An Ideal Wife: A Novel

by Gemma Townley

  Fortunately I’d realized, just moments before saying “I do,” that I couldn’t do it—not for Grace, not for all the money in the world. Because I loved Max and I couldn’t imagine being married to anyone but him. Grace might have been disappointed if she were still alive, but I like to think that the romantic in her would be happy. After all, I got married eventually; I got my happily ever after.

  “Anthony asked me to marry him because he wanted half of Grace’s inheritance,” I said firmly. “That’s all. And after everything I’ve done, I’m the last person you want to ask for advice on relationships.”

  “Not the last person,” Helen said, attempting a smile. “But maybe you’ve got a point. Maybe you’re not the perfect person to turn to for guidance. But you’re the only person here, so you’ll have to do. Do you think I should trust John or not?”

  “I don’t know,” I said with a sigh. “Hel, I’ve never even met the guy. What does your gut tell you?”

  I hadn’t trusted Hugh. Not initially, anyway. And I’d been right.

  “It tells me he’s probably telling the truth,” Helen said, sitting back despondently.

  “So why the long face?” I asked, curious. “It’s almost as if you’d prefer there to be some deep dark secret.”

  “No!” Helen shook her head vehemently. “No, I wouldn’t. No, not at all.”

  I studied her face for a few seconds, then took a slurp of coffee. “Come on, then. What do you think makes the ideal husband? The ideal wife?” I asked.

  Helen frowned. “The whole idea of marriage freaks me out a bit,” she said, shuddering.

  “Boyfriend, then,” I said. “If you could design the perfect partner, what would he be like?”

  “God knows.”

  “At least try. Once you know what you want, you can see if John measures up.”

  Helen nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, if you put it like that. But let me state for the record that I categorically do not believe that perfection exists. If it did, we’d all give up now, because we’re so completely lacking. So, let me think. Obviously he’d have to be completely in love with me,” she said, pausing briefly. “Yes, absolutely smitten. And he’d also have to be gorgeous. Tall. Rich, definitely. He’d have a sports car. And maybe a private jet. He’d whisk me off to Barbados on holiday when I’d had a bad day at work. Not that I’d have to work because … well, why would I? He’d be loaded.”

  I shook my head in exasperation. “That’s it? You want someone rich and handsome who has a jet?”

  “And who’s crazy about me,” Helen reminded me. “That’s the crucial piece of the jigsaw. C-R-A-Z-Y.”

  I laughed. “Fair enough.”

  “Talking about crazy,” Helen said, leaning forward suddenly, “have you heard from Ivana lately?”

  Ivana was a friend of ours. More Helen’s, actually, but I’d gotten to know her pretty well during the whole Project Marriage thing, when she’d coached me in the art of flirtation. Ivana was a kind of stripper or lap dancer—none of us was entirely sure exactly what she did for a living, and to be honest we didn’t really want to. She was Russian, beautiful in a voluptuous leather-wearing kind of way, very domineering, and married to a guy from Manchester called Sean, who absolutely adored her. Helen had met her a few years before when she was making a documentary about strip clubs, and somehow Ivana had become a firm fixture.

  Except now things had changed slightly.

  “Not since—” I said tentatively.

  “The baby?” Helen interrupted, an amused expression on her face. “No, I didn’t think so. You know, I went round there a week or so ago and she made me take off my shoes.”

  I stared at her in confusion. “She what?”

  “She said she didn’t want me bringing germs into the house.”

  “Ivana? Ivana said that?”

  I’d been to Ivana’s studio flat only once; it was on Old Compton Street in Soho, and it stank of bodily fluids mixed with heady perfume and didn’t look as if cleaning products had ever made their way through the door.

  “She wouldn’t even let me see Giorgio, either. He was asleep, and she said that he didn’t like having his routine disturbed.”

  “Giorgio?”

  “As in Armani. Apparently the baby looks just like Ivana.”

  I met Helen’s eyes and suppressed a giggle. “Seriously?”

  She was giggling, too, holding a hand over her mouth to try to make out that she wasn’t. “That’s what Sean said.”

  I nodded seriously, trying to get the image out of my head of a baby boy dressed in leather hot pants with thick black eyeliner scrawled on his face. It was too much. I snorted.

  “We should go round together,” Helen said suddenly, leaning forward. “We should go this week.”

  “Good idea,” I agreed.

  “Great.” Helen sat back in her chair. “So, look, do you think I should call John to catch him off guard, or do you think I should leave it up to him to call me?”

  “I think I’d leave it a day or two,” I said.

  “Yeah, good idea. I won’t obsess. I’ll just relax. Not think about it.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Think you can do it?”

  Helen nodded firmly, then shook her head, grinning. “Not in a million years. But I’ll give it a go.”

  Chapter 3

  ON MONDAY MORNING, I found myself studying Max as he indicated right and pulled into the Milton Advertising car park. He was so handsome, I thought. So noble and good, and funny, and clever …

  “You all right?” Max asked. “You haven’t said a word all morning.”

  I nodded vaguely. “I’m fine.”

  Someone that amazing deserved someone better than me. Someone who really was perfect.

  “Jess?” Max looked at me worriedly.

  I shook myself and forced a smile. “I’m really fine,” I assured him. “Honestly.” Someone who didn’t lie to him all the time, too, I was thinking.

  “Well, okay, then,” Max said, getting out of the car. “If you say so.”

  “I do,” I said quietly, as I followed him into the office, my shoulders slumped. Was Helen right? Could I never tell Max? Did that mean I was beholden to Hugh forever? Did that mean that my marriage was, for all intents and purposes, a sham?

  I sighed despondently. There was no way out of this—no good way, anyway. If only … I frowned suddenly, as something occurred to me.

  “Jess?” I looked up to see Max peering at me.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was … just thinking about something.”

  “Evidently,” Max said, raising an eyebrow. “Listen, you remember that ethical-audit idea Chester had?”

  I nodded uncertainly. “Yes?”

  “Well, it’s definitely happening. And the great news is, we’re being audited first. Chester said it would be a test case.”

  The way Max said it suggested he didn’t think it was great news at all.

  “But the other night,” I said cautiously, “she said it was a good idea. A chance to show ourselves off a bit.”

  Max sighed. “But that was in front of Chester. The reality is it’s going to absorb all our time, alienate our staff, and use up valuable resources.”

  “So tell Chester that,” I said, frowning. “Tell him we’re not going to do it.”

  Max stopped walking. “And risk losing his business?” He shook his head. “Jess, I know that Chester is your future stepfather and all warm and cuddly, but he is also a powerful businessman who likes to get his way. As his advertising agency and, lest we forget, an agency that in these troubled times is entirely reliant on his business to keep our heads above water, it is not for us to put obstacles in his way or to say no. Remember the old adage that the client is always right?”

  “But we’re also here to advise him,” I protested. “Advise him that it’s a terrible idea if you think it is.”

  “I don’t. Not necessarily,” Max said wearily. “I can totally see the logic. I can just see a whole lot
of potential problems that I could do without. And it’s Chester’s idea. He’s the client.”

  “So if he says jump, we jump?” I asked. I loved Chester, but I loved Max more, and I hated seeing him like this.

  “In this economic climate, yes, we jump,” Max said flatly. “We can’t afford to lose Chester. And that’s the end of the matter.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “If you do want to say no,” I said tentatively, “and if Chester did pull his business, we could always use my money to keep things afloat for a while. I mean, I’ve still got nearly four million pounds sitting in the bank and nothing to do with it, so …”

  “No,” Max said firmly, as I’d known he would. “Your money is your money, Jess. I don’t want bailouts. I want a successful business. So we’re going to meet this auditor and we’re going to play nicely and we’re going to keep our fingers crossed that it all goes smoothly. Okay? Now, look, I’d better run. I’ve got a million and one things to do before this guy arrives.”

  He marched off to his office, BlackBerry in hand; I turned to my desk, where Caroline was standing, eagerly waving at me. Caroline was my assistant. Actually, she was more than just an assistant—she’d turned out to be a confidante, a rock, when everything seemed to be crumbling around me because of Hugh and his plan to totally ruin Max. Plus, she seemed to know everyone who mattered in London, whether they were minor celebrities, huge pop stars, or even royalty. But right now even she couldn’t really raise my spirits.

  “Hi, Caroline,” I said heavily. “How’s it going? Nice weekend?”

  “Oh my God,” she said, handing me a coffee, her eyes dancing and her free hand waggling at the side of her head. “You’ll never believe what’s just happened.”

  I took the coffee gratefully. “Um, has Prince William asked you out?” I joked.

  Caroline’s forehead creased in confusion. “No!” she exclaimed. “God, that would be awful. I mean, Kate’s lovely. There’s no way—” She caught my eye and realized I wasn’t serious, then flushed a deep red. “Oh, right. You were joking.”

  I giggled. “So come on, then, what did happen?”

  Her eyes lit up again.

  “Someone made an offer on my Chloe bag. Two hundred pounds! And that’s just an opening bid!”

  “Your what?” I asked, slightly nonplussed.

  “My Chloe bag! I’m selling it on eBay.”

  “Ah!” I said, understanding now. “But why? It’s a lovely bag. I mean, you love it, don’t you?”

  Caroline nodded seriously. “Yes, but I don’t need it, do I?”

  “No, I suppose not,” I agreed, turning on my computer and immediately clicking my Project Plan icon. “So you’re still into that book, then?”

  The book had appeared on Caroline’s desk a few weeks back. Do You Need It? by Jerome D. Rutter was a self-help tome that, according to its cover, enabled anyone who read it to de-junk their life, free themselves from the shackles of consumerism, find love, find fulfillment, and generally feel loads happier. It was on the bestseller list because the credit crunch had made everyone rethink their spending and finances. Caroline, though, saw it in an entirely different light—she had read it cover to cover and announced the next day that it had spoken to her at a fundamental, even spiritual level. She’d realized, she told me sagely, that her life was too full and that she’d never achieve a Zen-like existence without radical change.

  And she hadn’t messed around in following the book’s recommendations. Each week she appeared to be clearing out a different section of her wardrobe—shoes, scarves, skirts, trousers, tops, dresses, coats, miscellaneous accessories, and now bags—with huge black sacks destined for the charity shop. Friends who, according to the book, exerted a toxic influence on her life were told in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t be seeing them for a while, if ever, and all the poor boys who constantly called her to ask her out had been given a polite but firm no. “Because you have to clear the decks if you’re going to find yourself,” Caroline had explained to me knowingly.

  “Yes, of course I’m still into the book,” Caroline said now, as though surprised by the question. “It’s not a fad, Jess. It’s a way of life. You really should try it.”

  I smiled. “A book that is entirely made up of platitudes.”

  “Oh no,” Caroline sighed. “It’s full of wisdom. You just can’t see it because you’re completely fulfilled already. You don’t need to de-junk anything.”

  “De-junk? Who’s de-junking?” I turned quickly to see Anthony appear between my desk and Caroline’s. Anthony, who I’d almost married. Anthony, who had left the firm for Max to run so that he could jet around the world and then, when he’d run out of money, had come back again, cap in hand. He had somehow convinced Max to let him have his old office back, but, as far as I could see, he never seemed to do any work at all. He grinned laconically at me. “You’re not finally getting rid of poor Maxy, are you, Jess?”

  My eyes narrowed. “If I was de-junking, Max wouldn’t come into it, Anthony,” I said levelly. “You, on the other hand …”

  “Ah, touché.” Anthony turned to Caroline and winked at her. “Excuse our banter, Caro. Jess here never really got over me.”

  “As I recall, Anthony, I was never really—”

  “Under me?” Anthony’s grin deepened, and my cheeks went a deep crimson.

  “Never in love with you,” I said, trying to regain my composure. “Or even slightly interested in you, actually.”

  “Jess, you cut me deep,” Anthony said, affecting a sad look. Then he turned back to Caroline.

  “So, Caro, what are you up to? Ah, you’re on eBay. Pitching for their account, are you? Didn’t know it was up, myself. You must have great industry sources.”

  Caroline looked up at him worriedly. “No. I mean … I was just selling something. But I was only having a quick look. Not using company resources to … I mean, I …”

  “Leave her alone,” I said firmly. “Caroline can check eBay if she wants to.”

  “Of course she can,” Anthony said indulgently, putting his arm around her. “I was only teasing.”

  I rolled my eyes at him as my computer flickered to life. I was far too busy to listen to Anthony’s rubbish. Back in the car I’d had an idea. An idea that might just save me and save my marriage. And I needed to think about it. Anthony, unfortunately, showed no signs of leaving. “Anthony, do you actually want anything or are you hanging around here because you haven’t got anything better to do?” I asked irritably.

  Anthony’s eyebrows shot up. “Dear me, can I not spend some time with two of my colleagues without being accused of time-wasting?” he asked, shaking his head sadly.

  I opened my project-planning software, my heart thudding in my chest, not with fear this time but with hope.

  Project Ideal Wife.

  I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. Max thought I was perfect; I knew I wasn’t. Not at all. So I would make myself perfect. I would learn to cook; I would work in soup kitchens; I would be the most thoughtful, considerate, devoted person in the whole wide world. And maybe, just maybe, if I could be perfect in every single way apart from what had happened with Hugh, then that sordid incident would be so insignificant in the scheme of perfection that it would barely even exist anymore. It would be like one drop of poison in a whole sea of freshwater; it would disappear, would be diluted into oblivion. And when I told Max about it, he would think it was insignificant, too.

  The more I thought about it, the more I knew I had to do it. I owed it to Max, owed it to us. And I was hardly a stranger to self-improvement plans—or, rather, self-reinvention plans. When I’d thought that marrying Anthony Milton was the only option open to me, I’d been about the least likely candidate for his attentions: a mousy workaholic who had no experience with (or interest in) men. And Helen and Ivana had whipped me up into a total fox who knew how to dress, how to wear her hair, and, importantly, how to flirt. Of course, the one person my transformation ha
dn’t impressed was Max, but that was one of the reasons I loved him so much—he loved me for who I was, not because I’d learned how to do a flicky thing with my hair. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that I’d transformed from workaholic mouse to flirtatious vamp in the space of about three days. So I could totally transform myself into the perfect wife. And it would be much easier, because I wanted to do it. This time I would be doing it for the person I loved more than anything else in the whole wide world.

  “Jess, you do know that creating a dynamic atmosphere is as much about building relationships as it is about”—Anthony peered over at my computer—“project-planning computer programs.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with project plans,” I said, turning my screen slightly so he couldn’t see it. “They help organize things.”

  “Do you like project planning, Caro?” Anthony asked, leaning over her like a boa constrictor evaluating its prey.

  “Yes, actually, I …” Caroline said, but Anthony wasn’t listening.

  “Never could understand them, myself,” he continued, “but then again, when you’re creative, things like project plans just fence you in, put up walls where you don’t need them.”

  I counted to ten. “Creative people also use them,” I said tightly.

  “Do they?” Anthony asked innocently, then looked at me, wide-eyed. “Oh, I see. You mean you? You think you’re creative? Really?”