Page 13 of Perfect Wives
‘Muuuummmmeeee!’
Even from upstairs, Oscar’s shout is piercing – a jackhammer to my lingering headache. I wince, pressing my fingertips to my temples before plastering on a smile.
‘I’m in the kitchen!’ I call back, my voice light, like I’m not feeling every drop of wine from last night thudding against my skull. I take a deep breath, willing my heart rate to settle after my sixty-minute Peloton session.
‘I will never regret the path I take,’ I murmur to myself, pushing aside the desire to rake over the decision to drink so much or to inhale two slices of toast when I got home at midnight. Regrets root me in the past. ‘And you, Georgie Bell, are about living in the present and looking to the future.’
I take a photo of my spinach smoothie – or sludge according to Nate and Oscar – and add a quote before posting. Last night’s wine glass shot has reached eight thousand views. Not enough, but Rome wasn’t built in a day. I’ll add a reel after the school run. Something in my kitchen. My followers love this space as much as I do.
I take a long sip of my smoothie. It’s actually super tasty. Spinach, strawberries and blueberries and banana, Chai seeds, turmeric and plenty of ice. The cure-all of smoothies.
Oscar skids into the room, already dressed in the school uniform I laid out for him last night – charcoal-grey trousers, a white polo shirt and a red jumper with the Magnolia Road Primary School logo on the left breast. It’s clean on, but somehow in the journey downstairs he looks like he’s been dragged through a bush. My heart swells with love as I crouch down and he rushes towards me. I scoop him into my arms, inhaling the scent of fabric softener and shampoo.
‘Good morning, baby,’ I murmur into his mop of sandy, untamed hair. ‘Do you want some of Mummy’s smoothie?’
‘Yuck!’ He wrinkles his nose, already wriggling free before making a running leap towards the cereal cupboard.
‘Coco Pops it is.’ I laugh, reaching for a bowl, my gaze pulling to the floor-to-ceiling bifold doors overlooking the garden. I catch sight of a familiar black-and-white cat balancing perfectly on the fence that separates our garden from Andrea Jenkins’ at number seven. I smile, grabbing my phone and adding a message to the Magnolia Close WhatsApp group:
Just spotted Mr Pickles in my garden. Hopefully he’s on his way home.
The cat is always going AWOL. I think he’s got a second home outside the close, one that feeds him Dreamies and Whiskas instead of the organic dried food Ryan and Dan have delivered once a month.
I turn in time to stop Oscar before he pours the entire contents of the cereal box into his bowl.
‘Mummy,’ he admonishes me as I take the box from his hands. ‘I can do it.’
‘I know you can, buddy.’ I reply. ‘I’m just helping.’
‘I don’t need help,’ he says, tipping the milk too fast so it spills out of the bowl and onto the dark quartz worktops. He definitely needs help, but I let him do it. I can clean up later.
He carries the bowl to the table and flicks on the TV to an episode ofPaw Patrol. I stay in the kitchen area, drinking my smoothie and taking a moment to be grateful. Even with a headache pulsing behind my eyes, I never want to forget how far I’ve come from the girl at sixteen who left school with little more than a sharp tongue and a handful of bad grades. I never want to take this for granted.
I tap out a WhatsApp note to myself – a reminder of the content I can use for my reel.
There’s nothing that can’t be fixed.
Nate grew up with this kind of comfort, but I didn’t. He has no idea what it’s like for your parents to have to choose between heating or food, but I do. I remember the nights I went hungry and the ones I wore my winter coat to bed. It’s why I’m grateful every day for this life, and for Nate and Oscar.
The kitchen is my favourite part of the house. Dark-blue walls, soft-grey cabinets, brushed-brass fixtures, a statement island that looks straight out of an interiors magazine. It’s open-plan with the units one side and a spacious dining area the other. The room stretches the entire width of the back of the house, opening out onto a patio and the rattan corner sofa that gets the sun all day in the summer.
‘Georgie Bell, you need coffee,’ I say to myself, looking up and catching Nate grinning from the doorway.
‘You know talking to yourself is a sign of insanity, right?’ He strides into the kitchen in his usual working-from-home outfit of grey jeans and a navy cashmere jumper, looking both casual and put-together. And good too. His dark-blond hair is still thick despite the years, damp from the shower and styled away from his face. His strong jawline has only grown sharper with age too. The lines at the corners of his eyes make him look distinguished rather than tired. He barely works out, save for a few weights in the spare room once a week and the occasional round of golf, and yet he still has the body of the thirty-year-old man I married. Some might say it’s unfair considering the effort I put into keeping myself looking this good, but I prefer to think of myself as lucky to have a husband who is still so hot.
Nate moves to Oscar first, ruffling his hair and kissing the top of his head. I watch them – father and son – and send another thank you into the universe for my family.
‘What does insanity mean?’ Oscar asks as my Nespresso machine hums.
Nate huffs a laugh before he replies. ‘It means it must have been a fun night if Mummy is drinking coffee before ninea.m.’
He crosses the room to me, looking for a moment like he might loop an arm around my waist and kiss my neck like he used to in the mornings. When did it stop? I see him start to swerve away from me and quickly shake my head, pretending I thought he was coming towards me. ‘I need a shower,’ I say with a smile.
‘That, Mrs Bell, is definitely true.’ Nate smirks, reaching for my coffee and taking a sip before pulling a face. ‘God, Georgie, how do you drink this black?’
I roll my eyes, taking back my mug. ‘Because I’m a superior human.’ And because milk has extra calories. I keep that last thought to myself. Nate doesn’t need to know all the small things I do that add up to me looking this way.
His eyes crinkle with amusement. It’s a smile that still makes my stomach flip and makes me wish he had touched me a moment ago. ‘Debatable,’ he says, reaching for a bowl and heaping in a helping of granola. ‘What on earth do you still have to talk about with Beth and Tasha? You see them every day.’
