“She does have one,” Max said suddenly, and I looked up at him in alarm.
“I do? What?”
“Your lack of flattery,” Max said seriously. “I was rather hoping that you were going to mention perfect physiques and incredible intelligence in your précis of the perfect husband, with a strong indication that I have both of those things in spades.”
His eyes were shining and I grinned in relief. “You didn’t mention anything about me looking like Kate Moss,” I said, pushing all thoughts of Hugh Barter firmly out of my head.
“Absolutely not,” Max agreed. “She’s way too skinny.”
I raised an eyebrow and he laughed. “So what you’re saying is that John Lennon was right all along.”
“John Lennon?” Mum asked.
“All you need is love,” Max said. “He’s the genius who put that thought to music.”
“Oh, I see,” Mum said. “Yes, I’m afraid I was never a great fan of the Beatles. I didn’t really do the whole hippie thing.”
“But you agree, right?” Chester asked, suddenly looking less like the high-powered chief executive and more like the smitten teenager. “Love’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
“Love is all that matters,” my mother agreed. “Love and a roof over your head. Money in your pocket. And a husband who isn’t home late every single evening.”
She looked at Chester archly, and he smiled easily.
“You know,” Chester said thoughtfully, “it’s funny that we’re having this conversation.”
“It is?” Max asked.
Chester nodded. “See, I’ve been thinking. Not about perfection in relationships, but about … you know, what makes a company a good one.”
“Work, work, work,” my mother groaned, annoyed.
“Ah, well, that’s easy,” Max interrupted. “Great management, good people, and lots of luck.”
Chester nodded. “Yeah. About that luck thing …”
We all exchanged furtive glances. Chester was the chief executive of Jarvis Private Banking, and the truth of the matter was that the entire world hated banks at the moment, blamed them for economies that were spiraling out of control, for job losses, for summer holidays abroad being a distant memory.
“I would admit there’s not a huge amount of it circulating at the moment,” Max said quietly. Business at our firm, Milton Advertising, wasn’t exactly booming, either. Clients were going out of business and failing to pay, and even those who were still active had cut their advertising budgets back. Max tried to make out that he wasn’t worried, but I’d noticed how tired he looked lately. So far we’d managed to avoid letting anyone go, but every time a new invoice arrived, I saw Max’s expression tightening.
“Yes, times are not great right now. Let’s face it, Jarvis is an investment bank. We’re the bad guys,” Chester said gravely. “We’ve just bought an Internet bank, and people don’t trust them very much these days, either, do they?”
I bit my lip, not sure whether I should agree with him or attempt to reassure him.
“Not so much,” I conceded. “I think people probably trust their mattresses more than banks these days, to be honest.” It was true; ever since banks around the world had gone to their governments for bailouts, people had started to see banks as the bad guys. At first they were hated for lending too much money and lots of bad debts, and then they were hated for not lending enough money and making housing markets collapse. Now they were hated for paying themselves huge bonuses when everyone else was feeling the pinch. To be honest, coming up with a positive spin on banking was proving pretty tough these days.
“Exactly!” Chester said, clapping his hands together. “As usual, Jess, you have hit the nail on the head. People trust their mattresses more than they trust their banks. So what do we do about that?”
“Create a smear campaign against mattresses?” I suggested, smiling slightly. Chester was our client—our biggest client, in fact. Milton Advertising was responsible for Jarvis Private Banking’s entire campaign schedule. Without it, the agency would be in dire straits.
Chester shook his head. “No, Jess. We put our own house in order. We show the world just how trustworthy we are.”
“Good idea,” Max said, nodding thoughtfully, as he always did with Chester these days. He used to challenge much more. Then again, he also used to have a lot more clients. “You want us to develop some adverts telling everyone? We could position you as the ethical choice, the safe choice, the—”
“No,” Chester said, his eyes gleaming. “I have a better idea.”
“You do?” Max asked interestedly.
“An ethical audit,” Chester said triumphantly. “An audit of every single employee at Jarvis Private Banking. And every single staff member of all our partner companies, too. Yourselves included. What do you think? Brilliant, huh? I can see the slogan now: ‘We make sure we can trust all our people—and that means you can trust us.’” He caught Max’s eye and grinned sheepishly. “Or, you know, something a bit shorter. I guess there’s a reason I don’t work in advertising. Right?”
Max smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You really think this is a good idea? It’ll be expensive. And how will your employees feel about being scrutinized like that?”
“They’ll handle it,” Chester said lightly. “These are tough times, and we need to use all the ammunition we’ve got. And so what if it costs money? You gotta spend money to make money, that’s what I always say.”
Max cleared his throat. “This is a really great idea. Like all your ideas, Chester. But perhaps we should pause before rushing into anything,” he said tentatively. “Let’s think this through, work it into an overarching strategy that encompasses your brand and your goals for the next few years and—”
“You know what?” Chester interrupted. “I’m sick of overarching strategies. I’m sick of business-school speak. When I started out as an investment manager, I trusted my gut, and it was my gut that got me where I am today. And since I got here, all I’ve been doing is following strategies.”
“Safe strategies that meant you avoided all the chaos of the banking-system collapse,” Max pointed out.
“Sure.” Chester nodded. “But we’re not talking about anything major here. We’re talking about an audit. We’re good guys, and this is a chance to prove it to the world.” He sat back happily. “You know, I have a really good feeling about this.”
“Well, if you have a good feeling about it, then we are very happy to be part of it,” Max said diplomatically.
“Wonderful. So we have a perfect wife, and now we’re going to have a perfect company,” Mum said drily. “Now perhaps we can focus back on this evening and attempt to make this dinner party perfect. So no more talk about work, and, Max, perhaps you could serve pudding? I can smell something delicious coming from the kitchen.”
Max beamed. “You’re right. No more business. And as for pudding, my perfect wife is responsible for that lovely smell,” he said, taking a slug of wine. “She may pretend she can’t cook, but she made an apple pie this afternoon.”
I looked at him in horror. “Oh shit,” I said, scraping back my chair quickly and jumping up toward the door. I hadn’t exactly made the pie; I’d bought it from a deli around the corner. But it had been made by hand there, and perhaps by telling Max it was “homemade” I might have given him the impression that it had been homemade by me instead of by someone who could actually cook. Now, however, I’d managed to ruin even that. “I put it in ages ago,” I said desperately. “It’s going to be burned.…” I shot a reproachful look at the table. “I said I didn’t cook. Why did you let me cook, Max? We both knew it was a terrible idea.”
“I turned the oven down half an hour ago,” Max said reassuringly. “It’ll be just done now. And I took out the ice cream, too, so it won’t be hard.”
“You did?” My eyes widened—in surprise, in gratitude, in love. And then I ran back to the table and hurled my arms around him. “I told
you that you were perfect,” I said. “You are the best.”
“Perfect because I turned down the oven?” Max asked sagely. “Well, I’m very glad to hear that. Sounds like I’ve got a pretty easy ride ahead of me if that’s all you’re looking for.”
Chapter 2
“MAX THINKS I’M PERFECT.”
It was the next morning, and all night I’d been obsessing about perfection, about the attainability of it. The more I’d thought about it, the more I realized how far from perfect I was. In fact, I was so not perfect it was laughable. Cryable, more like, even if that wasn’t a proper word. When you looked at it properly, which is what I’d been doing, it was pretty clear that I was a crap wife. Awful. And once I’d realized that, I became preoccupied with the idea that Max wasn’t really in love with me; he was in love with someone he thought I was. Someone perfect. And one day he’d find out that I wasn’t that person and then he’d fall right out of love with me. And that was just too awful to even contemplate.
“Perfect?” Helen wrinkled her nose. We were drinking coffee in a café around the corner from where she lived—where we both used to live. “Well, bully for you. Is that what you think the problem with John is? That I’m not good enough?”
Helen was my former flatmate and all-time best friend. We’d met at university, and despite our differences (she was a party girl; I preferred a night with my laptop, catching up with my studies), we’d been as thick as thieves for years. “No,” I said quickly. “God, no, I wasn’t talking about you and John.”
“Oh,” Helen said, looking slightly affronted. She’d spent the past hour filling me in on every detail of her latest relationship and appeared less than enthusiastic about changing the subject.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I thought we’d finished on John. So you called him last night?”
Helen raised an eyebrow. “Exactly. And he said that he’d love to see me this weekend but that he had a lot of work on and didn’t think it was fair to me when he wouldn’t be able to give me any attention. So do you reckon he’s married after all? Or is he just a nice guy who’s being honest?”
I frowned. John was Helen’s latest flame; she’d met him through work, and he had—so far, at least—been pretty perfect in that he’d called when he said he would, didn’t appear to be hiding a wife anywhere, and was both handsome and self-sufficient. Naturally, being Helen, she smelled a rat.
“I don’t know, Hel. I haven’t met the guy. Does he seem nice?”
“Well, of course he does, dummy, otherwise I wouldn’t be going out with him. But the wolf in ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ seemed nice at first, didn’t he?”
She had a point. “So look a bit closer,” I suggested, slurping more coffee. “Does he have big teeth?”
Helen rolled her eyes. “You are not taking this seriously. What’s up with you, anyway? You keep getting this funny look in your eye. Like you do when you’re obsessing about something.”
I shook my head. “I’m not obsessing,” I lied.
“But …?” Helen prompted me.
“Nothing. It’s just …”
“Just what?” Helen asked impatiently. “Come on, Jess, spit it out.”
I sighed. “It’s just that Chester and Mum came over for dinner last night, and we were talking about what makes the ideal spouse.”
“Okay,” Helen said hesitantly. “And?”
“And Max said he thought I was perfect.”
“That’s terrible,” Helen deadpanned. “Jeez. Husband thinks wife is perfect. Horror! I’m surprised the papers haven’t picked up the story.”
I shot her a look. “I gave Hugh Barter more money.”
“Oh,” Helen said, her face suddenly becoming more serious. “You did, huh?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I sighed again. “I mean, I did, but …”
“But you didn’t,” Helen agreed. “How much this time?”
“Ten grand. Another ‘loan,’ he said.”
Helen whistled. “So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I said wearily. “Tell Max. But he’s so stressed out about work right now. And then when he started on that whole I’m-perfect thing …”
“You don’t want to burst his bubble?” Helen asked.
“I don’t want him to realize how imperfect I am,” I said despondently. “I don’t want him realizing he’s made a mistake.”
“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” Helen said. “No one’s perfect. Max said that only because he’s a nice guy.”
“Some people are perfect,” I insisted. “Max is.”
“He is?” Helen asked dubiously.
“Yes, he is. He’s kind, thoughtful, handsome, strong, hardworking, successful, and he even cooks.”
“He does cook,” Helen agreed. “That beef bourguignon he cooked the other day was delicious.”
“I should be able to cook,” I said. “I should be able to make him a delicious meal sometimes.”
“Jess?” Helen peered at me. “Jess, what’s going on?”
I shrugged. “I don’t think I measure up,” I said quietly. “I wish I was a better person. A person who deserved Max.”
“You do totally deserve him. You may not be able to cook, but you’re loaded, remember. So buy him takeout,” Helen said immediately.
“That’s not the same. It’s about making an effort. I don’t even iron his shirts.”
“No, and you also don’t live in the 1950s,” Helen said, rolling her eyes. “Ever heard of having a cleaner? Or using the laundry service? Ever heard of women’s emancipation?”
“I know. And it’s not that I want to be forced into doing those things. I’d just … you know, like to be able to. Sometimes.”
“So learn,” Helen said wearily. “But you know this isn’t really to do with home economics, don’t you?”
“I know,” I said, biting my lip. “So what do I do about Hugh? He’s going to keep coming back. I know he is.”
Helen nodded uncertainly. “Yeah. But don’t rush into anything. Do you remember what happened when Max thought for a second that you’d cheated on him?”
I shivered. It had been horrible. A month or so before Max and I were due to get married, he started to be very evasive, and then I discovered that he’d been seeing a woman. A really attractive one. Anyway, I put two and two together, got five, and drowned my sorrows in a bar. And that’s when Hugh Barter turned up.
Hugh used to work for Max and had moved to a rival firm; he was a terrible person, a scheming, self-serving schmoozeball. The night I met him in the bar, though, I was drunk and not thinking straight, and when he invited me to come back to his place, I agreed.
But the attractive lady hadn’t been Max’s bit on the side; she was my presumed-dead mother, come back to find me. And before I knew it, Hugh had blackmailed me and brought Milton Advertising to its knees, stealing Chester’s business and sending Max into a total meltdown.
There was an awful minute when I’d told Max the truth. I would never forget the look in his eye, the look of total devastation that left him only when Mum rushed in and told him that I’d been trying to protect her, that it was actually she who’d slept with Hugh, who’d kissed and told, drunkenly revealing company secrets. The look of relief on his face when she said that had haunted me every time I’d been tempted to come clean. I knew I’d never be able to forgive myself for what I’d done, and neither would Max, if he knew the truth—even though it turned out I’d only kissed Hugh, even though it turned out he was gay and had planned the whole thing to get at Max.
“So, what, I just spend my life on tenterhooks, waiting for Hugh to demand anything he wants?” I asked miserably. “One way or another, Max is going to discover the truth: That I let him down. That I’m a terrible wife.”
“No, you’re not. It was one indiscretion at a weak moment. And, anyway, technically speaking, you were a bad fiancée,” Helen pointed out. “You haven’t done anything bad since being his wife.”
/> I raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure it works like that, Hel.”
“Sure it does,” she said breezily. “Anyway, perfection is overrated. Everyone’s got skeletons in their cupboards.”
“Max doesn’t,” I said miserably.
Helen looked at me sternly. “I’m sure he does. And even if he doesn’t, you can’t let this Hugh thing take up more head space than it deserves. Max doesn’t need to know. No good will come of telling him. So don’t. And stop beating yourself up about it.”
“Easy for you to say,” I complained.
“Do you think telling him will make anything better?” Helen demanded. I shook my head. “Then, can we move on? Can I continue telling you about John?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “Yes, please continue. So he said he was busy over the weekend?”
Helen nodded. “All weekend. I mean, that’s weird, right? No one works all weekend.”
She caught my eye and reddened slightly. “Other than you and Max,” she said quickly. It had been over working weekends that I’d fallen in love with Max; we were both workaholics, both pretty uninterested in going out and painting the town red.
“Maybe it’s weird,” I said tentatively. “But maybe it isn’t. I mean, maybe he’s just swamped at work.”
“Yeah, it’s possible,” Helen said, her forehead creasing into a frown. “But what if it’s a brush-off?”
I shrugged helplessly. “Hel, you know I don’t have much experience with men,” I said.
“You’re married,” Helen pointed out.
“Yes, but—”
“You’ve been engaged twice.”
“Sure, but—”
“And you convinced a gorgeous, in-demand man to marry you in fifty days.” Helen raised an eyebrow and sat back, as if to say, “Game, set, and match.”
It was true, but it wasn’t the way it sounded. Helen was referring to a story that started with Grace, my grandma’s neighbor at the old folks’ home. I hadn’t known that Grace was rich. I’d just thought of her as the sweet woman to whom I told stories, cheering her up in the process. The one she’d liked most was about me having a boyfriend, a story I’d made up about Anthony Milton, my boss. And before long, the “boyfriend” had become a fiancé (egged on by Grace) and finally a full-fledged husband. I know, it seems a little far-fetched. But her eyes lit up when I told her about our (totally made up) romance. And then when she died, I got the shock of my life—she’d left me all her money and an amazing house in the country. Except she didn’t leave it to me; she left it to Mrs. Anthony Milton. So Helen and I hatched Project Marriage, an attempt to get Anthony to marry me for real. And it worked. Kind of. There was just one more twist in the tale. Turned out Anthony was actually Grace’s estranged son; she’d known all along that I wasn’t really married and had been angling to get the two of us hitched so that I could keep him on the straight and narrow.
An Ideal Wife: A Novel Page 2