The Model Wife

by Julia Llewellyn

  Poppies make drugs and you’re certainly my narcotic. See you soon, beautiful. T xxx

  Poppy inhaled sharply. She read the message again, then again and was saved from another perusal by the phone ringing.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, breathily sure it was him.

  ‘Darling, it’s me!’ Honk, honk. ‘Oh, get out of my way, you arsehole.’

  ‘Hi, Mum. How was Marseilles?’

  Her mother’s voice was like bleach down a clogged drain. ‘A dump. I shan’t be returning there in a hurry.’

  ‘Oh. So you didn’t see…?’ Poppy couldn’t remember his name. ‘Your friend?’

  ‘We had a drink. His sister was staying with him, so we were unable to go out for dinner as we’d arranged. But he says he’ll be in England soon and we’ll meet then.’

  ‘Oh, really? Well, that’s good.’ The front door opened and Luke stood there, looking weary, a suitcase at his feet. ‘Oh, hello!’ she squawked shoving the card from the flowers into her pocket. ‘Mum, I’ve got to go. Luke’s just got back. We’ll talk later.’ Ignoring the squawks of protest, she hung up. ‘How was Minnie?’ she said to her husband.

  ‘I wouldn’t really know. She blew us out.’

  ‘Daddeeee!’ called Clara, running into the hallway. Luke dropped on to his knees.

  ‘Hello, my sugarplum. I missed you. Daddy’s bought you a doll from Guatemala and – um – a hairy cow from Scotland.’

  ‘Gimme.’

  ‘In a minute.’ Luke grabbed his daughter and flung her in the air. She giggled rapturously.

  ‘She blew you out?’

  ‘Yup. Interview all set up, lights, camera and Minnie decides she’s a bit tired and she’ll do the interview another day, thank you.’

  ‘Oh you poor thing.’ Even though Poppy had spent the whole week growing angrier and angrier with Luke for being such a lousy husband, her soft heart still overflowed with sympathy for him. She began walking to the kitchen. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘I hear you’ve got a column,’ Luke said behind her.

  Poppy’s hand stopped on its way to the kettle. ‘Yes. You know about that,’ she said brightly.

  ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘Yes, you do! I told you.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘I’m sure I did.’ Poppy began fumbling through the cupboards for the Lavazza that he preferred. ‘The column for Wicked magazine,’ she continued, her back still to her husband. ‘I thought you weren’t listening when I told you.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘I did.’ Poppy was a terrible liar. Her face was carnation, her body as rigid as a frozen sausage. Luke snorted.

  ‘Can I see it then?’

  Reluctantly, Poppy picked up her well-thumbed copy from the kitchen table. She’d meant to hide it before he got back. Luke flicked through it aghast.

  ‘The Bimbo Bites Back?’ He spat out each word like a piece of rotten meat.

  ‘They gave it that name, not me.’

  ‘Well, so I should hope. But Christ, it’s not exactly dignified.’ He read in silence, trying to frown, though Dr Mazza’s handiwork prevented that. ‘Poppy,’ he said after a moment, ‘you can’t do this.’

  ‘Why not? You wanted me to get a job. Now I have one.’

  ‘I wanted you to get a proper job. Not waffle to a ghost writer about how badly some film star dresses and what a bitch Hannah is. Christ, she’ll go nuclear over this.’

  Poppy’s insides shrivelled. Not knowing how to respond, she buried her face in her daughter’s neck. ‘Darling, shall we look at the hairy cow Dad’s bought you?’

  Luke spent the afternoon at his desk, catching up on paperwork. Poppy and Clara watched a Balamory DVD. She heated up a frozen risotto for dinner and they were in bed before ten, lying side by side, doing their best not to touch, both breathing deeply even though they were wide awake. Even though they knew they had to discuss the column again, both decided they were feeling too fragile and too guilty about their respective indiscretions to face it now.

  The week passed. Poppy texted Toby to thank him for the flowers but heard nothing back. She attended a few more parties but didn’t see him. She had lunch with Barbara, who told her she’d always known she’d make a brilliant comeback and then presented her with a long list of interested clients, wanting to know if Poppy would like to endorse their products. Poppy took it home to mull over trying to feel excited, but too much of her mind was focused on Luke and the ever growing hole in their marriage and on Toby and why he hadn’t been in touch.

  On Thursday at eleven sharp, Migsy rang.

  ‘Hey, Poppy. How are you? Did you get paid all right? Good! So what have you been up to this week?’

  Poppy reeled off a list of the famous faces she’d seen and the places she’d been.

  ‘Fabulous. You really do sound like the ultimate girl-about-town, the sort all our readers aspire to be. But we’ll need to give the column a little bit more edge, Poppy, if it’s going to be as good as last week’s. What did you think of Danielle Minton, up close and personal? I tell you, I always used to think there was nothing wrong with Botox until I saw her.’

  Poppy squirmed awkwardly. ‘Migsy, you know I don’t want to say anything mean.’

  ‘It’s not mean! It’s funny. Come on, Poppy, everyone says your observations are a breath of fresh air. You can’t tell me you didn’t think Danielle looked just like Tutankhamun.’

  ‘She did a bit,’ Poppy agreed unwillingly.

  ‘And what has little Clara been up to?’

  Now she was on safer ground. ‘Oh, she’s being a nightmare with food at the moment. Won’t eat a thing but Jaffa Cakes, and at the weekend she weed all over Tesco’s newly cleaned floor. I was mortified.’

  Migsy laughed. ‘Ah, how lovely. Our readers will really relate to that. And what do you think of this whole Minnie Maltravers thing? After all, your hubby’s just been in Guatemala, hasn’t he, doing reports on her charity work.’

  ‘Yes,’ Poppy said as proudly as the day she’d won best-kept locker at Brettenden Hall. ‘And then…’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘This won’t go in the magazine, will it? This is strictly between you and me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, Luke was pulled out of Guatemala and had to go straight to Edinburgh to interview her. The idea was he’d do the interview in the afternoon and fly back in the morning, but Minnie kept them waiting for six hours and then, when she finally decided she was ready to do the interview, her phone rang, and then she decided she was too tired and would rather go out for dinner.’

  ‘Really?’ Migsy sounded bored. ‘How annoying for Luke.’

  ‘Yes.’ Poppy was driven by that age-old desire to impress Migsy. ‘He was furious. He’d flown halfway round the globe for nothing. He thinks she’s a total flake.’

  ‘Is he going to interview her again?’

  ‘Well, he hopes so but he doesn’t know. He hates her, he calls her Moaning Minnie. Said she was nothing like as gorgeous close up, you could see the scars round her eyes.’

  ‘Poor Luke,’ Migsy said. She sounded as bored as if Poppy had tried to explain EU agricultural policy to her. ‘Listen, Poppy, I’d better go, got to do a phone interview with Kate Thornton about what she keeps on her bedside table. We’ll speak same time next week. Have fun, take care.’

  ‘You too,’ Poppy said and only after she’d hung up did she realize she’d forgotten to remind Migsy to email her the column in advance. Oh well, she’d call her back later. She had an appointment to have her highlights done. She wondered if Toby would like them.

  Story of a split-up: the update. Hannah Creighton, 46, was devastated nearly three years ago when her husband, newsreader Luke Norton, walked out on her and their three children Tilly, 16, Issy, 15 and Jonty, 10, for a 22-year-old model known as the ‘Bimbo’. Now, in the latest of her hilarious repor
ts from the divorce frontline, Hannah describes her feelings when the bimbo was revealed last week to be magazine columnist Poppy Norton.

  So now you all know. The Bimbo, who callously stole my husband, has a name. She’s called Poppy Norton, she’s 24, she has a two-year-old daughter called Clara who likes Teletubbies and she goes to lots of parties. Oh. And she used to be a model. In other words, I think you’ll agree, she is a woman of substance.

  I’ve never actually met Poppy, but when I opened a trashy magazine in the dentist’s waiting room to find a big picture of her over a new column, rabbiting on about some parties she’d been to, what clothes she liked, what their little daughter enjoyed watching on television I felt as if I’d received a physical blow. I know my feelings were illogical – I don’t want Luke back – but seeing these inane ramblings made me feel as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over me. This fluffy little thing was the woman my husband had left his three beautiful children for? Amazingly, none of us have ever met Luke’s second wife: with touching loyalty the children decided they had no interest in getting to know her. But now my heart ached to think of Jonty, Tilly and Issy being thrown over for this piece of trailer trash. At the same time I couldn’t deny it: Poppy was prettier than I was, even in my heyday, and obviously she was much, much younger. Fair enough, Luke, why bother with a woman with a degree, a cookery diploma and a sterling record of helping out at the PTA when you could have a cookie-cut member of a girls’ band.

  But my overriding emotion on reading Poppy’s column was one of pity. Reading between the lines, I got no sense of a happy home, of a supportive husband; instead I perceived a lonely, young woman trying to fill her days with parties and shopping. Or perhaps I’m imagining that. It can’t help that even on the day of our decree absolute, Luke was sending me texts saying: ‘I miss you. I love you so much. Please tell me you love me.’

  It doesn’t help that Viagra ordered from the internet still regularly arrives in the post for him, more than two years after he moved out. That friends and colleagues keep me informed of spotting my ex canoodling with other women, be it at home and abroad.

  It all shows how far I have come since that dark day nearly three years ago when I found out that Luke was carrying on with this piece of jail bait. At the time, losing my husband was like someone dying, but without being able to mourn. Now, however, I see that it was in fact the start of a new life. By throwing Luke out I have regained my self-esteem. My new boyfriend is gorgeous. I’m having great sex – I’d virtually given up with my husband. I’ve been inundated with opportunities to appear on television, to write a novel, to work for magazines.

  Still, it hasn’t all been easy. I was sort of used to being a single mum, with Luke away so much on assignments, but since he left home and I’ve been obliged to earn a crust, there’s been no choice but to send the children to boarding school. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not talking Dotheboys Hall here, but it still breaks all our hearts to be separated in this way.

  But the fact I have survived has given me much to think about, not least when Luke emailed me recently asking if I fancied dinner. A whole new future began to open up to me. Instead of being the dowdy wife at home looking after the children, I realized I could now be the glamorous woman having a flirtatious dinner with the legendary Luke Norton.

  For the briefest of seconds I wondered if I would fall for his charm again. Then I remembered I was busy that night washing my hair and that I was going to be busy every night for the rest of my life. It looks like poor Poppy’s busy filling her diary too. I wish her luck.

  37

  After two years dreaming about him, brooding on past times, wondering if it would ever happen again and telling herself how well shot of Luke she was, Thea almost couldn’t believe it. Dawn had broken over Edinburgh and she and Luke were in bed together. Naked. They’d had sex. All the feelings she’d tried to dismiss for so long were now rampaging like a herd of wildebeest. Like a junkie picking up the needle after years of sobriety, she was back at stage one. She was a Lukeoholic. Adored him. Had missed him as much as she might have missed one of her limbs. She wanted to open her window and shout it to Scotland, but fortunately it was locked and the key was nowhere to be seen, so instead she made do by whispering.

  ‘That was good.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Before she could repeat herself, Luke rolled off the bed and grabbed a worn towel from the ugly purple chair in the corner. ‘I’m going to jump in the shower. We’ve got to leave for the airport soon, haven’t we? Be careful leaving my room, we don’t want anyone to spot us.’

  He headed into the en-suite. Thea sat up. Déjà vu drenched her like a sudden freak shower. She’d been here before with Luke, in other hotel rooms all over the world: a shared half hour of intimacy, followed by terse reminders to make sure no one saw them. Every time, in the past, she’d hoped next time would be different, but it never was. Even after a two-year break, the pattern was the same.

  Slow-burning humiliation crept over her like a vile rash. Hastily, she got off the bed and pulled on her clothes, discarded all over the floor. Opening the door, she peered one way down the corridor, then the other, then satisfied the coast was clear, made the dash for her room. Just time to shower and change before she had to be downstairs for checkout.

  All the way back to London, while Luke slept in the seat beside her, she berated herself: how she could have been such an idiot to have succumbed to him yet again? But at the same time, another voice in her head told her that the sex had been good. Really good. Even exhausted and drunk and pissed off with life in general, Luke still knew how to press all Thea’s buttons and she was pretty sure she knew how to press his back. Why, why, why had she sent that stupid email to Hannah? If she hadn’t, he and Poppy would almost certainly have fizzled out and they might have been together by now.

  The next few days were even more miserable than Thea could have anticipated. The Luke relapse had temporarily distracted her from her work worries, but once she was back in the office there was no escape. Dean was furious; Roxanne was incandescent. Thea decided the only thing to do was keep pestering Leanne like a toddler wanting sweeties until she finally buckled and arranged a new interview time.

  ‘Hey,’ said Alexa, stopping by her desk on Thursday morning. ‘How’s it going? Any word from Jake?’

  ‘He texted a grovelling apology. Not that that will save me from garrotting him next time I see him.’

  ‘Ah, poor Jake! Don’t be mean. He’s such a sweetheart.’

  That sounded heartfelt. Thea looked at her.

  ‘Excuse me? Do I sense a spark between you and Mr Kaplan?’

  ‘Nah. Not my type at all. Too small. But a lot of other women fancied him. He was quite the talk of the Marriott Guatemala City.’

  ‘Really?’ Thea was unconvinced. She began dialling Leanne’s number for the third time that morning, but with about as much confidence as an eight-month pregnant woman hoping to get out of childbirth.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh hi, Leanne!’ Thea said, startled she’d picked up so quickly. ‘It’s Thea Mackharven, here. How are you?’

  ‘Uh. Yeah, good.’

  ‘Are you in Barbados?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that,’ Leanne said. ‘Minnie would kill me. Somewhere hot, though. Minnie decided she needed a bit of sunshine to get over her cold. Little Cristiano’s been playing on the beach, it’s beautiful to see.’

  ‘How lovely for you all,’ Thea gushed. ‘I take it you got my messages.’

  ‘Thea, I’d love to help you, but Minnie’s feeling a bit fragile this week. She will do the interview, I promise, but I can’t give you an exact date. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK, I understand. Just call me as soon as you have something. Take care, Leanne. Enjoy the sun. Have a lovely day.’

  Thea hung up and bawled. ‘Shiiiiit!’ Her phone rang again. ‘Hello,’ she snapped into it.

  ‘Thea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s J
ake. I’m back. Fancy a drink tonight?’

  Luke sat at his desk watching Thea. She looked good with her hair in a ponytail; it showed off her cheekbones. He’d enjoyed his session with her in Edinburgh, not that he could remember that much about it, addled as he had been by jet lag and booze. They’d have a repeat performance some time soon, he thought, watching her chatting to Alexa. He’d leave her waiting a few more days, then next week he’d ask her for dinner.

  More than ever, Luke felt in need of reassurance that somebody still wanted him. There’d always been plenty of women around to validate him, prove that he was one of the most desirable men on the planet. But not any more. There’d been an embarrassing moment in Guatemala when he’d made a pass at the interpreter and she’d laughed and told him he was the same age as her grandfather, and another in Scotland, just before Thea appeared on the scene, when one of the girls at the wedding had called him a ‘dirty old man’. Then there’d been the nasty discovery of Poppy’s column. He knew they had to have another discussion or – who was he kidding? – fight about it, but he simply didn’t know if he could summon up the energy.

  36o

  His phone rang. It was his eldest daughter, Tilly. Seeing her name, Luke felt a flash of joy, mixed with unease as he thought about today’s attack by Hannah. What must it be like to have your school friends reading about your parents in this undignified fashion? Whenever he put this to Hannah, she simply snorted and said he should have thought about that before impregnating a bimbo, which didn’t seem exactly fair, but he could never think of a comeback. He was sure Tilly would be calling to berate him about something but still he smiled as he picked up.

  ‘Hi, darling.’

  ‘Hi, Dad. How are you? Wow. I’ve just been reading Poppy’s column in Wicked. It’s sooo, like, book. All my friends think she’s ledge.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Luke. He had no idea what his daughter meant but she sounded approving. ‘Good. Good.’

  ‘I was just wondering, Dad. Do you think we could meet Poppy some time? Only, I think we’ve been mean to her and we ought to make it up.’