An Ideal Wife by Gemma Townley

“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head in bewilderment. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that … It’s so … I don’t—”
    “Recognize the place,” Helen finished for me, looking triumphant at being able to finally talk properly. “See? I told you.”
    “Is a bit different.” Ivana shrugged. “Is clin.”
    “Clean?” I asked. “You call this clean?”
    The truth was, it was like a hospital. A good hospital. It smelled of disinfectant; everywhere you looked were pastel colors and soft fabrics. I couldn’t believe it was the same apartment I’d been to in the past. It looked bigger, better, like a completely new place.
    “This is beyond clean,” Giles breathed. “It’s—”
    “Bebe is asleep,” Ivana cut in, rolling her eyes. “You vant tea? Coffee? Drink hot drinks now. Once bebe is awake, you not have anymore. Okay?”
    We nodded in unison. “Tea,” Helen said. “Tea would be lovely.”
    Ivana disappeared into the kitchenette; we walked into the main room of the flat—a bedroom-cum-sitting room-cum-general reception area. The last time I was here, there’d been a heavy veil of smoke over the place, a smell of incense, of … well, not to put too fine a point on it, of sex. Now it smelled of pine. Of tea tree oil. The whole place was bathed in a white glow, bottles were neatly stacked up on the side, and a bright-colored rug lay on the floor. In the corner, looking angelic in a little Moses basket, was a baby.
    Ivana appeared again, carrying a tray with three cups of tea and some biscuits, along with a glass of water.
    “This is for me,” she said, placing the tray carefully down on the rug and swiping the water, gulping it down. “You sit. Here. Here. Here.”
    We duly sat where Ivana pointed.
    “You look amazing,” I said. “And this place, it’s …”
    “Yes,” Ivana said with a shrug. “I chenge a few things. Now, drink please. Baby wek up in ten minutes. Then feed, then play. Then I heff washing to do. Ironing.”
    “Ironing?” Helen arched an eyebrow but was met by a stony glare.
    “Ironing,” Ivana confirmed. “Good mother is ironing clotheses, no?”
    “Sure,” I agreed immediately. “I mean, definitely. I guess there must be a lot more of it to do now.”
    Ivana stood up. “I get muslin and bottle ready. You stay, plis.”
    We nodded silently and watched in astonishment as Ivana disappeared back into the kitchenette. Doors began to clank.
    “I nid tumble dryer,” she said, emerging again a few seconds later. “But is no room in flet.” She eyed Giles’s present, which was taking up almost the entire hallway—which wasn’t really a hallway, more a gap between doors. “And vat is thet?” she asked darkly.
    Giles attempted a smile. “It’s for the baby,” he said. I could see that his hands were shaking slightly; he was terrified of Ivana, always had been.
    “Is very big.” Ivana’s voice was flat.
    “Yes, it is,” Giles said. “But it has to be big. It’s a music station.”
    “A vat?” Ivana’s eyes narrowed.
    “A music station. Look!” He jumped up and opened the box, transporting the contents into the sitting room, where he quickly set it up. “I had a practice run at home,” he said with a nervous smile. “There. What do you think? Giorgio goes here; he can kick his legs, and look what happens!” Giles pressed the side of the station, and immediately the flat was full of the sound of nursery rhymes. “So what do you think?” he asked.
    We all looked at Ivana; to our shock and surprise, she started to cry.
    “Oh God, it’s not what you wanted,” Giles said immediately. “You hate it. Oh, I should have known. I should have asked someone. What do I know about babies?”
    “No.” Ivana shook her head miserably. “No, I do not hate it. I em loving it. Is just … I should be buying this for Giorgio. I no work, I heff no money. Giorgio no heff best toys.”
    “Don’t be silly,” Giles said with a soothing voice. “He has