Page 2 of Perfect Wives
‘You can do this, Georgie!’ I say quietly to myself, like I’m talking to my eight-year-old son Oscar, telling myself what I tell him when I’m cheering him on at sports day.
I say the words like I’m not alone right now – more alone than I’ve ever felt in my life, and that’s saying something.
‘There’s no can’t. Only won’t,’ I whisper, but my mantra is swallowed up by the bustle and noise of the shoppers around me. Straight ahead, a teenager strums a One Direction song on his guitar. He sings without nerves or hesitation, like he’s singing to more than the army of pushchairs and pensioners that roam this sleepy market town of north Essex.
I keep my stride determined, ignoring how scared I feel. Ignoring the fact that my pulse is hammering in my veins like one of Oscar’s wooden spoons hitting a saucepan when he was a toddler.
Don’t think about Oscar.
Too late.
My perfect boy, with the shaggy blond hair from Nate and the boundless energy that’s all me. ‘My two pocket rockets,’ Nate calls us with that sideways smile and the wink that makes Oscar giggle and scrunch his eyes shut, trying to copy the gesture.
My family. My life. My everything.
‘What the hell are you doing, Georgie?’ I mutter under my breath, not caring if I seem crazy to anyone looking my way.
My feet stop dead as I search for an answer. A man with a bag of Halloween decorations swinging from his wrist and three sourdough loaves stacked in his arms bumps my shoulder, mumbling an apology but tutting at the same time.
Doubt creeps in. Should I turn back? I picture myself spinning on the heels of the cute suede ankle boots I was so excited about before all of this started, imagining myself wearing them to the school firework display and nights in the pub with Tasha and Beth. Even to the estate agent’s where I work part-time.
Maybe I should be wondering how I ever felt excited about footwear, but even now I feel a tingle of joy when I look at them. Just knowing I didn’t have to think about how much they cost when I bought them. I could just have them. When you’ve grown up with nothing, being able to buy whatever you want never stops meaning everything.
I blink, forcing my thoughts back to the moment. It’s not too late to go home. I could do it. I could walk the half mile home to Magnolia Close, slip through the wrought-iron gates, down our private road to the circular close containing the twelve pristine, bespoke homes. I imagine Nate in our huge, open-plan kitchen with the decadent light fixings and the white marble countertops. I see his six-foot-two frame bent over the expensive espresso machine with the bean grinder I bought him for his birthday last year – because God forbid he use the Nespresso pods like a normal person. He’ll be clean-shaven, showing off hisstrong jaw and classic good looks. Those piercing blue eyes that watch me.
I see Oscar too, kneeling on the rug in the playroom, scraping through the boxes of Lego, searching for the perfect piece to complete the rocket he’s building. Oscar is tall for his age. Smart too, just like Nate. But, unlike his father, Oscar takes the world as it comes. He doesn’t search for hidden truths or question every motive. Oscar is happy-go-lucky like me. He’s perfect.
The ache for my son is suddenly fierce. I long to scoop him into my arms, tell him I love him, tell him I’m doing this for him.
I grit my teeth. ‘You’re no coward, Georgie Bell,’ I murmur.
No. No, I’m not. I could turn back, but I won’t. Not after the message this morning. Not after everything I’ve already done. I force my boots forward on the cobbled street. Big girl pants on. Isn’t that what I say to Oscar when I throw on my workout clothes, even when all I want is to curl up on the sofa and watchBlueywith a bowl of Coco Pops?
I pass the last market stall. The rich scent of frying batter makes my stomach growl. If only I was like Beth – tall and slender with long auburn hair – who loses her appetite at the whisper of a crisis. Or Tasha with her Sri Lankan parents who has no idea how beautiful she is. A part of me wants to stop at the food stall, buy Oscar a brownie and Nate a fruit scone. Maybe a donut for me. I shove the thought aside before it can take root. Today is a low day. I do not eat carbs on low days. Even if my world is falling apart.
My hand smooths over my flat stomach, reminding myself that every sacrifice is worth it. I’m the same size and weight at thirty-nine as I was at twenty-one, and that takes work. The strict calorie intake, the punishing workouts, the 6a.m. Peloton rides are all worth it for the appreciative glances Nate gives me.Usedto give me, but I won’t think about that right now.
The bike used to face out to our garden – bushy trees and neat borders. But I moved it to the spare room at the front to watch the comings and goings of Magnolia Close, waving at Beth’s husband, Alistair, as he leaves number three for the commute to London in his tweed jacket and carrying his old leather briefcase. In his forties, but with his hair already completely grey, he looks every bit the distracted university professor he is. Knowing as he leaves the gates that later, at the school drop-off, Beth will tell us a story of what Alistair forgot that morning. His wallet sometimes, his tie another day. I’ll laugh and pat Beth’s hand, and Tasha will hoist little Lanie higher on her hip and suggest a quick coffee that I’ll offer to host.
Everything was so easy. Did I ever pause to take it in? How Nate could make me laugh with just the quirk of his brows. How every day was a breeze. Until it wasn’t.
In a blink, the market stalls are behind me and the tower of the cathedral pokes up above the last of the shops. Ten more steps and I’ll be at the end of the road, standing on the corner, staring at the police station.
I take a deep breath, drawing the air slowly into my lungs. It does nothing to calm the fear.
One, two, three steps.
Everything was so perfect until Jonny Wilson moved into number two Magnolia Close eighteen months ago, and slowly – so slowly I didn’t even see it coming – my dazzling, extraordinary life began to unravel.
‘I hate you, Jonny Wilson,’ I murmur. ‘I’m glad you’re dead.’
Actions have consequences. And Jonny? Well, he reaped what he sowed.
Eight, nine, ten steps.
There’s the corner. There’s the police station. An imposing, five-storey modern building, all glass and chrome.
I look for a gap in the traffic. A bright-green bus whizzes past, pushing a gust of wind through my sleek, honey-highlighted blonde bob that costs more at the salon than I earn in a month. Thank God for Nate’s salary.
