The Model Wife (33 page)

She reached for her phone in preparation for a long chat with Rachel, just three days off her due date. But as she called her number, Luke’s phone began blaring in the other room, some stupid hip-hop tune he’d allowed one of his children to programme in. Bugger. He’d obviously left it behind. Not Thea’s problem. She dialled her friend.

‘Hi, I can’t come to the phone right now.’

So much for that. Thea left a message asking if she’d gone into labour, then dunked her head under the water. When she came up for air, Luke’s phone was still ringing. Voicemail calling back. It would ring twice more, then give up.

But the phone kept ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ Thea bawled when the hideous tune had repeated itself for ten minutes. ‘I’m coming!’ Crossly, she hauled herself out of the bath and, wrapped in a towel, padded across the flat. She’d turn the bloody thing off. But then looking at the caller IDshe saw ‘Brigita’. One of Luke’s floozies, she thought drily, but then she remembered: Clara’s nanny. She switched the voice to voicemail but within seconds ‘Brigita’ started calling again. Surely Luke hadn’t been so tacky as to have a fling with her too? She would put nothing past him. Crossly, she answered, ‘Hello?’

‘Luke? Where is Luke?’

‘He’s not here. He’s at the theatre.’

‘Oh no.’ There was no mistaking the terror in Brigita’s voice.

Dread shot down Thea’s spine. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘I am at the hospital with Clara. She’s reight poorly. She get a rash, so I take her in and the doctors say they think is meningitis. And I can’t find Poppy. Or Luke. Help me. Please. Help.’

47

Desperate to find Luke, Thea called the theatre.

‘I’m sorry,’ said an adenoidal-sounding woman. ‘The interval has just finished and we can’t page members of the audience until the play’s over.’

‘When will that be?’

‘Another two hours. It’s
Hamlet
, you know. Very long.’

‘That’s no good!’ Thea screamed. ‘His daughter is in hospital. She may be dying. You have to page him
now
.’

The woman sighed dramatically. ‘For a dying child I’ll make an exception.’

As Luke was being tannoyed to gasps from the packed auditorium, Thea called Brigita to try to find Poppy.

‘She was going to a party, but she don’t answer her phone.’ Brigita wept.

‘What party was it?’ Silly bimbo, what a thing to do when your child is sick.

‘I don’t know.’ Brigita struggled for something that might help. ‘She wear a dress, not jeans, so I think it’s a posh one.’

‘That doesn’t narrow it down.’ Thea chewed her lip. Years of journalistic experience had made her an expert at tracking things down. ‘How did she get there?’

‘In a minicab.’

‘Do you know the name of the firm?’

‘Yeah. Cooper’s. She always uses them.’ ‘I’ll call Cooper’s,’ Thea said.

Poppy had been drinking steadily. The lights in the room flashed in and out of focus as she reeled round the gallery. She was aware of people staring at her as she stalked towards Toby, but she didn’t care.

‘Toby, who’s Inge?’

A quick but definite look of unease passed over his face. ‘Who told you about Inge?’

‘That guy over there. He says you’re living in her flat in Shoreditch.’

A heavy sigh. ‘I thought you knew.’

‘How would I know? I think you forgot to tell me. Here’s my flat, by the way don’t use the beauty flash balm in the bathroom because it’s my girlfriend’s.’

‘Um. She’s my fiancée actually.’ He high-fived a passing Indian man. ‘Rav, I’ll be with you in a minute. Sorry, Poppy, I thought you realized.’

‘She won’t be your fiancée when she finds out about us.’

Toby looked incredulous. ‘There
is
no us. We just shared some good times.’

‘There was more to it than that,’ she argued. ‘You slept with me.’

He shook his head. ‘Oh Christ, I thought you of all people would understand. After all, you’re married, I thought you had more to lose than me.’

Poppy felt like one of Clara’s towers when she pulled out the bottom brick. She realized she’d still obscurely been hoping that Toby was her white knight who would gallop in just before the credits to save her. As all her dreams crashed down, she knew no one was going to rescue her, that she was on her own. She couldn’t be angry with him. She could only be angry with herself.

‘Poppy, come back!’

But she had disappeared into the crowd.

The man at Cooper’s minicabs was enjoying his power kick.

‘What you are asking for is classified information, darling.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘You could be a stalker or anything, innit?’

‘This woman’s child is seriously ill in hospital. If I don’t find her she may not get there in time.’

A long pause, then, ‘I’ll radio Abdul.’ Another wait, this time so long Thea was about to hang up and try again when he finally came back on. ‘He took her to the Sanition Gallery in Regent’s Park.’

Thea couldn’t find a number for the gallery, most probably because, as a temporary structure, it didn’t have one. Cursing, she called Brigita again.

‘How’s she doing?’

‘She’s not good. She’s on a life-support machine. If she doesn’t respond they say they may have to amputate her leg to stop the infection.’

‘Oh, fuck,’ Thea said. ‘I’m getting in my car.’

It took forty minutes to get to Regent’s Park, not bad by London standards but an age in the circumstances. Thea cursed at every traffic light, wished unpleasant venereal diseases on giggling couples who ambled lovingly across every zebra crossing. Even when she arrived, she had to drive round four times before she found somewhere to park. Having finally manoeuvred the car into a space intended for a baby buggy, she jumped out and sprinted through the metal gates into the park, past gangs of friends enjoying picnics in the twilight, towards the big, white marquee.

‘Sorry,’ said a security guard sticking a burly arm in front of her.

‘Invitation please.’

‘I forgot it.’

Scornfully, he eyed the make-up-less face, the still damp hair, the threadbare jeans and dirty sweatshirt. ‘No ticket, no entry, love.’

‘No, you don’t understand! You have to let me in. My… my
friend’s
at a party in there, but her daughter’s really sick in hospital. I have to let her know.’

‘Yeah, yeah, now I’ve heard it all.’

‘Do you think I’d try to gatecrash your stupid party dressed like this?’

He shrugged. ‘People do the strangest things to be in the same room as Kate Moss.’ He turned his back to her.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ Thea cried, ‘a child is dying here.’

He turned back. ‘You’re sick trying that.’

Suddenly Thea understood how people found the strength to lift cars and rescue bodies trapped beneath. Dipping her head, she charged at the bouncer, ducking beneath his arms.

‘Oi! You stupid cow! Come back.’ He started running after her, but Thea was inside the marquee. A band was playing and the dance floor was crowded. Thea virtually dived into the middle of it, then started weaving her way in and out of the dancers. ‘Excuse me,’ she said as Elle Macpherson screeched in pain at her squashed foot. ‘Excuse me.’

And there Poppy was, in the middle of the floor, moving woodenly to the beat. For a second, Thea stopped and watched. She was so pretty, but she looked so lost. Once again, much as she would have liked to despise Poppy Norton, the only emotion Thea felt was pity.

But there was no time for such thoughts now. Thea squeezed past a skinny man in a sarong and shook Poppy on the shoulder.

‘Poppy, hey Poppy!’

Poppy looked at her, her eyes as blank as the bullets in a movie gun.

‘It’s me. Thea. I… Luke’s friend.’

Poppy bristled. ‘What the hell do you want?’

‘It’s about Clara. She’s really ill. In hospital. Meningitis. You have to get there quickly.’

Poppy’s face, already pale, turned white.

‘Clara?’

‘Yes, Clara. Come on. We have to go.’

Poppy didn’t move. ‘Why didn’t Brigita call me? She promised she’d call.’

‘She did. You weren’t answering.’ Thea began dragging her across the dance floor. ‘Come on. We have to go.’

‘My phone’s in the bag in the cloakroom.’ Poppy stopped dead and looked into Thea’s eyes. ‘What a stupid cow I am. How the hell could I have done that?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Thea said.

‘It does. I left it there so I could keep on talking to Toby. I’m an idiot.’

‘Come on!’ Thea was virtually manhandling her. They stepped out of the marquee.

‘There she is!’ yelled the bouncer, as he spotted Thea. ‘Oi. You cheeky cow.’

‘Oh bugger off,’ Thea snapped over her shoulder, as she pulled a still semi-frozen Poppy across the sun-scorched grass. ‘Come
on
. I’m going to drive you to the hospital.’ She stepped out of the gates she’d come in by, pointing her keys in the direction where she’d left her car.

No beep.

‘What the fuck?’ Thea knew immediately what had happened. She’d slammed the door without locking it, as if she were a character in a movie. But unlocked cars in central London didn’t stick around for long. Still, she’d worry about that later.

‘We’ll get a taxi,’ she said, looking round. Nothing with a light on. ‘Come on. We’ll have to run down to Baker Street and find one.’

‘Poppy?’ said a man’s voice behind them. Thea looked round. A middle-aged blond guy in a suit was grinning at them, as he locked the doors of his Skoda. ‘You’re not leaving the party already, are you? I’ve only just got here.’

‘Charlie!’ Poppy exclaimed and burst into tears.

‘Are you OK?’

‘No, I’m not. Clara’s in hospital and we can’t find a taxi.’

Charlie’s sack-of-potatoes face crumpled. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you there.’

From the front seat of Charlie’s car, Poppy twisted round to interrogate Thea.

‘What about Luke?’

‘He should be there by now. I can’t call him because he left his mobile behind.’ She pulled it out of her bag. ‘I’ll try Brigita again though.’

‘How could I have done this?’ Poppy gibbered. ‘I’m a bad mother, a bad, bad mother.’

‘No you’re not,’ Charlie said. ‘You only went to a party.’

‘But Clara was sick. I should have known.’ She turned back to Thea.

‘Thank you for coming to find me,’ she said. ‘It was so sweet of you.’ Before Thea could work out how to reply to this, they were pulling up outside the hospital.

48

It was noon the following day but to Poppy and Luke time had stopped. They were living in a stifling new world of linoleum floors, the sound of wailing in corridors, hushed voices, an overwhelming odour of bleach and fear, and cold toast arriving at odd hours. In the harsh glare of the hospital strip lighting, Clara looked even more beautiful and more fragile than when she was newly born. Eyes shut, a tube in her nose, a needle at the end of another tube in her arm, the only sound in the room was the flashing and beeping of the monitor and of Poppy sobbing softly.

‘It’s all right,’ said Luke, putting his hand on her arm. ‘She’s getting antibiotics through the drip and they’re going to make her better. They caught it just in time.’

‘Suppose they hadn’t?’ Poppy stroked her daughter’s forehead. She’d been there all night, a night that had seen Clara endure a lumbar puncture and a couple of terrifying hours on a life-support machine. She would keep her vigil until her child was completely cured.

‘Oh my darling, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t with you,’ she whispered again. She looked at Luke. ‘Brigita did a great job getting her to hospital.’

‘I know.’

‘And Thea did a great job tracking us both down.’

‘She did.’ Then Luke said wryly, ‘I’m not surprised. She’s a brilliant journalist.’

‘She was so sweet to me,’ Poppy said. ‘I thought she was a cow before, but last night she was a star.’ A pause and then she said, ‘But… how did she know Clara was ill?’ In all the uproar, it hadn’t crossed her mind to ask.

Luke said nothing.

‘Of course, Brigita tried to track you down through the office.’ Poppy smiled at her powers of deduction. ‘She was probably in such a state she forgot you weren’t there any more.’

‘That’s right,’ Luke said, to the sound of a commotion outside the door.

‘Poppy, darling. Poppy, are you in here? With my gorgeous Clarabelle?’ Louise burst into the room, followed by Gary. ‘Oh Christ!’ she yelled at the sight of her granddaughter. ‘So it’s true!’ She flung herself on Gary and began weeping noisily. ‘Oh my God, oh my God. What am I going to do?’

‘What’s happened?’ Gary asked, looking over Louise’s heaving shoulders at Poppy.

‘She’ll have to stay in a few days, but they say she’s going to be fine.’

‘Oh my God! I’ve been crucified with worry! Crucified!’

‘But I told you she was on the mend, Mum.’

‘I had to see for myself.’ Louise shook her head. ‘Thank God Gary had come over to watch the golf and could drive me here because I was in no fit state to go anywhere.’

‘Well done, Gary,’ Poppy said.

He nodded curtly.

‘I’ve never been in such agony in my life.’

‘Clara must have had it tough too,’ Gary said. For the first time in the past twelve hours, the faintest of smiles crossed Luke’s face. There was a knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ he said, expecting one of the doctors. But instead, Charlie’s head appeared. He too, looked as if he’d had a sleepless night.

‘Hey, guys. Sorry to disturb. I just wanted to check everything was OK now.’

‘You’re not going to print this in the paper are you?’ said Luke with narrowed eyes.

‘Luke! Of course he’s not.’ Poppy was furious. ‘Clara’s on the mend now. Thank you so much Charlie for all your help last night.’ She stepped forward and hugged him.

‘It was my greatest pleasure,’ Charlie said, just as Louise gave a little stifled scream.

‘Charles Grimes?’

Charlie stiffened.

‘Yes,’ he said uneasily.

Under her fake tan, Louise had turned white.

‘You know who I am, don’t you?’

Poppy looked at them both, baffled.

‘Or do you need some reminding?’ Louise was asking. ‘Ronnie’s bar in St Tropez. Early eighties. “Owner of a Lonely Heart” by Yes. Me with a big floppy bow in my hair. A studio flat above the Chinese restaurant. Six glorious weeks until you disappeared into the ether and left me up the duff.’

Charlie looked at the floor.

‘I know. I worked it out the other day. Lulu Price.’

‘The very same.’ Louise turned to Poppy. Her mouth was strangely twisted. ‘I sincerely hope there’s nothing going on between you and this man because he’s your father.’