An Ideal Wife (6 page)

“Yes,” Max said seriously. “Yes, of course. Very good of you to spare the time. So …”

“So,” Joshua said, pulling out a file, “this has got everything you need in it. Chap who’s going to be auditing you is called Eric. Eric Sandler. He’ll be here a week from Tuesday and he’ll get right to it. He may need some help pulling together an interview schedule and he might want to go through some of your paperwork, but essentially you should barely know he’s here.”

“Interviews,” I said earnestly. “He’ll be interviewing … everyone?”

Joshua smiled reassuringly. “Probably not. He might just pick some random names from your staff list. Then he’ll be doing his own research, of course. Different auditors have different ways of doing things, although Eric is one of our more thorough people. Chester said he wanted a fine comb!”

“Thorough,” I said, trying my best to sound enthusiastic. “Well, that’s good. Isn’t it, Max?”

Max looked at me quizzically. “Absolutely. And thank you, Josh, for making the time to come see us.”

“No problem at all. Here’s a pack of information that should cover everything. And here’s my card—any problems, give me a call. It’s a painless process, though—basically we want to work with you, identify anything that we think you need to know about, and then we report back to Chester.”

I nodded weakly. “It sounds great,” I said. “I’m sure everyone will be, you know, excited about it.”

“Let’s hope so,” Josh said. “Some people get a bit funny about audits like this. They think we’re out to catch them.”

“Well, I doubt there’s anything to catch here,” Max said firmly. “Fortunately, I know my workforce and we are a loyal, hardworking bunch. I’ll have to work out a way of selling this idea to them, but I’m sure we’ll pass with flying colors.”

“Glad to hear it,” Josh said. “Anyway, I’ll be off, don’t want to hold you up. Great to meet you both, and I look forward to seeing the report!”

“Likewise,” Max said, reaching his hand out to shake Joshua’s before showing him to the door. “And thanks again.”

“Yes, thank you,” I said uncomfortably, and reminded myself to breathe. It was going to be fine. And, anyway, I had a plan. Project Ideal Wife. I had it all mapped out. Now I just had to find a soup kitchen. And learn to cook. Soup, ideally. And be supportive. And learn to iron. And …

“AND … WHAT?” I sighed. “I need help, Helen. What makes the perfect wife?”

“You’re really serious about this?” Helen looked at me cautiously. It was Monday evening, and Helen and I, along with our friend Giles, were on our way to Ivana’s to meet Giorgio.

“Very,” I said. “I have to be the best wife ever. It’s the only solution. So you have to help me.”

“But … why? If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, I say. And it isn’t broken, is it?”

“Not right now,” I admitted. “But there has to be only a hairline crack, and then one knock and it’s smashed.”

“And you think Hugh Barter is a hairline crack?”

I looked at her uncomfortably. “I’d say he’s a bit more than that, actually.”

Helen nodded slowly. “Yeah, I guess. Still, at least you’ve got a relationship to worry about.”

I frowned. “What about John?”

“Well, sure, yes, there’s John,” Helen said vaguely. “Anyway, we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you. Oh, look, there’s Giles.”

Giles, my former wedding planner and the campest man in London, was waiting for us outside the café opposite Ivana’s flat.
In front of him was a huge box. “Hello!” he said excitedly. “Oh, I can’t wait to see Giorgio. Look. I got him a music station.”

“A music station?” I frowned. “What’s that?”

Giles rolled his eyes. “What isn’t it, you mean. It’s amazing. It starts off as a play mat with surround-sound nursery rhymes. Then, when little Giorgio can sit up, it becomes an activity center, complete with keyboard—can you imagine? He’ll be able to play the piano before he can walk!”

“You’re serious? You got that for Giorgio?” Helen asked.

Giles nodded worriedly. “Why? Has he already got one?”

“No, dummy,” Helen sighed. “It’s just that I only got him a Onesie. I’m going to look really stingy now. I mean, you hardly even know Ivana.”

“I know her well enough,” Giles said defensively. “Anyway, I don’t mind. Say you went in halves with me.”

“Really?” Helen asked. “You don’t mind?”

“Not if you give me fifty pounds.” Giles grinned.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Helen. “Look, I’m freelancing,” she said. “I can’t go round spending fifty pounds on someone who can’t even thank me for it.”

“I’ll chip in your half,” I said quickly, putting my arm around her. “Consider it payment for the advice you’re going to give me.”

“Seriously?” Helen asked delightedly.

“Seriously,” I said. “What else am I going to do with my money, anyway?”

It was a flippant comment, but the truth was that I had no idea what to do with all the money I had sitting in the bank. When Grace had named me her beneficiary, I’d been so focused on saving the house that she’d grown up in—the house she was determined to see go into the right hands instead of into the hands of developers, who’d turn it into lots of flats—that I hadn’t even thought about the money. Not much, anyway. And the longer I left it, the less confident I felt deciding what to do with it. No one
ever wanted to talk about it—Max always told me it was my money to do what I wanted with, and my friends mentioned it only in jest, probably because they felt as awkward about it as I did. Every so often, Helen would tell me to buy a yacht or go mad in Chanel, but only because that’s what she thought she’d do if she had £4 million sitting in the bank. I knew differently. It was one thing to spend a figurative £4 million, quite another to spend the real thing. You could blow £400 on something nice; £400,000 would buy a lovely flat in London. But £4 million? It was too much to splurge, too much to squander. That kind of money had to be spent well, had to make a difference. But a difference to whom? A difference to what? I didn’t know, couldn’t decide. So instead I pushed it from my mind and tried to pretend it didn’t exist. Rather like Hugh Barter. Funnily enough, he was the only person who didn’t seem to mind talking about my money.

“Oh, Jess, you’re an angel,” Helen was saying. “So what did you get Giorgio, anyway?”

I smiled secretively. “You’ll have to wait and see,” I said.

“Ooh, sounds exciting,” Giles said with a big smile. “But what advice? What’s going on?”

“Jess wants to become the ideal wife,” Helen said, rolling her eyes. “Whatever that means.”

“The ideal wife? What is that, a reality show or something?” Giles asked interestedly.

Suddenly Helen’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, now you’re talking,” she said excitedly. “You know, come to think about it, that would make great telly. Put couples on an island somewhere with backup partners trying to outdo them.… Make them do tasks, get people to vote them off if they don’t do them properly—”

“Helen,” I said sternly, “this is not about a television program.” I turned to Giles with a pained expression. “This is serious. I want to …” I thought for a moment. Then I bit my lip. “I want to be
the best wife I can possibly be. I want to make Max really happy. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“So, what, a whore in the bedroom, a chef in the kitchen, and a hostess in the living room?”

I pulled a face. “You really think that constitutes an ideal wife? Shouldn’t there be more to it than that?”

“Depends if you’re talking ideal wife or ideal person,” Giles said thoughtfully. “I mean, an ideal person probably wouldn’t be a whore in the bedroom. Would they?”

“They would be appropriately whorish when it was required of them, I reckon,” Helen said with a glint in her eye.

“Are there degrees of whorishness?” Giles asked.

I sighed. “Can we maybe move on from that particular aspect of the ideal wife?” I suggested. “I want ideas. I want input.”

“Depends what kind of ideal wife you want to be,” Giles said. “Depends why you’re doing it.”

“She’s doing it because of Hugh Barter,” Helen said wearily. “Because she’s trying to sweeten Max up so he won’t dump her when he finds out she—shock, horror—kissed someone.”

Giles’s eyes widened. “Hugh? He’s been in touch again?”

I nodded. Giles had been with me when Hugh’s first call came through, bright and breezy, just wondering if I might help him out with some additional funding. And as Giles had said at the time, once I started this, there was never going to be an end in sight. If Hugh thought he had money on tap, he’d drink from it as long as he possibly could. “He asked for ten grand this time,” I said quietly.

“Blimey. You’re going to tell Max?”

“I don’t know,” I said miserably. “If I don’t, I’m a terrible person, and if I do, Max might … He might decide he doesn’t love me anymore.”

“Because of one kiss?” Helen screwed up her nose.

“Not one kiss.” I shook my head. “It’s the lying he wouldn’t be able to take. The fact I’ve kept it from him for so long. He’s so moral. He’d never lie to me. Never.”

Giles nodded slowly. “So you want to be perfect to, what, make it up to him?”

I shrugged uncomfortably. “I want to live up to his expectations. He thinks I’m perfect. He actually said that. And he deserves perfect, too. He’s made me so happy. Happier than I ever expected to be. You know, I grew up thinking that men were selfish people who would use me and leave me if I gave them half a chance. Grandma told me I should never trust a man, never rely on one for anything. And then I met Max, and I trust him completely and rely on him hugely and … and …” I felt tears pricking at my eyes. “… and it turns out that it’s me who’s the untrustworthy one. I have to be better, Giles. I have to be better than that.”

“You know,” Giles said thoughtfully, “there was something about trying to be perfect in
Psychologies
this month, about the problem with being a perfectionist. The article said it’s more important to feel good about yourself, to feel fulfilled, than to be perfect. And maybe it has a point. Maybe you need to stop beating yourself up.”

Helen raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I said. Get over it.”

“I prefer the way Giles said it,” I said.

“Seriously? He sounded like something off
The Oprah Winfrey Show
to me,” Helen said dismissively.

“And what’s wrong with
Oprah?”
I asked. “I like
Oprah.”

“Oh, so you’ll watch
Oprah
, but you’re dismissing
Reality Wives: The Race to Perfection?”
Helen said, shaking her head in disappointment.

I looked at Helen uncertainly.
“Reality Wives: The Race to Perfection?
What’s that? Have I missed something?”

“My new television pitch, of course!” Helen said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The television show about
couples who go to a desert island and have to compete for their other halves all over again.”

“It’s a television show now?” I said, feeling a little smile edge its way onto my face. “You had the idea only a minute ago.”

“Sometimes a minute is all it takes to create something fantastic,” Helen said, evidently very pleased with herself.

“But what would the winner get?” Giles asked uncertainly. “Would they be competing for their husband? Who are they competing against? Would it be a fight between the wife and the mistress or something?”

Helen grinned. “Ooh, I like that! I love it, actually. Giles, you’re a genius. I may just employ you on the show.”

He looked at her excitedly. “Really? I could be on television?”

“Not on. Behind the scenes,” Helen said quickly, then looked at Giles reassuringly when his face fell. “But that’s the best place to be, believe me.”

I sighed. “Enough already. We’re here to talk about my project plan. Will no one take it seriously?”

“I took it seriously,” Giles complained. “I said you needed to be fulfilled.”

“I will be fulfilled when I know that I am as near to the ideal wife as it is possible to be,” I said pointedly. “Are you going to help or not?”

“Of course I will,” Giles agreed. “We both will. Won’t we, Helen?”

“Sure we will,” Helen said, as we approached Ivana’s building.

I smiled gratefully. “Thanks, guys. So are we ready to meet Giorgio?”

“More than ready,” Helen said with a grin as she pressed Ivana’s doorbell. “I can’t wait!”

The door buzzed open, and we started the climb up the staircase to Ivana’s apartment, with Helen helping Giles to lug the music station.

Ivana was waiting for us at the top, her front door propped open with her outstretched toe. She gave Helen and Giles a look of distinct disdain when they deposited the music station in her tiny hallway, but, after embracing her with kisses of hello, we all trooped inside.

And then my mouth fell open.

“Oh my God,” Giles said uncertainly. “It’s amazing.”

“Oh my word,” I said, my eyes like saucers.

We looked around, trying to take in the scene in front of us and exchanging expressions of incredulity.

“Vat?” Ivana demanded. “Vat is wrong?”