‘Clarendon? Oh, how lovely! Which one?’
It was a road with a certain reputation, as all the palatial houses were distinct and everyone in the locale knew which house was which.
‘Erm, gosh, how best to describe, the one with the Crittall windows, the Crittall windows in grey beige, the one with the sandstone extension and the wrought-iron gates?’
She couldn’t help herself. It made her feel good, gave her a feeling of self-satisfaction that she had lived without for the longesttime. The success of her business, knowing just how to decorate their house, looking just right and spying the envy of those on the outside of her circle was enough to dilute the feelings of inadequacy that had dogged her for much of her life. There were still days, moments when the cold creep of imposter syndrome wrapped its tendrils around her and threatened to pull her down, but in the main, she had it under control.
Her shower pulsed and beeped, letting her know it was time to get out and dry off. One of her non-negotiables, a little bit of deserved luxury, a clean and fluffy white bath sheet, fresh every day. Marguerite knew to keep a ready supply.
She descended the sweeping stone staircase that allowed her kitten-heeled Choos to echo as she clip-clopped in a kind of dance down towards the entrance hall, taking a second to admire the vast glass chandelier that hung low over the black-and-cream tiled floor. This, a main feature of her home, based on the grand foyers of all the fabulous hotels they stayed in. Fran, her old flatmate, and one of her dearest friends since university, always joked that for a couple with their dream home, they sure did like spending time away from it! It was a reminder to call Fran; she hadn’t seen her for months, or spoken to her, actually. It was wild how time flew.
She found Archie sitting at the kitchen island, a broadsheet covering his face. His oaky cologne filled the room and the signet ring on his little finger caught the light where the morning sun hit it.
‘I left you a muesli pot on the side.’
‘Yep.’ He shook the newspaper. ‘Thanks, but I had a croissant.’
Ashleigh felt the grip of irritation in her gut. ‘Well, don’t moan at me when you can’t fasten your cummerbund next month if you’re going to eat croissants!’
Her husband lowered his newspaper, revealing his handsome tanned face against the collar of his pale-pink Oxford.
‘Jesus Christ! I’m allowed a bloody croissant if I feel like it.’
This was not how she liked to start the day.
‘Of course you are, you’re allowed to do and eat whatever you want. You’re a grown-up. All I’m saying is that you can’t have it both ways, getting angry when your clothes don’t fit or your shirts gape and then choosing to eat shit.’
‘How lucky I am to have you to keep me on the straight and narrow.’ He took a sip of coffee.
She didn’t have time to rise to his provocation, not today. Not any day. It was as tiresome as it was futile, this little rut of bickering then making amends that had been their routine for a while now. Making up was always spectacular. They’d go out for an expensive dinner, eat fantastic food, get drunk, dance barefoot in their palatial home when they returned, drink some more, smoke as if they were back at university sharing a cigarette out of her bedroom window, and not forty-year-olds with a grown-up life and responsibilities. They’d then have sex, good sex, on the sofa or by the pool, wherever they happened to be when the music stopped.
It kept the sniping at bay, for a while.
‘Where’s Evie?’ She was yet to see her daughter, who liked to hide away, illegally watching cartoons before school.
‘In the den.’
‘Has she had her breakfast?’ she asked as she pulled the green juice from the fridge and poured a small glass.
‘Well, I hardly dare respond.’ Her husband widened his eyes.
‘You gave her a croissant!’ She was sure he did this purely to irritate her.
‘And jam!’ he mouthed, and pretended to fall backwards off the leather barstool, clutching his hand over his heart.
‘You can be such an arsehole.’
‘So I’ve been told.’ He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth and re-covered his face with the broadsheet.
A quick glance at the oversized clock above the shiny black Aga told her that Marguerite would be there any minute. Ashleigh didn’t know what she’d do without her, the woman who bought and prepared their food, gave the house a quick once-over, reminded Evie to do her homework, and took care of them all. Marguerite was the fuel that ran the machine of their London home. Ashleigh had made it clear after Evie was born that she needed help if her life was to work.
‘Help?’ Archie had asked when she’d announced her plans to return to work as soon as she was able.
‘Help! Yes! For when I go back to the office, which I want to do as soon as possible.’ She had worked too hard to watch the business slip through her fingers now. Plus, Guy was counting on her.
‘But, who’s going to look after the baby?’ She’d been a little taken aback by her husband’s question, assuming he’d understood her need to get back into the swing of things, knowingexactlywho he had married, and it wasn’t a pinny-wearing homemaker.
‘I don’t know, Archie. You? Why don’t you have a word with Hector and see if you can work from home or take her into the office with you?’
