Free The Model Wife by Julia Llewellyn Page B

emails?’ Which none of you ever respond to, Jan thought.
    ‘Yes, but reading newspapers… Anyway, I guess I could have read Hannah online, but I didn’t know she was writing for the Daily Post .’ Why didn’t you tell me, Rachel? With superhuman force of will, Thea collected herself. ‘Not that I care, anyway. Why would I? I have no interest at all in Luke Norton’s private life.’ Having uttered that enormous lie, she stood up. ‘OK, Mum. I really must be getting back to London.’
    ‘I wish you could stay longer.’
    ‘Me too,’ Thea lied again. ‘But it’s work , you know.’ It was the cast-iron excuse that got her out of everything, every time. What would she do without it?

7
    It was just after six on Friday. In her bedroom, Poppy was poring over the copy of the Post she’d bought earlier that week, re-reading Hannah’s trophy-wife article for the twentieth time. She’d vowed to rip it up, but just as she’d loved to pick at her playground scabs until they bled, she couldn’t resist returning again and again to Hannah’s words.
    Leech. Parasite . Every phrase ripped through Poppy like a labour pain. That so wasn’t how it was. She’d married Luke for love, not money. That was why he always said he loved her. Used to say, she corrected herself sadly, realizing Luke hadn’t made any such declaration for quite a while. OK, so perhaps she neither held down a twenty-hour-a-day job in the City nor was she a brilliant hostess and cook, but she was busy – way too busy, bringing up Clara. In her articles, Hannah never mentioned that her superwoman stance had been made considerably easier thanks to the teams of au pairs she’d employed or, postdivorce, by sending all three children to boarding school, giving her plenty of time to tend the garden and reestablish her brilliant career.
    For the millionth time since the columns had begun Poppy turned her attention to Hannah’s photos. Meena insisted she’d been airbrushed, but even allowing for that,
    there was no doubt she was a really attractive woman. Perhaps not as pretty as Poppy, but certainly nothing like the frump she’d imagined on the rare occasions Luke had reluctantly referred to his wife. Much as it pained her, Poppy couldn’t help nursing a grudging respect for Hannah. She hated the way she kept attacking her in print and now – more and more – on TV, but at the same time Poppy knew the attacks were justified. Before she’d married Luke and especially before she’d had Clara, she’d had no understanding of how much a wife needed her husband, how much a child needed its father. She’d taken Luke from Hannah almost as casually as she might have finished Meena’s shampoo and it was beginning to dawn on her what a bad and selfish thing she’d done.
    Poppy believed in karma. So even though Hannah’s attacks were humiliating, she meekly submitted to them knowing that, if anything, she was getting off lightly for her evil behaviour.
    ‘Oh Clara! Put that down!’
    Clara continued rubbing Poppy’s favourite Shiseido lipstick all over her face.
    ‘Clara, that’s Mummy’s, give it to me.’
    ‘No-wagh.’
    Poppy struggled to recall the techniques imparted from all the childcare programmes she watched when Luke was out entertaining contacts. ‘Then Mummy will have to take it from you,’ she threatened.
    A sly look came over Clara’s pretty face, as she backed towards the wall.
    ‘No-wagh.’
    Poppy looked round helplessly as if Supernanny might be hiding in the cupboard ready to jump out and help her subdue this ferocious toddler.
    ‘Please?’ she asked meekly.
    Clara turned her back and started drawing on the wall.
    ‘Oh, sweetie, don’t do that. No!’ Luke would go mad. Poppy bounded across the room and snatched the lipstick. Immediately, Clara’s face creased and she began to scream a scream that could lead warriors into battle.
    ‘Noooo! Noooo! Noooo! Give me, Mummy. Give meeeee!’
    Luke stuck his head around the door.