The Perfect Happiness
PART ONE
Desire
1
The happiness of your life depends on the quality of your
thoughts.
In Search of the Perfect Happiness
LONDON
September 2008
Angelica Lariviere pulled on a pair of Spanx and looked at herself from all angles in the luxurious bathroom designed especially for her by Smallbone of Devizes. Mirrors encased the bath on three sides and opposite, above the two basins where Dyptique candles burned and perfumes adorned pale marble surfaces in pretty glass bottles. Angelica loved beautiful things: sunlight shining through a dew-encrusted cobweb, mist over a mirrored lake, an antique glass chandelier, birds in the magnolia tree, stars, a pregnant moon, Paris, perfume, the melancholy tones of a cello, candlelight, the stirring bleakness of a winter heath, snow. More exquisite than reality was her imagination. As elaborate as an enchanted garden, her dreams spilled onto the pages of her fantasy children’s novels, where life had no limitations and beauty could be manifested at will. Most of all, Angelica loved love, for nothing was more beautiful than that.
As she mused on the swift passing of time, her thoughts lingered on that first kiss in Paris, beneath the streetlamp on the Place de la Madeleine. Olivier would never kiss her like that again, and she’d never feel the intoxicating sensation of a hundred tiny bees’ wings tickling the walls of her belly. Not that he didn’t kiss her—just that a husband’s kiss is different from a lover’s. A first encounter can never be repeated. Marriage, children, and domesticity had deepened their affection for each other but, at the same time, stolen something of their magic, leaving them as familiar as siblings. She felt a wave of nostalgia for that precious moment, and a little wistful that so intense a love would never be experienced again.
It was then that eight-year-old Joe wandered in, clean and flushed in his pajamas, and his eyes widened in horror at the sight of her. “Yuck!” he exclaimed, screwing up his face. “Not those again!”
Angelica picked up her wineglass and scrunched her tousled blond hair between her fingers.
“Sorry, sweetie, tonight I need my big pants,” she told him, taking a sip of chilled Sauvignon. “It’s Big Pants or Big Tummy, and I know which I prefer.”
“Daddy doesn’t like them, either.”
“That’s because Frenchmen appreciate beautiful underwear.” She thought of the drawer of exquisite Calvin Klein lingerie she never opened, preferring to wear simple cotton underwear from Marks & Spencer, and felt sad that after two children and a decade of marriage she had given up trying to be sexy. She slipped on her black Prada dress. “Better?” she asked, striking a pose and smiling at him coquettishly.
“Phew!” he sighed melodramatically. She crouched down to kiss him. “You smell nice,” he added.
“That’s better. Remember, if you want to be popular with the girls, only ever tell them they look beautiful. Good training to get a wife someday.”
“I’m never going to marry anyone.” He put his arms around her and rested his head on her shoulder.
“Oh, you’ll change your mind when you’re bigger.”
“No, I won’t. I want to be with you forever.”
Angelica’s eyes welled with emotion. “Oh, darling, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said.” Who needs magic when I have you! “Give me the Full Joe.” He pressed himself against her with a giggle. “That’s so nice!”
“Can I watch Ant Bully now?”
“Go on then.” She watched him grab the television control and climb into her bed. He shouted for his sister to join him, and Angelica heard six-year-old Isabel hurry across the landing.
She turned back to the mirror and wiped away a smudge of mascara. That boy is going to break hearts one day, she thought. She stood back and appraised herself. Not bad, thanks to the Spanx. She actually looked quite slim. On a wave of enthusiasm, she hurried into the custom-made dressing room and reached for a vintage black belt with a pretty gold buckle in the shape of a butterfly she had found in the Portobello market. Back in front of the mirror she put it on, slipped into open-toed black stilettos, and admired the transformation.
Joe and Isabel chattered on the bed, their voices erupting into the uninhibited laughter exclusive to small children. The door opened and Olivier strode in with the insouciance of a man used to being the dominant power in the house.
“It smells like a bordello!” He turned up the lights. “The children should be in bed.”
“They are in bed—our bed.” She laughed. “Hello, darling.”
He scowled and blew out the candles, knowing that she would forget. “I see you’ve got a glass of wine. I could do with a drink myself.”