A Perfect Husband

by Hilary Boyd

  A Perfect Husband

  Also by

  Also by Hilary Boyd

  Thursdays in the Park

  Tangled Lives

  When You Walked Back Into My Life

  A Most Desirable Marriage

  Meet Me on the Beach

  The Lavender House

  Title

  New York • London

  © 2017 by Hilary Boyd

  First published in the United States by Quercus in 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to permissions@quercus.com.

  e-ISBN 978-1-63506-013-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017057837

  Distributed in the United States and Canada by

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10104

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Manufactured in the United States

  www.quercus.com

  Epigraph

  ‘Women’s total instinct for gambling is satisfied by marriage’

  Gloria Steinem

  Contents

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  PART II

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  PART III

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Freddy gazed unseeingly at the pretty Chinese girl in the sleeveless black dress on the other side of the roulette table, aware that he was doing so only when she smiled at him, giving a coy wave with a delicate, manicured hand. He smiled back, although it was a purely reflexive twitch of his mouth, never reaching his eyes. He was in the zone.

  He’d been feeling sick all day, his nerves wired to the point where he felt as if he’d been flayed, the skin literally scraped from his flesh. His body smarted each time someone bumped into him, brushed against him or ran into him – heads down on their screens – on the narrow, crowded Soho pavements near the recording studio he owned. Every sound, even Lily’s worried goodbye this morning, had set his teeth on edge so that he was barely able to respond with the grace he knew she deserved. She wasn’t stupid: she knew something was up. But there was a way out of this crisis – he never questioned it. It had just eluded him recently, a run of bad luck – which he sensed would change tonight.

  Now he sat in his favourite casino, embraced by the elegance of another era: warm wood-panelled walls, high ceilings, solid chandeliers, long windows looking out towards the darkness of the night-time park. It was a hushed, padded, cosseting environment, the croupiers and pit bosses polite and well trained, the clientele rich – or, at least, having the appearance of wealth. As had Freddy, of course. Most importantly, the club still used the European wheel, only one zero, not the American version so popular these days in the London gambling clubs. Popular because of the added double-zero pocket, giving a house advantage – small though it was at five and a quarter per cent – on straight bets of almost double the European system. Which mattered to Freddy. Although Fish, his cynical, world-weary American gambling crony, laughed every time he mentioned his preference, saying, ‘It’s not the house you have to worry about, buddy.’ Fish was in California tonight, thank goodness. He would only have been a distraction.

  Numbers flashed through his mind like a mantra as he silently chanted the clockwise sequence: 0, 32, 15, 19, 4, 21, 2, 25 . . . He sat and watched the ivory ball’s trajectory through one, two, three and more spins of the wheel, scrutinizing the frets between the pockets to check for nicks or irregularities, assessing the twist in the croupier’s throw, before finally placing his first bet. He gave in to the mounting anticipation. His hands, meanwhile, played with the piles of black one-hundred-pound chips in front of him, the smooth clay surface like worry beads through his fingers. The satisfying click as they fell back on each other was reassuringly familiar. And, of course, a tantalizing precursor to the hit.

  He selected five from the stack, placed two on 23 red, straight up, two on a ‘street’, laying his chips at the end of the line containing 7, 8 and 9, and the last on 0. The croupier was a tall, olive-skinned man, in his late thirties, Freddy judged, with dark, blank eyes and slicked-back hair, maroon waistcoat, white shirt, black tie – Eastern European would be a predictable guess despite the ‘Tom’ on his name-tag. He called, ‘Rien ne va plus,’ in a bored monotone and Freddy’s heart closed down, his breath held, his mind still, completely without thought.

  This was the hit. Unconnected to the outcome, it existed entirely in and of itself, a silent, intimate realm of intense, glorious, terrifying anticipation that sent shivers up his spine and wound his body to fever pitch. No drug he’d ever taken came anywhere close, and he’d tried a few. Mere seconds it lasted as the wheel spun, the ball careened around the top space in the opposite direction, dropped, bounced the frets, dropped again, found the pocket. But it was no less powerful for its brevity. And this was only the first time: there would be more, always more . . . minutes away, anywhere, anytime.

  ‘Nine, red,’ the croupier intoned, placing the chunky, bevelled glass dolly on the winning square with a flourish, then quickly sweeping the losing chips from the green baize with his shiny gold-metal rake, stacking them deftly and with awesome speed in their allocated space on the table beside
his station.

  Freddy came out of his trance. He’d won. He took a deep breath as he watched Tom stack the round flat black chips on top of the two he’d put down, then start a new column, and a third, all even in height, sliding them towards him with his rake, barely glancing at him, uninvolved. The Chinese girl across the table raised an elegant eyebrow at him, nodded her congratulations. He clicked automatically through his chips, calculating his win. No big deal – less than two and a half thousand, not even a minute dent in the mess – but a start nonetheless, a real start, a feel for things to come. It was definitely his lucky night.

  *

  It was still dark, although the sky to the east was lightening, clouds streaking the horizon in what would be a beautiful spring dawn, when Freddy emerged, exhausted, from the womb world of the tables. The nightmare of his real life hit him with force, like a ball kicked at his chest, as he stepped onto the cold London pavement. Across the night hours he had won, he had lost, won again, lost again. An exhilarating ride. He had drunk a lot of coffee, eaten an indigestible burger and chips at some stage, chatted aimlessly with the girl in the black dress – who seemed to get off on watching other people lose their money rather than losing her own – and now he had close to twenty-one thousand pounds in his pocket. Good, but no good. No good at all. In fact, in the scheme of things, pretty bloody pointless.

  Chapter 2

  Meanwhile, Lily waited by the open doors of the West End theatre, clutching two programmes, her eyes scanning the street, filtering the crowds drifting in as she waited for her friend. It was freezing, raining, blustery, a generally vile March evening. She had come by taxi from the flat she shared with her husband, Freddy, in Sussex Square, and she wasn’t dressed warmly enough, wanting to show off the gorgeous richly coloured wool jacket Freddy had brought back from Italy a month before. She longed to get inside to the stuffy warmth of the theatre. But Prem was always late. The warning bell hadn’t gone yet, but it soon would – she wondered if she should go in now and leave her friend’s ticket at the box office.

  Lily loved the theatre, loved the excitement of a live performance, the sense of anticipation as the lights went down, the absorption in another world. But she wasn’t in the mood tonight. She’d have much preferred to have a large glass of wine somewhere with Prem and spill out her worries. But the play lasted nearly three hours and it would be too late afterwards. Her friend worked long days at the shop she owned in Marylebone, selling ergonomic chairs and desks, and was always exhausted.

  ‘Lil!’ Prem was by her side, breathless, her beautiful face alive with amusement. ‘I’ve been shouting at you.’ She gave Lily a hug. ‘Always away with the fairies, you.’

  Lily laughed, handing Prem a programme as she dug the tickets from her Chloé bag – another gift from her husband. They made their way into the bowels of the building, almost the last to do so, the bell ringing insistently now, to the house seats Freddy had been given by a client currently working at his studio. The client, Asif somebody, happened to be the star of the play. Their seats were in the middle of the row, the rest of the audience already settled and tutting irritably as Lily and Prem squeezed past the knees and feet, coats, bags and briefcases that obstructed their progress between the cramped old rows, muttering ‘Sorry’ and ‘Thank you’ as they went. But Prem was always forgiven: even at fifty-two her dark-eyed, natural beauty and the dramatic sweep of glossy hair down her back turned heads wherever she went. She didn’t seem to notice the attention, however, which always endeared her to Lily, living as she now did in Freddy’s self-conscious, privileged world where image counted for so much.

  Lily did not consider herself beautiful – although Freddy often insisted she was. Her sister, Helen, had been the one with the looks. But with her floppy brown hair shining auburn in sunlight, her large hazel eyes, strong nose and slim figure, Lily possessed a diffident grace. And coupled with her restrained bohemian style and wide, forthright smile, she was a woman who caught the eye in any gathering. It sometimes brought her up short to realize she was now part of Freddy’s glamorous milieu, no longer the life-or-death theatre of brain surgery – her first husband’s profession. In fact, she’d never felt entirely part of either, her own world more solitary and internal, her comfort zone the smooth, blank paper upon which she loved to draw.

  ‘Go back and say hi to Asif,’ Freddy had instructed earlier. ‘I told him you’d be in tonight.’

  ‘Do I have to? I barely know him,’ Lily had protested. She always felt awkward hanging around in those small, stuffy West End dressing rooms, the actor half clothed, high from the performance, eyes dark with mascara, skin thick with greasepaint, searching her face to see whether she’d really liked it or was lying through her teeth to protect his or her ego. It was another world backstage, a private club from which ordinary mortals like herself were excluded, always tense with an unsettling mix of insecurity, competition and hubris. If Freddy were there, it would be fine. He always knew what to say, how to make everyone feel good, but Lily just felt stupid and out of place.

  Freddy had kissed her, running his finger down her nose, smiling the loving smile that never failed to melt her heart. ‘Don’t be such a wimp, Lily. He’ll think you hated it if you don’t go back. All you need do is pop in for ten seconds, say how simply marvellous it all was, gush a bit. How hard can that be?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll see,’ she said, knowing she wouldn’t. She would make up some excuse about Prem needing to rush off. Freddy could text Asif tomorrow, gush all he liked. And anyway, he was in such a strange mood at the moment. The thought made her stomach twist and she pushed it away, opening the programme and pretending to be interested in what she was about to see.

  ‘Where’s Freddy tonight?’ Prem asked, leaning towards Lily as the lights in the auditorium faded.

  ‘Umm . . . work, the usual,’ she replied. But something in her tone must have alerted her sensitive friend.

  ‘You okay?’ she whispered, as Asif Baka wandered barefoot onto the stage in tracksuit bottoms and a frayed white T-shirt, which showed off his suitably toned biceps, reading a book upside down. Not a promising start.

  In Lily’s opinion the play was dreadful – overacted and pretentious. Prem agreed. Lily noticed she had nodded off for a while in the first act and envied her ability to switch off like that.

  ‘Do you have to stay?’ Prem asked as they hovered uncertainly in the corridor by the entrance to the bar, standing back from the press of people eager for a half-time drink.

  ‘Freddy would say I should. But I can always tell him you weren’t feeling well or something. And if Asif is pissed off, then I’m sure he’ll get over it. It’s not as if we’re all best mates. He’s just a client of Freddy’s.’

  ‘Clients are important.’ Prem’s business mind kicked in. ‘I’ll do the second half if you want me to.’

  Lily laughed. ‘No, let’s get out of here. It’s ridiculous sitting through something neither of us is enjoying just so we can go backstage and be fake to someone who probably won’t even register who we are.’

  ‘Put like that . . .’ Prem grinned and took her friend’s arm.

  *

  ‘So what are you saying?’ Prem asked. They were sitting in the basement of a restaurant/bar just yards from the St Martin’s Lane theatre, in William IV Street. Set out on the rough wooden table between them were a bottle of Bordeaux, olives, Italian salami, chilli-garlic prawns, strips of toasted sourdough and a small terracotta bowl of cervelle de canut – a soft creamy cheese dip with shallots and chives. ‘You think Freddy’s having a thing with someone?’

  Lily felt close to tears at the idea, although it was what she’d been silently thinking for weeks. ‘Well, what else can it be? He’s tense, distracted all the time, constantly checking his phone – not that he doesn’t always – coming in at God knows what time . . .’

  ‘Freddy’s never kept normal hours, though. Don�
�t musicians record all night sometimes?’

  Lily nodded. ‘They do, but Freddy doesn’t have to be there all the time – he has people to do that. And he never used to, not night after night. I don’t know . . .’ She gazed at her friend. ‘It’s different. I can’t explain how, but he’s acting strangely, even for Freddy.’

  Prem reached across the table and laid her hand over Lily’s. ‘God, you’re freezing.’ She patted her and withdrew. ‘Have you asked him about it?’

  ‘Yes. He just says he’s really busy, he’s sorry, things will improve shortly. He says to stop worrying.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Which is exactly what he’d say if he was having an affair, right?’

  Prem sighed, and raised her eyebrows slightly. ‘I suppose . . . It’s just . . . Freddy adores you, Lily, you know he does. I realize he’s gorgeous and out there and every woman on the planet envies you for being married to him. But honestly, I’ve never taken him for a flirt. Whenever I see him, he just seems totally into you. I mean, you’ve only been married . . . What is it? Three years? Surely it takes longer than that to stray.’

  Lily didn’t reply, just picked with her nail at a warm drop of candle wax solidifying on the table. She noticed that some saffron ink from a drawing she was doing of a girl’s face she’d studied on the Tube a few weeks ago had stained the inside of her second finger and rubbed at it absentmindedly with her thumb.

  ‘Don’t you think?’ Prem was asking.

  ‘That’s what I tell myself. But I just know something’s up, and what else could it be?’

  There was silence between the two women. Then Prem, her voice tentative, asked, ‘Are you still having sex?’

  After a very long pause, Lily answered, ‘No.’

  She saw her friend’s mouth twist. ‘How long?’

  ‘Weeks.’

  ‘And this isn’t usual?’

  Lily shook her head. For her and Freddy, not usual at all. She and Prem did not normally talk about their sex lives. She had no idea if Prem and her husband, Anthony, had a good sex life, a bad one or a non-existent one. She had never asked and didn’t want to know. She’d had other friends who went into lurid detail – one in particular who’d talked at length once about a strap-on penis, which had left seriously unwanted images in Lily’s head that were hard to dispel when next she met the couple over spaghetti bolognese. So it struck home that Prem was even asking.