The Model Wife (25 page)

‘Cinderella!’ Freddie giggled. ‘It’s not gone midnight yet. Does your carriage await?’

‘My little girl’s not well.’

‘God, kids,’ Daisy snorted. ‘Eating too many pies?
Like her mum
,’ she added under her breath.

Face flaming, head held high, Poppy tapped Toby on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go,’ she said again. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’

‘I’ll see you to a taxi.’ Toby stood up.

Outside, they spotted a cab straight away. Poppy got in, heart thudding. ‘Thank you,’ she said distractedly. ‘Have fun.’

‘I won’t without you,’ Toby said in a low voice. He bent forward and kissed her softly on the lips. For a second, inhaling his musky smell, Poppy felt a sherbert fizzle in her veins but anxiety almost immediately erased it.

‘Why is it that whenever I’m with you, someone somewhere always starts vomiting?’

Poppy was sure there was a witty retort to this, but she just smiled and shrugged. ‘Maida Vale,’ she told the driver. ‘As quick as you can, please. My baby’s sick.’

36

By the time Poppy ran up the stairs to Clara’s room, the drama was all over.

‘I tidy up vomit, she is fast asleep now,’ Brigita explained, as Clara rolled over and squawked ‘Mummy’, before rolling back on to her front, her bottom poking up in the air.

‘But is she OK?’ Poppy stroked her soft blonde curls.

‘I take her temperature. Is normal. I think is just one of these children things.’

She certainly looked fine. ‘You could have called me, to tell me she was better,’ Poppy said crossly. ‘I was really worried.’

‘Me too, but this is children for you. I think it’s best you are home.’ Brigita gave Poppy a look she didn’t like very much. ‘Better the safe than the sorry, this is what I say. Anyway, now you’re back I’ll be off. I will see you Monday.’

So Poppy crawled into bed alone. Already rewriting history, she thought of her new friends in the restaurant, laughing and joking without her, before moving on to a nightclub. There’d been talk of Mahiki or Boujis. She forgot that she’d felt slightly awkward among them and instead brooded that she should be with them, dancing and flirting. But instead, yet again, here she was stuck alone in her marital bed with a two-year-old next door. It wasn’t fair. She’d missed out on her youth and now she’d been given a chance to snatch some of it back, domestic responsibilities still got in the way.

Then she reprimanded herself for thinking of adored Clara as a domestic responsibility. A second later, she squirmed at her naivety in thinking she was going on a date with Toby. After all, he’d never actually described it as such. How everyone must have laughed at that silly book she’d given him and at her having to leave so suddenly. Then she thought of Luke in Scotland, whom she had deliberately not called and guilt crept over her. All right, she was angry at how often he left her alone and – now she analysed it – a little jealous of his freedom. But she’d known Luke travelled when she married him. He was out earning money to support her and Clara while she’d been out flirting with another man. There was no getting away from it, she’d behaved badly.

Mother and daughter spent the following morning curled up on the sofa, watching the
Jungle Book
. As Clara roared with laughter at the antics of Mowgli and Baloo, Poppy’s heart ached with love. She was furious with herself for resenting Clara’s sickness. She was a terrible mother, a terrible person.

The doorbell rang.

‘Mr Postman!’ Clara cried.

‘No, darling, it’s Sunday.’ Poppy was baffled. She went to the front door and opened it to be greeted by a huge bunch of poppies.

‘Miss Poppy,’ said a bored-sounding man from behind them.

‘That’s me.’

‘For you.’ He thrust the flowers at her, then ran back down the steps to his van. Poppy put the bunch down and looked at the accompanying card. Her heart was thudding. She was pretty sure she knew who they were from, but you could always get these things wrong.

Poppies make drugs and you’re certainly my narcotic. See you soon, beautiful. T xxx

Poppy inhaled sharply. She read the message again, then again and was saved from another perusal by the phone ringing.

‘Hello?’ she said, breathily sure it was him.

‘Darling, it’s me!’ Honk, honk. ‘Oh, get out of my way, you arsehole.’

‘Hi, Mum. How was Marseilles?’

Her mother’s voice was like bleach down a clogged drain. ‘A dump. I shan’t be returning there in a hurry.’

‘Oh. So you didn’t see…?’ Poppy couldn’t remember his name. ‘Your friend?’

‘We had a drink. His sister was staying with him, so we were unable to go out for dinner as we’d arranged. But he says he’ll be in England soon and we’ll meet then.’

‘Oh, really? Well, that’s good.’ The front door opened and Luke stood there, looking weary, a suitcase at his feet. ‘Oh, hello!’ she squawked shoving the card from the flowers into her pocket. ‘Mum, I’ve got to go. Luke’s just got back. We’ll talk later.’ Ignoring the squawks of protest, she hung up. ‘How was Minnie?’ she said to her husband.

‘I wouldn’t really know. She blew us out.’

‘Daddeeee!’ called Clara, running into the hallway. Luke dropped on to his knees.

‘Hello, my sugarplum. I missed you. Daddy’s bought you a doll from Guatemala and – um – a hairy cow from Scotland.’

‘Gimme.’

‘In a minute.’ Luke grabbed his daughter and flung her in the air. She giggled rapturously.

‘She blew you out?’

‘Yup. Interview all set up, lights, camera and Minnie decides she’s a bit tired and she’ll do the interview another day, thank you.’

‘Oh you poor thing.’ Even though Poppy had spent the whole week growing angrier and angrier with Luke for being such a lousy husband, her soft heart still overflowed with sympathy for him. She began walking to the kitchen. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘I hear you’ve got a column,’ Luke said behind her.

Poppy’s hand stopped on its way to the kettle. ‘Yes. You know about that,’ she said brightly.

‘No I don’t.’

‘Yes, you do! I told you.’

‘You didn’t tell me anything.’

‘I’m sure I did.’ Poppy began fumbling through the cupboards for the Lavazza that he preferred. ‘The column for
Wicked
magazine,’ she continued, her back still to her husband. ‘I
thought
you weren’t listening when I told you.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘I
did
.’ Poppy was a terrible liar. Her face was carnation, her body as rigid as a frozen sausage. Luke snorted.

‘Can I see it then?’

Reluctantly, Poppy picked up her well-thumbed copy from the kitchen table. She’d meant to hide it before he got back. Luke flicked through it aghast.

‘The Bimbo Bites Back?’ He spat out each word like a piece of rotten meat.

‘They gave it that name, not me.’

‘Well, so I should hope. But Christ, it’s not exactly dignified.’ He read in silence, trying to frown, though Dr Mazza’s handiwork prevented that. ‘Poppy,’ he said after a moment, ‘you can’t do this.’

‘Why not? You wanted me to get a job. Now I have one.’

‘I wanted you to get a proper job. Not waffle to a ghost writer about how badly some film star dresses and what a bitch Hannah is. Christ, she’ll go nuclear over this.’

Poppy’s insides shrivelled. Not knowing how to respond, she buried her face in her daughter’s neck. ‘Darling, shall we look at the hairy cow Dad’s bought you?’

Luke spent the afternoon at his desk, catching up on paperwork. Poppy and Clara watched a
Balamory
DVD. She heated up a frozen risotto for dinner and they were in bed before ten, lying side by side, doing their best not to touch, both breathing deeply even though they were wide awake. Even though they knew they had to discuss the column again, both decided they were feeling too fragile and too guilty about their respective indiscretions to face it now.

The week passed. Poppy texted Toby to thank him for the flowers but heard nothing back. She attended a few more parties but didn’t see him. She had lunch with Barbara, who told her she’d always known she’d make a brilliant comeback and then presented her with a long list of interested clients, wanting to know if Poppy would like to endorse their products. Poppy took it home to mull over trying to feel excited, but too much of her mind was focused on Luke and the ever growing hole in their marriage and on Toby and why he hadn’t been in touch.

On Thursday at eleven sharp, Migsy rang.

‘Hey, Poppy. How are you? Did you get paid all right? Good! So what have you been up to this week?’

Poppy reeled off a list of the famous faces she’d seen and the places she’d been.

‘Fabulous. You really do sound like the ultimate girl-about-town, the sort all our readers aspire to be. But we’ll need to give the column a little bit more edge, Poppy, if it’s going to be as good as last week’s. What did you think of Danielle Minton, up close and personal? I tell you, I always used to think there was nothing wrong with Botox until I saw her.’

Poppy squirmed awkwardly. ‘Migsy, you know I don’t want to say anything mean.’

‘It’s not mean! It’s
funny
. Come on, Poppy, everyone says your observations are a breath of fresh air. You can’t tell me you didn’t think Danielle looked just like Tutankhamun.’

‘She did a bit,’ Poppy agreed unwillingly.

‘And what has little Clara been up to?’

Now she was on safer ground. ‘Oh, she’s being a nightmare with food at the moment. Won’t eat a thing but Jaffa Cakes, and at the weekend she weed all over Tesco’s newly cleaned floor. I was mortified.’

Migsy laughed. ‘Ah, how lovely. Our readers will really relate to that. And what do you think of this whole Minnie Maltravers thing? After all, your hubby’s just been in Guatemala, hasn’t he, doing reports on her charity work.’

‘Yes,’ Poppy said as proudly as the day she’d won best-kept locker at Brettenden Hall. ‘And then…’

‘And then?’

‘Nothing.’

‘And then what?’

‘This won’t go in the magazine, will it? This is strictly between you and me.’

‘
Of course
.’

‘Well, Luke was pulled out of Guatemala and had to go straight to Edinburgh to interview her. The idea was he’d do the interview in the afternoon and fly back in the morning, but Minnie kept them waiting for six hours and then, when she finally decided she was ready to do the interview, her phone rang, and then she decided she was too tired and would rather go out for dinner.’

‘Really?’ Migsy sounded bored. ‘How annoying for Luke.’

‘Yes.’ Poppy was driven by that age-old desire to impress Migsy. ‘He was furious. He’d flown halfway round the globe for nothing. He thinks she’s a total flake.’

‘Is he going to interview her again?’

‘Well, he hopes so but he doesn’t know. He hates her, he calls her Moaning Minnie. Said she was nothing like as gorgeous close up, you could see the scars round her eyes.’

‘Poor Luke,’ Migsy said. She sounded as bored as if Poppy had tried to explain EU agricultural policy to her. ‘Listen, Poppy, I’d better go, got to do a phone interview with Kate Thornton about what she keeps on her bedside table. We’ll speak same time next week. Have fun, take care.’

‘You too,’ Poppy said and only after she’d hung up did she realize she’d forgotten to remind Migsy to email her the column in advance. Oh well, she’d call her back later. She had an appointment to have her highlights done. She wondered if Toby would like them.

Story of a split-up: the update. Hannah Creighton, 46, was devastated nearly three years ago when her husband, newsreader Luke Norton, walked out on her and their three children Tilly, 16, Issy, 15 and Jonty, 10, for a 22-year-old model known as the ‘Bimbo’. Now, in the latest of her hilarious reports from the divorce frontline, Hannah describes her feelings when the bimbo was revealed last week to be magazine columnist Poppy Norton.

So now you all know. The Bimbo, who callously stole my husband, has a name. She’s called Poppy Norton, she’s 24, she has a two-year-old daughter called Clara who likes
Teletubbies
and she goes to lots of parties. Oh. And she used to be a model. In other words, I think you’ll agree, she is a woman of substance.

I’ve never actually met Poppy, but when I opened a trashy magazine in the dentist’s waiting room to find a big picture of her over a new column, rabbiting on about some parties she’d been to, what clothes she liked, what their little daughter enjoyed watching on television I felt as if I’d received a physical blow. I know my feelings were illogical – I don’t want Luke back – but seeing these inane ramblings made me feel as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over me. This fluffy little thing was the woman my husband had left his three beautiful children for? Amazingly, none of us have ever met Luke’s second wife: with touching loyalty the children decided they had no interest in getting to know her. But now my heart ached to think of Jonty, Tilly and Issy being thrown over for this piece of trailer trash. At the same time I couldn’t deny it: Poppy was prettier than I was, even in my heyday, and obviously she was much, much younger. Fair enough, Luke, why bother with a woman with a degree, a cookery diploma and a sterling record of helping out at the PTA when you could have a cookie-cut member of a girls’ band.

But my overriding emotion on reading Poppy’s column was one of pity. Reading between the lines, I got no sense of a happy home, of a supportive husband; instead I perceived a lonely, young woman trying to fill her days with parties and shopping. Or perhaps I’m imagining that. It can’t help that even on the day of our decree absolute, Luke was sending me texts saying: ‘I miss you. I love you so much. Please tell me you love me.’

It doesn’t help that Viagra ordered from the internet still regularly arrives in the post for him, more than two years after he moved out. That friends and colleagues keep me informed of spotting my ex canoodling with other women, be it at home and abroad.

It all shows how far I have come since that dark day nearly three years ago when I found out that Luke was carrying on with this piece of jail bait. At the time, losing my husband was like someone dying, but without being able to mourn. Now, however, I see that it was in fact the start of a new life. By throwing Luke out I have regained my self-esteem. My new boyfriend is gorgeous. I’m having great sex – I’d virtually given up with my husband. I’ve been inundated with opportunities to appear on television, to write a novel, to work for magazines.

Still, it hasn’t all been easy. I was sort of used to being a single mum, with Luke away so much on assignments, but since he left home and I’ve been obliged to earn a crust, there’s been no choice but to send the children to boarding school. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not talking Dotheboys Hall here, but it still breaks all our hearts to be separated in this way.

But the fact I have survived has given me much to think about, not least when Luke emailed me recently asking if I fancied dinner. A whole new future began to open up to me. Instead of being the dowdy wife at home looking after the children, I realized I could now be the glamorous woman having a flirtatious dinner with the legendary Luke Norton.