Page 16 of Perfect Wives
I always forget Beth was a lawyer before having Henry. We were friends back then too, of course. Grabbing an occasional coffee or glass of wine. Sitting together at the Magnolia Close social events. Nate and I moved to Magnolia Close as soon as we were married. When our gated community had only just been built. We’d both been renting in London – him in a high-rise in Canary Wharf, and me in a studio flat in Islington. Before Nate’s family moved away, he’d grown up around here and liked the idea of commuting to the office, having something grand to come home to.
We bought number six before the close had finished being built, moving in within a few days of everyone else. I think that’s why the community is so strong – because so many of us started together.
Back then, I’d wave at Beth as she left for the office each morning, hair swept back, suit sharp – a different person to the Beth standing before us now. It was only when she started her maternity leave that we grew closer. Two pregnant bellies waddling into town. Then six months after Oscar was born, David and Mags at number twelve left us to move to Spain, Tasha and Marc bought their house and we became a trio. Then a foursome on the times Lily from Jonny’s old house joined us with her boy Joshua. Before her betrayal anyway.
The weight of Beth’s words settles over us as we turn down the private stretch of road that leads down to the gates of Magnolia Close.
‘Look,’ I say as we reach the gates and I tap my key fob against the control panel. I hold the gate for Tasha as she steers the pushchair through, and we walk slowly into the close, not ready to say goodbye. ‘We had too much wine and we let off steam. Let’s just forget about it.’
But before Beth or Tasha can reply, there’s a movement from outside number two, and my blood starts to boil before I fully register who I’m seeing.
Jonny.
Tall and broad-shouldered. His short dark hair is gelled at the front just enough to catch the light. He isn’t good-looking the way Nate is, but there’s something about him – an easy confidence, the kind that makes people lean in when he speaks, laugh a little louder when he makes a joke.
I hate this man. I hate how self-assured he is.
Of course, we all would’ve preferred another family moving in after the Gallaghers left, rather than a single man, but that didn’t stop us throwing a late-spring street party to welcome him to Magnolia Close.
Even on that first meeting, he was obnoxious and pushy. Not caring that I was happily married, a mother to little Oscar. He liked what he saw and had the gall to follow me into my kitchen when I’d left the party to refill the ice bucket. Eighteen months on and I still remember the hot grasp of his hand on my arm. That tongue jerking into my mouth before I could stop him.
Who does that? Who accosts a married woman who lives on their street and tries to kiss them while their husband and child are mere feet away?
I should’ve told Nate then and there. Told everyone what Jonny was like. But I didn’t want to cause bad feelings and animosity among the residents. So, stupidly – foolishly – I chose to believe Jonny when he said he didn’t want to cause trouble.
By the end of the street party, Jonny had charmed his way into a round of golf with Nate and Marc that’s turned into a regular event. I swear if I told Nate now what Jonny did that day, he wouldn’t believe me.
I swallow the bitterness crawling through me. At least Beth and Tasha are with me. Jonny is always trying to get me on my own. Always finding a reason to step into my space, touch my arm, remind me of that street party. Remind me what he whispered in my ear.
We keep walking into the close, and even though I tell myself not to look his way again, I do.
Jonny leans against the gleaming black paintwork of his BMW 5 series, arms folded, watching us. His lips curl into a smile like he knows what we talked about in the pub last night with Keira. Like he’s daring us to even try. And with the anger pounding in my chest, I find myself wishing last night was more than a bit of fun.
NINE
TASHA
A dull throb pulses at the base of my skull, in perfect rhythm with my racing heart.
I can’t even?—
That man.
My grip tightens around the pushchair handle. This hate is like nothing I’ve felt before. It spreads through my veins like a dark poison – a living thing making my fingers itch, my teeth clench. Of course, Jonny just stands there, looking smug. Looking like he doesn’t give a shit about belonging. He’s not one of us.
Does he even realise the damage he’s done? How thanks to him, there’s no way out of the day after day of me putting in and getting nothing back. I would give anything – do anything – for a little more air.
Hot tears sting my eyes. I wish I’d remembered my sunglasses. The morning sun is too bright, slicing through the trees, leaving me feeling exposed. My stomach churns – whether from last night’s wine in the pub or the weight of today, I don’t know. If I’m quick, I can straighten up the house before Lanie wakes, then bundle her into the car to visit my parents.
I mustn’t forget to take the prescriptions with me that I collected yesterday.
I hope my parents are having a good day. And Lanie too. No tantrums – those bunched fists and her face so hot, that screaming fury when I have to coax her out for another errand instead of to a toddler group. Maybe we could visit the swings before school pick-up.
Like always, I wonder how much easier it would be if I had a sibling. Someone to share this burden with. Sometimes I think I had Matilda, Sofia and Lanie to fill a house with the big, noisy family I never knew growing up.
Jonny’s mouth quirks into a smile, dragging my thoughts back. He’s good-looking, and he knows it. Tall, with that square-jawed, old-school kind of handsomeness that makes people stop and glance again. And even though I hate myself for it, I wish I’d looked in the mirror this morning before leaving the house, or brushed my thick black hair into something other than a scraped-back ponytail. But it’s all surface with Jonny. A polished shell. Because Jonny is rotten on the inside.
I will myself to move, but my feet remain rooted. It feels like talking about Jonny last night has summoned him. He isn’t usually moving around this early on a weekday morning.
