downed her glass and looked about for somewhere to put it, just as Meena rushed back to her, bearing two wide frosted glasses.

  ‘Look! Vodka gimlets.’

  With her friend by her side and a cocktail in her hand,

  things quickly improved. They wandered from room to room, gawping at the number of famous faces they recognized. Occasionally, Poppy would stop to study the glass cases full of stuffed exotic birds, but Meena dragged her away.

  ‘Don’t be boring, Poppy. Look, there’s Jude Law! Oh my God, he’s so much shorter than I thought he’d be. Is that Nicole Richie over there?’

  ‘No, I think it’s someone from Emmerdale. But that is definitely Gwyneth. Or at least someone who looks like her. Still no sign of Brad Pitt though.’

  Time flew by. They helped themselves to a buffet as lavish as something from the last days of the Roman Empire, then found themselves in a room made out entirely like a sweet shop where they stuffed their faces with dolly mixtures. A DJ had set up beside a gently dripping ice sculpture. Meena started dancing. Poppy watched from the sidelines, wishing she could join in, but dancing always made her feel as though she was wearing concrete moon boots. She yawned slightly. Toby reappeared at her side.

  ‘Need something to help you stay awake?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Poppy blushed, unsure what he meant, but before she could ask there was another ‘Toby!’ This time it was a man. Old, perhaps not as old as Luke, about her mother’s age. He wasn’t exactly handsome but had a long, lean body, flaxen hair and a ruddy face that spoke of a lack of care with sunscreen. His eyes were crinkly and smiling in a way that suggested an absence of troublesome wives and children.

  ‘Charlie!’ The two men pumped hands. Poppy started to back away, but Toby said, ‘Charlie, have you met Poppy?’

  ‘Hello,’ she said shyly, holding out a hand.

  ‘I’m Charlie Grimes. What a pleasure.’ He grinned and winked at Toby. ‘Are you one of my friend’s harem?’

  ‘Piss off, Charlie,’ Toby said cheerfully. ‘We’ve only just met.’ He smiled at Poppy. ‘Though I’m hoping we’re going to see a lot more of each other.’

  From the dance floor, Meena came bounding towards them like an over-excited puppy.

  ‘This is great!’ she yelled. ‘I’m having such a good time. Oh my God, look, there are the Dastardly Fiends.’ She pointed to the bar, where two members of the indie band of the moment were stand
ing. Girls flocked round them like seagulls to a fish and chip van. ‘I’m going over to say hello.’ She pulled Toby’s arm. ‘Do you know them?’

  Toby shrugged. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Can you introduce me?’

  He laughed. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  Meena dragged him off. Poppy watched them. Of course she already had a husband and Toby seemed ideal for Meena. But she couldn’t help feeling a little…

  ‘Jealous?’ said Charlie softly beside her.

  Poppy started slightly. How had he read her mind? ‘Of Meena and Toby? No. Why should I be? I’m married.’

  ‘Are you? Surely, you’re a bit young. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  Charlie grinned ruefully. ‘That’s the age I still feel inside. You lucky thing. I envy you. All that time ahead of you; make the most of it.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Poppy said, eyeing Meena and Toby. Meena was laughing hysterically, then went on tiptoes and whispered something in his ear. He grinned and nodded. Together they started pushing through the crowd. With an effort, Poppy turned back to Charlie.

  ‘Um, if you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Too old for all this?’ he asked, grinning.

  ‘Oh no, no,’ she said, then, ‘Well, yes, a bit maybe.’

  He laughed. ‘I appreciate the honesty. It’s true. I shouldn’t really be here. I should be at home watching Rebus in my incontinence pants, but I’m a gossip columnist for the Daily Post. Going to parties is what I do for a living.’

  ‘For the Daily Post?’ Poppy eyed him, suddenly wary, as if Hannah might be about to jump out of his pocket.

  ‘Yes.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Do you read it? Most people your age don’t buy newspapers any more. They’re vanishing more quickly than the Amazonian rain forest.’

  ‘I do sometimes,’ she said cautiously. Actually, now she put the pieces together, Charlie’s cheery face was vaguely familiar from the top of his page, full of inane tittle-tattle about how Sophie Anderton was launching a new bikini range and Girls Aloud had had a great time filming their new video in Germany. Poppy usually read it straight after Hannah’s column, like a sweetie after vile medicine.

  ‘What a glamorous job,’ she breathed.

  Charlie smiled. ‘Don’t be fooled. There are only so many halloumi and lemon skewers a man can devour and only so many times he can ask Jade Goody about her new career plans before he starts to go a bit doolally and yearn for a job reporting on advances in uranium trading.’ He shrugged cheerily. ‘But what can I do? My editor likes my column. Says I have an easy way with people.’

  ‘But all those parties…’ After all this could be Poppy’s new career too.

  ‘Oh, they can be fun. But I’ve got a terrible case of SID– that’s status-income disequilibrium before you rush off to wash your hands. My job gives me high status but it’s not reflected in my pay packet. I waltz round hotel ballrooms and make small talk with billionaires and then I catch the night bus back to Crouch End in the pouring rain. I have lunch with a movie star at the Ivy and dinner is a Pot Noodle on the sofa.’

  ‘Just like me! I love Pot Noodles.’

  ‘Good girl. Which is your favourite? Personally I’m a chicken and mushroom man, though I do have a sneaky fondness for beef and tomato.’

  But before Poppy could exclaim on their extraordinary shared tastes, Meena and Toby returned, even livelier than before. They’d probably crept off for a passionate snog, Poppy thought. Then she registered the tiny white moustache on Meena’s upper lip. Oh.

  ‘I wanna dance. C’mon Poppy, I love this song!’ To the strains of Jay-Z, Meena pulled her on to the dance floor and began moving manically. Poppy shuffled awkwardly beside her.

  ‘You’re such a cow,’ Meena bellowed above the music. ‘Toby’s been telling me how gorgeous he thinks you are.’

  Poppy’s heart fluttered, but she asked, ‘Were you doing drugs with him?’

  ‘Yeah! Do you want some?’

  25:

  Poppy shook her head. One go and you’re hooked. She knew that wasn’t strictly true. After all Meena wasn’t suddenly robbing old ladies for her next fix, but the only time she’d toked on a spliff she’d felt nauseous all evening and hadn’t enjoyed herself at all.

  ‘Go on! It’s really good stuff.’

  Poppy could see Toby dancing with another girl, this one impossibly pretty with Cherokee cheekbones in a sort of leather shift dress. He was throwing back his head, laughing, showing very white teeth. She wished he was laughing with her.

  ‘I can go and ask Toby to give you some.’

  Toby put his arm round the girl’s shoulder and said something in her ear. She smiled, nodded and they disappeared into the crowd.

  ‘Pops?’

  Poppy shook her head. ‘No thanks.’ She nodded at the space where Toby had been standing. ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Toby? He’s a sort of fixer. He works for one of those concierge services that does rich people’s boring little jobs, like get them tables at restaurants, their names on the guest list at clubs, you know.’

  ‘Right,’ said Poppy, who didn’t know really.

  By two o’clock, Poppy, feeling guilty about Brigita, kind of wanted to go. But, fuelled by three more glasses of champagne, she was having fun even though she didn’t see Toby again. Eventually, she and Meena piled into a cab at three, with Meena chatting away like an aviary bird.

  ‘I’ve had so much fun. Poppy, I can’t believe this is your new job. You’ve got to go for it!’

  ‘I just need to check with Luke,’ Poppy said, firmly.

  ‘Oh sod, Luke. Miserable git. I’m so happy you’re finally escaping from his clutches. You were always too good for him.’

  26

  It wasn’t the most pleasant awakening, to have Clara snatch her from a heavy slumber just three hours after Poppy had gone to sleep with cries of: ‘Mummy, I done a poo!’ Still, Poppy reflected as she blearily changed her daughter’s revolting nappy, she was permanently tired anyway. At least this way she was tired and happy.

  Fuelled by three cups of black coffee, she and Clara managed to pass a quite enjoyable Saturday together snuggled up in pyjamas watching CBeebies and eating toast. Poppy vaguely wondered if they should do something improving, like go to the park, but then she remembered Brigita. She pushed swings all week long, so Poppy could have a clear conscience.

  The highlight of the day came at around six, when Poppy was sitting on the loo seat, watching Clara splashing in the bath with nine multicoloured plastic ducks. A text arrived from a number she didn’t recognize. Excitedly, she opened it.

  Good 2 c u last night. Hope 2 c u again soon. Toby xxx

  It wasn’t exactly a Shakespearean love sonnet, but Poppy’s heart began to beat faster. Smiling, she texted back.

  How did uget my numbr? x

  ‘Mummy. No phone! Sing to me, Mummy.’ Poppy began a spirited if tuneless rendition of ‘Five Little Ducks’ as her phone beeped.

  Aha. That wd b telling. U going out tonight? x

  Sadly not. Tonight I’m going to bed at nine because I’m knackered and, anyway, I have to babysit my two-year-old. But that wasn’t the most alluring of replies, so she texted:

  No, chilling tonight. x

  Smiling in anticipation, she waited for an answer. ‘Mummeee!’

  ‘Yes, darling? Mummy duck said “Quack, quack, quack, quack.”’ She was frantically texting Meena.

  Did ugive Toby my number?

  ‘Want my boat.’

  ‘Say please,’ Poppy said automatically, staring at her phone willing it to break into life. Nothing happened. She gave Clara her boat, then endured a long and noisy wrangle when she tried to take it away and get Clara out of the bath. She dried her, put on her nappy and pyjamas and then they watched a double bill of the Seven Thirty News – last night’s on Sky Plus, followed by this evening’s. Clara waved energetically to Daddy standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, wh
ile Poppy listened extra attentively to his report. Afterwards she read Clara Maisie’s Birthday six times. Still nothing from either Meena or Toby. Perhaps he hadn’t got her last text? Or perhaps she’d sounded too brusque. She sent him another one.

  Will b out next week though. 4 work. Let me kno what parties u will be at. x

  The phone stayed silent. Poppy read Maisie again, put her daughter in her cot, kissed her, turned off the light and then returned six times to retrieve Clara’s mousie, which she had taken to chucking on the floor as a way of getting attention. Downstairs, she stuck a Pot Noodle in the microwave and while she was waiting for it to ping, dialled her mobile from her landline. Oh. Right. It was working. Her fingers itched to text Toby again, but she told herself not to. He was probably on the Tube. Or in the cinema. Or asleep. He’d get back to her.

  Exhausted, she crawled into bed just after nine with the phone under her pillow just in case. At 21.11, it rang.

  ‘Hello,’ she gasped, snatching it like a drowning woman would a lifebelt.

  ‘Hi, it’s me,’ said Luke.

  Usually Luke calling filled her with joy. But now she just felt disappointment. ‘Oh, hi. How’s Paris? We watched you; you were great.’

  ‘Was I? The idiot producer almost cocked everything up, but we got there in the end. Anyway, I’m calling to say I won’t be back until the middle of the week now, because they want me to stay on to cover this scandal about vote rigging.’

  Normally Poppy protested vehemently at such news,

  but this time she merely said, ‘Oh, OK,’ because her other line had started to beep. Meena. ‘Well, good luck,’ she added rapidly to Luke. ‘Let me know how it goes.’

  ‘OK.’ Luke sounded bemused at her unusually abrupt tone, but Poppy had already gone.

  ‘Meena?’

  A giggle. ‘Yeah, Toby called to ask for your number. Says he’s intrigued by you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Poppy could feel her neck flushing.

  ‘I did tell him you were married and had a little girl and he said, “So?”’