Page 4 of Perfect Wives
Lifesaver! Thank you.
Susie (No. 11)
Does anyone have any self-raising flour? Florence is baking cupcakes and we’ve just run out.
Beth (No. 3)
I’ve got some, Susie. Will pop it over now. I’ve got a parcel for you to drop over anyway.
Susie (No. 11)
Love this close! Thank you xx
PTA WhatsApp Group
Georgie
A reminder we’re meeting in The Anchor Inn at 7p.m. to finalise details of the PTA quiz next week.
TWO
TASHA
I sip from the huge wine glass in my hand, savouring the hints of cherry and dark chocolate. Georgie, Beth and I have claimed our usual table in the corner of the pub, near enough to the fire for the warmth but not so close our hair will smell smoky tomorrow. I love The Anchor Inn. Love that it’s five minutes from Magnolia Close and the school – the perfect location for tonight’s PTA meeting about next week’s quiz night. I love the exposed beams, the soft amber lighting, the rich scent of roasting meat and rosemary from the restaurant side of the bar. I love the wine they serve too.
It’s my second glass, and it’s a fight not to gulp it down as fast as the first as I try to stop my mind racing right back to the never-ending to-do list in my head. Of course it goes there anyway.
Across the table, Georgie and Beth are finalising one of the quiz rounds. Like always, Beth is quiet. She’s happy for Georgie to take the lead as she nods along, absently twirling a lock of her long red hair. I can’t seem to hold on to the conversation.
Have I paid for Matilda’s ballet classes? Did I order a new swimsuit for Sofia? My phone is resting on the table, and I’m itching to pick it up and do it now. When else will I get time?
Georgie says something I don’t catch, but the cackle – that raucous Georgie laugh – makes me smile. She’s what Marc calls a ‘go-getter’. He doesn’t mean it as a dig, but it always stings. I tried to explain it once, how it felt like a comparison. Like what he was really saying was he wished I was more like Georgie. But my husband just pushed a hand through his short dark hair and rolled his eyes before he stuck my comment in the box of ‘I guess we’re just different’.
Georgie’s notebook snaps shut. ‘Done,’ she declares, and I realise I’ve barely listened to a single word she’s been saying. I’ll add ‘terrible friend’ to my growing list of failures.
Another gulp of wine. If I can’t stop the list, then maybe I can drown it.
A wide grin spreads over Georgie’s face as she reaches for the bottle and tops up our glasses.
‘So,’ Georgie says with a light double clap of her hands – the kind of gesture that would be annoying from anyone else, ‘I’ll collect the wine and snacks on Monday, and you’ve got the tablecloths to iron, haven’t you, Tasha?’
I nod, adding ‘find the tablecloths’ to tomorrow’s list.
‘A bad turnout tonight,’ Beth says with an arch of her brows.
Georgie waves a hand like it doesn’t matter. ‘The other mums always say they’ll come and then send their excuses.’
‘Like we don’t have kids to put to bed too,’ Beth says.
I nod. All that and more. Tonight’s meeting is the last thing I need. Especially with Marc leaving for the airport in three hours. A two-day business trip to Brussels – something about helping a client streamline a new human resource filing system. He’s the only one in his company who speaks French, Dutch and Italian, so it’s always him who’s sent. He’s a project manager. His job is to make chaos look easy. The gliding swan, serene above the waterline while the frantic paddling happens out of sight. He’s brilliant at it. Efficient. Organised. Cool under pressure.
I just wish he’d bring even a fraction of that energy home. Because when it comes to our life – to our girls, our house, our marriage – I’m the one juggling the chaos. I’m the one staring down the barrel of two nights and three days of solo parenting while he eats dinner in a hotel restaurant and sleeps in crisp white sheets, returning home with a suitcase of clothes that need washing, telling me how exhausted he is. How hardhislife is.
And it’s Wednesday tomorrow. It isn’t one of Lanie’s nursery days, which means I’ll have to take her to the supermarket then across town to my parents. Then back for Matilda’s assembly, school pick-up, the drop to Beavers, tidying, cooking, the ever-growing pile of washing, and reading with Sofia and Matilda.
Opposite me, Georgie straightens the neckline of her navy cashmere jumper and snaps a selfie with her wine. Three taps on her screen and it’s on her Instagram story. I look down at my yellow silk top and feel dowdy. It’s my only nice top. The one I grab without thinking and always wear.
There’s a lot I didn’t know about life before meeting Georgie. Before moving to Magnolia Close when Matilda was four months old. I remember following the removal van down the narrow private road and through those big black gates, squeezing Marc’s hand, barely believing we were moving from a two-bed flat in town to a detached house in a private gated community, thanks to his promotion and an inheritance from his granny.
