The Model Wife

by Julia Llewellyn

  Poppy missed this historic moment in British television because she was in the basement of a nightclub in Mayfair, a canapé in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, toasting the launch of a new designer suitcase. She’d been glad to get out of the house: Clara had been tetchy all day, Brigita said her molars were coming through, and whenever Poppy had tried to kiss or cuddle her, she’d flung herself on her nanny, shouting, ‘Go ’way.’

  Glenda had been in a funny mood too. When Poppy had asked how everything was, instead of the usual cheerful recital of her family’s goings-on, she’d snapped ‘Fine’ and virtually pushed past Poppy with her feather duster.

  ‘What’s up with her?’ Poppy wondered aloud, as the kitchen door slammed.

  ‘She’s pissed off,’ Brigita observed. ‘I think you forget her birthday.’

  Poppy’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Shit! It was last week, wasn’t it? Oh my God, how could I have been so stupid?’

  ‘You’re busy, Mummy.’

  ‘Not that busy.’ Poppy ran into the kitchen. ‘Glenda, Glenda, I’m so sorry about your birthday. I’ve just been… distracted. I’ll make it up to you.’

  Glenda shrugged. ‘’S OK, Poppy. I am not a child. Birthdays mean nothing to me.’ From the pinkness of her cheeks, it was obvious they meant everything. She smiled at Poppy, but without any of her past warmth. ‘Excuse me, darling, I go and do the bathroom now.’

  All in all, it was a relief to get to the party. Things had changed so much since the column had started: she was no longer a virtually invisible observer, but someone people wanted to talk to. Although the only person Poppy was really interested in seeing was Toby. She hadn’t heard from him since the flowers, but she had decided that was simply his style. Something inside her reassured her all would be well. Of course there was the more troubling question of Luke hanging over her, but she kept shoving that to the bottom of her priorities list, like the dentist’s appointment she’d been putting off for years. She and Luke hadn’t spoken properly since he’d got back from Scotland and even though Poppy knew tonight was his big night she’d had no desire to stay in and cheer him on. They would talk, she told herself. Soon. When his big interview was over and, she whispered this last bit to herself, ‘When I know where I stand with Toby.’

  Charlie tapped her on the shoulder.

  ‘Hey, I saw the column! I didn’t realize you were the Bimbo.’

  A week ago, Poppy would have blushed, but now she smiled cheekily. ‘Perhaps I’m not as dumb as I look.’

  ‘Evidently not.’ Charlie took a slice of foie gras wrapped in Parma ham from a passing tray, while Poppy grabbed champagne from another one. She’d been so nervous, she’d had three already but they didn’t seem to be exerting their usual magical effect. ‘I’m surprised you’re not watching your husband’s big interview.’

  ‘I’m recording it. I’ve got a job too, you know.’ Poppy was taken aback by how sharp she sounded, but before she could apologize, she caught her breath. There was Toby, at the other end of the room, laughing with a woman so perfect she had to be an android. ‘Excuse me a second,’ she said hastily.

  It was a moment or two before Toby noticed her, so engrossed was he in his conversation. Then he said, ‘Oh hi!’ He leant forward and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Great to see you. I’ve been thinking about you a lot.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course.’ He surveyed her. ‘You look gorgeous.’ His attention moved to yet another woman who’d sidled up to him. ‘Hey, Miranda! How are you? Miranda, this is Poppy.’

  Miranda, who was petite and dark with an Audrey Hepburn quality that made Poppy feel like the Incredible Hulk, barely registered her. ‘Hi. Toby darling, just wondering if you could help me out.’

  ‘For you, anything.’ He put his hand in his pocket. ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘Two please. Can I pay you later?’

  Toby rolled his eyes. ‘No, darling, you know the rules. Cash on delivery.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ she said, fumbling in her handbag. Poppy watched, a large penny rapidly dropping. Toby caught her eye.

  ‘Do you want some?’

  ‘I, er, no thanks.’

  ‘Sure? I’m going to have a quick line in a second. Give me the energy to keep going. Come with me.’

  ‘You don’t need drugs to have a good time.’ ‘It was just the once and I was hooked.’ But Poppy was young; she wanted to be like everyone else for a change. Drugs couldn’t really be as bad as everyone said. Meena was fine, Toby was fine, or actually… he wasn’t fine, he was yawning slightly and moving away from her.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said.

  ‘No! Wait! I’ll come with you.’

  Heart thudding, she followed him to the doors of the gents. ‘Just a sec,’ he said sticking his head round the door, then he stuck it back out again. ‘Quick, in here.’ Briskly, he pushed her into a cubicle and locked the door. There was paper all over the floor. Poppy only hoped it hadn’t been used. Toby appeared not to have even noticed, he was too busy running his fingers over the top of the cistern.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said, ‘they’ve covered it in Vaseline. Oh well. Too bad.’ He pulled a little white envelope out of his pocket. Squatting down, he flipped down the toilet lid and shook some white powder on to it. It looked just like Persil automatic, Poppy thought, as he began chopping it with a black Amex card.

  ‘Fat or thin?’ he said, turning to her.

  Poppy had no idea what he was talking about. ‘I suppose I could do with losing a few pounds,’ she said modestly.

  He roared with laughter. ‘No, silly. I meant the lines.’

  He might as well have been speaking Turkmenistani. ‘I’m easy.’ She shrugged nonchalantly.

  ‘I know that!’ Toby grinned. ‘But I still don’t know if you want fat or thin.’ Seeing her hurt face, he sighed. ‘OK. Two skinnies coming up.’ He chopped some more,

  then rapidly rolled up a bank note, stuck it up his right nostril and snorted. Poppy watched and learnt.

  ‘Oh, that’s good,’ he breathed. ‘Diego’s done it again.’ He handed the note to Poppy. ‘Here you go, sweetheart.’

  It was slightly sticky and warm with Toby’s snot. Gingerly, Poppy stuck it into a nostril and inhaled like a truffling pig. Most of the white stuff spluttered all over the place. Embarrassed, she tried again and felt a burning in her nostrils. She glanced at Toby, mortified by her lack of expertise but he was busy dabbing up the remains with a wet index finger and rubbing it on his gums.

  ‘Happy?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Poppy lied. He took her face in his hands and she thought he was going to kiss her, but instead he tilted her head backwards and examined her nostrils as if she were a prize racehorse.

  ‘Little lump there,’ he said, flicking it away. ‘Am I OK?’

  ‘Uh, yes.’

  ‘Good.’ He pushed open the cubicle door. Poppy grinned sheepishly at a man adjusting his combover in the mirror. Equally sheepishly, he grinned back.

  ‘Shall we?’ Toby said, pushing open the door. They headed back to the party. ‘Have a glass of champagne,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Hi, Markus! How are you?’ He pumped hands with a blond man in a leather jacket. ‘Have you met Poppy?’

  ‘Hi.’ Poppy smiled. The ends of her teeth were numb, but her brain was as clear as a pane of glass. She downed her glass in one, unable to taste it. ‘I like your tie.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Markus said. He had a German accent.

  ‘I thought about wearing a tie,’ Poppy said. ‘I think they can look really sexy on women. Sort of strong and androgynous. If you’re Annie Lennox or whoever. But then I wondered if it might make me look a prat so I chose this.’

  ‘You look very nice,’ Markus said. Toby had already been collared by another annoyingly pretty girl.

  ‘Do you think so? Thank you. These shoes are killing me, actually, but never mind. You have to suffer to be beautiful, don’t you? I read that somewhere. I’ve
started to make much more of an effort now I’ve got a column and going to parties is my job.’

  ‘You’ve got a column?’ Markus had stepped back a couple of inches. Poppy wondered if she’d showered him with spit.

  ‘Yes.’ She didn’t know what came over her as she added, ‘In The Times.’

  ‘The Times?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The London Times?’ Markus sounded as if she’d just announced she was the new Messiah. Pompous arse.

  ‘That’s where we are, aren’t we? Good old Larn-dun.’ Poppy said the last in a Cockney accent, then giggled. ‘Wha-evver, mate. Innit.’ Her heart pounded, adrenalin swooped round her veins like a rollercoaster. She felt fantastic.

  ‘Excuse me a minute,’ said Markus backing away.

  Boring git. She turned her attention to the dance floor where only a few people were dancing in a desultory fashion. Poppy felt the urge to show them how it was done. To the strains of Rihanna, she stepped out on the floor. ‘Wa-hoo!’ she cried. Christ, she was a brilliant dancer. Her limbs were feather light, as she swirled across the floor. She felt acutely conscious of the outline of her body within the folds of her dress. She could feel Toby watching her and she felt as if she too was observing herself from a distance. Her mouth felt as if it had been pebbledashed, so she snatched another drink from a tray and downed it in two gulps. She glanced at Toby again, but once more he was talking to a pretty girl.

  ‘Hey, Toby!’

  ‘Hey, Poppy!’ He sounded pleasant but a bit distracted.

  ‘Have you got any more of the… you know?’

  ‘Sure.’ He reached in his pocket and handed her a tiny envelope.

  ‘I… can you come with me?’

  Toby laughed. ‘You’re a big girl.’

  She put her arm on his. ‘Please.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, all right then.’

  This time the cubicle reeked of warm diarrhoea. Poppy didn’t care. As soon as the door was bolted behind them, she jumped on him.

  ‘Hey! Steady on.’ For a moment he seemed stiff, then he pulled her to him and they kissed and kissed. Poppy’s insides were molten, though her anaesthetized mouth found it hard to feel the shape of his lips. She was starting to grapple with his belt buckle when there was a rap on the door.

  ‘Hey, what’s going on in there?’

  Toby gave a bark of laughter. ‘It’s OK, mate. Not what you think. We’re having a good old-fashioned snog.’

  ‘No ladies in the gents.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Gently, Toby disentangled himself as if Poppy were a piece of barbed wire. ‘Sorry, my darling, but we’re going to have to cool it.’

  ‘Can we go back to yours?’ she asked.

  He looked at her for a moment, seeming to hesitate. ‘Yours might be a better idea.’

  ‘No! Remember I’m married.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ He looked at her again, then smiled and shook his head. ‘OK, gorgeous. You’ve won. Come on. Let’s find a cab.’

  40

  As Britain was being exhorted to buy Andrex, L’Oreal conditioner, Huggies and Flash dishwasher tablets, Minnie Maltravers was in the back of her black limousine (‘must have a male driver’) and on her way back to the Mandarin Oriental where the first thing she would do was sack a mightily relieved Leanne, who would retrain as a rebirthing guru and relocate to Hawaii. The Seven Thirty News studio was in meltdown.

  ‘How the fuck did this happen?’ Dean bellowed. ‘Didn’t Luke realize we were still on air?’

  ‘Evidently not,’ Thea said quietly.

  ‘Look on the bright side,’ Alexa chirruped in. ‘Everyone’s going to be talking about the Seven Thirty News.’

  ‘Yeah, but bugger that for now! We’re going to get fucking hammered by the Broadcasting Standards Commission for using expletives before the watershed. Fuck me! What a stupid wanker. Quick, get him off the set! And put Emma in his place.’

  So the Seven Thirty News’s audience, which had grown by two million during the break, thanks to viewers frantically texting friends and family, urging them to watch this car crash, were welcomed back by a rather wild-eyed but smug Emma.

  ‘Good evening. This is the Seven Thirty News. We’re sorry, but we’ve had to cut short the interview with Minnie Maltravers because she has left the studio. Apologies to everyone. Now to tonight’s other stories. The Catholic Church tonight announced…’

  At his desk, Luke was wiping the sweat from his brow.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dean, I’m really sorry,’ he said as they all crowded round him. ‘It was a genuine mistake. I didn’t know I was still live.’

  ‘A man of your experience, Luke. How could you?’

  Rhys, who – ever professional even during this storm – was scouring the newspaper websites for the following day’s stories exclaimed:

  ‘Oh, Christ. Take a look at this.’

  Everyone gathered round his computer, its screen filled with the Daily Post website.

  Exclusive: How Minnie Wasted ‘The Cad’s’ Time

  It’s the story everyone’s been fighting for: Minnie Maltravers’s account of her recent adoption of Cristiano Morales. But last night it was revealed that Ms Maltravers promised an interview to veteran war reporter Luke Norton of the Seven Thirty News only to keep him waiting 6 hours before cancelling. According to his wife, model Poppy Norton, 24, Mr Norton and a team from the Seven Thirty News flew to Edinburgh to interview Maltravers only to have to turn back after waiting 6 hours for the notoriously tardy supermodel, because she ‘didn’t feel well’.

  ‘Luke was furious,’ revealed Mrs Norton, in her new column for Wickedmagazine. ‘He flew to Edinburgh from Guatemala City. He was meant to do the interview in the afternoon and fly back the next morning. Minnie kept themwaiting for 6 hours and 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. So the next morning the whole team flew back empty-handed. Luke thought she was a total flake. He calls her “Moaning Minnie” and said she was nothing like as beautiful in the flesh as he’d expected, with scars visible round her eyes.’

  There was a dumbfounded silence. Naturally, Dean was the first to break it.

  ‘The Bimbo put this in her column?’

  Luke looked round aghast. ‘It’s news to me. I promise you.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her to keep her mouth shut.’ Dean began to laugh. ‘This is priceless.’

  Roxanne came into the room. ‘I think it’s best if you don’t come in for the next couple of days, don’t you Luke?’

  ‘Are you suspending me?’

  Roxanne shrugged. ‘If you like, yes. We’ll need to talk to the governors and work out how best to deal with this. It’s been a bloody disaster.’

  It wasn’t until Luke was in a taxi on the way home that he looked at his phone. Forty-three new messages. Mainly from friends laughing. Tilly saying: ‘Dad, have you gone mad?’ And then somehow jammed in the middle of it all, Poppy saying, ‘I’m staying at Meena’s tonight, I’ve spoken to Brigita, she’ll stay the night and get Clara up in the morning, so you need have no worries there.’

  385

  Luke gazed at the phone, as a ventriloquist might at a dummy who had spoken back to him. Where was his wife? She’d betrayed his confidences in public and then – on the worst professional night of his life – disappeared to her friend’s house as if nothing had happened.

  The car pulled up outside his flat. A small group of men in parkas standing round the gatepost leapt to attention. Who the hell were they? As Luke climbed out of the cab, their camera motors began buzzing like insects.

  ‘Luke, hey, Luke! Where’s the bimbo?’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Luke pushed through them. A couple tried to block his way. ‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing? This is my property. Get out! You’re trespassing.’

  ‘Ah, fuck off, you stupid cunt.’

  ‘Stupid cunt,’ they all jeered. ‘What a rude word
, Luke.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Luke shouted, putting his key in the lock. He twiddled and turned it but it wouldn’t open. Someone had bolted the door from the inside. Furiously, he jabbed the doorbell.

  ‘Brigita, let me in!’

  It seemed an age before she opened up.

  ‘Sorry, Daddy,’ she said, as he stumbled into the hall. ‘Those men keep banging on the door, so I triple lock it. Come in and tell me: why were you so bloody rude to Minnie?’

  It was nearly midnight by the time the dust semi-settled. There was a long debrief with the head of PR, trying to work out how to present this disaster to the world tomorrow. By the time it ended Thea’s phone was jammed with texts and messages. None of them seemed to appreciate the trouble she was in; they all thought it was the most brilliant joke.

  Funniest thing I’ve seen in years. Dunc says it will be a MySpace classic, Rachel. x

  Irritated, Thea deleted it. Sodding Dunc.

  ‘Darling,’ said her mother, sounding the cheeriest Thea had heard in ages. ‘I am shocked. I told you that Luke Norton was a dreadful man. Too handsome for his own good.’

  Gloomily Thea hung up. For the fifth time, she dialled Luke’s number. One moment they’d been about to relight a smouldering romance, the next he’d been kicked out of the building. But he still could have called her back. She got voicemail.

  Thea looked at the next text.

  Oh bugger. I bet you’re wishing you never met me. Fancy an apologetic drink? Jake

  Thea did. Not least because when Luke called she wanted him to hear the background noise of a lively bar, rather than her fridge humming and a distant ambulance wailing in Brixton. She replied rapidly,

  Only if we’re talking right now.

  The reply came almost instantly.

  When else?

  387

  They met in Soho House, which was the only place Thea could think of that would be open so late.

  ‘I haven’t been here in ages,’ Jake said, looking round the dim room with its arrangements of low leather sofas and chairs, occupied by slightly past their prime media executives.

  ‘The scene of too many mispent nights in my youth,’ Thea said. In fact the last time she’d been there was on BAFTA night. ‘I’ve kind of gone off it.’