Johnny is sitting still with his toys, big blue eyes looking at me, aware that his daddy has returned home and waiting for me to tell him what to do. He has a large green brick from his Duplo set paused in one hand, his tower incomplete in front of him. I finish the washing-up and dry my hands slowly, listening to David taking off his coat and shoes in the hallway, gauging his mood. He is humming under his breath; I struggle to place the tune.
He swings into the living room and bends down to give Johnny a pat and a ruffle of his hair. Johnny stands up and follows his dad into the kitchen, where I am waiting, unsure of this sudden change in circumstances.
‘My wife!’ he says, with gusto. He strides over to me and puts his hands on my waist, kissing me on the lips. I laugh, still slightly unnerved.
‘Did you have a good day?’ I ask.
‘Fucking fantastic!’ he announces. ‘I only landed the most money-laden client in the whole of the northern hemisphere. Let’s go out for dinner. Let’s go celebrate!’
Astonishingly, Maggie is free, and available for babysitting. She arrives with a thick book and her reading glasses on a chain around her neck.
‘I was only going to catch up on my novel, so I can do that here,’ she says, sitting delicately on our sofa. ‘Cup of Earl Grey would be lovely,’ she directs at me. I’m still not dressed to go out, not a shred of make-up on, half drenched following Johnny’s enthusiastic bath. I go to the kitchen and put the kettle on before racing up to get changed.
‘Hurry up, slowcoach,’ David shouts, having spent the last half-hour in the shower, then covering himself with a dousing of aftershave and hair gel. ‘I want to go out tonight, not tomorrow.’
I take the stairs two at a time, my brain running through options for the rarity of a night out. Having a baby does horrible things to your wardrobe. Even if you return to the elusive post-baby weight, things seem to have, well, shifted. A saggy tummy exists where things used to be taut, boobs are more prone to the influence of gravity, and the bags under the eyes need just that little bit more care with the concealer. Any restaurant David is going to take me to requires tailored, refined, sophisticated. I stand in front of my wardrobe and sigh. Those things just don’t fit me any more.
I finally settle on a safe option – black trousers, black top, black jacket. I straighten my hair and apply my make-up with more than the usual care. I stand back from the mirror and take in the overall effect. My shoulders slump. What the hell has happened to me? Shrunk into nothing, into a uniform of black, of please-don’t-notice-me, of I’m-not-important. I poke my stomach with self-loathing, pushing it out so I look pregnant again. Oh for crying out loud. I’ve turned into the same meek little things I used to feel pity for and mock, with their doubts and worries and lack of confidence. Is this who I am now? I use the ounce of poise I have left to pull my shoulders back and give myself a pep talk. I am going out to a posh dinner with my husband. Stand up straight, suck the tummy in, and smile.
I walk down the stairs to where David is waiting by the front door, my coat in his hand.
‘You took your time,’ he says, ushering me out the door. ‘And you could have made a bit more of an effort.’
The restaurant is everything I imagined. Sleek, handsome waiters move effortlessly around, balancing scalding-hot plates on their arms. The candles on the tables offer a dim romantic light, setting up isolated pools where couples whisper intimately. As we arrive, the maître d’ greets David with a broad smile.
‘Mr Sullivan, how lovely to see you again. We have set up your usual table.’
David smiles broadly. ‘Thank you, Gemma,’ he says, following her through the restaurant. I notice his eyes dip to take in her bum in its tight skirt, and I see her through his eyes. Delicate heels, toned calves; all the bumps in the right places.
‘And you must be?’ Gemma asks, offering me a menu.
‘This is my wife,’ David says quickly.
‘Oh, of course.’ She turns away from me. ‘Enjoy your meal.’
I look across at David. ‘This is nice,’ I say. ‘Do you come here often?’
‘Company discount,’ David mutters. ‘With clients and sponsors, you know, the usual.’ His gaze stays on the menu in front of him. ‘The steak is always good, and the lamb.’
I smile and look at the menu. An array of odd-sounding foreign words dazzles me, scattered with a few terms I recognise.
I look up and David is fiddling with his phone, his face in a frown.
I put my menu on the place mat in front of me and look around the restaurant. It’s a weekday night but I’m still surprised to see it half full, and people indulging with the relaxed attitude of a lie-in in the morning. Glasses of wine are full on every table, and small scatterings of laughter can be heard in the air.
A couple sit directly to our right, just far away enough for me to be able to watch them discreetly. He is clearly older, jowls well formed and hair delicately backing away from any semblance of youth. He is wearing a double-breasted suit with a waistcoat, neither fulfilling their role of holding his cultivated belly at bay. It sits like a domesticated pig on his lap, while he shovels in his starter and picks up a large glass of red, taking a big gulp without putting down his fork.
His companion is young, slender and pretty. Her hair is styled precisely in delicate curls around her face, her make-up expertly applied, bringing out large doe eyes and pouty red lips. Everything about her screams sex, with an undercurrent of desperation. Please love me and take care of me, you can hear her crying out. I don’t care about anything else, but look after me, please. She is listening intently as he puts the world to rights, laughing in all the appropriate places; finally she reaches out and lays a slender hand on his arm. He pauses for a moment and looks at it, jaw frozen mid-chew, then he puts his slab on top of it, his wedding band glinting in the candlelight. A moment of infidelity decided and put into place in that fraction of a second.
David looks up from his phone. ‘What are you having?’ he asks me.
‘Steak,’ I reply, and he nods approvingly.
Our conversation sticks firmly to the banal. David tells me about golf, the club and who he’s managed to charm. I tell him about Johnny and how well he’s behaving, what he’s eating and how big he’s getting. I say a silent prayer he’s still asleep for Maggie or I’ll never hear the end of it.
‘Mother says you’re not focusing on Johnny’s development.’
I take a deep breath. ‘We do plenty of work on his development. What does she expect?’
‘She says every time she comes round you’re playing and messing around.’
‘Children learn through play. And besides, she’s rarely there; we do all sorts of things when she’s not around.’
‘Such as?’ David puts down his fork and looks at me. That intensity, that focus. I get a taster of what the poor interns in his office must feel like when they are under his scrutiny.
‘We sit at the table and do colouring. He does his jigsaws and number puzzles and he learns about letters. We read books together, we go out and he runs and kicks and jumps. We do a lot of things – all of which help his development. And yes, we play and we have fun.’
‘Good.’ David picks up his fork again. ‘I just want to make sure we’re doing right for our son.’
‘We are, David,’ I say, stressing the ‘we’ with the slightest amount of sarcasm he doesn’t detect.
He picks up a piece of steak with his fork. ‘This is excellent steak,’ he says with a nod. ‘What do you think?’
‘Yes, excellent,’ I say, putting a morsel in my mouth.
David talks about his work, the fun he has tormenting his staff, and his view of the world. He’s not keen on the latest government, he thinks they’re too weak on people who claim benefits and they need to do something about the NHS. I nod in all the right places, occasionally asking him appropriate questions, quizzing him about his views and letting him hold forth on everything that interests him. Watching him speak, I rememb
er our first date. This confidence, this assurance, it was everything I wanted in a man. David was so sure of his place in the world – there was never any doubt in his mind that he would achieve what he had set out to do. He was clear, he was certain. He would look after me.
We exchanged numbers, but from my previous experience with men, I knew that meant nothing. My expectations were low the night after we had met. Yes, we had gone back to mine and had messy drunken sex, awesome, frantic hands-and-mouths-everywhere sex, but I knew what men were like. I was annoyed with myself for letting it happen again, another man sneaking away in the early hours of the morning.
I was home alone enjoying a rare evening in my flat in front of the television. I had a glass of wine in my hand, to deaden the disappointment, but there was no way I was going to polish off the whole bottle, no way at all. So when my phone rang past eleven, just as I was contemplating bed, bottle drained and head woozy, I thought about ignoring it until I saw the number.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier,’ David said, his voice alone putting a big smile on my face, ‘but I’ve only just finished work. I would love to see you again. Do you want to get together?’
‘What, now?’ I said.
‘No, not now, what sort of man do you think I am?’ He chuckled quietly. ‘At a normal hour, for a normal date.’
I was stunned into silence.
He carried on. ‘Let’s go for dinner, and then we can talk and I can get to know you properly.’
My mouth opened and closed a few times before I managed to get some words out. ‘That would be lovely.’
I put down the phone, barely believing what I had heard. A man, an actual living, breathing, handsome man, wanted to take me out for dinner so we could talk. It was strange, odd, incredible. I took myself off to bed but couldn’t sleep. My head buzzed with the possibilities.
The next day rolled around and I was dressed, ready and willing a full half-hour early. And he was late, of course, held up by work. He had come straight from the office, suit rumpled, tie and jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up and shirt open at the collar. As he leant in to kiss me hello I got a waft of the most amazing smell, remnants of aftershave, mint chewing gum and cigarettes, and was intoxicated by the feel of his stubble on my cheek. As he stared across the table at me, in the nice posh restaurant with white linen napkins and cream menus and huge great wine glasses, I felt something inside me give, even then. The little wall I had happily built had started to come down.
‘And what about your parents?’ David asked, after a lull in the conversation. ‘Are you close?’
I laughed loudly, and he looked at me. ‘Both dead,’ I said. ‘My mum died on my sixteenth birthday, my dad – well, actually, who knows? I don’t even know who he is, I just assume he’s dead. He might as well be,’ I finished, a trace of anger creeping into my voice.
David reached across the table and took my hands in his. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, softly.
‘Don’t be, it’s okay, I’m fine without them.’
‘My little orphan Annie, I’ll look after you.’
‘I don’t need anyone to look after me,’ I said gruffly, pulling my hands away from his.
‘Everyone needs someone to look after them,’ David replied, looking at me with his dark brown eyes. ‘Even you, Annie.’
We talked. We talked all night, even after the food was eaten, the coffee drunk and the waiters lurked around us trying to close up for the night. We talked as we walked to the car and as we drove back to my flat – about our childhoods, growing up, our jobs, our lives. He listened; he was interested.
‘It was rough,’ I continued. ‘Even the teachers were scared of the bullies. But Becca and I stuck together. We’ve been friends since we were four; I met her on my first day at school.’
Aged four, Becca was the most amazing person I had ever seen. She had long blonde hair, tied back with a bright red ribbon, a crisply ironed white shirt, and white knee socks with lace round the top. She had a mummy and a daddy, and the zips on her school bag were decorated with yellow wool pompoms.
‘I made them,’ she told me proudly, as I touched one with a grubby finger. ‘Here,’ she said, and took one off, holding it out to me. ‘You have it.’
I took it, my mouth open, and held it in the palm of my hand. I gently stroked one of the bright yellow pieces of wool, looking at it as if it was the shiniest of jewels, the most dazzling thing I had ever seen, from one of the most wonderful people.
‘She sounds like a good friend,’ David said.
‘She is.’ I smiled. ‘Her parents always looked after me, then took me in after my mother died.’
‘At my school, the kids would go out to the gates every lunchtime to buy drugs with their dinner money,’ David said. ‘Anything you could imagine – pot, E’s, all sorts of pills and potions – and nobody did anything about it. I remember one break time one of the bigger boys dangled this little kid out of a third-storey window by his ankles. Upside down!’
I laughed, and then put my hand over my mouth to stifle my giggles. ‘How did we survive these awful schools?’ I said.
‘What doesn’t kill you, and all that,’ David replied. He stopped the car. ‘Here we are.’
‘Do you want to come up?’ I asked, my voice hesitant.
I saw him waver. ‘Let’s take it slow,’ he said.
I jumped away from him, my cheeks aflame.
‘No, not like that,’ he said. He reached over the gearstick and took my face gently in his hand, leaning in and kissing me slowly on the lips. ‘I know it’s a bit late, given our first meeting,’ my face went red again, ‘but let’s make it special. Let’s get to know each other properly.’
I nodded.
‘Okay?’ he asked.
I nodded again, stunned, and opened the car door.
‘Sleep well, my little Annie.’
Even then, I knew I was smitten. He made me feel special; that he was there for me, and only me. And that was all that mattered.
How much has changed since that first date? I look across the candlelit table to my husband. He doesn’t look that different, maybe a bit less hair on the forehead, maybe a touch more grey round the temples, but men get away with that, don’t they? A bit of age and they look distinguished, command a bit more respect for those extra years, those extra lines. For women it’s the opposite. For every grey hair and wrinkle, you become slightly more invisible. Add a baby and attention is back on you briefly, but as cute newborn becomes noisy obnoxious toddler, the looks of understanding and cooing turn to annoyance, and cursing glances. And if you ever dare to let yourself go a bit and wear those trackie bottoms to the park, then you are obviously neglectful too. The sort of mum that feeds their toddler Coke and Wotsits at every meal.
David’s suits are still perfectly pressed, his tie the right shade of blue, every hair in place and cufflink fastened. I look again at the cufflinks, and squint slightly in the low light. I thought I knew them all – presents from me or Maggie, heirlooms passed down from David Senior – but these look new, cheap even.
David stops to chew a mouthful of steak. I lean over and touch his shirt cuff.
‘These are nice,’ I say. ‘Where did they come from?’
He looks down. ‘These old things? Can’t remember.’ He picks up his wine glass and the purple stone reflects the light. They are too gaudy, too showy, not like David at all.
He turns back to his plate. ‘What’s with all the questions? Finish your dinner.’
I pick up my fork and skewer a green bean.
For dessert, a chocolate mousse so light I can barely believe it would do anything to my diet. Followed by a board of cheese and grapes and crackers. I pick at a grape, barely able to eat any more, while David pushes hand-made rustic chutney onto a water biscuit.
‘You’re lucky to come here for work.’
‘It’s never fun,’ David mutters, a slab of cheddar paused halfway to his mouth. ‘There’s always some arsehole trying to charm y
ou, or some arsehole you need to charm.’
‘Do you enjoy your job?’ I ask, cringing inside at my question, more suited to a nervous first date.
‘Enjoy?’ He chews for a moment. ‘We’re not supposed to enjoy our jobs, are we?’ He looks at me. I shrug. ‘I have moments I like more than others. It’s certainly more fun the closer you get to the top, but then you have to work harder, and there’s more pressure.’ I wait, surprised by his sudden honesty. ‘And people are stupid, Annie, they really are. I have seventy-five people who work for me, and on any one day I can promise that somebody will do something incredibly stupid. They try to hide it from me, making it even more stupid, but I always find out eventually and then I have to do something to stop it costing us even more money. It’s all about the money at the end of the day.’
‘Is it, though? Wouldn’t you like to pack it all in and live a life of luxury in the South of France?’
He laughs. ‘And how do we pay for that? Money! And there will still be stupid people, I guarantee you. Annie, you are so sweet and naïve, you could never understand. Dreams never come true; there is always the nightmare to keep away from.’ He reaches over and strokes my cheek. ‘How lucky you are that you don’t need to work any more.’
Yes, lucky, I think. I am. I must be crazy to think otherwise. Sure, I miss my job and the freedom I used to enjoy, but I have a husband who looks after me, a happy, healthy young son, a mother-in-law local enough to babysit, a roof over my head and the opportunity to go out for a meal like this one. I should be counting my blessings, not sulking about the independence I’ve lost. I sit back and enjoy the last of my wine as David adds a swirl to the tab.
The Dream Wife Page 5