The Perfect Happiness(50)
“You think you might be?”
“Nothing is certain.”
“God, Olivier. That’s terrible.”
“I know. Things are really bad.”
“But you’re going to be okay, surely?”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said?” he snapped impatiently.
“Yes, I’m just being optimistic.”
“Well, now isn’t the time to be optimistic. If I’m laid off, we’ll be in trouble. Your earnings will be important.”
“My new book comes out in the spring.”
“Good. Let’s hope it sells well.”
Angelica went downstairs to order the food and pour the wine, seething with resentment. She didn’t imagine Jack would come home in such a foul mood and demand that she order the food and pour the wine. He admired her books, he had even read one, which was more than Olivier had ever done. Now he had the cheek to tell her that what he considered a small home industry might actually be important. Well, she knew it was important. Her fans all over the world knew it was important. Jack knew it was important. If Olivier bothered to read her royalty statements, he’d realize just how important it was. But compared with his vast banker’s salary, her earnings were as raindrops in a lake—inconsequential.
Furiously, she ordered the dinner then sat in silence as they ate it at the kitchen table.
“Thank God we’re not going out tonight. I’m shattered.”
He didn’t notice that she hadn’t laid the table or lit a candle. She no longer felt guilty about fancying Jack. In fact, she felt she deserved a flirtation. If her husband wasn’t going to cherish her, Jack would—and if he really pushed her, she’d find a way to get to South Africa. In the gloom of Olivier’s bad mood the thought of riding across the veld was extremely enticing.
“Are you going to talk to me, or are you just going to sit there sulking?” Olivier asked.
“You don’t need to get at me just because you’ve had a bad day.”
“Haven’t you read the papers? It’s not just a bad day. Things are really going sour. We’re careering headlong into a recession. Probably the worst we’ve had in one hundred years. I need your support, not your condemnation.”
“I’m not condemning you, Olivier. I just don’t like your implying that my books are some kind of last resort if we hit bad times.”
“I’m grateful for them. We might need them.” He spread plum sauce onto his pancake, then piled it up with duck and onion slices.
“But your implication is that they can be brushed aside. I might as well be knitting bootees for the local children’s shop by the tone of your voice.”
He put his hand on hers and sighed resignedly. “I would never imply that what you do has no value. It has tremendous value not only to you spiritually but to us financially. All I’m saying is that they might become our only source of income.”
She withdrew her hand. “You’ve never read one.”
“No, it’s true. I haven’t.” He took a large bite and began to chew. As he did so, his hostility lifted and he smiled. “I will.”
“Don’t bother. You’re busy.” She no longer cared whether or not he read one. In fact, she rather wished he wouldn’t so that she could continue to hold the grudge, justifying her seeking consolation from Jack.
“I’m sorry I’m hard to live with at the moment. Ask any of your friends who is married to a banker. It’s not fun anymore. I can’t even tell you to go and spend a few grand in Gucci.” He shrugged helplessly.
“I’m far too busy writing anyway.”
“This is very good.” He rolled another pancake. “We should have this more often. I had forgotten how much I like Mr. Wing.”
Before she went to bed she sent Jack a text: I’ll meet you at eleven tomorrow night. X Sage. No sooner had she sent it than a message came winging back: I’ll wait at the end of the street in a taxi. What’s the address? DOP.
Olivier slept beside Angelica, but the gap between them was as big as Siberia. Angelica lay on her side facing away from him, dreaming of Jack and riding across the South African veld on a beautiful chestnut mare. Everything about him was romantic. The way he was so happy to discuss life. The way he spoke about his feelings. The way he loved nature. The way he noticed her. With him she felt attractive, feminine, mysterious, and cherished. With Jack she was someone totally different, someone Olivier had forgotten. And she liked that someone very much.
The following morning felt unlike any other. Olivier had gone to work. The children were getting ready for school, Sunny was preparing breakfast downstairs, she was dressing . . . but the air around her had changed; it was now charged with possibility. She walked the children to school and kissed them at the door. She had coffee with Candace, Letizia, Scarlet, and Kate. She listened to Kate’s arrangements for Art’s party: she had filled the house with silver helium balloons so that you couldn’t see the ceiling; she had ordered a cake from Jane Asher that was “to die for”; she had Mustard doing the catering; and she had hired a karaoke machine for all those aspiring singers to show off their talents—and yet Angelica moved through her day knowing that, whatever happened, at eleven o’clock her world would change. She sensed it like a bird sensing an earthquake.