The Model Wife by Julia Llewellyn

woman frowned as she tried to place her. ‘Oh, hi, how are you?’
    ‘Fine.’ She smiled into the buggy at the woman’s little boy, whose name she couldn’t remember. ‘How are you sweetie? Wow, you’re so big now.’
    ‘She’s sweet,’ the other woman said dutifully, eyeing Clara. ‘What’s her name again?’
    ‘Clara.’
    ‘Oh? I know two other Claras. And a Clare.’
    ‘Right.’ How was Poppy supposed to react to this? Change her child’s name? ‘I’m trying to find something to get limescale off the bath,’ she said with a little laugh. ‘Do you know what it might be called?’
    ‘Viakal,’ the mother said, jabbing a finger in the direction of cleaning products. Then her expression lit up as she saw another buggy-pusher, this one with grey hair in a bun. ‘Marcia! Hey, how are you ? You weren’t at Gymboree yesterday. Do you have time for a coffee?’
    ‘Bye,’ said Poppy. ‘Thanks.’ But she was ignored. It was always the same. Because she was so young, the other mums seemed to think she was beneath their contempt. She’d tried the mother and baby groups, the music sessions, but all the mums were so much older. Occasionally, she’d see someone of her own age and her heart would quicken, but when she spoke to them they always turned out to be the nanny or the au pair, always with their own network of nanny and au pair friends, who regarded mothers in the same way the Palestinians did the Israelis.
    That was the main thing that had never featured in Poppy’s fantasies: that as a wife and mother she’d be so lonely; that she’d have days when her only adult exchanges would be with the bored-looking Indian men at the supermarket checkout. Days when she actively listened for the postman because, if she timed it right, she could collar him on the doorstep and engage him in a couple of minutes’ chat about the weather – despite the fact he was all the while backing away.
    Luke was frequently away and he often neglected to call for days, ignoring her anguished messages and texts. Poppy would send them frantic with worry that he’d stepped on a landmine, only to turn on the news at seven thirty and see him right as rain. ‘Sorry, darling,’ he’d say absently when she tackled him about it. ‘Often we have no signal and when I’m on a deadline I don’t do personal stuff. I will try harder.’ And he did for a while, but then the calls dropped off and Poppy eventually got used to it, just as she got used to him being very terse with her when she did call, and to life alone with a baby. The early, sleepless days had been incredibly hard with a screaming baby, no friends in the same boat and no support from her mother. ‘Babies are a nightmare. I went to hell and back with you,’ had been Louise’s helpful contribution.
    Luke did find Clara sweet, but he just wasn’t around much, either working late, or away on foreign trips and, despite his three children, could offer no advice. ‘Hannah did the baby side of things,’ was all he said vaguely whenever Poppy asked him for tips on burping or weaning.
    But gradually things had got easier. She’d always loved Clara even at her screechiest worst and now she was walking and talking, she had become Poppy’s little buddy. They spent long days together reading stories, watching the ducks drift down the canal and, especially now Clara was older and marginally more civilized, exploring hidden corners of London. Together, they’d discovered the graceful church of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe in Black-friars with its cosy wood interior; the magnificent paintings of the Wallace Collection with its enclosed garden and fountain with a golden snake; the quirky Middle Eastern shops on the Edgware Road with their piles of pomegranates and dill, unripe mangoes and dusty Turkish Delight.
    ‘Mummeee!’
    ‘Yes, darling, Mummy will just pay and then you can walk home.’
    Now her basket contained organic milk, orange juice, Cheerios (the health visitor had