Page 5 of Perfect Wives
Georgie was the first one out of her door to greet us – wide smile and two bottles of wine.‘I didn’t know if you preferred red or white, but thought you’d need both after moving day is over.’
Over the years, I’ve learned a lot from Georgie. Like the importance of a good sports bra when tackling a busy day. Like always keeping frozen pizzas in the freezer for when a doorstep chat turns into a playdate and tea for the kids. Like sending voice notes to myself on WhatsApp with reminders to do something, grab something, be somewhere.
But if there’s one thing I don’t buy into about Georgie, it’s her mantras.
‘You get out what you put in.’
I’m sorry, but that one is utter crap. If I got out of life what I put in, then my life would be all glitter and sunshine. All I do, every minute of every day, is give and stretch and juggle. All I do is put in!
I shut the thought down, clenching my teeth together until the hollow scream whipping around my vocal cords settles into a throbbing in my temples.
‘I know the other PTA mums are flaky,’ Georgie says. ‘But we get a lot more done just the three of us. And now we can talk about us instead of making awkward small talk with the other school mums. But first we need more wine.’ And with that, Georgie is out of her chair and striding to the bar.
More wine is the last thing I need. I push my wine glass further away on the dark oak table. I just won’t drink any more. Two glasses is plenty. Two means my head won’t be foggy when ten-month-old Lanie shouts for breakfast at 5a.m. with her wide, gummy smile and those bright brown eyes that melt my heart even when the exhaustion feels like I’m wading through sludge. Not to mention the lecture I’ll get from four-year-old Sofia, who, as the middle child, is as precocious and opinionated as my mother-in-law. I can already imagine Sofia’s sing-song voice on the walk to school tomorrow morning. ‘Wine is very bad, Mummy. You are very bad.’
I had no idea wines like this existed before meeting Georgie seven years ago. Even Marc’s become an expert since we moved to Magnolia Close, and we’ve shared countless bottles of wine with our neighbours. He says his expertise is in his blood. His mother is Italian, his dad English. It’s one of the reasons we were so drawn to each other when we met in college. With my SriLankan parents and his dark Italian looks, both of us felt like we didn’t quite belong.
Marc even jokes about running away to the countryside and building his own vineyard one day when the girls are grown up. ‘I’ll use my full name of Marco, and you’ll be my Tesoro,’he’d say in an Italian accent, calling me his treasure. Sometimes when I lock myself in the bathroom, press my hands to my eyes and hold back the tears – grabbing a minute of peace – I imagine that other life. What it would feel like to run away from it all and start again.
But that’s all it is – a dream. We have a life here. Responsibilities. Bills to pay. The Magnolia Close community. The girls are happy and settled, and there’s my parents, of course. I can’t leave them.
My thoughts draw back to tomorrow, and the taste of the dark cherry Pinot Noir turns sour in my mouth as tomorrow’s tasks stack up. Like always, the stress feels like I’m being buried alive, weighed down, running out of air.
My eyes drag back to my phone, sitting face down on the table. I’m really not sure I did pay for the ballet classes. I can’t forget again. There was something else I need to remember. Something about the garden…
For a moment, it feels like the guilt will consume me – a monster from one of Matilda’s nightmares swallowing me whole. That constant feeling of disappointing everyone. Marc. The girls. My parents. Especially my parents.
I hate this feeling.
It’s just…since the summer, everything has felt harder, bigger. Impossible. The smallest things – a forgotten PE kit, a lost shoe – send me spiralling. Before the summer, I had hope. There was a light at the end of the tunnel – a way forward. Now, there’s no escape.
And it’s all Jonny’s fault. He is the reason – the sole reason – my life is as hard as it is. All my stress, every burden I carry, is heavier because of what he did.
I wish Jonny Wilson was dead.
THREE
TASHA
Outside, the night presses against the windows. A reminder that the October half term is only weeks away. Then Halloween. Then Christmas. I should start making a list of presents I need to buy…
Georgie returns with another bottle of red and tops up our glasses. I can feel her energy humming around me. What I wouldn’t give to be my friend for just one day.
‘How are your parents, Tasha?’ Georgie asks with so much concern, I feel the prick of tears at the back of my eyes. Georgie might be a go-getter. She might spend money without thinking and cajole us into nights out and helping at the events she organises, but she’s also kind and thoughtful and really cares about me. About all of us.
I reach for my wine and take a sip, determined not to cry.
‘Dad had another fall last night,’ I tell them. ‘He was on his way to the toilet and his legs gave out.’
‘Oh God, Tasha,’ Georgie says. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ I reply, swallowing down the hurt threatening to close my throat. ‘That’s how I found him this morning. Mum couldn’t get him up. They didn’t call me. They said they didn’t want to be a bother. Mum covered him with a blanket and waitedfor me to arrive after the school run.’ My voice cracks despite my resolve.
I blink hard, trying to block out the image – the sag of my dad’s thin frame beneath the throw, his pyjamas damp with urine, the sour smell clinging to the room, to me. The way his rough hand had gripped mine, apologising for causing a fuss and asking why I’d taken so long to get there. Always swinging like that. Gratitude and frustration in the same breath.
Across the table, Beth’s own eyes swim with tears. ‘That’s awful, Tash,’ she says, reaching to squeeze my hand. Her fingers are cool, but the gesture is full of warmth, and I’m grateful for my friends and the moments they make me feel seen.
I met Beth soon after Georgie. She knocked on the door the day after we’d moved in, little Henry – eight months then – in a baby carrier on her chest.‘I made cookies. They’re gluten- and nut-free. I wasn’t sure if you had any allergies.’
