An Ideal Wife: A Novel

by Gemma Townley

  “So, what, a whore in the bedroom, a chef in the kitchen, and a hostess in the living room?”

  I pulled a face. “You really think that constitutes an ideal wife? Shouldn’t there be more to it than that?”

  “Depends if you’re talking ideal wife or ideal person,” Giles said thoughtfully. “I mean, an ideal person probably wouldn’t be a whore in the bedroom. Would they?”

  “They would be appropriately whorish when it was required of them, I reckon,” Helen said with a glint in her eye.

  “Are there degrees of whorishness?” Giles asked.

  I sighed. “Can we maybe move on from that particular aspect of the ideal wife?” I suggested. “I want ideas. I want input.”

  “Depends what kind of ideal wife you want to be,” Giles said. “Depends why you’re doing it.”

  “She’s doing it because of Hugh Barter,” Helen said wearily. “Because she’s trying to sweeten Max up so he won’t dump her when he finds out she—shock, horror—kissed someone.”

  Giles’s eyes widened. “Hugh? He’s been in touch again?”

  I nodded. Giles had been with me when Hugh’s first call came through, bright and breezy, just wondering if I might help him out with some additional funding. And as Giles had said at the time, once I started this, there was never going to be an end in sight. If Hugh thought he had money on tap, he’d drink from it as long as he possibly could. “He asked for ten grand this time,” I said quietly.

  “Blimey. You’re going to tell Max?”

  “I don’t know,” I said miserably. “If I don’t, I’m a terrible person, and if I do, Max might … He might decide he doesn’t love me anymore.”

  “Because of one kiss?” Helen screwed up her nose.

  “Not one kiss.” I shook my head. “It’s the lying he wouldn’t be able to take. The fact I’ve kept it from him for so long. He’s so moral. He’d never lie to me. Never.”

  Giles nodded slowly. “So you want to be perfect to, what, make it up to him?”

  I shrugged uncomfortably. “I want to live up to his expectations. He thinks I’m perfect. He actually said that. And he deserves perfect, too. He’s made me so happy. Happier than I ever expected to be. You know, I grew up thinking that men were selfish people who would use me and leave me if I gave them half a chance. Grandma told me I should never trust a man, never rely on one for anything. And then I met Max, and I trust him completely and rely on him hugely and … and …” I felt tears pricking at my eyes. “… and it turns out that it’s me who’s the untrustworthy one. I have to be better, Giles. I have to be better than that.”

  “You know,” Giles said thoughtfully, “there was something about trying to be perfect in Psychologies this month, about the problem with being a perfectionist. The article said it’s more important to feel good about yourself, to feel fulfilled, than to be perfect. And maybe it has a point. Maybe you need to stop beating yourself up.”

  Helen raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I said. Get over it.”

  “I prefer the way Giles said it,” I said.

  “Seriously? He sounded like something off The Oprah Winfrey Show to me,” Helen said dismissively.

  “And what’s wrong with Oprah?” I asked. “I like Oprah.”

  “Oh, so you’ll watch Oprah, but you’re dismissing Reality Wives: The Race to Perfection?” Helen said, shaking her head in disappointment.

  I looked at Helen uncertainly. “Reality Wives: The Race to Perfection? What’s that? Have I missed something?”

  “My new television pitch, of course!” Helen said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The television show about couples who go to a desert island and have to compete for their other halves all over again.”

  “It’s a television show now?” I said, feeling a little smile edge its way onto my face. “You had the idea only a minute ago.”

  “Sometimes a minute is all it takes to create something fantastic,” Helen said, evidently very pleased with herself.

  “But what would the winner get?” Giles asked uncertainly. “Would they be competing for their husband? Who are they competing against? Would it be a fight between the wife and the mistress or something?”

  Helen grinned. “Ooh, I like that! I love it, actually. Giles, you’re a genius. I may just employ you on the show.”

  He looked at her excitedly. “Really? I could be on television?”

  “Not on. Behind the scenes,” Helen said quickly, then looked at Giles reassuringly when his face fell. “But that’s the best place to be, believe me.”

  I sighed. “Enough already. We’re here to talk about my project plan. Will no one take it seriously?”

  “I took it seriously,” Giles complained. “I said you needed to be fulfilled.”

  “I will be fulfilled when I know that I am as near to the ideal wife as it is possible to be,” I said pointedly. “Are you going to help or not?”

  “Of course I will,” Giles agreed. “We both will. Won’t we, Helen?”

  “Sure we will,” Helen said, as we approached Ivana’s building.

  I smiled gratefully. “Thanks, guys. So are we ready to meet Giorgio?”

  “More than ready,” Helen said with a grin as she pressed Ivana’s doorbell. “I can’t wait!”

  The door buzzed open, and we started the climb up the staircase to Ivana’s apartment, with Helen helping Giles to lug the music station.

  Ivana was waiting for us at the top, her front door propped open with her outstretched toe. She gave Helen and Giles a look of distinct disdain when they deposited the music station in her tiny hallway, but, after embracing her with kisses of hello, we all trooped inside.

  And then my mouth fell open.

  “Oh my God,” Giles said uncertainly. “It’s amazing.”

  “Oh my word,” I said, my eyes like saucers.

  We looked around, trying to take in the scene in front of us and exchanging expressions of incredulity.

  “Vat?” Ivana demanded. “Vat is wrong?”

  “I … You … We …” Giles stammered, seemingly unable to string a sentence together. “I …”

  “Vat?” Ivana asked, her hands on her hips and her dark eyes flashing. “Vat is it?”

  I looked at her in amazement. “Nothing,” I said, shaking my head in bewilderment. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that … It’s so … I don’t—”

  “Recognize the place,” Helen finished for me, looking triumphant at being able to finally talk properly. “See? I told you.”

  “Is a bit different.” Ivana shrugged. “Is clin.”

  “Clean?” I asked. “You call this clean?”

  The truth was, it was like a hospital. A good hospital. It smelled of disinfectant; everywhere you looked were pastel colors and soft fabrics. I couldn’t believe it was the same apartment I’d been to in the past. It looked bigger, better, like a completely new place.

  “This is beyond clean,” Giles breathed. “It’s—”

  “Bebe is asleep,” Ivana cut in, rolling her eyes. “You vant tea? Coffee? Drink hot drinks now. Once bebe is awake, you not have anymore. Okay?”

  We nodded in unison. “Tea,” Helen said. “Tea would be lovely.”

  Ivana disappeared into the kitchenette; we walked into the main room of the flat—a bedroom-cum-sitting room-cum-general reception area. The last time I was here, there’d been a heavy veil of smoke over the place, a smell of incense, of … well, not to put too fine a point on it, of sex. Now it smelled of pine. Of tea tree oil. The whole place was bathed in a white glow, bottles were neatly stacked up on the side, and a bright-colored rug lay on the floor. In the corner, looking angelic in a little Moses basket, was a baby.

  Ivana appeared again, carrying a tray with three cups of tea and some biscuits, along with a glass of water.

  “This is for me,” she said, placing the tray carefully down on the rug and swiping the water, gulping it down. “You sit. Here. Here. Here.”

  We duly sat where Ivan
a pointed.

  “You look amazing,” I said. “And this place, it’s …”

  “Yes,” Ivana said with a shrug. “I chenge a few things. Now, drink please. Baby wek up in ten minutes. Then feed, then play. Then I heff washing to do. Ironing.”

  “Ironing?” Helen arched an eyebrow but was met by a stony glare.

  “Ironing,” Ivana confirmed. “Good mother is ironing clotheses, no?”

  “Sure,” I agreed immediately. “I mean, definitely. I guess there must be a lot more of it to do now.”

  Ivana stood up. “I get muslin and bottle ready. You stay, plis.”

  We nodded silently and watched in astonishment as Ivana disappeared back into the kitchenette. Doors began to clank.

  “I nid tumble dryer,” she said, emerging again a few seconds later. “But is no room in flet.” She eyed Giles’s present, which was taking up almost the entire hallway—which wasn’t really a hallway, more a gap between doors. “And vat is thet?” she asked darkly.

  Giles attempted a smile. “It’s for the baby,” he said. I could see that his hands were shaking slightly; he was terrified of Ivana, always had been.

  “Is very big.” Ivana’s voice was flat.

  “Yes, it is,” Giles said. “But it has to be big. It’s a music station.”

  “A vat?” Ivana’s eyes narrowed.

  “A music station. Look!” He jumped up and opened the box, transporting the contents into the sitting room, where he quickly set it up. “I had a practice run at home,” he said with a nervous smile. “There. What do you think? Giorgio goes here; he can kick his legs, and look what happens!” Giles pressed the side of the station, and immediately the flat was full of the sound of nursery rhymes. “So what do you think?” he asked.

  We all looked at Ivana; to our shock and surprise, she started to cry.

  “Oh God, it’s not what you wanted,” Giles said immediately. “You hate it. Oh, I should have known. I should have asked someone. What do I know about babies?”

  “No.” Ivana shook her head miserably. “No, I do not hate it. I em loving it. Is just … I should be buying this for Giorgio. I no work, I heff no money. Giorgio no heff best toys.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Giles said with a soothing voice. “He has you, and that’s better than any toys. Anyway, that’s the point of presents, isn’t it? Getting other people to buy stuff for you?”

  He was grinning, but Ivana didn’t raise a smile. “Sean no like other people buy stuff.”

  “He doesn’t?” I asked, curious. “What, he doesn’t like presents?”

  “He no like presents from my friends,” Ivana said.

  “So he’s not going to like the music center?” Giles sounded worried. “Should I pack it up again?”

  “Not you,” Ivana said dismissively. “Other friends. Friends I use work with. He say they Mefia. He say we no nid they money.”

  None of us said anything for a few seconds.

  “The … Mafia?” I asked tentatively.

  Ivana rolled her eyes. “Russian Mafia, not Italian. And I don’ know. Mebe they Mefia, mebe not. They use come to club, use pay me money to be friendly, to be sexy. Sometime I do them favor. Special favor. Now Sean say no more do favors for them, no more working for money. I heff ask him for money instead. I no like.”

  I cleared my throat uncertainly. She’d been doing special favors for the Russian Mafia? No wonder Sean wasn’t keen on her working. “Ivana, do you want to borrow some money?” I asked. “I mean, I’ve got loads just sitting around doing nothing if you—”

  “No!” Ivana snapped, her eyes blazing. “I no borrow. I em not cherity. I wan work for my money. Is better. Independent.”

  “You … you want to go back to work?” Giles sounded incredulous. “Do the … I mean, would the hours work?”

  Ivana shrugged. “Sean say escort stripper no job for mother. He no think is appropriate.” She said the word with distaste.

  “Still,” Giles said quickly. “You’re obviously brilliant at this motherhood lark. Isn’t she, Helen?”

  “God, yes.” Helen was nodding furiously. “Amazing. The best.”

  Ivana contemplated this for a few seconds, then nodded. “Is true. I em best mother. End I like music station. Giorgio will be very good musician, I think. He will be very good everything.”

  I took out a little parcel from my pocket. “This is for Giorgio, too,” I said. “From Max and me.”

  Ivana took it and unwrapped it. Then she looked at me, a frown on her face.

  “It’s a frame,” I said. “An antique silver one. It was one of Grace’s. I thought you could put a photograph of Giorgio in it.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, then she rushed over to me and threw her arms around me. A few seconds later she released me and walked back to her ironing board as though nothing had happened. “So, I hef ironing to do,” she said, matter-of-fact. “You talk, plis.”

  “You really do have this under control, don’t you?” Giles said in amazement as she took out an ironing board and started to iron T-shirts as if her life depended on it. One by one they were laid flat, ironed, folded, ironed again, then placed on a pile of equally neat, precisely folded white garments. “I mean, usually when people have babies, they’re in a mess for months. I can’t believe how organized you are. How on top of everything.”

  Ivana nodded. “Yes,” she said flatly. “Yes, I em very good mother. I heff book.”

  She took a book off the shelf; it had been sitting between a large dildo and an Ann Summers catalog. “Meking heppy baby,” she said, handing it to us. “It tell what to do.”

  I took the book interestedly. Inside were chapters on sleeping, feeding, washing, playtime; there were pages and pages of routines.

  “Ten A.M.: Have a piece of toast and some water,” I read. “Baby should sleep for no more than one hour.”

  Ivana looked at her watch immediately. “Thet mins twenty T-shirts ironed.”

  “You can iron twenty T-shirts an hour?” Giles asked in amazement.

  Ivana shot him an incredulous look. “Of course. Now, talk. I no hef talking very much. You tell me about things. I nid hear things other than waahhh. Yes?”

  “Jess wants to learn how to iron,” Helen said, sitting back in her chair. “You should teach her.”

  Ivana looked at me closely. “You no iron?”

  I reddened. “Not really,” I admitted.

  “And you want learn?”

  I nodded firmly. To be honest, I was pretty sure that ironing came pretty far down the list of attributes of the perfect wife, but at least it was something tangible. Being a good listener was so much more difficult to measure.

  “She thinks it’s going to save her marriage,” Helen said, grabbing a magazine from a neat pile, then putting it down again when she saw that the title was Mother and Baby.

  “Merriage? What is wrong with your merriage?” Ivana asked, her eyes narrowing.

  “Nothing!” I said, shooting Helen a meaningful look, because the last thing I wanted was for yet more people to know what was going on. “I mean, not specifically with our marriage. It’s more that—”

  “Hugh Barter,” Helen cut in. “And don’t look at me like that, Jess. Ivana knows already. She was in the bar when you went off with him, remember?”

  Ivana looked at me curiously. “You still fill guilty about kiss gay boy?” she asked. “You no boom-boom, no?”

  “No,” I said wearily. “We didn’t boom-boom, so to speak. But I never told Max the truth about it. And now Hugh’s … He’s …” I didn’t want to say the word, didn’t want to accept what it was he was doing.

  “He’s blackmailing her.” Helen’s voice was serious. “Fifteen grand so far.”

  Ivana’s eyes darkened. “He bleckmail you? You want me get rid of problem? I do it. I do it now for you.”

  I shook my head and cleared my throat. It wasn’t the first time Ivana had made such an offer, but Ivana’s way of “getting rid of the pro
blem” involved making a call to people I really didn’t want to know existed. People who wouldn’t just get rid of the problem but would get rid of Hugh himself. “I appreciate the offer,” I said carefully. “But I don’t think that’s quite what I had in mind.”

  “So you learn how to iron instead?” Ivana folded her arms and stared at me, incredulous. “This will help?”

  “No,” I sighed. “It isn’t going to help. Not really. I just thought that if I could be the ideal wife in every way, then when Max does find out—or even if he doesn’t—it’ll kind of make up for it. Does that make sense?”

  “Perrrfect,” Ivana said dismissively, rolling her R dramatically. “You want feel better. You learn to iron, so no feel guilty. Yes?”

  I looked uncertain. “No, it’s not about me. It’s about being more worthy of Max.”

  “If you say so,” Ivana said.

  “I do.”

  “Okay.” It was a stalemate; Ivana had returned to her ironing, evidently not at all convinced. Then she looked up. “So what else on plen?”

  I frowned. “On what?”

  “Your plen,” Ivana said irritably. “Your plen be perrrfect wife.”

  “Oh, right. The plan.” I dug out my list, slightly embarrassed. Helen grabbed it and started to read it out.

  “1. To be honest. As far as possible.”

  “Why only as far as possible?” Giles asked.

  I cleared my throat uncomfortably.

  “Because she’s not going to actually tell him about Hugh,” Helen said knowingly. “Are you, Jess?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Ah,” Giles said carefully. “Good point. And, anyway, white lies are the fundamentals of most relationships. Tell people what they want to hear, that’s what I say.”

  “You don’t really think that,” I complained. “And what if Hugh tells him?”

  “He won’t. If he tells, he’s got nothing on you,” Giles said firmly. “So, what next?”

  Helen continued:

  “2. To learn to cook fabulous food and to cook a lovely meal every night. Some nights. On occasion.