An Ideal Wife by Gemma Townley Page A

you, and that’s better than any toys. Anyway, that’s the point of presents, isn’t it? Getting other people to buy stuff for you?”
    He was grinning, but Ivana didn’t raise a smile. “Sean no like other people buy stuff.”
    “He doesn’t?” I asked, curious. “What, he doesn’t like presents?”
    “He no like presents from my friends,” Ivana said.
    “So he’s not going to like the music center?” Giles sounded worried. “Should I pack it up again?”
    “Not you,” Ivana said dismissively. “Other friends. Friends I use work with. He say they Mefia. He say we no nid they money.”
    None of us said anything for a few seconds.
    “The … Mafia?” I asked tentatively.
    Ivana rolled her eyes. “Russian Mafia, not Italian. And I don’ know. Mebe they Mefia, mebe not. They use come to club, use pay me money to be friendly, to be sexy. Sometime I do them favor. Special favor. Now Sean say no more do favors for them, no more working for money. I heff ask him for money instead. I no like.”
    I cleared my throat uncertainly. She’d been doing special favors for the Russian Mafia? No wonder Sean wasn’t keen on her working. “Ivana, do you want to borrow some money?” I asked. “I mean, I’ve got loads just sitting around doing nothing if you—”
    “No!” Ivana snapped, her eyes blazing. “I no borrow. I em not cherity. I wan work for my money. Is better. Independent.”
    “You … you want to go back to work?” Giles sounded incredulous. “Do the … I mean, would the hours work?”
    Ivana shrugged. “Sean say escort stripper no job for mother. He no think is
appropriate.”
She said the word with distaste.
    “Still,” Giles said quickly. “You’re obviously brilliant at this motherhood lark. Isn’t she, Helen?”
    “God, yes.” Helen was nodding furiously. “Amazing. The best.”
    Ivana contemplated this for a few seconds, then nodded. “Is true. I em best mother. End I like music station. Giorgio will be very good musician, I think. He will be very good everything.”
    I took out a little parcel from my pocket. “This is for Giorgio, too,” I said. “From Max and me.”
    Ivana took it and unwrapped it. Then she looked at me, a frown on her face.
    “It’s a frame,” I said. “An antique silver one. It was one of Grace’s. I thought you could put a photograph of Giorgio in it.”
    She didn’t say anything for a moment, then she rushed over to me and threw her arms around me. A few seconds later she released me and walked back to her ironing board as thoughnothing had happened. “So, I hef ironing to do,” she said, matter-of-fact. “You talk, plis.”
    “You really do have this under control, don’t you?” Giles said in amazement as she took out an ironing board and started to iron T-shirts as if her life depended on it. One by one they were laid flat, ironed, folded, ironed again, then placed on a pile of equally neat, precisely folded white garments. “I mean, usually when people have babies, they’re in a mess for months. I can’t believe how organized you are. How on top of everything.”
    Ivana nodded. “Yes,” she said flatly. “Yes, I em very good mother. I heff book.”
    She took a book off the shelf; it had been sitting between a large dildo and an Ann Summers catalog. “Meking heppy baby,” she said, handing it to us. “It tell what to do.”
    I took the book interestedly. Inside were chapters on sleeping, feeding, washing, playtime; there were pages and pages of routines.
    “Ten A.M.: Have a piece of toast and some water,”
I read.
“Baby should sleep for no more than one hour.”
    Ivana looked at her watch immediately. “Thet mins twenty T-shirts ironed.”
    “You can iron twenty T-shirts an hour?” Giles asked in amazement.
    Ivana shot him an incredulous look. “Of course. Now, talk. I no hef talking very much. You tell me about things. I nid hear things other than waahhh. Yes?”
    “Jess wants to learn how to iron,” Helen said,