told Poppy she should be giving her daughter porridge for breakfast but Clara loathed it and threw it at the walls) and Viakal. Sod the fish. She’d buy some tomorrow from the fishmonger in Chapel Street market. That would be the day’s project. Poppy had long since realized that one of the skills for making motherhood bearable was time management. She never bought more than a basket of stuff because, firstly, if she put too many bags on the back of the Maclaren buggy it tipped over, and, secondly, because she needed an excuse for leaving the house tomorrow.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the new Tatler on the magazine rack. Grinning from the cover was Daisy McNeil, Poppy’s biggest rival from her modelling days. They were both healthy-looking, blue-eyed blondes with big teeth and had always been sent for the same jobs. Usually Poppy got them, but not any more, obviously. Below it, with the newspapers, was a Daily Post . Oh fuck, it was Tuesday. Which meant… yes, there above the masthead was a grinning Hannah. THE DEMISE OF THE TROPHY WIFE, the paper screamed and underneath ‘Hannah Creighton on the death of the bimbo spouse’.
Oh, no. Oh, no. Not another attack. Hannah had been silent for a few weeks. But just as you knew the axe-wielding serial killer in a horror movie was pretending to be dead, so he could suddenly jump up and terrify the heroine, Poppy knew she could never relax as long as she and Luke’s ex-wife shared the same planet.
It had been a nasty shock when just a few weeks after Clara was born Poppy had opened the Daily Post to see a huge picture on page eighteen of Luke and a pretty redhead with their arms round each other, next to a headline screaming: MY HUSBAND, THE BIMBO AND ME by Hannah Creighton. The picture caption read ‘Luke and Hannah in Happier Times’ and there was a smaller picture of Poppy looking particularly stupid in a red, flowery hat, with the caption ‘The Other Woman – Poppy Price’.
There then followed the heartbreaking story of Hannah’s marriage break up. Since when, there had been a weekly bulletin about Hannah’s wonderful new life as a divorcee, overflowing with friends, exotic holidays, interesting work and incredible sex.
At the same time, frequent digs were made at the ‘cad’ and the ‘bimbo’ (after the first column she had never again mentioned Poppy by name, which was something, Poppy supposed). Hannah described how she had heard the marriage had run into trouble once the baby had been born, how she couldn’t help but feel sorry for Poppy lumbered with a man who bought Viagra on the internet.
Of course, the columns raised all sorts of questions. Timidly, Poppy tackled Luke about them and he responded furiously. ‘Of course I didn’t beg her to get back with me; of course there weren’t dozens of women before you; of course I didn’t order Viagra on the internet.’ After the last, he softened. ‘Why would I do that? Do I need any help in the bedroom?’ Poppy had had to believe him or she would have gone insane, but the doubt still lingered just under the surface, like a splinter the tweezers couldn’t quite grasp.
Initially, there’d been a flurry of calls and letters and emails from various newspapers, including the Post itself, asking if Poppy would like to give an interview defending herself. She’d been up for the chance to put her side across, but Luke had said absolutely no way in a tone that brooked no argument and after a while the approaches had stopped, even though Hannah’s attacks continued.
Glancing round the supermarket, Poppy stuffed the paper in her basket as if it were a porn mag. She paid, and outside, released Clara from the buggy for the torturously slow walk home, with stops to examine every stone, twig and cigarette butt that lay between Clifton Gardens and Blomfield Road. Poppy’s phone rang in her pocket. Meena. Bored at work again.
‘Hi, gorgeous.’ Poppy tried to sound chipper.
‘Hiiii, trophy wife.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the new Tatler on the magazine rack. Grinning from the cover was Daisy McNeil, Poppy’s biggest rival from her modelling days. They were both healthy-looking, blue-eyed blondes with big teeth and had always been sent for the same jobs. Usually Poppy got them, but not any more, obviously. Below it, with the newspapers, was a Daily Post . Oh fuck, it was Tuesday. Which meant… yes, there above the masthead was a grinning Hannah. THE DEMISE OF THE TROPHY WIFE, the paper screamed and underneath ‘Hannah Creighton on the death of the bimbo spouse’.
Oh, no. Oh, no. Not another attack. Hannah had been silent for a few weeks. But just as you knew the axe-wielding serial killer in a horror movie was pretending to be dead, so he could suddenly jump up and terrify the heroine, Poppy knew she could never relax as long as she and Luke’s ex-wife shared the same planet.
It had been a nasty shock when just a few weeks after Clara was born Poppy had opened the Daily Post to see a huge picture on page eighteen of Luke and a pretty redhead with their arms round each other, next to a headline screaming: MY HUSBAND, THE BIMBO AND ME by Hannah Creighton. The picture caption read ‘Luke and Hannah in Happier Times’ and there was a smaller picture of Poppy looking particularly stupid in a red, flowery hat, with the caption ‘The Other Woman – Poppy Price’.
There then followed the heartbreaking story of Hannah’s marriage break up. Since when, there had been a weekly bulletin about Hannah’s wonderful new life as a divorcee, overflowing with friends, exotic holidays, interesting work and incredible sex.
At the same time, frequent digs were made at the ‘cad’ and the ‘bimbo’ (after the first column she had never again mentioned Poppy by name, which was something, Poppy supposed). Hannah described how she had heard the marriage had run into trouble once the baby had been born, how she couldn’t help but feel sorry for Poppy lumbered with a man who bought Viagra on the internet.
Of course, the columns raised all sorts of questions. Timidly, Poppy tackled Luke about them and he responded furiously. ‘Of course I didn’t beg her to get back with me; of course there weren’t dozens of women before you; of course I didn’t order Viagra on the internet.’ After the last, he softened. ‘Why would I do that? Do I need any help in the bedroom?’ Poppy had had to believe him or she would have gone insane, but the doubt still lingered just under the surface, like a splinter the tweezers couldn’t quite grasp.
Initially, there’d been a flurry of calls and letters and emails from various newspapers, including the Post itself, asking if Poppy would like to give an interview defending herself. She’d been up for the chance to put her side across, but Luke had said absolutely no way in a tone that brooked no argument and after a while the approaches had stopped, even though Hannah’s attacks continued.
Glancing round the supermarket, Poppy stuffed the paper in her basket as if it were a porn mag. She paid, and outside, released Clara from the buggy for the torturously slow walk home, with stops to examine every stone, twig and cigarette butt that lay between Clifton Gardens and Blomfield Road. Poppy’s phone rang in her pocket. Meena. Bored at work again.
‘Hi, gorgeous.’ Poppy tried to sound chipper.
‘Hiiii, trophy wife.
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