An Ideal Wife: A Novel

by Gemma Townley

  “So now beat gently and add the milk, which is in the red dish in front of you. Add it gradually so that you create a nice, smooth paste …”

  I grabbed the red dish. Okay. Milk. Slowly add milk. Gently, carefully, I poured it into the bowl. Then I started to mix. I sneaked a quick peek at Helen’s—her bowl was definitely full of a nice, smooth paste, as Mary had promised. So there was no reason why mine wouldn’t turn out like that, too. I just had to mix it. Slowly. No, the pouring was slow, not the mixing. The mixing could be any speed. At least, I guessed it could. I looked over at Helen again. She’d stopped mixing; she was checking on her beef again.

  Despondently, I turned back to my bowl.

  “Everything all right over here?” I looked up to see Mary hovering at my side, a bright smile on her face. “How are we doing?”

  I managed to smile back. “Well,” I said uncertainly, “I’m trying to get my paste working….”

  She nodded reassuringly and looked in my bowl. Her face fell slightly. “Ah. Now, what have we here?”

  “We have the ingredients ready to be mixed,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

  “So we have flour? Eggs? Milk?”

  I nodded.

  Mary nodded, too, then proceeded to stir the contents of the bowl, her expression becoming increasingly vexed. “You’re sure you …” she started to say, then her eyes scanned my side of the workstation.

  “Your flour is here,” she said, pointing to a purple bowl.

  “No,” I said. “The flour is in the blue bowl. Here.”

  “Oh,” Mary said, her smile faltering slightly. “That’s the lilac one. This is the blue one.” She held up the purple bowl.

  “That’s purple,” I said.

  “Oh.” Mary looked taken aback. “You think? I’m not sure … I mean, I don’t think anyone’s confused the two before. Perhaps it is a little on the purple side….”

  I swallowed uncomfortably. “So what was in that bowl? The one I used?”

  “Parmesan,” Mary said weakly.

  I nodded slowly. “So that’ll be why my mixture isn’t really turning into a paste,” I said.

  “And this!” Mary grabbed another bowl, her face taking on an increasingly worried expression. “This should be in your pasta!”

  “It should?” I hadn’t even noticed that one—a small ceramic bowl with something white and powdery in it.

  “Yes, it should.” Mary looked around helplessly. “Perhaps we should start—no, there’s no time. I’ll get you some more flour, though. For the chocolate pudding.”

  “Thanks,” I said. But just as she was walking away, there was a bang and a fizz, and we both turned to see the lid flying off the saucepan on my hob. Meat and tomato spewed out of it, as Mary desperately grabbed a tea towel and turned down the flame.

  “Simmer gently,” she managed to say, as she pulled the saucepan away. “Not set fire to.”

  I felt my lip begin to quiver. “So that’s ruined, too?”

  “Ruined?” She looked down at the saucepan and gingerly stirred the contents before looking back at me unhappily. “Well, I think perhaps this lasagna sauce has … I think perhaps we should focus on the pudding. Don’t you?”

  “The pudding I put parmesan in?” I could feel myself choking up, could feel everyone’s eyes on me. I felt hot. I wanted to get out.

  There was a snigger from the other side of the room and I glared over, catching the eye of one of the gap-year students, who hurriedly looked down.

  “The pudding we can start again with,” Mary was saying. “With flour this time?”

  She meant it nicely—I knew she did. She wasn’t laughing at me; she wanted to help. But I wasn’t sure she could help anymore. I could barely remember why I was even here. “Actually, I think I’ll go,” I said, my voice slightly brittle.

  “Go? Oh no. No, don’t do that. There’s nothing here that can’t be fixed,” Mary assured me. “We could turn this into a soufflé. We could take this … this mince and … and …” Her brow furrowed as she tried to come up with something.

  “And make golf balls?” Helen grinned. “Or cat food?”

  “Cat food,” I said quietly. “Well, I guess that wouldn’t be a complete waste. Although I don’t have a cat.”

  “I used to have a cat,” Andrew said. “But my ex-wife took her.”

  I sighed heavily, and Helen put her am around me. “Oh, come on, Jess. So you aren’t a great cook. So what? No big deal. I mean, who cares, anyway?”

  “I do,” I said, the words sticking in my throat. “I thought this would be an easy one; I wanted to surprise him with a really lovely meal, to show him how much I love him.”

  Helen shook her head. “I’ll tell you what. If Max finds you naked on the bed with a rose between your teeth when he gets home, that’ll go down way better than a stupid lasagna.”

  She caught Mary’s eye and reddened. “No offense, Mary.”

  “None taken.” Mary shrugged. “It’s only lasagna.”

  “Your friend’s right,” Will said earnestly. “Sex beats cooking every time.”

  “We never had sex after the kids were born,” Andrew said dolefully. “I think that’s why I cheated—”

  “Okay, enough,” I said, holding up my hands. “Mary, tell me seriously: Is it worth me staying?”

  “Of course it is,” Mary said firmly. “We all have to start somewhere. Rome wasn’t built in a day, after all!”

  “No, but I bet they didn’t put the bricks in all the wrong places on day one,” I said, allowing myself a little smile.

  “I bet they did,” Will said. “And if they didn’t, they were just stupid show-offs. Like your friend here.” He winked at Helen. “I mean, come on, no one likes a goody two-shoes, do they?”

  Helen grinned. “Exactly. And, anyway, you should see this as an opportunity, Jess. You’ve never been bottom of the class, so this is a great new experience for you.”

  I felt a little smile creep onto my lips. “I’m really bottom of the class?”

  Mary looked as if she was trying to suppress a grin of her own. “You’re not top,” she admitted.

  “So the only way is up?” I asked tentatively.

  “Undoubtedly,” Mary said, matter-of-factly. “That’s the spirit. Shall I get you some more flour?”

  I nodded. “And everything else, if that’s okay,” I said. “I think I’d like to start from the beginning, if it’s all right with you.”

  Chapter 7

  I DID IT: I actually cooked lasagna and chocolate pudding for Max. Okay, so I had a bit of help from Mary Armstrong. Sure, she kept an eagle eye on me at all times, and she didn’t let me add any ingredients until she’d checked them first. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was on my way home, clutching an entire home-cooked meal in various plastic boxes (packed by Mary and Helen, neither of whom trusted me with the job), with very clear instructions on how to heat them up (I overheard Helen telling Mary that they couldn’t leave anything to chance with me, and I didn’t even get offended). I could cook. Sort of. And although I could see now that being able to cook was hardly on a par with betrayal, that they hardly canceled each other out, it made me feel a little bit better. At least I’d tried.

  Anyway, I got home as quickly as I could, called Max to find out what time he’d be home, decanted the food (as detailed in my instructions) into cooking implements (Mary had thoughtfully drawn them for me so that I didn’t have to distinguish a cassoulet from a casserole dish), and put them in the oven. Then I retired to the bedroom, where I showered, smothered myself in body oil, and lay on the bed, covering myself in the roses that Giles had sent over. Those guys at the class had better be right, I thought as I put the last rose between my teeth. If this went poorly, I was never going to talk to Helen again. Well, not for a day or two. I heard the key in the door and froze.

  “Hello? Jess, are you here?”

  “In here,” I called, in what I hoped was a seductive voice.


  “Something smells good. Did you pick up some food? Listen, I know it’s Sunday tomorrow, but I think I’m going in to work, if that’s okay. I’ve got a million and one things to do and we’ve got the audit starting on Tuesday …” He wandered into the bedroom, then stopped, his eyes wide. “Hello!” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “What’s going on here?”

  “I cooked,” I said.

  “You cooked? Really?”

  “I took a class,” I said, with a little smile. “I. We cooked lasagna and chocolate pudding.”

  “I see,” Max said, taking off his jacket. “And then did some gardening?”

  I nodded, then winced as a rose stabbed my arm. “Something like that.” I felt faintly ridiculous, was sure that Max was going to laugh, but he hadn’t so far. “So, are you hungry?”

  He grinned back. “Famished. But you know what they say—the hungrier you are, the better the food tastes. I think I can still work up a bit more of an appetite.”

  “You’re saying you think my food isn’t going to be that great? That you need to work up an appetite to enjoy it?” I teased. “Because I’ll have you know that—”

  “Stop talking,” Max said softly, removing the roses one by one.

  “Fine,” I said, giggling as he took the last remaining stem and used it to stroke my leg.

  “What brought this about?” he asked, as the rose moved steadily upward.

  “I just thought it would make a nice change,” I said. “Better than takeout.”

  He nodded seriously. “Very nice change,” he agreed, taking off his shirt. He leaned down to kiss me, and, one by one, all his clothes were discarded onto the floor.

  “And change is good, right?” I said. “You know, spicing things up.”

  “I love spice,” Max said, pulling me toward him. He looked so happy. “You’re full of surprises, Jess, you know that? I love that about you.”

  “You do?” I looked at him tentatively.

  “Yes, I do,” he murmured. “God, you’re gorgeous. I love you, Jess.”

  “And I love you,” I said, and then closed my eyes. If I loved him, I would tell him the truth and let him decide if he still loved me. That would be the right thing to do. That’s what the truly ideal wife would do, wouldn’t she? I took a deep breath. Then I opened my eyes again. “Max,” I said hesitantly. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  I moved forward just as he was leaning in toward me and ended up cracking him on the head. “Oh God. Oh, I’m sorry,” I said desperately, pulling my legs out from underneath him so I could see if I’d done any damage. But as I moved, I yelped; something was jabbing into my knee. Quickly, I moved back, flinging my leg away from the rose that was embedded in it and catching Max in the groin. He groaned in agony, rolling off the bed and onto the wooden floor with a huge crash, pulling me down on top of him. I landed heavily on something: his leg, I realized when I looked down. His leg, which looked kind of weird.

  “Oh shit! Max, I am so sorry,” I said, leaning down over him. “God, I am such an idiot. Such a klutz. Max?”

  I looked at him uncertainly. He’d gone white.

  “My … leg,” he gasped. “You’re on … my—”

  “Your leg?” I asked, jumping up. “Sorry, did you hurt it when you fell? I’m so sorry—it was this thorn in my knee. I knelt on it and—” I frowned. “Max, your leg looks really funny.”

  He nodded.

  And then I realized why he was so pale.

  “It’s broken, isn’t it?” Max managed to say.

  I nodded dismally. He had landed on his leg, twisting it under him; when I landed on top of it, I’d bloody well broken it. It wasn’t a crash I’d heard; it was a crunch. And now his leg was bent the wrong way, his foot looking completely out of place, facing inward instead of outward.

  “What was it you wanted to tell me?” he asked through gritted teeth, then fell back on the floor, passed out.

  “It can wait,” I whispered, as I dashed out of the room to call an ambulance.

  “So tell me how this happened?” It was two hours later and we were in the hospital; Max’s leg had been X-rayed several times, and he was lying on a bed in a hospital gown. The doctor had come in a few minutes before to tell us what the prognosis was.

  We looked at each other. “You want the long version or the short version?” Max asked. He’d been given some really strong painkillers, which had done something to his head; he was being cheeky and flirtatious and acting like he was drunk.

  “How long is long?” the doctor asked.

  Max looked at me with a raised eyebrow, and I reddened. “We were … I mean, I was …” I said hesitantly.

  “My wife,” Max said seriously, “decided to try something new.”

  “Don’t tell me—a new sport?” The doctor sighed. “If you knew how many people end up here with broken limbs because they’ve embarked on a health kick, you’d be amazed. So what was it? Rollerblading? Squash?”

  Max winked at me. “Why don’t you tell the doctor, darling?” he suggested.

  I cleared my throat. “Well …”

  “I got home to find her on the bed, naked but for some roses.” Max grinned. “And then she kicked me in the groin and threw me off the bed. Women, huh? They just can’t make up their minds.”

  I looked at him incredulously. “I was going to say that I took a cookery class.”

  “Yes!” Max said excitedly. “She cooked, too! What an amazing woman.” Then he looked at me sadly. “And we never got to eat it.”

  “Oh God,” I said, clapping my hand to my mouth. “I didn’t turn the oven off. I put the food in to heat and I didn’t turn it off before we left to come here!”

  “Then it’s probably a little on the charred side,” Max said. “Oh well, not to worry.”

  The doctor patted him on the shoulder. “You’ve had some bad luck today,” he said. “Your food’s burned and your leg’s broken.”

  “It’s definitely broken?” Max asked, not looking particularly concerned. “It couldn’t be a twist? Or a sprain?”

  “Definitely broken,” the doctor said. “I can show you the X ray if you like.”

  Max shook his head and sighed. “So, what, I go home in a wheelchair?”

  “Home? No, Mr. Wainwright, I’m afraid you’re not going home for a little while yet.”

  “Well, obviously not right now,” I said quickly. “I suppose you’ve got to put plaster on it first—”

  “Hey, slow down. I’m afraid your husband is going to be in here for at least a week,” the doctor said gently.

  “A week?” Max looked up at him with a goofy smile on his face. “No, that’s impossible. I’m a very busy man. I’ve got an ethical audit starting on Tuesday. A business to run. Tell him, Jess.”

  “It’s true,” I said seriously. “He can’t be in the hospital for a week.”

  “And yet you’re going to be.” The doctor shrugged. “You’ll need some serious pain relief, and we’ll need to keep an eye on you for a while. Your break is nasty. Usually a fall off a bed would result in a twist or a sprain, but it seems you landed badly, and the additional”—he looked at me with a half smile—“weight that landed on top of it …”

  “You can say it,” I said dismally. “I broke his leg.”

  “You helped him break it,” the doctor said diplomatically, then turned back to Max. “You’ll need to be off your feet for a few weeks, I’m afraid. We can get you some crutches, a wheelchair, eventually, but you’re in a lot of pain, even if you can’t feel it now. I think it would be sensible to stay here for a few days. You’ll need some physical therapy as you start to recover, too.”

  Max nodded sagely. “Why don’t you start the PT now?” he suggested. “Then we can all go home.”

  The doctor turned to me. “Seems the painkillers are doing their stuff,” he said, with a wry smile.

  I smiled back uncertainly. It was great seeing Max so relaxed, so unconcerned about the business. But I knew the moment the
painkillers wore off he’d go into panic mode. “So there’s really no way of speeding this up?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Bones don’t generally work to our timetable,” he said. “I’ll leave you two alone, and the nurse will be in shortly. Press this buzzer if you need anything.”

  He pointed to a red button on the side of Max’s bed; Max pressed it immediately. “Room service,” he said, grinning.

  “I am so sorry,” I said desperately, as soon as the doctor had left. “I can’t believe this happened.”

  “Is there a menu anywhere?” Max asked.

  “A menu?” I looked at him carefully. “Max, were you listening to what the doctor said? You’re going to be in here for a while. Are you really okay about it?”

  “Maybe they’ll have lasagna,” Max said, as a nurse walked in. She was pretty, with dark hair and olive skin.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling warmly. “I’m Emily. How can I help?”

  “I’d like some lasagna,” Max said. “And chocolate pudding.”

  Emily laughed. “Well, I’m not sure we have either of those things, but I’ll see what I can rustle up, shall I?”

  “You are a gem,” Max said happily. “My wife cooked, but then she kicked me out of bed and broke my leg.”

  “Poor you,” Emily said, puffing up Max’s pillow. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to.”

  “Maybe,” Max said conspiratorially. “But maybe she did. Who knows?”

  I watched Emily uncertainly. I wasn’t wild about some pretty nurse tucking in his sheets like that. Then I kicked myself. She was a nurse. That was her job. She’d go off shift soon and there’d be some much older, less attractive woman looking after him. Or a man. Maybe I’d ask specifically for a male nurse….