The Model Wife

by Julia Llewellyn

  But now, it seems, the tide is turning. I couldn’t possibly speak for my own ex-husband, but from other twice-married men I hear rumblings of discontent as they realize the price attached to their decorative little trophies and how well off they were with their first hard-working spouses, who either laboured at home or in the office, or both to provide them with the standard of living they deserved. So take heed you leeches, you parasites! Your time is nearly up. There’s no such thing as a free ladies’ lunch.

  4

  It was a grey Tuesday in January. In the offices of the Seven Thirty News the temperature was at fever pitch. Gossip had been circulating for weeks ever since Jonathan Chambers, the channel’s genial head of news and current affairs in charge of hirings, firings and budget had ‘retired’ sooner than expected to be replaced by Roxanne Fox or ‘Foxy Roxy’ to give her her office nickname, who was already proving to be about as generous with the company purse strings as a nun with her sexual favours.

  Last night the rumours had solidified like cold lava into hard news when it was confirmed that Chris Stevens, the programme’s bufferish editor since its launch a decade ago, had suddenly ‘resigned’. His replacement, it was announced, in a short press release, was to be Dean Cutler, poached from the BBC.

  ‘So what do we know about this Dean guy?’ Lana, the newsdesk secretary, asked, twisting the gold chains round her neck with her claw-like hand. Lana was a forty-something single mother of three and any threat to her livelihood was to be taken very seriously.

  ‘He’s young,’ said Luke Norton, looking up from the news list for that evening’s show. He’d read it about six times but his brain refused to absorb it, such was his anxiety. Not to mention the fact that he found it very hard to read close up these days, but refused to wear glasses. Luckily the autocue was placed near enough so he could still just make it out without squinting.

  ‘Not that young!’ chirped senior reporter, Marco Jensen, from his desk, just behind him. ‘He’s thirty-seven.’

  Luke looked at Marco with ill-concealed dislike. With his thick eyelashes, dimpled cheeks and blond curls, a fortuitous blend of his mother’s Italian and father’s Norwegian genes, he was too pretty ever to be completely trusted by other men. Everyone who met Marco suspected he was gay but in fact he had a gorgeous long-term girlfriend called Stephanie. He was also only thirty-three, which meant he’d been in short trousers when Luke had been out dodging bullets in the Gaza Strip. The most dangerous thing Marco had ever done in his life was accidentally leave the gas on overnight when he came in high on E after a rave.

  Recently, Marco had been promoted to the upper echelons of co-presenters, the four chief correspondents who took turns to be Luke’s sidekick and who hosted the show in his absence. Whenever it was Marco’s turn, the show was inundated with appreciative emails and texts, which was why Luke had been taking less and less time off of late. Even though he worked a four-day week, he frequently volunteered to do five, so paranoid was he becoming about his young rival.

  ‘One day that’ll seem young to you, pipsqueak.’ Lana smiled at Marco so her crow’s feet were etched deeply in her coppery face. ‘What else do you know, Luke?’

  ‘He’s a dumber-downer. Obsessed with the yoof audience. He was the one who caused all the fuss at the BBC by interviewing Jordan and Peter Andre on Newsday.’

  ‘The viewing figures for that were amazing,’ said Marco.

  ‘It’s not all about viewing figures,’ Luke said with as much pomposity as he could muster. ‘It’s about providing groundbreaking, incisive news.’

  ‘Not according to our shareholders. Our viewing figures keep going down. That’s why Chris got the boot.’

  ‘It wasn’t Chris’s fault we’ve lost viewers,’ said Lana. ‘It’s the bloody internet’s. Everyone gets their news from there now.’ She eyed her computer balefully, as if it was that particular PC’s fault that Chris Stevens was now on his way home clutching a P45.

  ‘Well, the shareholders think we should be doing more to fight our corner.’ Marco smirked as he bent his head over the pile of newspapers on his desk. There was a moment’s silence. Lana chewed her nails and applied some lip gloss that smelt of pear. Luke returned to the news list again:

  1 Mad cow disease outbreak in Shropshire.

  2 Rumours of PM calling early general election.

  He was temporarily distracted by the sight of Alexa Marples, recently promoted to producer, wiggling past in a pair of trousers that adhered to her splendid buttocks like clingfilm. Tempting. Stop it, Luke. He turned to his screen. Two new emails. One from a PR, which he deleted without reading. Another from his eldest daughter, Tilly. Oh Christ, no doubt wanting the dosh for the bloody skiing trip Hannah had promised her she could go on. He really should get on with drafting that email to the president of Syria, demanding an exclusive interview, but he just couldn’t summon the energy.

  ‘Oh look,’ Marco said with cheery malice. ‘Nice picture of you here in the Daily Post.’

  Luke’s heart sank. He knew what that meant. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, trying to sound as bored as possible.

  ‘Mmm. Hannah’s written another article: “The Demise of the Trophy Wife”. Sounds interesting.’

  ‘I need a slash,’ Luke said brusquely. He got up and strode across the newsroom to the gents. He didn’t really need to pee, but he needed a moment away from that little shit Marco and the generally febrile atmosphere.

  ‘You all right, Luke?’ said Emma Waters, one of the chief correspondents and another co-presenter, looking up from her screen where she was probably doing her Ocado shop. Emma was an old friend of Hannah’s and there was no mistaking the malicious glint in her eye.

  ‘Great, Emma, never better. Excited at the prospect of a breath of fresh air in this place.’ Luke decided he’d swipe back. ‘Love your jacket, by the way. My wife was saying the other night that green really suits you.’

  He carried on to the gents, hugely cheered. One of Emma’s pet peeves was the way, even after she’d interviewed the prime minister, the only thing viewers seemed to register about her was what she was wearing and whether it suited her or not. ‘Luke and Marco don’t get emails all day saying their hair’s too long,’ was her constant complaint, to which no one had an answer.

  At least I’m not a woman, thought Luke, as he always did when he really needed to count his blessings. But then, having peed, he stared in the mirror with all the consternation of a former starlet on the eve of middle age. Shit. He’d definitely lost some more hair. Since he’d had to give up on the gym – no time or money thanks to having to divide his time between two families and the alimony – he was fatter too. Worse, however, were the furrows that almost overnight had started to etch themselves into his brow like cross stitch. There was no getting away from it. At fifty-one (fifty-two in a couple of weeks, he thought with a shudder), he was beginning to look his age. Of course the make-up girls could help a lot. But they couldn’t do anything about the wrinkles and sagging, the bags under his eyes like the Austrian blinds in his ex-mother-in-law’s cottage in Dorset. It was hardly bloody surprising he looked so exhausted, given his set up. Since Clara had been born nearly two years ago, he was lucky to get about four hours sleep straight. He’d accepted that when she was first born, but the months had passed and, still, she screamed in the night.

  ‘Just leave her,’ he’d moan to Poppy. ‘That’s what Hannah did with the children. They soon learn.’

  ‘That’s cruel,’ Poppy would retort tearfully, jiggling and cooing their bawling baby who always ended up in their bed, where she’d snuffle and snort all night long. When there’d been disturbed nights with his other three, Luke had gone into the spare room. But now there was no spare room. Sometimes he retreated to the living-room sofa, but it was fiendishly uncomfortable, too hot in summer and arctic in winter thanks to the huge picture windows with their views of the canal.

  Even on the rare nights of relative peace, Luke’s worries kept him awake: how he’d damag
ed his three elder children by leaving them; how much cash his two families required, especially now the kids were all at boarding school, since Hannah had insisted it was the best possible babysitting arrangement for a single mother; how Hannah, with her newly invigorated career, kept publicly attacking him. How Poppy, sweet pretty Poppy, looked lovely on his arm but how a pot plant would have made a better wife. How he could hardly be blamed for searching for ‘companionship’ elsewhere, a search which had included a brief fling with – at this point Luke would kick the sheets – Foxy Roxy, who was now one of the people who held his future in her hands.

  Why had he ended it with her? he’d think with the despair that always assailed him around four a.m. Why couldn’t he have just let it trickle on? But Luke knew why: he’d been freaked out after that time she’d left her knickers in his pocket. Envisaging a second divorce and the bailiffs coming round, Luke had called it a day with a lot of waffling about ‘It’s not you it’s me’. Foxy had appeared philosophical, but Luke knew better than almost anyone about the dangers of a woman scorned.

  But more than his faltering new marriage or his shaky career, what kept Luke awake most was the question of how he could have forwarded that email to Hannah. Had he taken leave of his senses? It just didn’t make sense. But here they all were.

  The door opened.

  ‘Aha, we thought this was where we’d find you,’ cried Marco. ‘Dean Cutler wants to see you. Now.’

  If Luke’s heart had been attached to a monitor, it would have started bleeping frantically.

  ‘This minute?’

  ‘You heard me. Chop, chop!’

  Straightening his tie, Luke walked across the newsroom floor towards Chris’s old office. Phones rang softly. Emma had headphones on and was recording her voice-over for a story about heroin in prisons into a microphone. ‘Jermaine Franks had never touched drugs until he was sentenced…’ she intoned, while beside her the story’s producer clicked his mouse, shuffling the images they planned to use like a pack of cards.

  Above his head, a row of clocks showed the time in London, Washington, Brussels, Baghdad, Bangkok. Screens continually broadcast the latest from Sky News. An earthquake in Mexico. Albanian slave ring exposed. Coach crash in France – a handful of Britons hurt: one seriously. Striker Duane Bryonne scoring a glorious goal. Luke loved those screens: loved the idea that all the dramas of the world were contained there for him to pronounce on. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. He was the ‘face’ of the show. Naturally one of the first things Dean would want to do was meet him. But still his heart was running double-time. All new editors liked to make sweeping changes to stamp their authority. What could be more sweeping than replacing the old anchorman with a new one?

  Lindsay, Chris’s old secretary, was still at her desk outside her former master’s den. She looked shell-shocked.

  ‘All right, Lin?’

  ‘Fine, Luke,’ she said, rolling her eyes to imply she was anything but. ‘Go in. Dean’s waiting for you.’

  Luke pushed open the door of the glass box. Dean Cutler stood up behind Chris’s mahogany desk and held out a hand. He was tall, skinny, with cropped blond hair and bulging green eyes that made it look as if he was impersonating a frog. He wore a dark grey polo neck, pinstriped trousers and black Chelsea boots. Anyone more different to the donnish Chris with his rumpled suits was hard to imagine.

  ‘Luke.’ They crushed hands, both determined to show the other who was the more manly. ‘What a pleasure. A real pleasure.’ Dean had a nasal mockney accent that failed to hide his public-schoolboy origins. It took one to know one. ‘I’ve been a fan for so long, it’s a dream come true to finally get to work with you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Luke smiled, despite his reservations. ‘Err… likewise. I loved what you did with Newsday.’

  ‘Thanks, man. Sit down, sit down.’ Luke sat. Overnight, all traces of Chris had been expunged: the family photos, the assorted awards the show had garnered over the years, the slightly tatty prints of Oxford colleges, the bookcase with its battered copies of Who’s Who and various dictionaries. Now the walls were bare, the shelves empty. It was as if Chris had never existed.

  Luke swallowed.

  ‘So, it’s just a preliminary chat. In the next few days we’ll get to know each other better. Have lunch. Or dinner. Yeah, dinner. Maybe you and your wife would like to come over and meet me and my wife.’ He picked up a dictaphone and spoke into it. ‘Tell Farrah: Luke and his wife to dinner.’

  Luke’s heart sank. Now he’d have to try to persuade Poppy to leave the house. One of the advantages of having such a beautiful wife ought to have been showing her off, but Poppy was so shy their outings were almost always torture – not to mention the hostile vibes that came off Hannah’s many old friends at the sight of them, which made him feel like he was walking through a field of radiation.

  ‘What a great idea,’ he said.

  ‘Now, Luke,’ Dean leant forward and began rolling a hideous red and green paperweight from one hand to the other, ‘in the meantime, just a quiet word. As I say I am a great fan of yours. A great fan. But…’ With a flourish like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, Dean produced that day’s Daily Post. ‘It seems not everyone feels the same way.’

  Luke shrugged. ‘My ex-wife. What can I do?’

  ‘I agree, man. What can you do? I can’t think why she’s got such a downer on you. I mean, you didn’t do anything wrong, you just left your devoted wife and three children for a girl young enough to be one of your daughters. Can’t think why she’s pissed off with you at all.’ There was a brief silence, then, ‘Aha! Had you! I was only joking, mate. You lucky bastard. We’d all do the same given half a chance. You’re just bloody unlucky to have the menopausal old bunny boiler getting a column in a national newspaper.’

  ‘Uh,’ Luke managed.

  ‘So! I have every sympathy but…’ A dramatic pause. Dean rolled his eyes. ‘The shareholders do not. I’ve argued that there’s been a slight increase in viewing figures since Hannah’s columns started. People tuning in to see what “the cad” actually looks like. But the shareholders think it’s bad for the show’s image. Plus – and I’m telling you this strictly entre nous – they’re concerned you’re getting a bit past it. There’s been talk of wanting a new face for Seven Thirty. Now, I have defended you to the hilt. Said there’s no way we’re getting rid of such a distinguished newsman. You bring the show gravitas. But they’ve said, “Well, he did bring it gravitas, until his ex made him a laughing stock.” So…’ Dean winked, ‘I am here to warn you, Luke. You need to be squeaky clean. We can’t stop your mad ex attacking you, but what we do not want is to provide any fuel for her fire. Capeesh?’

  ‘Capeesh,’ Luke agreed.

  ‘You are a happily married man, Luke. You’ve found true love with your pretty, young second wife and your baby girl. End of story. N’est-ce-pas?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Luke’s heart was off again. Shit. Did he know? How could he?

  Dean winked. ‘So it won’t bother you in the slightest to hear that Thea Mackharven is coming back from New York as a senior producer. She’s an excellent journalist and I’m delighted she’s agreed to return to be part of my crack team.’

  Thea? Luke almost collapsed in relief. Did Dean think she was an old girlfriend? Of course there’d been the odd shag over the years, but that hardly made them Romeo and Juliet.

  ‘That’s excellent news,’ he said sincerely. ‘She’ll be a great asset to the show.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so. She was wasted in the States.’ Dean grinned, showing a row of pointy teeth, then stood up, indicating the talk was at an end. ‘It’s great to have finally met you, Luke. I’ll arrange dinner for us all to get to know each other asap.’ He pronounced it ay-sap. ‘In the meantime, just remember, not everyone’s on your side but I am.’

  ‘That’s great to hear. And it’s great to have you on board. I know the show’s going to improve hugely with you at the helm.’ Luke cri
nged at his disloyalty to Chris, but what could he do? Everyone knew the rules. They’d all join Chris in the Bricklayer’s tonight for his impromptu leaving do. They’d get plastered, swear they couldn’t work without him and in the morning they’d get up, take some Resolve and start sucking up to Dean. The editor was dead, long live the editor.

  5

  On that same grey Tuesday, oblivious to the upheavals in her husband’s life, Poppy Norton was pushing a buggy containing her toddler, Clara, round Tesco’s in Maida Vale. She was desperately trying to remember what she’d written on the shopping list she’d so carefully compiled then left lying on her kitchen table. Organic milk for Clara. Orange juice. Glenda, the cleaner whom Luke had hired even though Poppy had protested she was perfectly capable of cleaning the house herself, had wanted some kind of product for getting limescale off the bath, but for the life of her Poppy couldn’t remember its name.

  And then there’d been all the ingredients for the dinner she was going to cook for Luke on Friday, which was both his day off and their second anniversary. Poppy had decided to treat him to salmon – Luke loved fish – in a creamy herb sauce, but what were the herbs again?

  Damn. Poppy had been quite excited about her culinary foray. When she and Luke had got together he’d been shocked at her lack of cooking skills, demanding how anyone could seriously exist on a diet of Pot Noodles and long-life apple juice. ‘And what’s this?’ he’d asked, brandishing her pot of Crème de la Mer she’d pinched from a photo shoot.