The Perfect Life Read online

  She rolled tense shoulders as she sat on the tube ride home. A stop later, a man got on and sat opposite and stared intently at her for the remainder of her journey. She ignored him without difficulty; years of commuting had inured her to the weird cross-section of humanity who used the tube. Anyway, she was far too busy ticking off the list in her head. A quick phone call to remind Jack to be home early… in case he conveniently forgot… and she was back on track and in a more relaxed mood as she walked the short distance to her home.

  Their house was on the quieter tree-lined end of Elystan Street in Chelsea, a two-storey Victorian house squashed between a five-storey apartment block on one side and a three-storey apartment block on the other. There was only a tiny pocket of a front garden between the pavement and the front door but behind the house there was a long walled garden, lushly planted, and so well designed as to make it appear endless. When the nearby apartments had been built, many years before, a condition of planning had ensured they were built in such a way as to ensure the privacy of their garden was maintained.

  Before the children had arrived, Molly and Jack used to take advantage of this, sunbathing naked in the summer, staying outside until the only light was the tiny solar fairy lights she’d had festooned around the walls. The carefully-tended lawn was like velvet under their skin as they made love to the background symphony of London. And when they’d decided it was time to think of babies, she had a fairly good idea that Freya had been conceived there.

  A smile lingered as she pushed open her front door, feeling more relaxed about the upcoming party. The smile froze as loud, angry voices coming from the living room brought her to a halt, her eyes widening in sudden fear. Burglars? A home invasion? She’d heard and read so many awful stories. Heart pounding, she’d taken one step backwards, preparing to run into the street and scream for help, when the loud voices changed to raucous laughter. Puzzled rather than terrified, she approached the living-room door and held her ear close to it. All she could hear now were low voices. With an indrawn breath, she grabbed hold of the doorknob, turned it and slowly opened the door.

  Terry, oblivious to Molly’s entrance, was slouched down on the sofa with her feet in a pair of tatty trainers resting, ankles crossed, on the coffee table. A movie blared from the TV, filling the room with noise. Terry, a mug of tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other, was engrossed in it and cackled open-mouthed as a character blew another away with a blast of a shotgun.

  Molly’s jaw had dropped open; she snapped it shut and yelled, ‘What the hell is going on?’ It was a rhetorical question; she could see from looking around that not much was going on at all. There was a pile of clothes on a chair waiting to be ironed. The vacuum cleaner was sitting to one side but by the look of the floor, it had yet to be used.

  ‘I was having a break,’ Terry said, looking up at her without a trace of guilt. She dropped her cigarette end into her coffee cup and stood.

  ‘You were smoking.’ And from the smell, Molly guessed it hadn’t been her first.

  ‘You never said I couldn’t.’

  No, Molly hadn’t. She didn’t think she needed to. ‘This isn’t working,’ she said, holding a hand to her head. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll pay you for today but that’s it. I need someone more reliable.’

  ‘Suits me,’ Terry said, and with a shrug of unconcern, put the mug down on the coffee table. ‘I’ll get my coat.’

  Molly looked at the pile of ironing with a feeling of dread. Maybe she’d been too hasty; who was going to do it? Then she looked at the mug with its disgusting contents, there were some compromises she wasn’t going to make.

  The echo of the front door banging behind Terry hadn’t faded when Molly realised how much extra she had to do before the party that night.

  With a jolt of panic, she wondered if it were too late to cancel the whole damn thing, plead illness or temporary insanity. She couldn’t, of course, standards to maintain and all that. Her friends teased her about having the perfect family, the perfect life. While she’d always denied it with a smile of forced humility, until recently she had thought her life was pretty much perfect. Until recently.

  Something had changed and she couldn’t put her finger on what that was. She and Jack had had little time for each other over the last few months between their busy jobs and the preparations for Freya and Remi’s departure but she’d thought that was understandable, that when it was only the two of them once more, they’d get back some of the intimacy they’d always enjoyed. Instead Jack had become more distant, more wrapped up in his work, working later in the evenings and working some weekends which he’d never done before.

  And now, with Rebecca gone, Molly came home every day to a house empty of life, the rooms quiet, echoes of the laughter and voices of her two children almost haunting her.

  With a grunt of frustration, she changed into leggings and a T-shirt and got on with the work that Terry had abandoned. There was only so much Molly was going to have time to do. Ironing would have to wait. She shoved the overflowing wicker basket into the utility room. There were such things as laundry services; she’d have to investigate.

  With the vacuuming done, she ran a duster around, plumped up cushions, reorganised chairs.

  An hour later, she stood and looked around with satisfaction. The stage was set.

  3

  ‘You mean you fired her?’ Jack said later that evening, as Molly raced around doing the last-minute titivating while he busied himself putting the food, that had been delivered an hour earlier, onto fine china platters. It wasn’t complicated and despite his eating far more of them than he should, she left him to it.

  ‘She was smoking,’ Molly said, ‘anyway, she was never very good and a million times worse since she took over the laundry. We’ll get someone better.’ She didn’t tell him how difficult that might be, how getting someone, even someone as unreliable as Terry, might be impossible. If it came to it, they’d have to do some work themselves. She was using the royal we, but she knew Jack wouldn’t lift a finger, he never had and was unlikely to start now. At the back of her head was the thought of ringing Terry and begging her to return, then the clear memory of the cigarette floating in the coffee dregs came back to make Molly shudder. No, she’d not ask her to come back. Something else would come up. Maybe one of her friends would have someone they could recommend.

  With a last look around the room, she turned back to Jack who was carefully arranging prawn hors d’oeuvre around the edges of a square dish. ‘They’ll need to go in the fridge for the moment,’ she warned him. She took one, popped it into her mouth and smiled to see his irritation at the upset to the pattern he’d painstakingly made.

  He rearranged the display and put the dish into the fridge. When he’d shut the door carefully and turned around, there was a bottle of beer in one hand. ‘A reward for all my hard work,’ he said, reaching into a drawer for an opener and immediately slurping the foamy beer from the neck of the bottle.

  Molly swallowed the criticism she wanted to make – that it was early to start drinking – and there was a time she wouldn’t have hesitated in saying something, but his temper seemed so much more volatile recently and he took umbrage at little things that would once have rolled off his back or made him laugh.

  Over half of the forty people they’d invited were his work colleagues, only a few of whom she had met before. The turnover of staff in the financial consultancy company where he worked was high; at every party there were new people and she depended on him to do the introductions and for his support to make the party a success.

  ‘Take it easy,’ she settled for saying before heading up to shower and change.

  An hour later, she was back in a low-cut cherry-red silk dress she’d bought a few weeks before but never worn. She wasn’t sure about it, wondering if she looked a bit mutton-dressed-as-lamb, wondering too if she could carry the cherry-red colour with her auburn hair. Freya would have told her; she would have stood with her head tilted to one side
and assessed her outfit carefully before breaking into a smile that was so sweet that whatever she said – good or bad – was always acceptable. Molly missed her every day.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked Jack when she came back to the living room. He was standing by the window, the bottle of beer in one hand.

  Turning, he raised the bottle to his mouth and took a gulp before answering. ‘Isn’t it a bit…’ He waved a hand at his chest.

  She glanced down, adjusted the neckline slightly and frowned. ‘Am I showing too much cleavage?’

  He waggled the bottle from side to side. ‘No, I suppose it’s fine.’

  She’d hoped for you look amazing; she’d even have settled for you look nice but this damning with faint praise was upsetting. Looking down at her dress again, she hesitated. There was time to change into something else.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ Jack said, coming over and putting an arm around her waist. ‘You look lovely, don’t mind me.’

  ‘You sure?’ she said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Positive, you look amazing.’

  Molly smiled. It was what she’d hoped he would say, a little later than she’d have liked but she’d take it.

  Turning from him, she checked the room, straightening cushions Jack had knocked askew.

  ‘Relax and stop fussing,’ he said, opening the fridge and taking out another beer.

  ‘I want it to be perfect.’ Molly adjusted the flowers yet again, wondering if she should have chosen a different colour scheme. She took a step back and tilted her head. ‘Do you think these are a bit blah?’ When he didn’t answer, she turned, frowning to see him drinking the beer from the bottle. ‘They’ll be arriving soon, Jack, use a glass.’

  ‘It tastes better from the bottle,’ he said, holding it to his mouth and gulping a quarter down. ‘And the flowers look fine. It’s all fucking perfect so stop obsessing.’

  Molly blinked. Jack rarely swore. ‘There’s nothing wrong with wanting everything to be–’

  ‘Perfect,’ he interrupted before holding the bottle to his mouth again and draining it. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know but lighten up a bit.’

  Lighten up a bit? There was nothing wrong with wanting everything to go well, was there? He was the one always keen to impress work colleagues. Molly turned away, hurt feelings forming a lump in her throat.

  Luckily for the success of the party, Jack reached for her, pulling her back into a hug. ‘I’m sorry, Mol,’ he whispered, his lips buried in her hair. ‘It’s my night for apologies. I’ve a lot on my mind, it’s making me grumpy.’

  Don’t take it out on me! The words were on the tip of her tongue and she’d have used them if the doorbell hadn’t chimed, silencing her. She pulled away from his embrace. ‘I suppose I’d better let them in.’

  Forty people had been invited and almost everyone turned up. By eight-thirty, the room was buzzing with the sound of laughter and conversation. Molly moved from group to group with a wine bottle in her hand, topping up glasses, adding comments into conversations, introducing newer friends to older ones, work colleagues of hers to work colleagues of his.

  ‘Have something to eat,’ she urged everyone, waving towards where the hors d’oeuvres were laid out. ‘And don’t worry, we didn’t make them,’ she added to a chuckle of amusement from those friends who knew her well. She was, as she’d rush to admit, not a good cook.

  Nods of appreciation came from those who did partake of the food, and Molly was pleased to see Jack doing his bit. He was standing chatting to Amelia, one of her oldest friends. He didn’t like many of her female friends, found them too domineering, too, as he always phrased it, in your face.

  Too intelligent. That’s what she thought. Her friends were vocal, clever, bright women who took no prisoners. She never told him, because he’d have been horrified, but in the intelligence stakes, he lagged far behind most of them. It hadn’t been his brain she’d fallen for. She’d been swayed by the humour in his blue eyes, his cheeky grin and the way his dark-blond hair curled back from his forehead like a Roman emperor. From the first time they’d met she knew he was the one, and twenty-one years later although he frequently drove her crazy she loved him just as much.

  She watched as Amelia threw her head back and laughed at something he was saying and smiled. The party was a success. Molly allowed herself to relax.

  She turned to chat to a group of Jack’s work colleagues, the new ones, the stalwart few long-timers like Charlie Forster and a couple of others who’d been with them for several years. She greeted Charlie with a smile and a kiss on both cheeks. ‘It’s been a while,’ she said, looking around for his wife. ‘Zara not here?’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘Didn’t Jack tell you? We split up. About six months ago.’

  Colour flared in Molly’s cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, Jack never said.’ Suddenly claustrophobic, she pointed towards the garden. ‘It’s very warm in here, I’ll go and open the back door.’

  Molly pushed the French doors open and stepped into the chilly night, feeling immediate relief. Why hadn’t Jack told her about Charlie and Zara? He should have warned her. How damn embarrassing. She’d return and apologise, but it was a couple of minutes before her body temperature returned to normal. Bloody hormones. She flicked her hair, pinned a smile in place and headed back into the party.

  She looked around for Charlie and saw him in the far corner of the room deep in conversation with Jack, their heads together, both looking serious. Talking shop, Molly guessed. She’d give them a few minutes, then go and drag them apart before more of their colleagues joined in and it ended up being a work meeting. She wondered what happened between Charlie and Zara. Maybe Jack was giving him a pep talk. She hoped so. She liked Charlie, he was one of those people who brightened a room when he walked in and unlike some financial types, didn’t take himself too seriously.

  Not like another of the long-timers, Stuart Mercer, who was making a beeline for her, a crooked smile on his lips that she guessed he thought made him look interesting. It didn’t; he was handsome in a bland, forgettable way, the twisted smile made him look as if he’d swallowed something unpleasant. She hoped her social smile didn’t look too false as she greeted him. ‘Hi Stuart, I thought you were still in Hong Kong.’

  ‘No, thank goodness,’ Mercer said. ‘I’ve been London-based now for a few months. Hong Kong lost its magic after the first year, to be honest. I’ve had a promotion; it’ll keep me here for the foreseeable.’

  ‘A promotion? Congrats, Jack never said.’ Seriously, she’d have to have a word with her husband. It would be nice to know these things so that she didn’t look a complete twat when she spoke to his colleagues. ‘I wish Jack didn’t have to travel so much. He’s already been to Vegas several times this year and has to go back next month.’ She laughed. ‘He keeps asking me to come with him, but it holds no allure for me, I’m afraid. Now, Hong Kong,’ she added, ‘I’d have gone there all right.’

  ‘Vegas,’ Stuart said, a puzzled line appearing between his eyes. ‘I didn’t realise we had business there.’ He shook his head. ‘We work in the same building, but we might as well work in separate cities. Since my return, I’ve been so busy between the promotion and moving to a new house that I’ve had no time to catch up with what’s happening with everyone. Travelling as much as I did was quite isolating, it’ll be good to be settled.’

  Molly felt a twinge of pity for the man as she recognised the hint of longing in his eyes; he was lonely. Perhaps she could fix him up with one of her friends. She rested a hand on his arm and leaned closer. ‘You know what you need, Stuart,’ she said, and was about to suggest introducing him to one of her single girlfriends when a commotion on the far side of the room claimed her attention. ‘Oh dear, I’d better go and see what’s up,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘I’ll catch up with you later, okay?’

  The commotion was nothing more than a dropped glass and spilt wine, but there’d been enough alcohol consumed at this stage t
o turn a minor incident into a tragedy. Brenda, one of her work colleagues, flushed with embarrassment and alcohol, muttered, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and dabbed uselessly at the small puddle of wine with a scrap of tissue.

  ‘It’s fine, don’t worry about it,’ Molly insisted, manoeuvring her out of the way, trying to stop another guest, whose name she couldn’t remember, from picking up the pieces of shattered glass with his fingers. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘Please, if everyone would move back, it’ll be sorted in a jiffy.

  Her words, cajoling but firm, did the job. Guests moved and were soon engrossed in conversation.

  Left to clean up the mess, Molly fetched a paper towel, dustpan and brush. The glass had flown across a corner of the room. She had to stretch under a low coffee table to brush some out, banging her head as she did so, swearing softly under her breath.

  ‘I heard that.’

  Molly straightened with a dustpan filled with glass in one hand, rubbing her head with the other. ‘You were lucky that was all you heard,’ she said, turning to smile at Amelia. ‘I’ve barely spoken to you. Let me get rid of this and we can have a natter.’

  A few seconds later, with a quick look around to make sure everyone had their glass full, Molly gripped her friend’s elbow and led her from the room. ‘Come into the study,’ Molly said, pushing the door open, and waving her in. ‘I need five minutes to recoup my strength.’

  ‘It’s getting a bit rambunctious.’ Amelia pulled a chair from under a desk, sat into it and looked around. ‘What are you going to do with this room now that the kids have left?’

  Molly frowned. ‘They’ll be back.’ She ignored the raised eyebrow that was her friend’s only comment. ‘Anyway, tell me what you’ve been up to?’ She tilted her head. ‘Love your dress, by the way.’