‘It’s not really romantic literature... I mean it is, but it’s much more than that.’
‘Well, I hope you don’t tell anyone in your investment bank that you’re reading Jane Austen,’ I exclaim, as this will do nothing for his future career.
‘It’s so good. You should try it. You’d like Fanny Dashwood.’
‘I suppose that’s some kind of veiled attack.’
‘I didn’t veil it at all,’ he says. ‘She’s just another ruthlessly self-interested woman.’
‘Really? I’ve basically put my life on hold to suckle your children, provide sexual favours on demand, massage your frail ego, and support your stalling career – how is that self-interest?’
Stephen closes his book and walks out. An hour later, I find him asleep in the living room with the book across his chest anddecide it’s time for action. I take the tube of testosterone gel that I sourced on the internet and rub it on his arm. Some say it can turbo-boost the libido. No point in Aimée pressing the accelerator if there’s nothing in the tank.
Chapter33Madeleine
Saturday, 30 November
With my hair freshly coloured, I stare up at the symmetry of Madeleine Rook’s Kensington mansion. This elegant combination of stucco, bricks, and stone is the epitome of heritage, wealth and power. One day soon, we might own this, too, and the thought pleases me immensely.
I am dressed for the occasion in a black Alexander McQueen suit with red enamel brooch; I look a little like a black widow spider. Not intentionally, I might add. The door opens and a maid in a traditional white apron and black dress invites me in and takes my coat. I thank her and hand her a large bunch of foxgloves for Madeleine. I’m shown into the drawing room, gestured towards a seat, and asked for my preferred beverage. I state a strong preference for herbal tea, on this occasion.
The room is tasteful and harmonious. Dark blue walls, Louis XVI marble clock, Regency rosewood table, a pair of Chippendale armchairs, and portraits of dead people and dogs.
The maid returns with my flowers beautifully arranged in an Imari vase. She smiles as she leaves, and returns a few minutes later with a teapot and two china cups on a silver salver. The maid asks if she should pour, and I tell her that I will wait for the lady of the house.
Once she has closed the door, I take a small white envelope from my handbag. Inside it are several foxglove leaves that I removed from the bouquet earlier and cut up like tea. I open the teapot, slip the leaves into the water, and stir.
Madeleine appears a moment later, dressed impeccably in a cream and navy vintage Chanel suit dress. I am again surprised at how small the woman is, given how large she features in my thoughts.
‘Good afternoon, Lalla.’ She pauses at the doorway, and with a steady glance and slight arch of her eyebrows indicates that I should stand.
Against my better judgement, I get up and offer my hand. She looks at it with an almost imperceptible shake of her head, indicating that I’ve made another error. With a finger she points to her right cheek. I lean in and make the sound of a kiss.
‘How’s life in the provinces?’
‘We’re all coping with the drudgery,’ I say.
‘Oh, good, and to what do I owe the unusual pleasure of your company?’ she says, with an impatient flourish of her hand, indicating that I should sit, which I do. She stands, framed by two enormous windows, and looks down at me.
‘I brought you some flowers. I thought you might need cheering up. Stephen says the anniversary has hit you hard.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘He seems to think you’re inconsolable with grief.’
‘I don’t know any woman who’d consider herself worse off if their husband died. I have all his resources, and none of his annoying habits.’
‘I’m pleased you’re so rational about it,’ I say, although she clearly paints a different picture for Stephen.
‘Now, you didn’t come here for my welfare. Either someone’s terminally ill, or you need money, which is it?’
‘We need a million to secure the house in Hampstead, and Stephen wouldn’t ever ask you himself.’
‘Because he’s got class, while you’re quite shameless.’ She peers at me under hooded eyelids.
‘I’m simply trying to ensure your son and grandchildren are suitably homed. You’ve always detested Muswell Hill.’
‘I’m sure,’ Madeleine says, and walks from one piece of ornate furniture to the next as she contemplates my request. ‘I could help you, of course, but I wonder what you might do for me.’
