The Model Wife Part 17

'Bus for me. Charity worker, you know.' Jake pushed open the door, dousing them with a sobering blast of fresh air.

'Look, there's a cab with its light on.' Thea waved frantically. As it stopped she turned to face him.

'Well, good to see you,' she said. 'I'll talk to the powers that be about sending a team out, though if you can't promise me anything, I can't promise you.'

'I'm not trying to con you. Minnie is going to go to Guatemala City very soon and you'll be grateful to me if you have your boys in place.'

'I'll see what I can do.'

'And I will too.'

They both looked at each other for a second, then he leant forward and standing slightly on tiptoe kissed her on the cheek.

'Safe journey,' she said. 'I've got your numbers; I'll keep you posted.'

'Ditto,' he said, then paused. 'Maybe I'll see you when I get back.'

'Maybe,' she said, climbing into the taxi. 'If you get us an interview.'

He laughed and shut the door for her. As the cab pulled away, she turned round to see him waving. Tentatively she waved back. And smiled. Something felt weird. It took her a second or two to realize it was the unfamiliar sensation of having enjoyed herself.

An Open Letter to Carla Bryonne from Hannah Creighton who knows just how it feels to have a straying husband When hannah creighton read about the marital difficulties of WAG Carla Bryonne this week after her former PA Gloria Wilkins alleged that her husband, England and a.r.s.enal striker Duane Bryonne, had had a string of affairs, she felt a tug of sympathy. Here, as one neglected wife to another, she offers Carla some moral support.

Dear Carla When I read about the pain Duane has allegedly put you through these past few weeks, I felt touched to the soul. Your travails brought back the agony of my own marriage breakdown.

If what I read is the truth, then your husband is an unpleasant, vain philanderer with utter control over you. You feel weak, ugly: used goods. Duane, I would guess, knows how desperately you want him to stay and I suspect he's loving this power.

The sordid tales of your former PA Gloria Wilkins must have shattered your confidence. Your husband's behaviour is said to have left you a physical and emotional ruin. I feel for you because I've been there. My husband, Seven Thirty News Seven Thirty News anchorman Luke Norton, cheated on me G.o.d knows how many times during our eighteen-year marriage before eventually leaving me and his three children for his 22-year-old pregnant girlfriend, known to my nearest and dearest as 'the Bimbo'. anchorman Luke Norton, cheated on me G.o.d knows how many times during our eighteen-year marriage before eventually leaving me and his three children for his 22-year-old pregnant girlfriend, known to my nearest and dearest as 'the Bimbo'.

The first time I discovered my husband was playing away, I like you had just had my third baby. My self-worth was at an all-time low as I struggled to lose the baby weight and to leave the house without pieces of mashed banana clinging to my hair. No wonder my husband didn't want me, I thought. My heart palpitated, my breathing was out of control. I felt as if I was losing my mind.

It is the toughest thing imaginable to discover that the man who is supposed to be your lover and protector has betrayed you. It's even tougher when you think about all those times you confronted him only to be told that you were ridiculous, paranoid, that you'd imagined it all. Did Duane call you neurotic? Did he tell you you were so delusional he was inclined to dump you anyway? In public you've continued to a.s.sert that you believe in Duane, but in private you must at least suspect he has been unfaithful.

Yet, if you're anything like me a piece of you will still stubbornly cling to the belief that he is telling the truth. I tackled Luke so many times over his affairs, only to be met with angry denials. Like you, I found myself humiliated into looking for hard evidence just so I could know I wasn't going mad. Having to sneakily read your husband's text messages makes you feel like the lowest of the low.

For years I too stood by my husband. Unlike you, I didn't even have a job. I had given up work to concentrate on raising my family and I didn't know how I would be able to make a go of things financially without him. But finally the discovery of an email made it impossible to avoid the truth any more. When I learned he'd knocked up the little floozy, I had no choice but to kick him out. And do you know what? I survived though admittedly at times it was touch and go by focusing on my own well-being and by starting to work again. Today, I am more confident and happier than I ever have been. I have a great new boyfriend and relations with my ex are cordial, if cool.

Carla, I know what h.e.l.l you are going through. As one woman to another, I urge you to distance yourself from Duane and find strength from friends and family members. Concentrate on your your career as a tracksuit designer. Have some nights out with the girls. career as a tracksuit designer. Have some nights out with the girls.

However hard you may find it, you must must find out if Duane has strayed. Call those involved yourself. What you hear may be unbearably painful but it may also set you free, because the ball will be in your court as to whether to continue with your marriage or not. find out if Duane has strayed. Call those involved yourself. What you hear may be unbearably painful but it may also set you free, because the ball will be in your court as to whether to continue with your marriage or not.

You have a long life to look forward to overflowing with adventures and promise. You have your beautiful children. But if you carry on behaving like an ostrich, it may mean the end of not only your marriage but also your sanity. And, believe me, no man is worth that.

Thinking of you Hannah Creighton

23.

Time was dragging for Poppy. With Brigita coming four days a week, she quite simply had nothing to do. It was a catch-22 situation: until she had childcare she couldn't work, but until some work materialized she had to pay someone to look after her daughter (well, OK, technically Luke had to pay, but what was his was hers) when she would have preferred to be doing it herself.

She knew Luke had hoped by employing a nanny they'd eventually be earning more money, but in the short term their expenditure went up. To get back in shape for modelling Poppy joined the Harbour Club just up the road where she managed to eke out her days doing slow lengths of the pool, drinking smoothies in the bar and leafing through old copies of OK! OK! magazine. The place, after all, was full of other bored mothers who sat in huddles b.i.t.c.hing about their lazy housekeepers and swapping tips on holiday destinations with kids' clubs. But, as usual, they were all at least ten years older than Poppy and she knew she'd have nothing to say to them, so she watched them timidly out of the corner of her eye, while reading about Lindsay Lohan's new boyfriend. magazine. The place, after all, was full of other bored mothers who sat in huddles b.i.t.c.hing about their lazy housekeepers and swapping tips on holiday destinations with kids' clubs. But, as usual, they were all at least ten years older than Poppy and she knew she'd have nothing to say to them, so she watched them timidly out of the corner of her eye, while reading about Lindsay Lohan's new boyfriend.

She spent a lot of time cooking elaborate meals for Luke, but she always burnt them or put in too much sugar or too little salt. When she apologized, he'd shrug and say it was OK, he wasn't very hungry anyway and the rest of the meal would be eaten in silence.

Luke grunted. Poppy cleared up the plates in silence, watched a bit of television and went to bed early.

'Are you all right?' Poppy asked after a couple of nights of this.

'I'm fine,' he replied unconvincingly. 'Work is stressful. The shareholders are putting on pressure to b.u.mp up the viewing figures. Give the channel a more youthful image.'

'What does that mean?'

'It means,' Luke snapped, 'that my job is on the line. I'm over fifty and the channel wants viewers who don't know who Adolf Hitler was. They want to watch baby faces like that hairdresser Marco Jensen.'

'Oh, yes,' Poppy said unthinkingly. 'Someone I saw at the school reunion works for Wicked Wicked magazine. She was off to interview Marco.' magazine. She was off to interview Marco.'

Even as she finished the sentence, she saw Luke's face turn purple. 'See, that is typical of the way things are going at the moment. It's all about who looks like they belong in a boyband, not about who's got experience.'

'Clara sat on the potty today.' Poppy tried to change the subject. 'Brigita says she's doing really well.'

She wanted to make a cake for Clara's second birthday, but when Brigita caught her digging around for scales and a mixing bowl in the kitchen, she was outraged.

'That's my job, Mummy. You sit back. Relax.'

The cake Brigita made in the form of a chocolate hedgehog with flakes for p.r.i.c.kles and cherries for eyes was much nicer than anything Poppy could have created.

Brigita invited some of her nanny friends and their charges over for a birthday tea and, as usual, Poppy hovered on the edges of the group not knowing quite who to talk to and feeling vaguely resentful at having to share her daughter's special day with strangers.

She was so bored she even resorted to looking at the link her mother had sent her for Jean-Claude. She found a video clip of a tall, white-haired, self-consciously groovy man in his late thirties giving a lecture on 'Roland Barthes: from Phenomenology to Deconstruction'. Poppy wasn't exactly sure what he'd have in common with a woman whose favourite read of all time was Flowers in the Attic, Flowers in the Attic, but Poppy's was not to reason why. but Poppy's was not to reason why.

Louise had called her when she was stuck in traffic on the M27 to tell her the latest news.

'He didn't get back to me, so I called him. He was ever so surprised to hear from me, but he said he'd take me out for dinner next time he's in London.'

'And when will that be?' Poppy said teasingly.

'He didn't say. But it's not a problem because I've decided to go on a spa weekend to Ma.r.s.eilles at the end of the month and surprise him, so we can have dinner there.'

It was a relief when, on Thursday morning, Mich.e.l.le nee Migsy Remblethorpe rang.

'Hi!' said Poppy, as obsequiously as Jonathan Ross greeting Madonna. 'How are are you?' you?'

'Fine. How are you? I thought of you because I've just been reading Hannah Creighton's article about Carla Bryonne. It's savage, isn't it? I felt for you. Everyone at work's talking about it, saying how awful it must be to be publicly known as "The Bimbo".'

'I haven't read it,' Poppy said, feeling slightly sick.

'Haven't you? Oh well, don't, that's my advice. It's so gratuitously nasty. But it made me think. It was so much fun us b.u.mping into each other at the reunion and I was hoping we could meet for lunch.'

'Today?'

'Today? I don't know. It's press day; we're quite up against it. But I could sneak out for an hour if you met me near our offices. We're in Farringdon, so how about Smith's of Smithfield?'

'That would be lovely,' Poppy said.

Excited that Migsy Remblethorpe wanted to know her, she carefully applied some make-up, put on her cleanest pair of jeans and headed to the Tube. At the little newsagent's in the concourse she bought the Post Post and read the article. The usual c.o.c.ktail of emotions jiggled inside her: one part anger at Hannah's viciousness mixed with two parts meek acceptance because she deserved no less. and read the article. The usual c.o.c.ktail of emotions jiggled inside her: one part anger at Hannah's viciousness mixed with two parts meek acceptance because she deserved no less.

'I'm sorry, Hannah,' she breathed, 'I didn't know what I was doing.'

But it was too late now, she thought as she walked up the steps at Farringdon Tube. This had been her regular stop when she'd worked at Sal's. But then Luke took me away from all that, she'd always tell her interviewer.

But what had he actually taken her away from? Poppy wondered now. She'd been happy at Sal's, earning a pittance but spending hours gossiping in the kitchen with him and his wife, Maria, then strap-hanging home to Kilburn where she'd sulk a bit about the appalling state her flatmate had left the kitchen in, but then cheer up when Meena got home. They'd spend hours getting dressed up to go into town while swigging from a bottle of wine and dancing to Kiss FM.

But I didn't have Clara, she reminded herself as she tapped along the cobbled streets. But I'm not happy. But you have have to be happy, you have a beautiful, healthy daughter. But I'm not. Maybe I'm too greedy. What else do I want from life? to be happy, you have a beautiful, healthy daughter. But I'm not. Maybe I'm too greedy. What else do I want from life?

Even though she was five minutes late, she still had to wait twenty minutes for Migsy. A happy twenty minutes, though, at a sunny table on the roof terrace with a magnificent view over the dome of St Paul's. She relished being in a restaurant without free crayons, high chairs and children's portions, browsing a menu without being in a perpetual state of alertness in case Clara stabbed herself in the eye with a fork or ate all the sugar cubes.

'Poppy, hi! Sorry I'm late.'

Yet again Migsy looked immaculate.

'It's so great to catch up,' she twittered as she sat down. 'Wasn't the reunion fun?'

'Mmm,' said Poppy, who'd left about five minutes after her conversation with Migsy when it became apparent Meena was so drunk she was going to have to drive her home.

'Did you talk to Laura Lightman? She's a s.e.x therapist now and she changed her name to Laura Lightwoman.' Migsy t.i.ttered. 'Who would have thought it? But who would have guessed you you were the Bimbo. A bottle of sparkling please,' she said to the waiter. 'By the way, I had were the Bimbo. A bottle of sparkling please,' she said to the waiter. 'By the way, I had such such fun interviewing Marco Jensen. Isn't he cute? He was telling me all about the fun interviewing Marco Jensen. Isn't he cute? He was telling me all about the Seven Thirty News Seven Thirty News; what an honour it is to work with a veteran like your hubbie. Said he really respects him, like he does all the old-timers.'

'Oh that's nice,' Poppy said.

A waiter hovered. 'Hi.' Migsy smiled. 'Right, I'll have the pear and fennel salad. Poppy?'

'Um, I'll have the pheasant,' said Poppy, naming the first thing she spotted on the menu.

The waiter disappeared. Migsy leant forward.

'I'm going to cut to the chase because I can't stay long. Busy, busy, busy. You know how it is, I'm sure.'

'Oh, yes, indeed.' Indeed? Indeed? Poppy sounded like the host of a religious-affairs programme. She really did need to get out more. Poppy sounded like the host of a religious-affairs programme. She really did need to get out more.

Migsy continued, 'We're looking to launch a new column. A sort of It-girl about town diary. You know, the parties you've been to, the shops you've shopped in, the celebrities you've hobn.o.bbed with. I think you'd be perfect for it because you're a model, which is what all our readers aspire to be, but you're also a mum, which they are too poor cows so you can give us a few cute little anecdotes about your baby which other mums seem to like for some reason. Oh, and don't take this the wrong way, but you're also "The Bimbo". I mean, obviously you're not really, but that's how people know you because of Hannah's columns.' She waved away the proffered bread basket before Poppy could help herself to a delicious-looking crusty roll. 'So what do you think?'

Poppy felt like Dorothy after the hurricane struck Kansas.

'Um...'

'Don't worry, I know you can't write,' Migsy continued. 'That will be my job. You'll chat to me once a week about what you've done. The pay'll be three hundred pounds a column to start with, and then if it goes well we can talk about a rise.'

'I...'

The food was placed in front of them. Migsy skewered a fennel leaf and placed it between her lips. Poppy lifted her knife and fork. Why the h.e.l.l had she ordered pheasant? As soon as she attacked it, the bird started skidding round her plate like a drunk on an ice rink. She tried to saw off a corner and ended up with enough to sustain a very thin flea.

'What do you think? I'd like an answer now, because we've got a new editor and I need plenty of ideas to impress her.'

'I never go to parties,' Poppy confessed. 'I haven't really had a social life since my daughter was born.' Or much of one before, she could have added.

'That's fine,' Migsy said airily. 'We can sort out all that for you.'

'What, you can get me invited to parties?'

'Course we can.' Migsy fumbled in her bag. 'Here's a few to get you started. Look. The Murder Police Murder Police premiere. It's tomorrow night. Meant to be amazing. Brad Pitt's in it. And an after-show party at the Natural History Museum.' premiere. It's tomorrow night. Meant to be amazing. Brad Pitt's in it. And an after-show party at the Natural History Museum.'

'Really?' Poppy looked at the colourful piece of cardboard. 'And all I have to do is tell you what it was like?'

'And who you saw. It's the easiest job in the world. Up there with being an usherette.' Migsy snorted. 'I'll call you once a week on Thursday morning, say at eleven, if that's not too early, and we'll have a chat about what you've done that week. Basically, two parties, a couple of comments about someone in the news Kerry Katona, for example and something cute your baby's done. Then I'll email you a version of what I'm going to write, and that's that.'

Poppy leafed through the pile of stiff-backed cards, not knowing where to begin. She bit her lip.

'I think I'd better just run this past my husband.'

Migsy shrugged. 'If you want to, but I don't see why he'd mind.'

'Maybe not. I'm sure not. He says he wants me working again. But all the same...'

'Sure, sure, well run it by him,' Migsy said a tad more impatiently, as her mobile rang. 'Oh, excuse me. Yes? s.h.i.+t! OK. Well, don't worry, I'll be straight back.'

She hung up. 'Crisis. There's a rumour Minnie Maltravers is going to adopt a baby. We've got to alter the whole front cover. I need to get back. You know how it is, Poppy, but don't worry. You take your time here. Linger. Have a dessert.' She stood up. 'Really nice to see you again. So thrilled you'll be working for us.'

With a jaunty wave, she was gone. Poppy stared after her retreating form in bemus.e.m.e.nt.

She stared out of the window at the higgledy-piggledy rooftops. A proper job. Just like Hannah had. The chance to go to parties, leave the house again. And a column in a magazine. The thoughts that raced round her head would finally get some kind of outlet. I'm so busy with my column, but I still manage to make as much time as I can for my daughter. Motherhood is the most important thing in the world to me...

Back home, Clara was sitting on the floor, scribbling on a large piece of paper. Brigita was was.h.i.+ng up at the sink, her phone tucked under her chin.

'Mmm. Hmmm? Well, I love you... No, I love you more.' She giggled girlishly, then sensing Poppy's eyes on her, whirled round. 'Oh! Got to go, me duck. Bye, then. Yes. Ta, ta.' She put the phone down on the kitchen counter. 'Hi, Mummy. I didn't hear you come in. How is your day been? Is a little parky outside, no?'

'Good,' Poppy said, wondering if she dared ask Brigita to stop calling her Mummy. She squatted down to her daughter's level. 'Hey, chickabiddy. How are you?'

Clara grunted, not even looking up.

'She's been really good,' Brigita said fondly. 'Did another weewee in the potty. Soon she will be using the big bog. We made star chart. Show Mummy.'

'No. Wanna draw!'

'OK, you show me later.'