The Model Wife

by Julia Llewellyn

  Pondering on this, she took Luke’s card out of her wallet when a thought struck her. She put it back and took out her HSBC card which she hadn’t used since she had moved in with Luke. The bank had sent her a new card recently, but it was as yet unused. What was the point when Poppy knew her old account contained £19.11? But that should have changed. She slipped it in, keyed in her PIN and clicked on ‘balance’.

  There is £419.11 in your account

  All right, it wasn’t exactly enough to retire on. But next week, with her pay rise, there would be £1,019.11. Then £1,519.11. Then… Poppy wasn’t very good at maths, but she got the point. Having been totally reliant on Luke she now had a little something of her own. She felt light-headed as if she’d jumped out of a steamy bath.

  ‘Mummeee, come on.’

  ‘OK, darling.’

  She pushed the buggy round Tesco’s, realizing, too late, she’d forgotten her list. Now, what was it Brigita had wanted her to buy? Ready Brek for Clara, tick. Organic frozen peas, tick. Potatoes, tick. Brigita was a great one for making trains out of mashed potato and diced vegetables, meals that even Gordon Ramsay might have found a bit of a hassle, but which Clara adored.

  ‘Mummee?’

  ‘Yes, darling?’ Poppy stopped at the magazine rack. Daisy McNeil was on the cover of bloody Elle. And where was Wicked? Down at the bottom where no one taller than Clara was going to see it. Glancing over her shoulder, she picked up the three copies and lined them up on the top shelf. She stood back, admiring her handiwork. Maybe she’d go into Martin’s next door and do the same and then in the afternoon she could go down to WH Smith’s at Paddington…

  ‘Mummeee? Need to do a wee.’

  ‘Oh. Hang on a minute, schnooks. I’ll just get you out of here.’ Rapidly, she headed towards the checkout, when a voice said:

  ‘Hello!’

  ‘Oh, hello.’ It was the unfriendly mum she’d last bumped into that bleak January day when she’d felt so low.

  ‘How are you?’ said the mum, sounding distinctly warmer than last time.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Her child had snot running down his face in thick rivulets. Poppy looked at him disdainfully. Why were other people’s children never anywhere near as gorgeous as one’s own?

  ‘I saw you in Wicked last week. How… well, how wicked.’ The woman laughed. ‘I mean, not that I buy it or anything, but I picked it up at the hairdressers and I thought: “I know that woman.” What fun. Have you been doing it for long?’

  ‘Yeah, a while now,’ Poppy said airily.

  ‘I had no idea.’ She had terrible split ends. They always said no one over forty should even dream of having long hair. ‘Listen, I was hoping I’d see you around,’ she continued. ‘Some of us local mums have coffee every Thursday at eleven at Starbucks. If you’d like to join us.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Poppy said. ‘I work on Thursdays.’

  ‘Mummeee!’ came a very distressed wail.

  Poppy looked at Tesco’s newly mopped floor marred by a small yellow puddle. ‘Oh, Clara,’ she exclaimed, ‘never mind. Let’s get you home quickly, shall we? Bye, nice to see you,’ she added airily over her shoulder and outside resisted the temptation to punch the air like a contestant in some TV reality show.

  Back home, Clara refused to touch her spaghetti Bolognese.

  ‘But it’s your favourite!’ Poppy exclaimed, horrified that the old dependable had fallen out of fashion as brutally as last season’s vogue for acid yellows.

  ‘No like.’ Clara pushed her bowl away.

  ‘Come on, darling. Just a little bite. Have one for Daddy.’

  ‘Where is Daddy?’

  ‘He’s in Scotland with a famous lady.’

  ‘What’s Scotland?’

  ‘It’s a country far away. OK. One for Daddy. Good girl. One for Granny Louise.’ Poppy’s phone rang. She was too busy flying the spoon, like an aeroplane, into Clara’s mouth to look at the caller ID.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Poppy.’

  He didn’t say who he was; he didn’t need to. ‘Toby!’ she squawked.

  ‘Hey. How’s it going?’

  ‘Wanna biscuit! Gimme biscuit! No Mummy, no Bolognese.’

  ‘Christ, what the hell’s that noise? Are you torturing a chipmunk?’

  ‘Nothing. Just a second.’ Poppy got up, ran to the cupboard, got out a Jaffa Cake and shoved it in Clara’s hands, then switched her phone to mute.

  ‘Now, just eat that while Mummy has a little talk on the phone.’

  For a second, Clara looked shocked at her victory, then she began cramming the biscuit into her mouth as if she had just been released from a Japanese POW camp. Poppy switched the phone back on.

  ‘Sorry about that. How are you?’

  ‘Oh, you know, busy. But, listen, it’s my birthday so I wondered if you fancied dinner tonight.’

  338

  Poppy jolted as if she’d accidentally touched a hot iron. ‘I’d love to.’ Provided Brigita can babysit. But she wasn’t going to bore Toby with such mundanities.

  He named a Thai restaurant in Bayswater, and they arranged to meet at eight; she hung up, heart skittering. Toby had asked her on a date. For his birthday. Immediately, Poppy reproved herself. It wasn’t a date, she was a married woman. But married women could have male friends; they weren’t living in Afghanistan. Clara would be asleep tonight. Why should Poppy stay in in front of American Idol when every other woman of her age in the Western world would be sitting, laughing somewhere, out with friends? When Luke was in Scotland, hanging out with glamorous Thea and Minnie Maltravers.

  Of course Brigita was available. She arrived just after Poppy had tucked Clara up in bed. Having checked and double checked herself in the cheval mirror, she decided to walk to the restaurant, even though it involved a slightly scary journey through the nearby council estate and a urine-soaked underpass, because then she could buy Toby a present on the way. She almost ran to the bridge that led over the canal. Even though it was a May night, it was chilly and the people she passed looked grey and worried. Poppy felt sorry for them; their heads were bent as they walked into the wind, unlike Poppy who stood erect and faced the elements full on.

  She racked her brains thinking what to buy Toby. Nothing too expensive, that would obviously be a mistake. She ran into Whiteley’s mall and headed straight to Books Etc where she had spent so many long hours browsing while Clara slept in her pram. She’d get him London from the Air, a book of beautiful aerial photos of the city she loved flicking through. As she handed over her card, full of pride that she was paying for this herself, she grabbed a pen from the desk and wrote on the inside flap: To Toby from Poppy on his birthday.

  Nicely understated, she thought, then glanced at the clock in a panic. It was quarter past eight. Heart pittering, because, despite her time in the fashion industry, she hated being late, she hurried down messy Queensway with its foot traffic of women in burkas pushing buggies with six-year-olds asleep in them, American tourists wondering if they were in Notting Hill and teenagers coming out of the ice rink. The restaurant was in a quiet side road. Pushing the door open, Poppy saw Toby straight away, sitting at a corner table. Waving.

  ‘Finally! Now we can order.’

  He stood up, smiling. Nine other people looked at her. It wasn’t a date. It was his birthday party. And one of the guests was Daisy McNeil.

  Poppy felt dizzy. Some of it was shock, some of it was because she hadn’t eaten much that day. She opened her bag and got out the book.

  ‘This is for you,’ she said. ‘It’s one of my favourites.’

  ‘Oh thanks,’ said Toby. Without looking at it, he deposited it on top of a pile of presents on the floor. Poppy noted it contained two Jo Malone bags, one Hermes bag and one Gucci. Her face flamed. Why hadn’t she been more lavish?

  ‘Now you sit there,’ Toby gestured to a space between a tall man in a hacking jacket with a green silk scarf round his neck and a dark guy in a cream polo neck and m
atching jeans. ‘This is Freddie and this is Andreas. Freddie, Andreas, Poppy.’

  ‘Madam?’ asked a waiter. ‘What would you like to drink?’

  She looked wildly to see what the others had. ‘A beer,’ she said rapidly, pointing at the dark guy’s glass.

  ‘Ooh, how macho,’ Freddie of the hacking jacket purred. Poppy fought the urge to beat him over the head with her handbag. ‘One of the boys are we, darling?’

  ‘Hardly,’ exclaimed Andreas, the dark guy. ‘A beautiful girl like her.’

  Everyone was chatting merrily. Poppy’s eyes raked the other women. A virtually emaciated Asian girl was on one side of Toby, laughing at his every word. On the other was a Scandinavian-looking blonde who stared moodily into a glass of champagne.

  Poppy tried to work out which one was playing the game best, but Toby didn’t seem particularly bothered by either of them, holding court to the entire table. It’s cool, Poppy told herself. You’re a young woman out having dinner with friends. It’s what young women do on a Saturday night. You’re in a hip London restaurant. And anyway you’re married. But the words on the menu still swam in front of her eyes.

  ‘So how do you know Toby?’ Andreas was asking.

  ‘Oh, just from here and there.’ Poppy shrugged.

  ‘Poppy has a column in a magazine,’ Freddie reproved him. ‘It’s hilarious, it’s called “The Bimbo Bites Back” and she really lays in to people. So you’d better watch yourself, Andy-Pandy.’

  ‘I’m not that nasty.’ Poppy flushed. She debated telling him she didn’t actually write it, but decided against it.

  ‘I think you’re vile. That’s why I love it.’

  ‘It’s great, Poppy,’ said Daisy from Andreas’s left. ‘I thought you were all washed-up after you got married. That’s what the agency said, anyway. I mean it’s so difficult to work after you’ve had kids. Your boobs are ruined and everything. So hats off to you for reinventing yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, Daisy.’

  ‘I have to tell you. I can’t keep it a secret any longer. I’ve just got my first Vogue cover. Isn’t that great? They’re going to profile me as one of the new breed of supermodels.’

  ‘Well, make sure Poppy doesn’t write it up,’ Freddie tittered.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Poppy said with her sweetest smile, ‘Daisy wouldn’t be able to read it.’ Then she stopped, shocked. Where the hell had that come from?

  ‘Miaow!’ Freddie howled. Toby, who’d been listening, threw back his beautiful head and roared. After a second, Daisy giggled too.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I…’

  ‘That’s OK, Poppy. I knew you were only joking.’

  After that, the dynamic changed. Poppy worked like a court jester, to entertain Freddie and Andreas. She could feel pearls of sweat forming on her forehead, as she cracked bad jokes and made spirited conversation. She could see Toby straining to be part of their gang, but the two women on either side of him were battling to gain his attention. She realized the more she ignored him, the more he watched her. Poppy began to enjoy herself; she felt part of the action, which was more than she ever did at one of Luke’s stuffy affairs. The food was delicious and the alcohol kept flowing. The only thing she didn’t like was the way groups kept getting up and disappearing to the loos. When they came back, they’d be even noisier than before, pushing their untouched food around their plates. Poppy knew what was going on and it made her uneasy.

  ‘Going to join us?’ Freddie asked when he and Daisy got up.

  Poppy thought of Clara, asleep in her fairy sleeping-bag. She thought of how shocked Luke would be. She thought of the movie they’d been shown at school of the pink-and-white cheeked middle-class girl slumped on a dank bathroom floor clutching a needle.

  ‘No thanks.’ She smiled.

  ‘Come on.’ He nodded at the passion-fruit soufflé, which had just been placed under her nose. ‘Stop you eating so much.’

  Poppy felt slapped.

  ‘I like a woman who enjoys her food,’ Andreas said, with a wink.

  Ears still ringing, she was just standing up to join Freddie in his bathroom visit, when from behind them, Toby said, ‘Shift your fat arse, Freddie. I want to talk to Poppy now.’

  Her heart helter-skeltered, as Freddie stood up and Toby slipped into his seat.

  ‘I thought I’d never get a chance,’ he said in a low voice, so only she could hear. ‘Are you having fun?’

  ‘Um…’

  He laughed at her expression. ‘Say no more. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Most of these people are arseholes.’

  ‘Then why have you invited them to your birthday dinner?’ Poppy found the world a stranger and stranger place.

  ‘Work really. They’re contacts you know. My job’s all about keeping people sweet. Freddie helps style a lot of my male clients and Andreas is… well, he knows a lot of people I have to deal with too.’

  ‘And the girls?’ Poppy said, glancing at a giggling Daisy.

  ‘Well, the girls are gorgeous. They come with me to a lot of events my clients attend and they keep my clients very happy.’ He lowered his voice again. ‘But none of them are as gorgeous as you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Poppy felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. ‘Excuse me a second,’ she said pulling it out, her cheeks hot. Probably Luke. She wondered what she’d tell him she was doing. But no, it was Brigita.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ she gasped, sticking a finger in her ear so she could hear.

  ‘I don’t think so. Clara she is puking everywhere. Very sick. Like Exorcist. She wants Mummy. You must come home.’

  Shock crashed Poppy into an invisible wall. ‘Oh my God. I’ll be right back.’ She hung up. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go,’ she said to the table at large.

  ‘Cinderella!’ Freddie giggled. ‘It’s not gone midnight yet. Does your carriage await?’

  ‘My little girl’s not well.’

  ‘God, kids,’ Daisy snorted. ‘Eating too many pies? Like her mum,’ she added under her breath.

  Face flaming, head held high, Poppy tapped Toby on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go,’ she said again. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’

  ‘I’ll see you to a taxi.’ Toby stood up.

  Outside, they spotted a cab straight away. Poppy got in, heart thudding. ‘Thank you,’ she said distractedly. ‘Have fun.’

  ‘I won’t without you,’ Toby said in a low voice. He bent forward and kissed her softly on the lips. For a second, inhaling his musky smell, Poppy felt a sherbert fizzle in her veins but anxiety almost immediately erased it.

  ‘Why is it that whenever I’m with you, someone somewhere always starts vomiting?’

  Poppy was sure there was a witty retort to this, but she just smiled and shrugged. ‘Maida Vale,’ she told the driver. ‘As quick as you can, please. My baby’s sick.’

  36

  By the time Poppy ran up the stairs to Clara’s room, the drama was all over.

  ‘I tidy up vomit, she is fast asleep now,’ Brigita explained, as Clara rolled over and squawked ‘Mummy’, before rolling back on to her front, her bottom poking up in the air.

  ‘But is she OK?’ Poppy stroked her soft blonde curls.

  ‘I take her temperature. Is normal. I think is just one of these children things.’

  She certainly looked fine. ‘You could have called me, to tell me she was better,’ Poppy said crossly. ‘I was really worried.’

  ‘Me too, but this is children for you. I think it’s best you are home.’ Brigita gave Poppy a look she didn’t like very much. ‘Better the safe than the sorry, this is what I say. Anyway, now you’re back I’ll be off. I will see you Monday.’

  So Poppy crawled into bed alone. Already rewriting history, she thought of her new friends in the restaurant, laughing and joking without her, before moving on to a nightclub. There’d been talk of Mahiki or Boujis. She forgot that she’d felt slightly awkward among them and instead brooded that she should be with them, dancin
g and flirting. But instead, yet again, here she was stuck alone in her marital bed with a two-year-old next door. It wasn’t fair. She’d missed out on her youth and now she’d been given a chance to snatch some of it back, domestic responsibilities still got in the way.

  Then she reprimanded herself for thinking of adored Clara as a domestic responsibility. A second later, she squirmed at her naivety in thinking she was going on a date with Toby. After all, he’d never actually described it as such. How everyone must have laughed at that silly book she’d given him and at her having to leave so suddenly. Then she thought of Luke in Scotland, whom she had deliberately not called and guilt crept over her. All right, she was angry at how often he left her alone and – now she analysed it – a little jealous of his freedom. But she’d known Luke travelled when she married him. He was out earning money to support her and Clara while she’d been out flirting with another man. There was no getting away from it, she’d behaved badly.

  Mother and daughter spent the following morning curled up on the sofa, watching the Jungle Book. As Clara roared with laughter at the antics of Mowgli and Baloo, Poppy’s heart ached with love. She was furious with herself for resenting Clara’s sickness. She was a terrible mother, a terrible person.

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Mr Postman!’ Clara cried.

  ‘No, darling, it’s Sunday.’ Poppy was baffled. She went to the front door and opened it to be greeted by a huge bunch of poppies.

  ‘Miss Poppy,’ said a bored-sounding man from behind them.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘For you.’ He thrust the flowers at her, then ran back down the steps to his van. Poppy put the bunch down and looked at the accompanying card. Her heart was thudding. She was pretty sure she knew who they were from, but you could always get these things wrong.