The Model Wife

by Julia Llewellyn

  Poppy hugged him. ‘You do. And I couldn’t be happier. We’re going to see a lot, lot more of you, Clara and I.’

  ‘And what are you going to do?’ Charlie asked.

  Now it was Poppy’s turn to shrug. ‘I don’t know. Carry on with the column I guess. What else can I do? Especially now I’m a single mother.’

  ‘What do you mean you’re a single mother? You’re still married to Luke. You’ve just had a bit of a blip.’

  ‘I’m a single mother,’ Poppy said.

  Charlie reached for his daughter’s hand. ‘Why don’t you give it another try? More than anyone, I should know that you have to work at things.’

  Resolutely, Poppy shook her head. ‘If Hannah doesn’t want Luke, that’s up to her. But I can’t hold on to him. I’ll never really be able to make him happy.’

  ‘I’m not sure anyone can do that.’

  ‘I’m not going to drink any more. You were right. It was getting just a tiny bit out of hand.’

  ‘It’s in the genes. I hate to say it, but I don’t think you should be touching the booze at all.’

  ‘Really?’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘Mineral water from now on.’

  ‘Tonic water’s better. Put a slice of lemon in it and you can almost fool yourself about the gin.’

  Charlie squeezed her hand again and they sat in silence, neither quite able to believe they had found the other.

  Thea was in the office, trying to find a nun who would come in to have a go at the Prime Minister about his stance on abortion, when her landline rang.

  ‘Is that Thea?’ said a soft, fresh female voice.

  ‘Speaking. Is that Sister Mary?’

  There was a laugh that sounded as if it had been permeated with fabric conditioner. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s how I end up. But no, it’s Poppy. Poppy Norton.’

  ‘Oh! How are you? How’s Clara?’ She must have found out about Luke and was calling to berate her.

  ‘She’s doing really well. We can take her home tomorrow. We had a lucky escape. I just wanted to thank you for coming to find me that night. If you hadn’t I don’t know…’

  Thea swallowed. ‘Clara would have been OK, anyway,’ she said gruffly.

  ‘That’s not the point. The point was I got there. I owe you one. Though I’m not sure what that could be.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I did what anyone would have done.’

  ‘Goodbye, Thea.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Thea found it hard to concentrate on Sister Mary, she felt so guilty. She couldn’t put it off any longer, she’d talk to Luke that night.

  She got home just after nine. She wasn’t expecting to see him; he’d been more or less permanently at the hospital, just coming back to sleep and shower. But this evening, the front door wasn’t double locked and he was sitting in front of the television, the usual large whisky in his hand. It was a hot summer night and a breeze fanned in, carrying reggae noises from the barbecue down the street.

  ‘How’s Clara?’ she asked.

  ‘Going home tomorrow.’ Luke looked straight in her eyes. ‘And so am I.’

  ‘You’re going back to Poppy!’ It came out as a yelp. Understandably, Luke mistook her relief for hurt.

  ‘I’m sorry, Thea,’ he said, standing up, ‘but I’ve just made too many mistakes. I can’t keep moving on from woman to woman every time things get a bit rough. I’ve got to go home.’

  ‘All right,’ Thea said.

  Luke was surprised. He knew he was doing a shitty thing, finally making Miss Moneypenny’s dream of domestic bliss come true only to shatter it within weeks. Poor Thea. A future of cats that she called her babies and evening classes beckoned. But he’d wasted enough time the past few years living a lie and he just couldn’t do it any more.

  ‘What do you mean – all right?’

  ‘I mean all right.’ Thea shrugged and headed towards the kitchen. ‘I’m going to have a glass of wine. Would you like one?’

  Luke followed her. ‘Don’t you want to know why I’m ending it?’

  ‘Minnie Maltravers called and said she just couldn’t live without you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Luke snapped, as Thea turned round from the fridge, a strange, slightly pitying smile on her face.

  ‘Listen, Luke, don’t worry. It wasn’t working out. You and I have had some great times over the years, but it’s been all about hotel rooms and exotic locations and adventures. It’s not about life in a small two-bedroom flat in Stockwell and arguing about who runs down to the shop to buy some Paul Newman salad dressing. That’s not how you like to live your life and it’s not how I like to live mine. You’re better off with Poppy. She can take care of you.’

  470

  He should have felt relief at being let off the hook so easily. But instead Luke was annoyed: first Poppy, now Thea letting him go with about as much regret as if he were a dodgy builder.

  ‘I’m not going back to Poppy,’ he corrected her, glad that at least in one way, he could have the upper hand. ‘I’m going back to Hannah.’

  It gave him some satisfaction to see Thea’s startled expression.

  ‘Hannah? She won’t have you.’

  A tiny chuckle escaped Luke’s lips.

  ‘Have you asked her? Because I have: she’s ecstatic I’m coming back.’

  Another flash of anger at all the years she’d wasted consumed Thea. But there was no point showing her frustration. Luke would think it was to do with losing him. So all she said was, ‘That’s the best thing that could happen. After all, I forwarded Hannah that email from Poppy. So it’s right you leave me and go back to her. Poetic justice if you like.’

  Luke stared at her in amazement.

  ‘You sent the email.’

  Thea flushed and shrugged. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You silly bitch. You sent the email.’ Luke turned and stared out of the window. ‘Do you know how much pain you’ve caused, Thea? Do you have any inkling of the damage you’ve done? That email broke up my family. It ruined people’s lives.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ It sounded so inadequate. It was so inadequate. Thea would have to live with the guilt for the rest of her life. Perhaps it was because she’d never had a father herself that it had taken her so long to realize how essential they were to a family, how wrong it was to try and dislodge them.

  ‘You’re right,’ Luke said. ‘I am better off with Hannah.’ He picked up his suitcase. ‘The sooner I get round there the better. Goodbye, Thea.’

  ‘Goodbye, Luke.’ She’d thought she’d be happy, but as the door slammed shut, a big tear rolled down Thea’s cheek, followed by another, then another, as the dream she’d nurtured for so many years finally died a long-overdue death.

  Why Divorce Can Never be the Answer

  by HANNAH CREIGHTON

  A few weeks ago, there was a bit of a to-do in the press when it was revealed that I had been reunited with my ex-husband, Luke Norton, former anchorman of the Seven Thirty News and contestant on this year’s Strictly Come Dancing. I suppose some of the uproar was inevitable.

  Since Luke and I divorced three years ago, after I discovered his affair with Poppy Price, 25, I have chronicled in some detail the pain he put me through, not to mention that of our three children. I called him a cad and Poppy a bimbo, I mocked him for his habit of buying Viagra on the internet and told the world I was better off without him.

  And indeed, in many ways, life without Luke was a revelation. I revived my old journalistic career, former friendships sprang back to life, I travelled the world and rediscovered much of my old zest for life: a zest that had been buried by the crushing demands of motherhood. But for all my apparent jauntiness in the face of this calamity, I could not kill the ache in my heart, the ache any woman whose family has collapsed will recognize, the feeling that I should somehow have fought harder to save my marriage.

  When I discovered my husband’s affair, after an email from his lover was mysteriously sent to
my inbox, I reacted out of pique, pride and fury. After years of turning a blind eye to alleged indiscretions, the mousey housewife suddenly turned.

  Without giving Luke a chance to explain himself, I kicked him out, into the arms of his pregnant lover. When he begged me to take him back I refused to listen, and instead served him with divorce papers. Friends told me I had done the right thing, that I had refused to be a ‘little woman’, a doormat. For a long time I believed them.

  But as time passed, I began to think differently. Although I was still angry with Luke, I missed him and so did the children. I began to understand that his infidelities might have been abhorrent, but they were not unpardonable. I saw that in the years Luke and I had been together I had transformed from the sparky career woman he married into a drudge, whose only topics of conversation were who’d made the best jam at the school fête and our next-door neighbour’s au pair’s nose ring. I’d piled on the pounds and slopped round the house in dirty old fleeces and Ugg boots. Could I really blame him for sometimes feeling a little bored?

  When I pondered on the parlous state of our once great nation, I realized I had been guilty of failing to practise what I preached. The lawlessness on our streets, the incivility that governs virtually all our everyday interactions all comes down to broken homes. Luke and I were two grown adults who should have known better, but we’d refused to hack our way through the thorny copses that block all our marital paths, instead choosing to go for the short-term easy way out.

  I began to berate myself: why hadn’t Luke and I worked harder to mend things? And Luke was obviously thinking the same thing. The calls, emails and texts kept coming as he pleaded with me to meet him for dinner, to at least talk on the phone. He sent me flowers and jewellery, but pride made me send them back and continue to boast to the outside world about how happy I was, when inwardly my heart was breaking.

  Of course, I had not been lonely during this time, but I realized that charming as my new lover was, he was no substitute for the bond Luke and I had shared together, built over nearly two decades of huge life experiences such as having children, installing an Aga and being presented to the Queen at a Buckingham Palace garden party.

  Naturally, when Luke approached me about a reunion we had to factor in the question of his new young wife and their small daughter. Was it fair to break up a new family in order to mend an old one? I was torn, but Luke persuaded me it was all for the best. Poppy and he had married only because I had pushed them together and – as I predicted – virtually instantly discovered their relationship was based on nothing but fleeting sexual attraction. He continues to see their daughter regularly and Poppy is bravely forging a new life for herself as a TV presenter and single mother. I wish her well.

  But back to Luke and me. I can honestly say the day he returned to our house and our bed was the happiest of our lives – happier even than our wedding day, because this time we really understood what we meant to each other. We have learnt the hard way what the true meaning of love, trust and family is. We’ve been tested, and, despite everything, we have passed the test. We are stronger now than we have ever been and I don’t regret the decision to take him back for one second. Success isn’t about never making a mistake; it’s about trying, failing and trying again. Too many women throw everything away because their husband turns out not to be perfect. They don’t understand that, for men, sex is, just that – sex.

  Heaven knows, I am hardly a saint. Luke knows he is in the last-chance saloon. If he strays again then woe betide his cojones! But I trust that he won’t. He knows now what he has to lose. He values me and the children far more than he did before, and when I see the love in his eyes every morning, I know that whatever happens, it’s been worth it.

  50

  It was a bleak Sunday morning in mid September and Poppy was trying to get Clara out of the door en route to Tesco’s.

  ‘Don’t wanner wear this hat! It’s not pink.’

  Poppy’s pride in her daughter’s brilliant vocabulary was eclipsed by exasperation.

  ‘It’s purple and it’s a very pretty hat,’ she said levelly.

  ‘Want a pink hat. Want to wear a pink haaaat.’

  ‘Darling, you don’t have a pink hat.’

  ‘Buy me one.’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ Poppy said, as Clara flung herself to the floor, screaming as if her limbs were being torn off by slavering wolves. Poppy could barely hear her phone ringing.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, grabbing it, a finger jabbed in her other ear.

  ‘Wanner… pink oooone.’

  ‘Christ. Where are you? Bedlam?’

  ‘Your granddaughter wants to wear a pink hat.’

  ‘I see,’ Charlie said sagely. ‘Well, just to add to your joys, have you seen the Sunday Prophet yet?’

  ‘Are you trying to warn me about something?’

  ‘Only the latest instalment from your dear friend. Do you want me to read it to you?’

  ‘No, don’t worry, I’ll read it online.’ Poppy stepped over Clara’s writhing body, sat down at her computer and clicked in newly expert fashion. ‘Are you still there?’ she asked as the page she was looking for shimmered into view. ‘How are things anyway?’

  ‘Not bad, not bad at all. I was wondering if you needed any babysitting in the next few days.’

  ‘Any excuse to hang out with Miss Pinky,’ Poppy teased him as the article came into focus. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going out at night much any more and Brigita’s covering the few times that I am, but it’d be good if you’d come round on Monday night anyway. It’s Clara’s first day at nursery and I’m bound to be a gibbering wreck. I’m so nervous.’

  ‘She’ll be fine.’

  ‘What if she hates it and begs me not to leave her?’

  ‘She won’t do that,’ Charlie said with the misplaced confidence of one who knew nothing about the ways of small children. ‘Have you found the article yet?’

  ‘Yup, just wait a second while I read it.’ She skimmed it quickly, then laughed.

  ‘Well done, Hannah. She’s turned a potentially embarrassing situation to her advantage.’

  ‘Is any of it true?’

  ‘They’re happy enough, as far as I can tell,’ Poppy said. ‘Hannah’s got Luke by the short and curlies. Since she’s the main breadwinner now, he’s been allocated chauffeur duties, going up and down the motorway to pick the kids up from their various schools. Plus he has to pose for pictures to go with all the articles she’s writing about their marvellous family life.’

  ‘Will he ever get another job?’ Charlie wondered.

  ‘I don’t think he’s in any hurry to. His book’s coming out in February and Hannah’s insisted he does a load of publicity for it. “I was the real-life cad” that sort of thing. And then he told me he’s going to write an autobiography that involves a year’s research with lots of travel.’

  ‘I can see why he’d want to get away, but what about Clara?’

  ‘It’s OK. Clara and I will go out and join him in a couple of the safer parts of the world. I’m looking forward to it. I think when I see some of the places he’s worked in I’ll finally know what makes Luke tick.’

  ‘Does that mean a reunion’s on the cards?’ Charlie sounded alarmed.

  Poppy laughed. Seeing the tantrum had passed, she pulled Clara off the floor, kissed her on the nose and for the second time that morning opened the front door of their new flat in Shepherd’s Bush. ‘Definitely, definitely not. Come on, darling. We’re going to buy you the CBeebies magazine now. Or would you like Angelina?’

  ‘Both of them!’

  ‘Well… maybe.’ As they set off down the road, hand in hand, Poppy switched her attention back to Charlie. ‘I’ve been through all the emotions with Luke. Passionate love. Bewilderment. Sadness. Hatred. And now when I talk to him I feel… I don’t know, sort of content. I made a mistake marrying him, but Clara came out of it so I didn’t exactly come off badly.’

  ‘That’s the spirit
.’

  ‘And she ended my modelling career, for which thank God. And she started my new career as a columnist, because if I hadn’t had a child to witter on about the readers wouldn’t have wanted to know. And… I suppose that’s what takes us to where we are today.’

  ‘With your new job?’

  ‘I’m so nervous, Charlie. Do you think I’ll be OK?’

  ‘You’ll be brilliant. A TV guide to places to spend a lost afternoon. I can’t think of anything you’re more suited to.’

  ‘On a channel with about five viewers.’

  ‘There’ll be more than five once word gets around someone as beautiful as you’s presenting it.’

  ‘It’s all thanks to your introductions that I’ve got it. I’m so grateful to you.’

  ‘It was nothing.’ There was a pause then Charlie said, ‘I love you, Poppy.’

  ‘I love you too, Charlie. By the way. When you come round would you mind bringing a tool kit? Only my kitchen tap is dripping.’ Poppy stopped short. ‘Sorry, excuse me a second. I’ve seen someone I know. I’ll speak to you later.’

  Holding Clara’s hand, she hurried across the road.

  ‘Hi! Oh my God. Congratulations! I had no idea.’

  Standing behind a splendid Silver Cross pram, Thea blushed. The short man at her side laughed.

  ‘Is it a girl or a boy?’ Poppy cooed, peering in. ‘Oh God, I’m stupid, of course it’s a boy, look at all that blue. It used to drive me nuts little old ladies saying “Bless him” when Clara was in a bright pink dress and had a ribbon in her hair. I…’

  ‘Um. It’s not mine,’ Thea said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s not mine. It belongs to my friend, Rachel. I’m taking it for a walk, while its parents are looking at wedding rings.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Poppy peered at the squashed-faced sleeping bundle to hide her embarrassment. ‘Of course. It was only a couple of months ago you took me to hospital and you didn’t exactly look pregnant then. Ah, bless him, isn’t he gorgeous though?’