The Model Wife

by Julia Llewellyn

  ‘Um. Not completely, no.’ Thea’s mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘What about Maida Vale?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll let Poppy live there for now, I suppose. We’ll have to sit down and talk about what we want to do.’

  ‘You can’t end it with Poppy just like that. You have to give it a try, surely?’

  He shook his head. ‘Our marriage was a joke from day one. If it wasn’t for Clara…’ His voice petered away. ‘Well, I’ll have to arrange to see her.’ He held out his mug. ‘Could I have another cup of tea? Less milk in it this time, please.’

  What a Stupid C∗∗∗

  hannah creighton, ex-wife of the Seven Thirty News chief anchorman, Luke Norton, thought her heart would break when he left her three years ago for ex-model Poppy Price. But now in the light of his disastrous interview with Minnie Maltravers, in an article that will be a tonic to all jilted wives, she reflects how you must be careful what you wish for.

  I wish I could say I’d been watching when my ex-husband made a prize fool of himself on national television last week. But instead I was tucked up under the 1000-thread-count linen sheets of a new boutique hotel in Udaipur, India, with my wonderful new boyfriend. We were woken by my phone bleeping. A text had arrived, followed by another, another and another.

  Like any mother, my first thought was: could anything have happened to my three children, who, I assumed, were all safe in their marvellous boarding schools. To my eternal relief, the news was not about them but about how Luke, the man I shared my life with for 15 years, had committed career suicide.

  What was going on in Luke’s head when he insulted Minnie Maltravers? That’s what everyone has been wanting to know and of course I can’t tell them. But having lived with the man for so long, I can tell you that a ferocious temper and a fondness for expletives have always been a feature of life with Luke Norton.

  I also know, from experience, that Luke is a control freak, one who likes to have everything his way. Having already been messed about once by Minnie Maltravers (a fact we know thanks to the deliciously indiscreet second Mrs Norton) he would not have been able to cope with a second botched encounter, not least because after a long and illustrious career, everyone knew that Luke’s days in the anchorman’s chair were already numbered with his gorgeous young rival, Marco Jensen, taking up more and more air time. Luke must have been nervous, knowing this was his last chance to prove himself, not to mention furious that his biggest story in years concerned a model – someone the great foreign correspondent would definitely have considered beneath his contempt.

  So, all in all, I have a pretty strong suspicion why Luke might have committed career hari-kari in such a spectacular fashion.

  Naturally, as his ex-wife, I was in two minds about his behaviour. Having sacrificed my career in order to bring up his children, Luke’s alimony is extremely important to me. There are school fees to pay, the family home to maintain and to see all that threatened because of a crude word would be more than I could bear. However, a quick call to my lawyer reassured me that Luke’s pay-off, along with his pension from the Seven Thirty News would leave my family safely cushioned.

  That vulgar little worry laid to rest, I was then free to reflect on something else: how happy I am not to be married to Luke any more. Having always loathed the young Mrs Norton, who, until recently, I would only refer to as the Bimbo, for the first time I genuinely felt for her.

  The thought of moody Luke returning from the office that night made me both quake in my boots and laugh with almost hysterical relief. I realized in other circumstances I would have been the sponge soaking up his rage. Instead I could roll over into the arms of my lover and go back to sleep for eight more blissful hours before another bout of inventive sex. It made me almost delirious with relief.

  Of course there are things I loved and still love about Luke, but as our marriage fades into history, I also realize how unhappy he made me, how difficult it was to live with such an egotist and what a joy it is to be free of his tantrums and hissy fits. For the first time in my life, I can honestly wish Poppy well in coping with the dark days and nights that will follow. I even hope she’s more up to the task than I would have been.

  44

  It was faintly surreal. Luke didn’t seem to be in any hurry to go anywhere. Too shy suddenly to ask what his intentions were, Thea asked if he’d like to watch the Seven Thirty News.

  ‘And see that little pillock Jensen sitting in my seat? No thanks.’

  Later they shared a takeaway from Thea’s favourite Indian down the road.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Thea asked, apprehensively. She’d always dreamt of doing this with Luke.

  ‘It’s OK, a bit heavy handed on the spices. You haven’t been to India, have you? Until you have I’m not sure you can understand what a real curry is all about.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Well I think it’s pretty tasty.’ She pressed a button on her iPod so the strains of Bob Dylan singing ‘Lay Lady Lay’ floated across her dinner table. Had a more romantic song ever been written?

  ‘Oh Christ, do we have to listen to this? I can’t stand Dylan, he’s so nasal and whiny. Can’t we just eat in silence?’

  ‘OK,’ Thea said. How could she never have known this about Luke before? But she’d never exposed him to her music, always letting him do the choosing.

  After dinner, she wasn’t quite sure what to do. Normally when a friend came over you caught up and gossiped, but Luke wasn’t exactly a friend. Thea realised she didn’t know what he was. Her lover? An occasional shag? Her boyfriend? None of them was quite right.

  ‘Would you like to watch a DVD?’ she asked.

  He studied her extensive film library. ‘Mmm. Nothing here I really feel like. Have you got any good westerns?’

  ‘No. They’re boys’ films.’

  ‘I always thought you were an honorary boy,’ Luke said, almost absently. He yawned. ‘Whatever. Not sure I’m up to a film, anyway. Let’s go to bed.’

  They took prim turns to use the bathroom.

  ‘Do you mind if I use your toothbrush?’ Luke asked, sticking his head out from behind the door.

  ‘Not at all,’ Thea said politely. She went in after him, to find a rather nasty stink in the air. Breathing through her mouth, she touched up her make-up. It’d have to be full slap in bed tonight. Luke staying the whole night. It was what she’d always wanted. Tomorrow was Sunday, they could wake up, have sex, lie in bed all morning with the papers and a cafetière, before going for a walk by the river. Her fantasy was coming true.

  She wondered what to do about undressing. Normally she slept in pyjamas, but that seemed a bit coy; going into the bedroom and stripping naked seemed a bit full on. She wondered what Luke had done. She came out and found him, lying under the covers, hands behind his head, staring into the air.

  ‘I’d better buy a few things tomorrow if I’m going to stay here for a while.’

  She should have booked the victory parade, arranged a flypast from the RAF. But instead, again she had that odd sensation of let down.

  419

  ‘So you want to stay?’

  ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, hastily pulling her top over her head and whipping off her jeans. In her bra and knickers she climbed into bed. Luke and she lay very still, side by side, like effigies on a tomb. Then his hand landed on her thigh.

  Oh my God, she thought, as he eased her knickers off and climbed on top of her. I’ve turned into a woman who has sex with her bra on. She wanted to call Rachel and share this thought, but instead she dutifully moaned and groaned, until finally he juddered on top of her and was still.

  They woke early.

  ‘God, your mattress is uncomfortable,’ he said. ‘It’s far too soft. And what was that noise in the night?’

  ‘The drunks who use the pub across the road always have a fight on a Saturday night. It’s traditional.’

  ‘I don’t
know how you can stand living here. I mean, it’s above a shop.’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if you were struck by an urge for a scratchcard and a pack of UHT milk.’ But Luke didn’t smile.

  Thea suggested they went out for brunch to a café she loved in Brixton, but he demurred. ‘We don’t want everyone staring at us.’

  Thea went down to the shop for the papers and they sat in the living room reading them together over toast and coffee. There were profiles of him in all of them, many overflowing with inaccuracies and unkindnesses from journalists who’d long been jealous of Luke’s personal and professional successes and everyone had picked up on Poppy’s off-the-cuff remark to the Sunday Mirror about how it was her husband who was the ‘stupid cunt’.

  ‘She’s deliberately trying to destroy me. I’ll never work again,’ Luke groaned. He’d been very unamused to discover that his agent was on holiday in the Maldives and unwilling to discuss a game plan until his return a week on Monday.

  ‘Of course you will, Luke,’ Thea said loyally. ‘You’re a star in your field.’

  ‘I do have something of a reputation, don’t I?’

  ‘Of course. People will be knocking the door down wanting to hire you. Not that they know you’re here,’ she added jovially.

  ‘They’ve got my mobile number,’ Luke said tersely, then his face changed. ‘Fucking hell, I don’t believe it!’

  A disloyal image of Victor Meldrew flashed into Thea’s brain. ‘What is it?’ she asked sweetly.

  ‘Hannah’s in the sodding Sunday Prophet. God, even from India she manages to have a go at me.’

  ‘Your poor children,’ said Thea softly. Luke turned and looked at her.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Nothing. Let me see the story.’

  Luke threw the paper across the room. ‘No, I can’t bear to look at this any more.’

  ‘Could be a lot worse,’ Thea said brightly.

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  Thea decided the best plan was to ignore him. ‘So what shall we do today? We could go for a walk.’

  Luke merely grimaced.

  ‘I told you we can’t go out. We’d be recognized. Anyway, my leg hurts. That shrapnel wound I got in Afghanistan is giving me gyp.’

  ‘Oh. Right. How about the cinema?’ This was another fantasy as well-nurtured as a rich dowager’s pet Siamese: the two of them sitting in the back row of the Clapham Picture House, feeding each other spoonfuls of Ben & Jerry’s, while subtitles flickered on the screen. ‘There’s this great new film set in pre-war Hungary.’

  ‘Oh God, no. I’m not in the mood for a film.’ He picked up the TV listings. ‘The cricket’s on at two. I’ll watch that.’

  So Thea spent the first day of her new life with her great love, sitting in her living room, the curtains half drawn, while Luke shouted, ‘C’mon you bastards!’ at the screen.

  She was restless, constantly glancing at the corner of window revealing a perfect blue sky. Outside, she knew people were lying on patches of grass, drinking bottles of iced tea, laughing, making the most of the precarious English summer. She wanted to join them. But there would be plenty of time for all that, she appeased herself. It was an exceptional time for Luke, after all. Surreptitiously, she picked up the papers and began going through them, ticking potential stories that might tickle Dean’s fancy. Because, whatever Luke said, she was going to work tomorrow. After all, no one had called to say she couldn’t.

  ‘Oh, howzat! Nice one, Kev.’

  Thea’s phone rang. Relieved at any distraction, she grabbed it not even looking to see who was calling.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi. It’s Jake.’

  ‘Oh. Hi.’ She looked nervously at Luke but his attention was fully fixed on the TV. Thea moved into the bedroom. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Fine. Just wondering what you were up to tonight.’

  Unexpected relief rushed over her. ‘I thought you weren’t speaking to me.’

  Jake sounded gruff. ‘Yeah, sorry. I overreacted. I’d like to see you, Thea, if you’re free.’

  Shit. She didn’t know what to reply. She was fond of Jake. She wanted to let him down gently.

  ‘I can’t, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Sorry. My… mum’s coming to stay the night. We’re going to have a quiet dinner.’

  ‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘Well, never mind. When are you about then?’

  ‘Um. I haven’t got my diary, but I’ll get back to you.’ Thea winced. She sounded like an officious secretary, but how else was she supposed to manage this situation?

  ‘Thea?’ She jumped at the sound of Luke’s voice.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, putting her hand over the phone.

  ‘Haven’t you got any beers in the fridge?’

  ‘Um, no. Sorry.’

  ‘Bugger. I’m really in the mood for a beer.’

  ‘I could go to the shop in a minute. Get you some.’

  ‘OK,’ Luke said and lumbered back into the living room.

  ‘Was that Luke?’ Jake asked.

  ‘No!’ she yelped like a puppy being torn from its mother. ‘No! It was one of my brothers.’

  423

  ‘Oh, your brothers are there too?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t I say? Jake, I’d better go. They’re waiting for me.’

  ‘OK,’ he said sounding distinctly cold now.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow when I’m at work and have my diary.’

  ‘Whatever,’ he said. As she hung up, feeling as though a granite boulder was in her stomach, Thea heard Luke’s phone ring in the other room and him reluctantly answer: ‘Hello, Poppy.’

  Poppy couldn’t remember getting home from the party at Claridge’s but Brigita told her Charlie had driven her.

  ‘What a kind man. He help you inside and tell me to look after you. You were bloody shitfaced. I’m sorry, Poppy, it wasn’t good.’

  ‘I know, Brigita. I’m sorry too.’

  ‘Don’t let it happen again, please. I know going to parties is your job now but in my country women do not behave like this.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’

  Brigita tutted. ‘That Mr Charlie he is a hero. I give him a cup of tea. He asks if you have any photos of your mother. I say I don’t think so.’

  ‘Really?’ Did Charlie want to be matched up with Louise? It seemed unlikely. But Poppy had more important things to worry about for the moment.

  With Brigita’s reprimand ringing in her ears, Poppy stayed in on Saturday night. She planned to have a couple of drinks in front of the telly. Having recently started this habit she couldn’t believe she hadn’t embraced it years ago. But there was no booze in the house, so frustrated, she’d gone to bed early and woke on Sunday feeling unusually clear-headed. Miraculously, Clara was still asleep, so she lay staring at the chink of light peeking round the edge of the curtain, wondering if Luke was coming home. He’d texted her saying he was staying with friends and thinking about what to do next.

  The fact her husband couldn’t even bring himself to speak to her angered her so much she resolved not to reply. Luke must despise her, she thought, to make so little effort. She was sick of making all the running. She knew she’d been an idiot to tell Migsy about Minnie, but Luke had done her a greater wrong by marrying her when he didn’t love her.

  Her thoughts turned to Toby. He was no better. He’d been so cold towards her on Friday night, she had got the message. All the stories Meena had shared with her over the years about one-night stands, stories which had sounded like jolly escapades, took on a new, harsher resonance. Meena had always made it sound like a bit of a lark, but a lot of it must have hurt like hell. Of course Poppy had been treated badly before, but that was years ago when she was a schoolgirl. Because her experience of single life had been so brief she hadn’t really understood how brutal it could be, how strangely men could behave.

  But even though Toby had hurt her, Poppy couldn’t honestly say he’d broken her heart. She’d been strongly attracted to hi
m, but she barely knew him. She’d just been flattered that he’d obviously felt the same way about her. All the same, it wounded her that he seemed to be able to take or leave her just as Meena could let a Mars Bar sit in the fridge for days without touching it.

  ‘Mummeee!’

  ‘Hi, darling,’ Poppy rolled over, relieved to see her daughter’s pink morning face staring into hers. ‘Come into bed with me.’

  They were lying together, flicking through old magazines, discussing the colours they liked best, when Poppy’s phone rang.

  ‘Heeeey!’ Why did Meena always sound so damn perky? ‘God, Poppy you’re really famous now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s all over the Sunday papers – my husband’s a stupid cunt.’ Meena giggled. ‘Of course they’ve asterisked out the C word but you don’t exactly have to be Stephen Hawking to guess what it might be. I hope my mum doesn’t see it. She’s on at me a lot right now asking if you’re a suitable friend.’ When Poppy didn’t reply, Meena continued a little more apprehensively. ‘Luke must be pissed off.’

  ‘I don’t know what Luke is.’ Poppy’s voice was hollow. ‘I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him? What? You mean he’s left?’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘Oh. Do you want me to come over?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ There was a pause, then Poppy said, ‘Meena, I’m so sad. I’ve fucked everything up and now I’m going to be a single mum.’

  ‘Hey, hey! Don’t worry. What’s wrong with being a single mum? You and Clara, you’ll be like Kate Moss and little Lila Grace. It’ll be cool.’

  ‘What, you mean I’ll just go out and party all the time and never see my daughter?’ Poppy wanted a drink to steady her nerves, but it wasn’t even lunch time yet.

  ‘Of course you’ll see your daughter. You’ll just sue the arse off any photographer who prints her picture and that way you’ll get rich. Anyway, don’t fret, Pops. I’ll be over as soon as I’ve had a shower and got dressed. Take me – what? – three hours?’