The Model Wife (19 page)

26

It wasn’t the most pleasant awakening, to have Clara snatch her from a heavy slumber just three hours after Poppy had gone to sleep with cries of: ‘Mummy, I done a poo!’ Still, Poppy reflected as she blearily changed her daughter’s revolting nappy, she was permanently tired anyway. At least this way she was tired and happy.

Fuelled by three cups of black coffee, she and Clara managed to pass a quite enjoyable Saturday together snuggled up in pyjamas watching CBeebies and eating toast. Poppy vaguely wondered if they should do something improving, like go to the park, but then she remembered Brigita. She pushed swings all week long, so Poppy could have a clear conscience.

The highlight of the day came at around six, when Poppy was sitting on the loo seat, watching Clara splashing in the bath with nine multicoloured plastic ducks. A text arrived from a number she didn’t recognize. Excitedly, she opened it.

Good 2 c u last night. Hope 2 c u again soon. Toby xxx

It wasn’t exactly a Shakespearean love sonnet, but Poppy’s heart began to beat faster. Smiling, she texted back.

How did uget my numbr? x

‘Mummy. No phone! Sing to me, Mummy.’ Poppy began a spirited if tuneless rendition of ‘Five Little Ducks’ as her phone beeped.

Aha. That wd b telling. U going out tonight? x

Sadly not. Tonight I’m going to bed at nine because I’m knackered and, anyway, I have to babysit my two-year-old. But that wasn’t the most alluring of replies, so she texted:

No, chilling tonight. x

Smiling in anticipation, she waited for an answer. ‘Mummeee!’

‘Yes, darling? Mummy duck said “Quack, quack, quack, quack.”’ She was frantically texting Meena.

Did ugive Toby my number?

‘Want my boat.’

‘Say please,’ Poppy said automatically, staring at her phone willing it to break into life. Nothing happened. She gave Clara her boat, then endured a long and noisy wrangle when she tried to take it away and get Clara out of the bath. She dried her, put on her nappy and pyjamas and then they watched a double bill of the
Seven Thirty News
– last night’s on Sky Plus, followed by this evening’s. Clara waved energetically to Daddy standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, while Poppy listened extra attentively to his report. Afterwards she read Clara
Maisie’s Birthday
six times. Still nothing from either Meena or Toby. Perhaps he hadn’t got her last text? Or perhaps she’d sounded too brusque. She sent him another one.

Will b out next week though. 4 work. Let me kno what parties u will be at. x

The phone stayed silent. Poppy read
Maisie
again, put her daughter in her cot, kissed her, turned off the light and then returned six times to retrieve Clara’s mousie, which she had taken to chucking on the floor as a way of getting attention. Downstairs, she stuck a Pot Noodle in the microwave and while she was waiting for it to ping, dialled her mobile from her landline. Oh. Right. It
was
working. Her fingers itched to text Toby again, but she told herself not to. He was probably on the Tube. Or in the cinema. Or asleep. He’d get back to her.

Exhausted, she crawled into bed just after nine with the phone under her pillow just in case. At 21.11, it rang.

‘Hello,’ she gasped, snatching it like a drowning woman would a lifebelt.

‘Hi, it’s me,’ said Luke.

Usually Luke calling filled her with joy. But now she just felt disappointment. ‘Oh, hi. How’s Paris? We watched you; you were great.’

‘Was I? The idiot producer almost cocked everything up, but we got there in the end. Anyway, I’m calling to say I won’t be back until the middle of the week now, because they want me to stay on to cover this scandal about vote rigging.’

Normally Poppy protested vehemently at such news,

but this time she merely said, ‘Oh, OK,’ because her other line had started to beep. Meena. ‘Well, good luck,’ she added rapidly to Luke. ‘Let me know how it goes.’

‘OK.’ Luke sounded bemused at her unusually abrupt tone, but Poppy had already gone.

‘Meena?’

A giggle. ‘Yeah, Toby called to ask for your number. Says he’s intrigued by you.’

‘Oh.’ Poppy could feel her neck flushing.

‘I did tell him you were married and had a little girl and he said, “So?”’

‘Did he indeed? What a cheek!’ Poppy was thrilled.

‘That’s what I told him. Oh, Poppy, that was such a laugh. When’s the next party?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Poppy said. ‘But soon. I’ll let you know.’

Even though her limbs ached with tiredness, it was a long time before Poppy went back to sleep. She wondered why she was getting so excited about Toby. She was a married woman, other men shouldn’t make her pulse flutter. But Luke was away so much and she was so bored, so often. What was the harm in a little flirtation? It didn’t mean anything, it wasn’t going to lead anywhere. It was just a welcome reminder that Poppy was still young, that she hadn’t been buried alive.

The Other Woman

As the Home Secretary introduces his new lady friend to the world before the ink is dry on his divorce papers, columnist Hannah Creighton asks: What exactly do we call women who steal husbands?

A couple of years ago I had what I now see to be the great fortune of losing my husband, the
Seven Thirty News’s
anchorman, Luke Norton, 52, to a 22-year-old model. Initially, of course, I was somewhat put out by this unbelievable manifestation of a midlife crisis.

I didn’t understand why Luke couldn’t have just got an earring and a Harley, instead of impregnating a girl young enough to be his daughter. However, I got over it, not least by writing a weekly newspaper column (soon to be turned into a book) in which I charted the disintegration of my rotten marriage and the beginning of a new and happy life.

One thing, however, is asked of me constantly – why do I never name the woman who stole my husband? The answer is, why should I? In an era when children want to be famous in the same way they used to want to be train drivers or nurses why should
she
get her name in print? So the question, initially, was what to call her? I racked my brains for a suitable epithet. My solicitor called her the correspondent, but that was far too bland for me. ‘Mistress’ suggests a lady in a negligée and fluffy mules being kept in a tiny, chintzy flat in Earl’s Court, which bestowed an air of glamour on the little girl, as did another brief nickname – Cruella.

I considered the Black Hole because any woman who could so flippantly catapult a family’s future into cyberspace with the ping of a bra strap must have been brought up in a vacuum devoid of morality and decency, but there was something faintly gynaecological about the phrase.

So I turned to my trusty
Roget’s Thesaurus
, where I took my choice from the following: debauchee, doxy, easy lay, floozy, harlot, hussy, Jezebel, loose woman, slattern, slut, strumpet, tart, tramp, trollop, wench, whore. All of which had a beautiful Dickensian ring to them. But my favourite epithet was the one that came first in this alphabetical list: bimbo! When I looked up its exact definition I found: a young woman indulged by a rich and powerful older man. What better way to describe Luke’s brainless piece of fluff ?

Rechristening the woman who broke up your marriage is very healing, not least because it irritates the hell out of your ex-husband. ‘How’s the bimbo getting along?’ I say when I am obliged to discuss the children on the phone with him. As he replies in pained tones, some of the agony I have gone through is briefly numbed. I’ve also been known to share the odd blonde joke with him. For example: ‘What do you call a blonde with two brain cells?’ ‘Pregnant.’

There’s something very therapeutic about pronouncing the word bimbo. Who needs Prozac when you can juggle those two syllables on the tip of your tongue before spitting them out? It can be said in rage, which somehow helps douse the fury that at times still threatens to overwhelm me. Or it can be trilled out in a way that makes your long-suffering friends snort with laughter. And laughter, I learnt, was one of the keys to leading me out of this sorry situation and into happier times.

27

Time, which had passed so slowly for so long for Poppy, suddenly started flashing by, like a landscape seen from the window of an accelerating train. On Monday, she went to the launch of a new Janis Lyons perfume where she didn’t see Toby, but she and Meena got tiddly on bellinis and left with several goodie bags (Meena grabbed an armful when the cloakroom attendant momentarily turned her back) containing a scented candle, a silver paperweight, a bottle of Janis Lyons perfume and a bar of organic dark chocolate.

The next night she was dead to the world by ten. The night after she went to a party at an art gallery in Mayfair, where she didn’t see Toby again, but she did spot Tracey Emin, Brian who’d won
Big Brother
aeons ago, Prince Harry’s new girlfriend (‘Bitch,’ Meena said. ‘What’s she got that I haven’t?’) and Marco Jensen and his girlfriend, Stephanie, having a spat at check-in because he refused to put her lipstick in his trouser pocket in case it ‘ruined the line’. Luckily they didn’t see her; Poppy would have not quite known what to say to them. Instead, she had a conversation with a man called Gus, who told her he was ‘the calligrapher’.

‘
The
calligrapher? You mean
a
calligrapher?’

‘No.’ Gus giggled. ‘
The
calligrapher. For this party. There’s an exclusive dinner after this for the most important guests and my job’s to be at hand in case there are any last-minute
placement
changes.’

‘Is this for real?’

Gus looked a bit put out. ‘Of course it is,’ he snapped. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many people are no-shows or turn up with their lover instead of their wife.’ Unamused by Poppy’s incredulous expression, he sniped, ‘Excuse me, darling, but I must go and talk to Freddie Windsor.’

Briefly marooned, wondering how she’d managed to cause so much offence, Poppy picked up a glass from a passing tray. She was relieved to see Charlie, the gossip columnist.

‘Oh hello. You again.’ He smiled as she hurried up to him.

‘Hi!’ Poppy didn’t know why she was so pleased to see him, but she was. There was something reassuring about Charlie. He was cosy and unintimidating like a tatty old dressing gown, though she thought better of telling him that.

‘It never rains but it pours,’ he continued. ‘I’ve never seen you in my life and suddenly twice in one week.’

Poppy debated whether to tell him about the column, but decided against it. ‘I’ve got a nanny,’ she said. ‘I’m able to go out more.’

Charlie smote his forehead in mock shock. ‘Hell’s bells, I knew you were married but I didn’t know you had a child as well. Now I really do feel like Methuselah. When were you born? Don’t tell me it was in the nineties.’

‘No, the eighties.’ Poppy giggled. ‘Mid eighties.’

‘The mid eighties. God, in the mid eighties I was…’ Charlie trailed off. ‘Well, I won’t bore you. Nor will I tell you the decade I was born in. All you need know is electric light had only just been invented and the crinoline was considered the height of fashion. Would you like a drink by the way, sweetheart? Assuming it’s legal for you to consume alcoholic beverages.’

‘I’d love another glass of champagne.’

‘One glass of champagne for the lady and one tonic water,’ he said to the barman.

‘Tonic water? Without gin or vodka?’

‘I never drink,’ Charlie said, accepting the glasses. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘Why not?’

Charlie smiled. ‘Now that shows what an innocent you are, my dear. I don’t drink because I’m an alcoholic.’

‘But alcoholics are always pissed, aren’t they?’

‘If I had half the chance I would be. But about the time you were born I almost killed myself from too much booze. And pills. And other nasty substances. I was living in the South of France and I ended up getting in some very nasty situations. Hurt a lot of people.’ He grimaced faintly. ‘Had to spend a year on and off in a drying-out clinic. It kind of put me off the booze.’

‘But it must be so strange going to parties and not drinking.’

‘It’s interesting.’ Charlie’s eyes twinkled. ‘You see the world in a completely different way from everyone else when you’re sober. I feel a little bit out of things, but then it’s my job to report on what’s going on not to take part.’

‘Are you married?’ It was a rather nosy question but there was something so inviting about him, Poppy didn’t think he’d mind if you asked him if he had terrible problems with flatulence.

‘Sadly not. Too wild for too long, then once I’d got my act together all the good girls had been taken, and the younger models aren’t interested because I’m not a banker or a lawyer.’

‘But you’re a lovely man. Women aren’t all gold-diggers you know.’ Poppy knew what she was talking about here.

‘You’d be surprised. As soon as they’ve checked out my payslip, most of them are making their excuses and…’ Charlie gulped down his tonic. ‘On which note, sweetheart, sorry, but I’ve got to dash. Need to grab Gianluca Mazza. Cosmetic surgeon to the stars. He’s always got some good gossip for me, though he keeps trying to laser my spider veins.’

Luke got back on Thursday morning, tired and grumpy. Apparently the hotel in Paris had been dreadful. ‘Roxanne’s insisting we can’t stay anywhere that costs more than a hundred a night. It’s ridiculous,’ he moaned as he unpacked. ‘We were practically in a bed and breakfast.’

‘Oh poor you. But your reports were really good.’

‘Yeah?’ He brightened up. ‘Do you think we did better than Sky?’

‘Definitely.’

She thought about telling him about the column, but couldn’t quite face it. Perhaps she’d just surprise him by showing him the finished object. After all, she’d been to the parties so there needed to be some kind of payback. Her phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh hi, Poppy. It’s Michelle Rembelthorpe. Calling as promised.’

Poppy glanced at Luke, flinging his dirty underwear into the laundry bin.

‘Um, just a minute,’ she said. ‘I’ll take this in the study.’ She went into the little room with its view over the canal and closed the door. ‘Right, I can talk better now.’

‘So how’s your week been?’

‘Great,’ Poppy said. ‘I’ve been to three parties. I got you a Janis Lyons goodie bag.’

‘Oh, you’re a sweetheart,’ Migsy purred. ‘So tell me. Who did you see?’

‘See?’

‘What celebs did you spot?’ Migsy sounded a trifle more impatient.

‘Um. Well, the first party was the film première. I saw Jude Law and Gwyneth and the Dastardly Fiends.’

Migsy squealed. ‘Oh how exciting, Poppy! What was Jude Law like? Was he as gorgeous in the flesh?’

‘No, he was actually much smaller than I expected and kind of grumpy-looking. He was sitting in a corner all evening with some girl and I thought “Why did you bother coming out, if you’re going to make no effort to enjoy yourself?” ’

Migsy laughed. ‘Oh yeah? I’ve heard he can be a bit moody. And what about Gwyneth? How did she look? I’ve always thought she has awful taste. Do you remember that revolting meringue she wore to the Oscars?’

‘I do! But actually that looked stylish in comparison to what she had on on Friday – it was a disgusting orange number. I didn’t know she was colour blind. And Denise van Outen! God, it’s amazing what you can do with a pair of curtains and a sewing machine.’

Migsy giggled. Poppy felt as if her internal central heating had been turned on. Finally, she was in with the in-crowd.

‘And what about Nick from the Dastardly Fiends?’

‘He looked really pleased with himself. I don’t know why because his music’s awful, I think. He sounds like a castrated gerbil. His teeth were so yellow, traffic probably slows down when he smiles.’

‘Well, he’s a big junkie.’ Migsy chortled. ‘Anyone else?’

‘I saw Brian from
Big Brother
at the Janis Lyons party.’

‘Oh yeah, the walking satsuma.’

‘That’s the one.’ Poppy laughed. ‘I didn’t talk to him either but he looked like he was having fun. And Tamara Mellon was at the art gallery party.’

‘With some guy who looked like he’d had his face ironed?’

‘Got it in one.’ They both laughed again. ‘And there was this ridiculous calligrapher man there to do last-minute changes to the place names. I mean, can you
imagine
? They say you can never be too rich or too thin, but I say you can definitely be too rich and too stupid.’

Migsy honked with laughter. ‘As a BH old girl, I
so
agree. And what has little Clara been up to this week?’

Just then Luke stuck his head round the door. ‘What are you doing?’ he snapped.

Poppy put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘I’m on the phone. I won’t be long.’

‘Do you
have
to chat to your friends in here? I need to get online.’

‘I told you: I won’t be long.’

At her insubordinate tone Luke stared. But then – to both their surprise – he said, ‘OK.’

‘Could you shut the door, please?’ Poppy asked. It closed quietly. ‘Sorry, Migsy, I mean Michelle. You were asking about Clara. Well, she’s being toilet trained, but frankly I can’t see the point. It’s so much easier to keep them in nappies than having to shove them on the potty every fifteen minutes. If I had my way I’d keep her in them until she leaves home.’

‘Lovely.’ Migsy laughed. ‘And finally. What do you think about Hannah’s article today?’

Poppy’s blood froze. ‘I haven’t read it,’ she said calmly.

‘Haven’t you? Oh well, don’t worry, I’ll read it to you.’

Poppy listened, biting her lip.

‘What do you think, Poppy?’

Poppy paused. ‘Poor Hannah. Going through the menopause must be awful.’

‘Oh, touché!’ Migsy giggled. ‘And do you mind being called a bimbo?’

‘Of course not,’ Poppy blustered. ‘I’ve heard it all. Bimbo. Dumb blonde. Dolly Parton would say I don’t mind dumb blonde jokes because I know I’m not dumb. I’m also not blonde.’ Actually, she was but she’d been waiting for years to come out with that gag.

‘Excellent,’ Migsy purred. ‘Well, that’s it, darling. We’re all done now.’

‘All done? That was quick.’

‘I told you it wouldn’t take long. Good stuff, Poppy. I’ll write it up and it’ll come out a fortnight tomorrow. The only other thing we have to do is organize a photographer to take a headshot of you to go over the column. Would tomorrow morning suit? And we’re biking over some more invitations later today. We’ve got our work experience girl calling all the PRs to get your name on the guest lists.’

‘Of course.’

‘Great, I’ll have a snapper with you about eleven, if that’s OK. Oh, and you must give me your bank details so you can be paid.’

Having done all that (it took a few minutes to dig out details of her long-dormant personal bank account) Poppy hung up. She couldn’t believe how easy it had been. She’d tell Luke about it tonight; she didn’t see how he could possibly object.

In the
Seven Thirty News
office, Luke was sitting despondently at his desk, going through three months’ backlog of expenses. Luke wasn’t enjoying life much at the moment. Marco was being allotted more and more of his airtime. School fees had gone up again. The attacks from Hannah continued relentlessly.

At home too, things weren’t right. Well, they were never right if he was honest, but they were
different
. Normally, Poppy made him feel stressed and guilty with her tears when he went away on assignment, but she’d been fine about the extended Paris trip. He should feel relieved, but instead he felt uneasy. Since he’d returned two out of three nights he’d get back from work to find Brigita babysitting and his wife out. Luke knew he’d said Poppy should enjoy life more, but it was disconcerting coming home and finding the nanny, rather than his wife, sitting in front of the TV and being woken at some late hour by Poppy stumbling in, smelling of alcohol. Not to mention he’d thought the idea of getting a nanny was so Poppy could find a job, not go out on the town every night. He’d have to tackle her about it – gently, so as not to upset her. Though maybe this new, somehow tougher Poppy would take it in her stride?

He stared at the pile of receipts in front of him. Nine taxis, a hotel bill for Prague, a hotel bill for Paris. Another bill for £175.80 from the Frontline Club for a couple of weeks back. What the hell had he been doing that evening? Oh yeah, he’d got pissed with Gerry and then some other people had joined them and Luke had ended up treating everyone to champagne. When Luke had started out boozy nights like that had been as compulsory a part of his job as shorthand and typing. You
had
to be able to hold your drink; how else were you going to get stories from your contact, unless it was by plying them with liquor? And how else were you going to come down after a long day’s war reporting?

But in the past few years, all that had changed. Marco’s poncy generation seemed to prefer a Pret sandwich at their desks to a bottle of claret at El Vino’s. Increasingly, Luke found himself marooned, like a polar bear on a melting ice cap, searching for someone to share a quick post-work snifter with. So that raucous evening had been a rare treat – a treat which the Channel 6 shareholders could damn well subsidize given the number of times Luke had risked his life for them. The question was, what to attribute it to? He glanced up at the newscreens for inspiration. Aha. Footage of Bellchester Cathedral after the town had been named as having most burglaries per head in Britain.

‘Dinner with the bishop of Bellchester’, he wrote in the ‘Entertaining’ column. After all, he’d met the old bugger once or twice. His phone bleeped. A message from Poppy. Luke read it with more interest than he might have done a week ago.

Out late tonight. Don’t wait up. x

For Christ’s sake. What was going on? Luke looked round the newsroom. Marco was standing by the doors laughing with Dean. Emma was pulling on her cashmere coat, obviously about to go out on a story. At the sight of them, Luke’s heart curdled with anxiety. He suddenly, urgently felt the need of a friend. His eye fell on Thea, talking on the phone in her usual bossy way that Luke found such a turn off.

But her hair looked nice today, twisted in a knot on her head and those black trousers she was wearing displayed her legs to best advantage. Luke felt a stirring in his trousers. She had no kids or husband to rush home to, she’d surely go for a post-work drink with him?