Part 1 (1/2)

The Model Wife.

by JULIA LLEWELLYN.

Acknowledgements

The Oscar bit no one reads, but profound thanks as always to Mari Evans and all the wonderful team at Penguin, especially the brilliant Natalie Higgins, Liz Smith and Ruth Spencer. To Lizzy Kremer and all at David Higham. Everyone at Channel 4 4 News for advice especially Jon Snow. Victoria Macdonald was a brilliant help as always. Any resemblance to the News for advice especially Jon Snow. Victoria Macdonald was a brilliant help as always. Any resemblance to the Seven Thirty News Seven Thirty News is purely coincidental and mistakes are all my own. To Michaela Byrne thank you for your essay! To Jana O'Brien, Hannah Coleman and above all Kate Gawryluk, I couldn't have written this book without you. To my parents, and to the Watkins family for all their love and support. is purely coincidental and mistakes are all my own. To Michaela Byrne thank you for your essay! To Jana O'Brien, Hannah Coleman and above all Kate Gawryluk, I couldn't have written this book without you. To my parents, and to the Watkins family for all their love and support.

1.

Poppy Price had always dreamt of marrying a handsome prince, of catching his eye across the crowded ballroom floor, of him approaching and asking: 'Shall we dance?' They would swirl round the floor all night to the strains of the 'Blue Danube' and the next morning, on bended knee, he would ask for her hand in marriage.

Things didn't quite turn out that way with Luke Norton. The first time she saw him was on a damp Friday morning in June when she served him a double espresso. Poppy was twenty and working as a waitress in Sal's, a grimy cafe in King's Cross wedged between a shop selling j.a.panese comics and another selling organic beauty products. Poppy had recently taken the job because modelling a.s.signments had been few and far between, and the rent needed to be paid on the tiny flat she shared in Kilburn with her old schoolfriend Meena.

Luke was sitting alone at a corner table, talking agitatedly into a mobile phone. When Poppy saw him, her stomach lurched as if she had leant too far over a cliff. Tall, dark with a broad jaw, he looked like the rugged hero of the black-and-white movies Poppy loved to watch: the kind of man who'd rescue you from a burning building or bundle you on his camel and carry you across the desert.

He was old, admittedly, nearer fifty than forty, but that didn't bother her. As a model Poppy came across a lot of young men, handsome young men, but they were such lightweights: panicking if they thought they'd put on half a pound and sucking in their cheekbones when they looked in the mirror. Poppy wanted someone more solid than that, someone who could protect her from a world which seemed to be full of hard elbows and backbiting. Protect her in a way her father might have done, if she'd ever got the chance to know him.

'Christ, Hannah, I don't know if I can...' Luke was saying, when a sour-faced woman three tables away bawled, 'Waitress!'

'Yes?' said Poppy through gritted teeth.

'I've been waiting ten minutes for my coffee. Where the h.e.l.l is it?'

'I'll just check,' Poppy said as serenely as she could. She stuck her head round the kitchen door. 'Hey, Sal, hurry up with that coffee for table ten.'

'You never ask me for a coffee for table ten,' protested Sal, her very patient Portuguese boss, looking up from his copy of Metro Metro.

'I did. Ages ago.'

'You didn't. Poppy, you are a terrible waitress.' But he was smiling, because it was hard not to smile at Poppy with her cropped blonde hair and saucer-shaped eyes the colour of the translucent minty cough sweets Sal was so partial to.

'Oh sorry. Well, she'd like a latte.'

'Coming up,' Sal said. Poppy went back into the so-called dining room with its red-and-black laminate floor, Formica tables and framed photographs of the gardens of Madeira.

'It's coming,' she said to the woman. To her disappointment, she saw the perfect man had been joined by an equally perfect woman. Perfect from behind, anyway. Poppy couldn't see her face. She had black hair in a French plait and was wearing a very elegant pinstripe trouser suit. She was about to go and take their order, when a woman with a buggy stopped her.

'Excuse me, do you have high chairs?'

'Hannah's giving me so much grief again,' she heard the perfect man say. 'She doesn't want me to go to Germany for the elections because it's Tilly's sports day.'

The woman sounded exasperated. 'Poor you. Doesn't she realize this is your career career? I mean it's not like you were a house husband when she met you.'

'Exactly. How does she think we can afford Tilly's b.l.o.o.d.y ridiculous school? I...'

'I said said do you have high chairs?' do you have high chairs?'

'Oh! Yes. Of course. I'll go and get you one.' Ears straining to pick up more of the conversation, Poppy returned to the kitchen. Their one high chair was covered in smeary mush from the last baby who had sat in it. Poppy had meant to clean it, but she'd forgotten. Hastily, she wiped it down. As she hurried back into the dining room, she saw the perfect woman disappearing through the door. The perfect man was still sitting at the table, looking gloomy.

'At last,' said the woman with the buggy. 'I thought you'd died.' She lifted the baby out of the buggy. 'Come on, darling. Now you can have some breakfast.' Just then Mrs Angry yelled. 'Waitress! This is getting ridiculous. Next time I'm going to Starbucks.'

'Sorry,' Poppy gasped. She hurried back to the kitchen and emerged with the latte.

'About time,' Mrs Angry snapped, 'and if you're expecting a tip, you've got another think coming.'

'Sorry,' Poppy repeated, her face flamingo.

'And I'd like to order too,' chirruped the woman with the buggy. 'Two croissants, please, and a latte.'

She heard Luke clear his throat.

'And if it's not too much trouble, I'd love another double espresso.'

'Oh, OK. Sorry. Sorry.' She rushed into the kitchen, shouted the orders to Sal and rushed out again.

'I'm so sorry. I thought I'd taken your order already,' she said to the woman with the baby, who rolled her eyes and said nothing. Poppy turned to Luke. 'I do apologize.'

He smiled so the corners of his eyes crinkled. 'It's fine. You're cheering me up. I think you're having an even worse day than me.'

The line she'd been daring herself to say rolled off her tongue: 'Want to talk about it?'

'You know I really wouldn't mind.'

b.u.t.toning her green mac, Mrs Angry approached them. Poppy braced herself for a b.o.l.l.o.c.king, but she was smiling.

'Excuse me, I'm so sorry to interrupt. But I've just realized, you're Luke Norton. I had to let you know I love the programme. Only intelligent thing on television these days.'

'Thank you,' Luke said.

'Er. So.' The gorgon had transformed into a simpering southern belle. 'Good luck. Sorry to bother you. I'm just such a fan.'

She bustled out. Luke ran a hand through his hair.

'G.o.d, I hate it when that happens. So embarra.s.sing.'

'Are you on TV?' Poppy asked.

'I am.' He smiled. Then he patted the chair vacated by the perfect woman.

'Do you want to sit down?'