My Husband's Wives Read online

  ‘Come on you guys,’ she yelled down the corridor at Jerome and Dylan. Two children, four years; how had that happened? ‘Dylan, take the saucepan off your head,’ she said absently as she walked past the melee that permanently covered her kitchen floor. ‘Homes are for living in,’ she had told Paul all the time. Anyway, she’d much rather spend time with the boys than all day cleaning as if she were some unfortunate Eastern European woman. The saucepan was stuck. She tugged it as hard as she could, but there was no moving it. Madeline would know what to do about this.

  Madeline Connolly was still a young woman – early fifties, although she’d pass for skimming along the edge of her mid-forties. She was the polar opposite of her daughter. A qualified accountant, she wore her auburn hair neat, her clothes sharp, and offered her advice wisely and sparingly. She gave up work when Adrian was born, tried for baby number two and eventually conceded that it wasn’t going to happen. Then, the adoption board made contact. They had a little girl, three years old, pretty as a picture, birth mother had died of a heroin overdose, father unknown. Her parents had been honest with her from day one, but they’d loved her as much, sometimes, she wondered, if not more, than her bookish brother. Adrian lived in the Emirates now, a successful engineer. She had at least managed to pip him to the reproduction post. Maybe, she thought, it was the only thing she’d managed to do well.

  ‘You have to come over, Madeline.’ She rang out of desperation. Her mother wasn’t due to visit for two more days, but… she couldn’t ring Paul. True, he would sort everything out, but he made her feel as if she was hopeless. Not that he would say anything to make her feel bad; quite the opposite, it seemed he loved her even more when she was floundering. Funny, but even though he was still willing to rescue her, she had come to the point where being rescued wasn’t as important as feeling capable and in control of things. ‘I can’t get it off his head.’ The saucepan had fastened tight; Annalise bent down and kissed him on his adorable nose; how could you get cross with such a cutie?

  ‘Have you tried butter, dear?’ Always practical, cool as a breeze, Madeline Connolly had an endless reservoir of patience with her daughter.

  ‘I’ve tried everything but putting his face in cold water.’ Dylan, for his part, seemed unaware of her distress and his head was lodged securely in one of – thank God – her cheaper saucepans. ‘But his ears are turning a dark blue,’ Annalise wailed and she wiped a sodden cornflake from his forehead and wondered what else was lodged inside.

  *

  Friday in the emergency department was not as busy as Annalise had expected or rather dreaded. Her mum dropped her off at the front entrance.

  The waiting was the pits, of course. There were people there much worse off than Annalise, Dylan and the saucepan which had taken on a personality of its own. The saucepan-helmet now had special powers that Dylan expanded on much to the entertainment of all around them. Annalise tried to keep their distance from anyone who looked downright contagious. It took three hours before they were called. It seemed that everyone else in the waiting room was either old enough to be dead already or young enough to belong in the maternity suite. There were two small babies; their pitiful cries had stirred something in her. She’d have loved a girl – she adored her boys of course, wouldn’t change them for the world, couldn’t imagine life without them – if only she could order exactly what she wanted; one, small pink cherub. She had enjoyed her pregnancies, the scans, the yummy-mummy massages in the local beauty parlour and the way everyone spoiled her. Even the birth – she’d had gas, air, and the offer of an epidural, but two pushes and it was all over. She’d never tell anyone that of course; it was something of a badge of honour if you suffered a little. Paul’s first wife, Grace, had had a terrible time of it; not that he talked about it much. Same as her own mother; one child and that was it. ‘Funny how these things are easier for some people than others,’ she’d said once to Madeline. If the barb hurt, Annalise hadn’t noticed or meant it. No, she’d ridden on the excitable wave of each pregnancy. She’d even bagged a deal with one of the TV stations to front a healthy-eating campaign. The Duchess of Cambridge inspired it; Annalise loved every minute of it and people had loved her. ‘Maybe it’s because they’re getting to see what I see – the real you,’ Paul had murmured in her hair as he’d picked her up from the studio one afternoon.

  ‘Amazing how the doctors know exactly what they’re doing,’ she said to one of the nurses. Two junior doctors applied a light lotion about Dylan’s skull and then pulled sharply so the cornflakes Dylan had mysteriously put in the saucepan before putting it on his head splattered in a distasteful spray that could as easily have been vomit from the stench.

  ‘Was the milk sour?’ An old battleaxe glowered at Annalise as though she might have stuck the pan on the child’s head on purpose.

  ‘Of course not,’ Annalise said defensively, but the wailing started again, so she bundled up Dylan and began to make her way out of the cubicle.

  ‘Don’t forget your saucepan.’ A younger nurse handed her the offending kitchenware.

  ‘At least it wasn’t a good one,’ Annalise said, popping it into her Coach bag. The nurse looked horrified and Annalise moved closer to her. ‘No, it’s all right, really; this is an old bag. I’d never put a milky saucepan into anything this season.’ As she was leaving the hospital, she spotted a familiar shape making its determined way towards her with a small child struggling to keep up.

  ‘Annalise,’ mwah, mwah – Kate Dalton expertly air-kissed upwards, missing her mark by a calculated four inches either side. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh, just a minor household accident.’ She nodded towards Dylan. Thank God she’d thrown the offending pot in her bag. Kate Dalton. She’d started out plain old Katie Prendergast. She got hitched in Castle Leslie – like Heather Mills, only with horse-racing celebrities instead of rock stars. She’d married a Cheltenham Gold Cup winning jockey, not much taller than herself. ‘One of those silly things. That’s boys for you.’ Annalise ruffled Dylan’s sodden hair. ‘And who’s this?’ She bent down towards the little girl at Kate’s side.

  ‘This is my daughter, Nicola,’ Kate said, her voice was soft in spite of the tight grip she maintained on her hand, but the child remained statue-still.

  ‘Hello Nicola, you are just like your mummy, so pretty.’ Annalise thought she caught a quivering smile, but her overwhelming sense was of detachment in the child’s face. ‘If only boys were as well-behaved,’ she said, standing again. Even if she had a natural jelly in her handbag, she had a feeling the child wouldn’t be allowed it. Kate had always been very diet-conscious.

  ‘Well, of all the days to meet you here.’ Kate took stock of her. Annalise was grateful she’d managed to change into smart shoes and her nice coat; she could have been in jog pants and a hoodie. ‘We’re having a fundraiser tonight.’ Kate nodded back towards the hospital.

  ‘Here?’ Annalise couldn’t quite manage to take the surprise out of her voice. Nowhere in the world felt less party-like than the emergency ward.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, took a deep breath and, as though speaking to a six-year-old, ‘We’re raising funds for the hospital. I’m on the board. We’re trying to get an assessment unit for children.’ She nodded down towards the child beside her. She was lovely, a miniature version of her diminutive mother. She had the same clear skin, dark hair, perfect features, but eyes that continued to stare somewhat unnervingly at Annalise. ‘Nicola has autism,’ Kate said the words gently; it was as much an explanation as an introduction.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Annalise said and then had a feeling that she should have said something else.

  ‘It’s…’ Kate took a deep breath, ‘it is what it is, thank you though; I’m sure you mean well.’ She ran her perfectly manicured hand gently across the child’s glossy hair, then fixed her gaze on Annalise. ‘You have two children, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, holy terrors.’ She was delighted to get back to hom
e ground, at least something she could talk about with some degree of confidence.

  ‘Both healthy?’ It almost felt as though Kate was setting up some kind of trap for her. Of course, that was the good thing about being Annalise; she didn’t have to pretend she even noticed, mostly she actually didn’t.

  ‘Yes. All healthy and happy.’

  ‘That’s good. You’ll support us to fundraise, won’t you? Can’t put a price on having a health service you can rely on. You can bring that mysterious Paul Starr with you. It’s as if he’s kidnapped you; no one sees you since you married him.’ She wrote the details of the hotel and time down on a small card for Annalise, and made her promise she’d be there. ‘We need all the help we can get the way things are these days.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Annalise wanted to pull out her chequebook and write out an astronomically large amount in favour of the hospital. The only thing stopping her, of course, was the saucepan sitting smack bang on the top of her handbag. If it had been one of her better ones, then perhaps…

  ‘Listen, it’s not just about the money,’ Kate always seemed to be able to read people, ‘you’re still good for the press. They love you, especially after that piece you did when you were pregnant. Most of the other girls wouldn’t have been seen dead in public if they were that fat.’

  ‘I wasn’t fat…’

  ‘Yes, we know that.’ Kate leaned in closer, as though they were best friends sharing some secret that no one else was in on. ‘Anyway, isn’t it time you got back out on the scene again? You can’t hide away forever. Who’s to say? You might even enjoy getting your picture in the papers again.’ Then she was gone, striding purposefully away, the little girl keeping up her pace awkwardly at her side. Autism. Annalise thought about it for a moment. She was luckier than she’d realized.

  It actually turned out to be a good day. Madeline made them all a lovely casserole and stayed at her house for most of the afternoon. Annalise spent two hours channel hopping between Jerry Springer and Fashion TV while Madeline took the boys to the local park. ‘It’s been an horrendous experience for you, dear.’ Madeline popped the offending saucepan in the dishwasher. Annalise put the card from Kate on the mantelpiece but then took it down. It proved too distracting up there. It was a very nice card, exactly what she’d expect Kate to have designed for herself. It contained little more than her name and contact details. A narrow line of text at the bottom of the card announced that she was a P.R. consultant. Sometimes it seemed to Annalise that everyone had a career but her. Even the supers were still modelling, and god knows they were as ancient as Methuselah.

  Paul worked so hard and it wasn’t, as she’d told him so often, as if he needed to. Paul just loved his job, she supposed. They could easily have lived on her allowance. Her father had given them the mock-Georgian house they lived in as a wedding gift. Maybe it wasn’t Paul’s scene, but they had a boyband singer next door and a celebrity chef at the other end of the row. Annalise thought it was perfect; if it was ostentatious, she didn’t notice. Each year her dad presented her with a new car. The latest had to have cost the guts of a hundred grand – and she loved it. ‘Company car,’ he told her proudly. ‘Just take care of my grandchildren; that’s work enough for you to be worrying your lovely head about.’ Her dad was the best. He’d come up from the country with little more than the shirt on his back, and within a few years of meeting and marrying Madeline Divine they’d managed to build up a car sales empire that had sewn up half the dealerships up and down the country. In some ways, Paul was similar to her dad; work meant something more than just money at the end of the week. Like her dad, he too wanted to look after her and spoil her. Annalise began to feel uneasy. Did she want to be married to her dad? Sometimes she thought back to their first meeting; Paul might have been in an empty marriage, but there was no mistaking he was very proud of his successful artist wife. Annalise hadn’t been successful at anything in her life, the one shot she had at it, she messed it up spectacularly.

  ‘Anyway,’ Paul told her when she mentioned he worked so hard, ‘I have other commitments, remember.’

  ‘Of course I remember,’ she’d said, but she never wanted to think about Grace Kennedy or Delilah. That time was over for Paul. Mostly Annalise convinced herself that he’d probably never really loved Grace Kennedy at all. He loved Annalise, she was sure of that. He let her have everything she wanted, never put pressure on her. When she realised she was pregnant with Jerome, he’d been over the moon, and there had been no looking back. Life had turned out well for Annalise; she was married to a man who adored her with two kids that were the centre of her life. What more could any of them want?

  *

  ‘Long day?’ Annalise kissed Paul lightly as he discarded his coat. The boys were in their pyjamas, fed and washed, there was not a soggy cornflake left on any of them. She handed Paul a tall glass of gin and tonic when he walked in to the sitting room. He slumped into the leather chair that she’d ordered especially for him for Valentine’s Day. ‘Fancy hitting the town with me tonight?’

  ‘I didn’t think we hit the town anymore?’

  ‘Well, normally we don’t, but…’ She explained about Kate, Nicola, and fundraising for the hospital. She was as excited as if she was off to her first teenage disco.

  ‘You go; I’ll stay here with the boys.’

  ‘I’ve organised a babysitter; she’ll do everything. Really, I’d love you to come.’ Sabine worked in the beautician’s. She was a whizz with make-up, hair and false nails. For an extra fifty, she’d promised to mind the boys. There was no time for waxing, not properly anyway. It meant Annalise’s skirt would have to be long, so she’d borrowed an Ellie Saab 1970s-inspired gown in a nude chiffon fabric from Madeline’s wardrobe. She could easily sashay into her old life dressed like this. Annalise would be picture-perfect by eight o’clock.

  ‘Honey, I’m just too wrecked. But you go have fun.’ Sometimes Paul could be such an old man. Well, she thought as she headed out the door, she would have fun, even if she was nervous as hell having to go alone.

  The ticket for the night cost seven hundred euros. For that, Annalise was stuck beside a doddery old man who was some kind of head doctor, but seemed to have an inordinate interest in her boobs. The real fun had been on arrival. The party was in one of Dublin’s tiger hotels. The foyer was cut in two. One side, the smaller, held back a throng of people – the non-celebs and a couple of photographers. She stopped for a chat with a reporter or two, bringing them up to date on her busy lifestyle, telling them about her dress and shoes. ‘This old thing…’ She’d loved it, for the few minutes it had lasted, and realized, she missed it.

  Once inside the main ballroom, she had floated about. The room was a sea of mint organza, swirled from each table to the ceiling; an abundance of candles added not only ambience, but old-fashioned warmth too. Annalise felt a vaguely nervous sensation in her stomach, as though something fabulous might come of the night. It wasn’t all doctors and businessmen either. Before the meal, she bumped into a few people she knew from her modelling days. They were delighted to see her, but there hadn’t been much to say beyond the initial catch-up. One of the advertising people asked if she was still modelling – not that he’d offered her anything, but at least he’d asked.

  ‘Oh, I took a bit of a sabbatical.’ She’d heard Madonna use the word once, had waited this long to use it. ‘I’m thinking about going back, maybe, I dunno, branching out a bit; I quite fancy media.’ It was the champagne; she’d never been much of a drinker. The stuff sent her doolally too quickly; she put it down to her drug-addict birth mother. The night, because of the drink or not, was magical. She left as the dancing was finishing up. She travelled home, slightly tipsy and full of newfound enthusiasm for the possibilities that life might still hold for her. She could have a career. Like Kate, a consultant. Like Kate Middleton? Okay, so maybe becoming a duchess might be a little off the radar, but she could be every bit the bloody success as that Grace Kennedy.
/>   The next morning it seemed that the grey clouds that had been hanging over Dublin for longer than she wanted to admit had cleared back a little. The sun shone gentle but tentative rays through her bedroom window. As Annalise drank her cup of herbal tea, she felt an optimism; difficult to articulate, but something she had to take action on. She dropped the boys off at their nursery and stopped off at the newsagents, picked up the morning papers, and a skinny latte. If she were in Los Angeles, she’d be having frozen yoghurt, she told herself ruefully. And there she was. Front page of the Mail; page three of the Independent. In her modelling heyday, she’d have been delighted to get a front page. She would have bagged a couple of gigs just on the back of the Independent coverage. Only classy girls got into the broadsheets. It was the dress. She looked almost, well, dare she say it? Regal. The celebrity gossip sites were the same; they were all her friends today. Two hours later, as she parked outside the nursery, she felt as though she were a new person. That lingering insipid feeling that she was losing herself was dissipating slightly. If not her old self, then maybe a better, mature version of that self was within easy grasp today. Question was, would she be brave enough to reach out and grab it?

  She hooked up with Gail Rosenstock later that day, organized to meet her in town before the week was out. ‘Oh, you’re quite the comeback kid,’ Gail said when she rang. To be truthful, Annalise had been nervous about ringing her, but as Gail herself had always said, ‘if you don’t ask, you don’t get.’ And it wasn’t as though she’d actually given up the modelling, it was more that it had given up on her for a while or at least that’s the way it felt. The phone had just stopped ringing.