An Ideal Wife (19 page)

“Of course you did. I’m sorry.”

“’S all right,” she said with another shrug.

She didn’t say anything for a minute or two. “Does living on the street get easier?” I asked eventually. I didn’t know if she’d bite my head off or not; to my surprise, she laughed.

“Living on the street’s the easiest thing I’ve done. You’ve got to find out where you can go. But you’re safe.”

“Safe?” I looked at her uncertainly. “On the street? Really?”

She laughed again. “Matter of degrees, I suppose. Where I left—home—wasn’t safe.”

“Not safe …?” I asked tentatively, not sure how to ask the question.

“Father beat me. Then my boyfriend beat me. Dunno what I did. Didn’t matter, I suppose.”

“That’s awful,” I said quietly.

“Maybe,” Greta said. “But I’m here now. And it’s easier. Keep to myself. I like it that way.”

I looked at her for a moment. “But you’re talking to me,” I said gently. “You must get lonely sometimes.”

“Me?” She laughed again, this time loudly and heartily. “I’m never lonely. Just a bit of peace and quiet. Not you, though. I see it in your eyes. You need to talk.”

“I … You think I need to talk?” I asked, slightly taken aback. “No. I mean, I’m here to … No, that’s not it at all. Please don’t worry about me.”

“Worry? I don’t worry about anything,” Greta said. “But I think you need to talk. Everyone does sometimes. Even me. Not now, though. Now I’m hungry.”

She winked and stood up, shuffling out toward the kitchen. I watched her go, then stood up uncertainly. Did I need to talk? Maybe Greta was right.

I got up and made my way out; at the door, Christina stopped me. “So, how are you getting on?”

I smiled awkwardly. “I’m not sure I’m a very good companion,” I said. “I think the people here feel a bit sorry for me. Greta thought I needed to talk.”

Christina laughed. “She’s very perceptive, our Greta,” she said. “Although if you’ve been talking to her, you’re better at this than you think. Greta doesn’t talk to anyone. She’s only ever said a handful of words to me in all the time I’ve been here.”

“Which is how long?” I asked.

“Oh, years,” Christina said. “Eight or nine now. Greta was one of our first. Lots of them are rehabilitated—they find jobs, get
housing, get their lives back on track. But some, like Greta, don’t want that; this is the only home they need. It’s just a shame we can’t cater to all the Gretas in the world.”

“You’re sure you don’t want help securing funding?” I asked. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“Funding, yes. Partnerships, scrutiny, and demands for publicity, no.” Christina smiled. “Unfortunately, it’s rare to get one without the other.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I guess you’re right.”

“So, you’re going?”

I nodded uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. I’m tired. I think maybe I need to get some sleep.”

“Good idea,” Christina said warmly. “You come back when you’re rested.”

I looked over her shoulder; Greta was carrying a plate of hot food back into the living area. Behind her, two men were arguing over a sleeping bag.

“Bye,” I said, turning to leave. “And thank you.”

By the time I got outside, I already felt more positive. I might be an appalling companion, but at least I had a roof over my head and a job—for now, at any rate. I had a mother who loved me, even if she was fundamentally flawed, and after all, wasn’t I flawed, too? Plus I had money in the bank. A ridiculous amount of money in the bank, actually. I took a deep breath of the cool night air and let it fill my lungs. I would tackle the issue with Mum in the morning, and I would also start fresh with Eric. I would get to the hospital in the afternoon. And as for Hugh … I grimaced uncomfortably as I realized I hadn’t responded to his text. Well, I’d do that tomorrow, too.

A car door slammed behind me and I turned, surprised to see it was the Hummer, parked on the other side of the street from me. At least, it looked like the Hummer that had been behind me
earlier. I eyed it curiously, then shrugged and walked toward my own car.

I got to my car and opened the door. Just as I was about to get in, the doors to the Hummer opened and two men got out, both dressed in black. One of them was wearing sunglasses, which struck me as odd since it was dark outside. They were large men—not particularly tall but broad. Both had crew cuts, too; they looked like soldiers. Or bodyguards. They had started to cross the road and were walking toward me. Quickly, I got into my car and started the engine. They were probably only going to ask for directions, I reassured myself as I pulled away; as Greta had said, the streets were perfectly safe, and running away was a very silly thing to be doing when they might have needed my help.

But I didn’t care; what I cared about was getting home, having a hot bath, and then getting into bed. What I needed, I told myself firmly as I pulled out and started to drive, was to see the end of this day and to hope that tomorrow would be considerably better.

THE NEXT DAY, after a fitful sleep, I woke with a sinking feeling in my stomach but did my best to suppress it. I just needed some perspective, I decided, needed to see the big picture. The trouble was, even the big picture looked terrible to me. Nothing was going right; no area of my life was chugging along nicely.

I showered, did my best not to focus on the bags under my eyes as I brushed my teeth and pulled back my hair, then got out my black suit. The power suit, Max called it—it was the suit I wore to impress clients or whenever I had a difficult meeting. Today, I hoped it would act like a suit of armor, letting the world believe I was tough and strong and not falling apart inside.

And as I put it on, it began to work its magic. Just as the skirt seemed to hold my butt in place, it also seemed to streamline my thoughts, pulling them together into coherent strands instead of a huge muddle of consciousness. As I slipped the jacket on, I was already beginning to think more clearly, developing a strategy instead of sinking into a puddle of despair.

What I needed to do, I decided, as I suddenly got the urge to put on some makeup and even some earrings, was to take control. I was letting my problems get the better of me, and that was the worst thing I could do. Quickly, I grabbed an old envelope from the kitchen table, found a pen, and started to write.

I sighed. This one was the hardest.

I bit my lip.

I looked back at the list. Written down, it all looked pretty straightforward and easy. The trouble was, I knew it wasn’t either of those things. I needed to be strong, clearheaded, and determined.

I picked up the phone. What I needed was Helen.

“So tell me about this guy with your mother again. Are you sure there wasn’t some other explanation?” Helen asked me half an
hour later, at a coffee shop near where she lived. “Could he have been a plumber or something?”

I shook my head wearily. “It’s pretty hard to make that kind of mistake, Hel. He wasn’t standing over something that required fixing. Or talking about something of a legal or accounting nature. He kissed her. And they were talking about telling me. His name was Lawrence.”

I didn’t know why that last fact was important; it just was. Luckily, Helen seemed to understand.

“Lawrence,” she said, as though it explained everything. “Hmmmm.”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “‘Hmmmm’ pretty much sums up my life right now.”

“It’s really that bad?” Helen asked, concerned.

I nodded gloomily. “How long do you have?”

“As long as it takes.” Helen shrugged. “I’m kind of between freelance contracts at the moment. Who knows, I might get another idea for a show.”

“Maybe Ivana can give you one,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You know, she’s got me looking after a trunk for her because she said she’d teach me to iron. Or, rather, hiding it for her.”

“Hiding a trunk?” Helen asked, her nose wrinkling.

“She brought it to my office. The trunk she used to have in her bedroom. You remember?”

“Yeah. But why?”

I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. It’s really heavy. It’s in my car. I meant to take it down to the house—I did take it. I just forgot to drop it off. You know, with Lawrence and everything.”

“Yeah, I can see how you might have had your mind on other things,” Helen said, nodding seriously.

“Then there’s Max,” I said despondently. “He’s all doped up, and this nurse, Emily, is all over him. Yesterday she even tried to
stop me from seeing him, because she said he was asleep and needed his rest.”

“Bitch.” Helen shook her head. “And, what, he was wide awake waiting for you?”

“No,” I said, pulling a little face. “Actually he was asleep. And really tired. But still.”

“Still,” Helen agreed. “Okay, so let me recap briefly. We have a possessive nurse, an unfaithful mother, and an injured husband. Oh, and Ivana’s trunk. Anything else?”

I smiled involuntarily. This was why I loved Helen; she made the terrible seem funny, made everything feel slightly less serious. “Well, there’s Eric Sandler,” I said, taking a gulp of coffee. “He’s interviewing me today, and I’m terrified.”

“You, terrified?” Helen asked, looking at me dubiously. “Why?”

“Because he’s horrible,” I said, cringing.

“That’s specific,” Helen said drily.

I relented. “Fine. I’m terrified because this audit is very important and I think Eric’s got it in for me. He’s the auditor from hell. He follows me around on the pretext of talking to Caroline.”

“Ooh, furtive. You’ve got to hate that.”

“Yes, exactly,” I agreed, warming to my theme. “And he’s got horrible beady eyes.”

“I hate those,” Helen said supportively.

“And a nasal voice.”

“Well, that does it.” Helen grinned. “String him up now and have the village elders throw stones at him.”

I laughed, then I sighed heavily. “Maybe I’m the one who’s been a little strung out lately.”

“A little?” Helen arched an eyebrow. “Jess, you’re a bundle of nerves. I’ve never seen you look so tired. When was the last time you had a good night’s sleep?”

I bit my lip. The truth was I couldn’t remember. Not since …

“Not since Hugh came back on the scene?” Helen suggested gently.

I grimaced. “He texted again yesterday. I mean to call him, but I don’t know what to say. ‘Hi, how much do you want? Take it! Take it all.’ My stomach flip-flops every time I think of calling him. I feel like I’m on a treadmill, Helen, and I can’t get off. And I keep hoping it’s going to slow down, but instead it’s getting faster and faster, and everything’s rushing by so fast I don’t even know what’s happening anymore.”

“So hit the button that slows it down,” Helen said, leaning forward.

“I can’t,” I said despondently. “I just can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Helen said firmly. “Let people deal with their own problems. Your Mum and Chester are grown-ups. So is Max. Hugh isn’t, obviously, but even that isn’t as bad as you think it is. It was just a kiss, for pity’s sake.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “It’s not the kiss, though; it’s the fact that I didn’t tell Max. He’s so honorable. He would never lie about anything or let me believe something that wasn’t true. I was trying so hard to be ideal, but the fact of the matter is I’m not. Never will be. I’m just not like him. And if that changes things, then …” I looked away, not wanting to contemplate what that would mean.

Helen nodded, then looked up at me with a sly smile. “You’re sure you don’t want to let Ivana get rid of the problem for you?” she asked, then giggled.

“Why not,” I said, managing a smile. “I mean, she’d probably turn up at the office with a couple of dead bodies for me to hide at the house, but, hey, it’s just returning a favor, right?”

Helen laughed. “I’m sure she’s not as dodgy as we make her out to be.” I caught her eye, and then we were both laughing. “Okay, maybe she is,” Helen conceded. “But she means well. So, okay, tell Max the truth. Pick your time well, though. And don’t build it up into something it wasn’t. Promise?”