If You're Not the One (14 page)

Max tore through the hospital searching for a doctor, frantic in his pursuit. Finally, after much helter-skeltering up and down slippery corridors, he spotted a nurse he recognised.

‘Hello,' he panted, relieved beyond belief. It was so frustrating when you desperately needed but couldn't find someone medical. It made him feel so helpless. ‘I need you to come to Jennifer Wright's room right away please.'

‘Everything OK, Mr Wright?' she enquired calmly.

‘Yes, I think so. Well I'm not sure really, but unless I'm hallucinating, and I'm afraid there's a chance I could be because I can't remember the last time I had a proper night's sleep, I think my wife just smiled.'

‘OK…' said the nurse looking grave but not as excited as Max thought she should be.

‘Seriously, her face definitely changed, which is amazing, because surely that must mean she's thinking about something, or dreaming, or hearing, which in turn must mean her brain is functioning on some level?'

‘I'll see if I can find Mrs Wright's consultant and if
he's here I'll ask him to come and see you in your wife's room. But please try to stay calm. I'm afraid that sometimes, when a patient is in a coma, their body can make involuntary reflex movements. It can be very distressing for relatives because of course this can give what usually turns out to be false hope.'

Max stared blankly at her. He knew his wife better than anyone and would stake his life on the fact that she had just smiled. Voluntarily. He was convinced of it.

‘Hmm, well thank you, and if you could find someone that would be great please,' he said, on the verge of tears. Not just any old tears either but violent sobbing which he was determined to hold back until he was alone. He headed away from the nurse and traipsed back to Jennifer's room. When he got there he closed the door behind him and allowed the inevitable tears of frustration to pour down his face. Collapsing into the chair he'd spent an unreasonable amount of time sitting in lately, he wept noisily until some of his grief and helplessness had worked its way out of his stressed-out system.

When he'd finished he felt calmer. He also felt exhausted, drained and very sad. He stared at his wife. His silent, slightly waxy-looking, shell of a wife. Was she still in there? Could she hear him? Would there be a day when they'd be cuddled up in bed, feet entwined, talking about how lucky they were to have got through this nightmare and to still be together? If she did wake up would she ever forgive him? He'd give anything for the opportunity to tell
her how much he loved and missed her, how much he'd taken her for granted and that he was sorry. He reached over for her hand. It was warm but disconcertingly limp. Was he being punished? It felt like it. He was a pathetic cliché. When Judith had showed him some attention it had flattered his ego so much. It had been fun to be flirted with and thrilling to think that someone found him sexually attractive. Plus, if he were being totally honest, the prospect of touching someone who wasn't his wife had been a huge aphrodisiac. They hadn't slept with each other but god he'd wanted to and the few kisses they'd shared had been unbelievably erotic. Only the minute Jennifer had found out, any ‘feelings' he may have had for Judith had vanished without a trace, completely annihilated by the horror and realisation of the upset he'd caused. He remembered now being age fifteen and his mum walking in on him and Sarah Fisher in his bedroom. He'd had his hand in her knickers at the time and had been about as excited as only a straight fifteen-year-old boy could be in the same position. Yet the minute his mum had appeared his ardour had been instantly extinguished by embarrassment and shame. This situation felt similar somehow which only made him feel more foolish. Lust. Not love. That's what he'd been experiencing. He didn't give a shit about Judith really. He'd wanted to fuck her. And because of that, this had happened. Why?

Not wanting to go down that particular path which only led to more frustration he thought back instead to what had
just happened. The smile which had brought with it such an incredibly soothing rush of hope it had almost bowled him over.

He'd been half dozing at the time and although the memory was a bit hazy now he was pretty sure it had been the slight rustling sound of a sheet which had made him look up. Rustling was probably too strong a word, for it had been a minute sound, barely discernible but there none the less.

As he'd glanced up, instantly alert, yet still groggy from sleep, it had seemed like Jennifer's hand might have been in ever such a slightly different position to the one it had been in before. And then, without question her face flickered. Her mouth definitely seemed to curl in an upward motion and it looked to Max like his wife was smiling.

Later, as the weary consultant and even wearier Max discussed what he'd seen (or as the consultant preferred to put it ‘what he
may
have seen') deep inside Jennifer's psyche a different type of debate was going on.

She'd re-emerged from the portal marked Tim and was still mulling over the fact that if she'd stayed with him they would have ended up engaged. Who'd have thought it? She wondered what she should do now. Usually after a
trip to one of her alternate universes she was so depleted her body took time out in the grey ether to recover and recharge. However, now she felt fine. She was just totally intrigued, fascinated in fact to find out more. It seemed her brain agreed for she found herself floating towards the tunnel again where no doubt she would discover how things would have gone. Would she have been blissfully content, living out many people's version of a fairy-tale? This certainly seemed like a possibility.

What Could Have Been—Tim

‘You look nice, Mummy.'

‘Thank you Hattie, come here darling,' said Jennifer, beckoning to her youngest daughter to come for a hug.

Hattie padded across the room to where her mother was sat at her dressing table, in her vast dressing room, putting the finishing touches to her make-up and spritzing her neck, wrists and hair with perfume. Eau d'Hadrien by Annick Goutal, the one she always wore. Years ago Tim had told her it was really attractive for a woman to have a signature scent, so she'd stuck with the one she'd had at the time and it had indeed become the smell her children would always associate with her.

She drew Hattie towards her. The little girl was already in her White Company gingham pyjamas and had obviously had her hair washed as it was still damp and drying into natural ringlets.

‘Are you OK, sweetheart? Where's Deck?'

Hattie shrugged, looking fed up. ‘Putting Jasper to bed, but I want
you
to read my story today.'

‘I can't tonight. You know Daddy's got all his work people coming and Mummy's got to be there.'

‘But you haven't read stories for ages.'

‘Yes I have,' said Jennifer, refusing to be put on a guilt trip, something Hattie was very good at. ‘Who read
The Selfish Crocodile
to you yesterday?'

Hattie tried to continue looking hard done by but ruined the effect by allowing a small grin to escape. ‘But before that you haven't.'

Jennifer paused. Her daughter's cut-glass accent took her by surprise sometimes. She was starting to sound more and more like the Queen, or perhaps an Enid Blyton character, a result of the very expensive school she'd started at last September. Jennifer wasn't entirely sure it sat all that well with her. She worried that later on in life if her daughter sounded too posh she might be bullied. She wondered what she could do to combat the problem. Force her to watch box sets of
Towie
or
EastEnders
perhaps? Get her a job in a garage? Get Aunty Karen to give her anti elocution lessons maybe?

‘Look, I know it's been a busy time sweetie, but Daddy goes to Hong Kong next week and then I won't have so much on in the evenings. So I promise I'll make up for it on the stories front then. But right now I've got to get downstairs or otherwise the first guest will arrive and I won't be there, so go back to your floor and find Deck will you?'

Hattie turned round and padded out of the room, an
air of weary resignation about her, which made her look even more adorable. It was her little shoulders which got to Jennifer somehow. She sighed, wishing she didn't have to go downstairs and play the corporate wife. Deep down she was only too aware that recently she seemed to be permanently telling all four of her offspring that she didn't have time for anything that mattered to them. Still, Tim had never been so busy, so she didn't have much choice.

If only she could convey to Hattie that given the chance she'd do anything rather than have to entertain the bunch of stiffs that were on their way right now. Gouge her eyeballs out with a spoon. Anything.

Forty minutes later and the evening was well underway. Nearly all of the twenty guests had arrived and were being plied with drinks and canapés. As ever Jennifer had done her homework so knew not only what everyone was called, but also what they ‘did', what their other halves were called and how important to Tim they were in terms of business on a scale of one to ten. She would allocate time devoted to making sure they were being ‘looked after' accordingly.

‘Darling, will you make sure there's some more claret for Jeremy?' said Tim now, as an aside. He didn't even look her in the eye, just gave her elbow a discreet nudge before
turning his attentions back to the man who had a redder nose than Rudolph. However, it appeared Jeremy's attention had been stolen away by a woman with an impressive cleavage which he was now practically dribbling into.

‘And try to look a bit happier,' added Tim, seeing as he wasn't being listened to any more. ‘You look like you're here under duress.'

Jennifer gave him a withering look. ‘Ten out of ten for accuracy,' she shot back.

‘Don't fuck this up for me, Jen,' he said resolutely, a fake smile plastered across his face. ‘I need all of these people on side if there's going to be a merger. And if it's so much of a chore for you to be here, try thinking of it as your job.'

‘All right,' she agreed between gritted teeth, nodding politely at someone who'd just arrived. ‘But stop lecturing me will you?'

Tim looked at her with enormous disdain, only she couldn't take him seriously because she'd just spotted a tiny piece of lettuce on his nose.

‘You've got canapé on your nose. It looks ridiculous.'

Tim looked immediately chastened and patted his suit jacket, searching for a hanky. ‘You could have told me earlier,' he snapped.

‘Terribly sorry, I didn't realise I was supposed to be monitoring your face,' added Jennifer primly, her own face a mask of composure. ‘Though if I had I would have
told you that you've also got what looks like a piece of duck stuck between your teeth. I'll get that claret.'

Over the years Jennifer and Tim had got saying one thing while looking like they were saying another, down to a fine art. Anyone observing would probably have thought the couple had just shared an affectionate private joke as opposed to a couple of scathing put-downs. But then, as the wife of someone as powerful as Tim, over the years Jennifer had learnt how to play the game and how to cope with tedious evenings spent entertaining his dull clients and associates. Not that it was exactly hard. All she had to do was look groomed, make polite conversation and give instructions.

Come to think of it that was pretty much what she did in a nutshell these days. She gave instructions to the chef about what everyone would eat and then, when it was served, everyone complimented her on how amazing the food had been, which always felt weird when she hadn't even shopped for it, let alone prepared it. She gave instructions to the agencies she hired staff from when they needed extra help, on top of the help they already had. On this occasion she'd ‘instructed' that they needed an experienced cocktail maker to work behind the bar, plus three waiting staff who could pour drinks and serve dinner. This afternoon she'd instructed her hairdresser and her personal trainer on when she wanted her next lot of appointments to be and on Monday she would give instructions to their housekeeper who worked five days a
week, the gardener and of course their two Filipino nannies who between them worked every day, meaning that Jennifer never had to ‘do' anything.

A few weeks ago, on a rare night out with the girls she'd said as much but hadn't received much sympathy from Karen. ‘Oh my heart bleeds,' she'd said. ‘Well how about instructing them all to fuck off for the day and doing your own cooking and cleaning for a change? Or maybe, and call me crazy for suggesting it, try looking after your own kids for a whole twenty-four hours? You never know, you might enjoy it. Give Ant and Dec the day off.'

Jennifer's Filipino nannies happened to be called Deck and Annie, a source of great amusement to Karen, Esther and Lucy.

Karen had been particularly brutal because she was drunk but Jennifer was glad she hadn't sugar-coated what she really thought. It was just so difficult to explain to her friends that ‘doing' everything herself actually sounded unbelievably appealing; liberating even, yet at the same time the mere idea of it frightened her half to death. Having so much help all the time had gradually made her feel superfluous to anyone's needs, especially when it came to the kids.

Tim had paid for maternity nurses to be there from day one. When their eldest, Edward, had been born she'd never forgotten the feeling of elation she'd had. She'd
produced a human being, a breathing little person and furthermore, despite having him at The Portland, had managed to buck the trend and have a natural delivery. It had been painful, brutal, bloody. She was a total hero! It was the first time in a long time she'd felt worthwhile, clever almost. And then the maternity nurse had arrived and taken her little bundle away. Never had anything felt so utterly wrong.

Despite her protestations Tim had insisted. She never need have an uninterrupted sleep he'd said. She could remain in the marital bed at night and by day concentrate on getting her figure back.

This ‘luxury' was the saddest thing she'd ever experienced. To this day she was certain it had contributed towards her postnatal depression. Only the worse the depression got, the more it was deemed a good idea for her to have more ‘help'.

Sometimes she couldn't believe that she and Tim had gone on to have a further three children. Or more accurately she couldn't really understand why they'd bothered. Edward was thirteen now and on his way to becoming a moody teenager, Tilly was ten, Hattie was six and Jasper was four. They were four children with enormously different personalities, interests and needs. She loved all of them, of course, yet there was no getting away from the fact that neither she nor Tim had played much of a role in actually raising them. In fact sometimes she felt that as far he was concerned they'd been churned out like
status symbols. The only thing that made her feel better about her mothering skills was that no matter how dubious they were, they were hundreds of times better than Tim's fathering ones. At least she'd changed the odd nappy herself, when she'd been allowed. At least she'd tried. Plus, much of her time was spent torturing herself with maternal guilt whereas she was pretty sure that for Tim, the way he was as a parent wasn't something that ever pricked his conscience. He paid for everything, so in a very old-fashioned sense he felt that was all that was required.

Now she slipped away from the drawing room leaving her guests (not one of whom she considered to be a friend) to mingle, drink champagne and eat their canapés.

Frankly she was grateful for an excuse to leave for a minute. Prior to Tim's request/order she'd been struggling to make small talk with the wife of his financial advisor. At one point things had got so desperate they'd discussed whether or not children should be allowed to give up the piano or not for
twenty-five minutes
.

Jennifer made her way through the corridors and into the spacious hallway, stopping only to check her appearance in a huge gilt-edged mirror which hung on one wall.

She looked immaculate. Her hair had been blow-dried that afternoon into the look which tended to be preferred by the ladies of Notting Hill and Chelsea. It was big, slightly stiff but with a wave at the bottom. Very Kate Middleton. She was wearing a new silk shift by
Stella McCartney which probably wasn't quite conservative enough for Tim's tastes but which she loved, with some gorgeous Marc Jacobs heels. Her skin was looking far younger than her thirty-eight years due mainly to some expertly injected Botox and aided by monthly facials. She looked rested, slim, toned and totally dead behind the eyes.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. It was a text, one which improved her mood beyond measure. It was the fix she needed and she responded quickly before continuing her way to the staircase which led down to her vast kitchen. So vast in fact, it actually took up the basement floor of the entire house and was larger than most people's flats.

Downstairs, their chef, Joe, and two of the waiting staff were milling around, engaged in one activity or another.

‘Hello Jennifer, everything all right?' asked Joe, treating her to a big friendly grin. He'd been with the family for four and a half years now.

‘Fabulous thanks. The quail eggs are disappearing at a rate of knots as are those homemade cheese straws.'

‘Oh good, that's what I like to hear.'

‘I'm here to ask if you'd mind awfully going to the cellar and grabbing another bottle of the Montrachet for Jeremy? You know Jeremy, the one who's got a face like a side of beef.'

‘I do indeed,' laughed Joe.

‘I can get it if you want,' offered one of the young waiters.

‘No, don't you worry,' insisted Joe. ‘The starter's all plated up so I'm fine to go. Besides, it's best to make sure we open the right one eh? Some of those bottles are worth more than you'll earn in a year, young man.'

‘Thanks Joe,' said Jennifer, leaving them all to it and clip-clopping out of the kitchen and back upstairs.

Back in the hallway she hesitated for a fraction of a second, checking to make sure no one was around. Then, certain she was alone, instead of making her way back to the party she turned left, heading with purpose towards the rear of the house and ultimately the largest of their three sitting rooms. She closed the door quietly behind her and picked her way across the room stealthily to the French doors which led out onto the garden, one of the largest in London. The striped, immaculate lawns almost went on for as far as the eye could see and the rest of the garden had been designed as if it belonged to a stately home with lots of topiary and neat beds which were completely colour co-ordinated. Despite having four children there wasn't a plastic slide in sight.

Jennifer ventured out onto the flagstones and tiptoed along the side of the house until she came to another door which was slightly ajar. As soon as she reached it a hand appeared and yanked her inside.

She immediately giggled and felt a lurch of happiness and desire as those same hands drew her in and then started to explore every inch of her body.

‘Oh my god you feel so good in this dress.'

‘Do I?'

‘Yeah, you look amazing in it too. Absolutely gorgeous.'

‘Oh, I do love you,' she gasped, her heart full to the brim with love and lust. How was it even possible to feel this turned on so quickly?

‘I love you too, gorgeous girl,' said Joe, his hands everywhere, his mouth in her hair, kissing her face, her neck. ‘What's the situation later?'