ecember 24, 2001

“Need help with your bags, love?” The cab driver makes a halfhearted attempt to open the door, but the woman stops him.

“Don’t worry.” She smiles with uncharacteristic warmth (because God knows, he knows the type, and he’s usually lucky if he gets a thank you, let alone a smile). “I’ll manage. Merry Christmas!” And she collects her bags and walks up to her door.

The cab driver sits and watches her for a minute. Great legs. Great smile. Great hair. If only he were a few years younger. But see that huge rock on her left hand? The alligator handbag that screams money and class? Look at the address, must be where she lives. Belgravia indeed. He shakes his head as he drives off to the Lanesborough to try to pick up some rich American tourists (the tips make the wait worthwhile). Girls like that were always out of his league.

After clattering up the front steps and opening the door, Alice dumps her bags just inside and kicks off her heels. “Bloody Jimmy Choos,” she mutters, leaning down to massage her instep, grateful for the cool limestone floor against her aching feet. “Bloody Beauchamp Place. Bloody shopping.”

She pulls some beautifully gift-wrapped boxes out of the bags at her feet and leans down to arrange them underneath the huge Christmas tree, sweeping aside the iced white crystal balls that hang from the branches and catch in her straightened, streaked hair.

During their first Christmas together, Alice had planned to decorate the tree with Joe. She’d spent hours searching for Christmas decorations: brightly colored wooden soldiers, colorful beads, multicolored fairy lights, and strings of glittering tinsel. Joe had phoned to say he was stuck in a meeting, so Alice had decided to surprise him by decorating the tree herself.

She loved every minute of it. When she’d finished, she sat on the floor gazing up at the tree while eating popcorn out of a huge bucket, remembering all her childhood Christmases, dying for Joe to come home and see the tree, how lovely, and festive, and homely it looked.

When Joe walked in and saw the tree, he froze.

“What. Is. That?”

“That’s our tree,” Alice laughed, putting down the popcorn and running up to kiss him.

“But what is all that stuff on it?”

“Those are our decorations.” Alice spoke slowly, as if to a child.

“No.” Joe shook his head as Alice tried to understand. “No.”

Now Alice understands.

Joe had taken everything off the tree and come home the next day with new decorations. Everything, he said, had to be white, or he refused to have a tree. White crystal balls, the best money could buy, tiny white fairy lights, and white velvet bows as a concession to tradition. Even the fairy had to go, and now their tree is topped by a brushed silver pyramid.

Alice has never managed to feel the same way about Christmas again, although now, gazing up at her twelve-foot Norwegian spruce, glittering icily in the subdued lighting of the lobby, she has to admit it may not be festive, or even particularly pretty, but it’s certainly impressive.

Their whole house is impressive, for that matter, although Alice has become immune to it now. They had employed an architect known for his modern, minimalist style to gut what had once been an old garage that specialized in redoing vintage cars and turn it into a designer haven.

Limestone floors and glass ceilings. Stainless steel fixtures and hard square modern furniture, shades of coffee and cream, not a color to be seen. And then that huge, impressive foyer, two storys high, large enough to house a Christmas tree bigger than Alice had ever seen before outside of Trafalgar Square.

Alice walks upstairs to the open-plan kitchen and switches on the kettle (Alessi) for a quick cup of tea. Tonight is their five-year anniversary, and they’re off to Nobu—Joe’s favorite—for dinner. She checks the clock on the microwave—6:14. The table’s booked for eight-thirty, but she has learned to be twenty minutes late for everything, and even then she usually arrives before Joe.

Alice has become used to walking into restaurants, parties, events, alone. She has perfected the art of small talk, of wearing a serene smile on her face at all times to hide her discomfort and awkwardness.

Joe is invariably late, or away. Alice used to try to cancel if Joe suddenly announced he was going to be away, but she has obligations now, commitments, and it is not always easy to come up with a new excuse. If Joe is in London, merely working, she knows he will eventually turn up, his tie askew, his mind clearly elsewhere, and Alice, who would once have been appalled by his rudeness and disrespect, has learned to accommodate even this, but she is not happy about it.

This is not the life Alice imagined herself leading. This is not the marriage Alice imagined herself to have. And Joe is not the knight in shining armor she had once thought.

She hates sitting in restaurants by herself, feeling the other diners glance at her with curiosity (I haven’t been stood up, she feels like announcing, my husband will be here in a minute), yet she puts up with it because there is a small part of her that still enjoys seeing Joe walk in, stepping outside her role as his wife, pretending she is just another diner, feeling again the thrill of her attraction to this man.

So tonight, their anniversary, Joe will be late. He may or may not phone first and apologize in advance, but she is quite sure he will make it up to her with wonderful flowers and a wonderful present, probably jewelry, at which she will gasp with delight, although she now has a safe full of wonderful jewelry, which she neither needed nor particularly wanted.

Alice would happily exchange her jewelry for more time with her husband. She married him dreaming of their shared lives together, but finds that she is far lonelier now than she ever was before. At least in her single days she had her career, and Emily, but the only cooking she does these days is when entertaining Joe’s business clients and occasionally friends, and Emily is so busy living her single life, Alice just doesn’t seem to see her much anymore.

Alice takes her tea upstairs and starts to run a bath, sitting on the edge of the tub as she examines herself in the mirror opposite, feeling as she so often does these days that she is looking at a stranger, barely able to recognize the person she has become.

There have been occasions, over the last few years, when she has run into former clients at parties. They are always charm personified, and not one of them has ever recognized her.

There have even been times when she has mentioned that she once had a catering company, and they have said, “Really? What was it called?” because these are people who use catering companies on a regular basis, and when she has told them the name they have said, “Oh, yes. I think I might have used them once a long time ago.” They have no idea that Alice has studied their kitchens, knows their cupboards, their fridges, what brand of kitchen towel they use.

But why should they recognize her? Alice thinks, sipping her tea, remembering the girl she used to be. Gone now is the mousy, curly hair. Gone the pale, wan skin free of makeup. She crosses her legs and looks down at her tight Gucci trousers that show off her long, lean legs, splays her fingers to look at the short, square nails, French-polished to perfection, stands up and leans on the counter, moving her face toward the mirror to better examine what she sees.

Her hair now falls in a streaky sheet, all hint of mouse hidden by honeys and caramels; her skin is lightly tanned, her makeup subtle and her clothes sophisticated. She now wears only the best of the best, even though she has a pathological hatred of high heels and feels like a trussed turkey in the little fitted jackets Joe likes.

Her favored, favorite old Levi’s are still in her closet, but she couldn’t wear them now. Sometimes she tries them on as a reminder of who she is, who she once was, but the jeans are now so big she can pull them on and off without even undoing them.

The jeans she wears these days, on the rare occasions she wears jeans, are Earl, or Diesel. They are dark denim, low-slung on the hips, flaring ever so slightly and sexily over her pointed boots. She wears them with delicate chiffon Alberta Ferretti tops, under a long shearling coat with a huge fox collar. These are her outfits for pretending she and Joe are trendy, hip Londoners, for pretending they are ten years younger than their age, for those nights they go to Hush, or Home House, or the K Club.

Alice can pull off this look, despite her age, because she doesn’t really care. Clothes have never interested her, do not interest her now, but she knows she has to play the part, and she has always been good at fitting into different roles. Not to mention different clothes.

There used to be mornings, before her transformation was complete, when Alice would come down for breakfast in one of her old, baggy sweaters, but Joe has taught her always to look her best, even if only nipping out for milk, because, after all, she never knows whom she might bump in to. Alice doesn’t much care whom she bumps in to, or what she looks like, but she wants to make Joe happy, and if looking perfect keeps Joe happy, then she will do her best to look perfect, twenty-four hours a day.

At night she wears delicate silk negligées, with matching robes and Loro Piana cashmere slippers. She still has a pair of men’s flannel pajamas from days of old, and when Joe is away she clambers into the pajamas and snuggles up in bed, television remote control in one hand, thickly buttered toast and honey in the other. (Joe does not allow breakfast in bed: the crumbs might—God forbid—get into the sheets.)

The phone rings sharply, bringing her running from the bathroom, and her heart sinks as she sees Joe’s mobile number flash up on caller display.

“You’re going to be late, aren’t you?” Her voice is flat.

“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. I’m stuck in this bloody meeting, and”—he drops his voice—“I did tell them it was my anniversary tonight, but work is work, and it shouldn’t go on too late. I just want you to make the reservation nine. I’ll definitely be there for nine.”

“Joe, it’s our anniversary. Why tonight of all nights? Why are you always working?” Alice cannot help the anger in her voice. Their arguments are always the same: his work, his traveling, his absence. “What do you want me to do?” he usually hisses. “Leave my job? We’d have to sell the house, change our lifestyle. You’d like that, would you? You want to have no money? Fine. Just say the word and I’ll leave.”

Or her personal favorite: “I’m doing this for you, you know.”

“You think I like the traveling?” he’ll try from time to time. “You think I like getting up at four in the morning to go to the airport, flying to meeting after meeting, missing you and just wanting to be home? You think it’s any fun for me staying in hotel rooms all the time, with no friends, no family, going to one boring business dinner after another?”

I am not stupid, Alice thinks. I know all about your business trips. I know about the big, black plush Mercedes that drives you to Heathrow. I know about your first-class travel and your gold executive card for British Airways. I know about your hotels—the Four Seasons and nothing less. I know about your six-course gourmet client dinners, with rare, fine wines, Cuban cigars, and vintage ports. Oh, the sheer hell of it!

Alice does turn around from time to time and say, “Yes. That’s exactly what I want. I’d love to sell this bloody museum of a house, and I’d love to change our lifestyle. You think I care about all this stuff? I don’t care, I’d love a little house outside London. Go on. Leave. Leave your bloody job.”

“Fine!” he would say defiantly. “I’ll leave tomorrow.” And usually that’s the last she’ll hear of it until the next row.

Now, on the telephone, Joe takes a sharp intake of breath and drops his voice low. “Alice, I do not need to have an argument now. I am in a meeting, and it will run slightly later than I had planned. I am not prepared to get into this on our anniversary.” His voice is stern, and Alice doesn’t have the energy to fight.

“Please don’t be later than nine,” she says eventually.

“I’m sorry, darling.” The relief in his voice is audible, relief at Alice’s acceptance, her lack of anger. “I promise I’ll be there for nine and I’ll make it up to you.”

Alice sighs. What else can she do? “I’ll see you at nine. I lo—” She stops. The phone has already been cut off.

She leans back on the pillows and looks at the photographs on the wall at the end of the bed. Three photographs, black and white, blown up, of Joe and Alice looking like the happiest people on earth. It could almost be an ad for Calvin Klein, so perfect do they look. But Alice remembers that day well. The photographer grew more and more impatient waiting for Joe to arrive, and Alice remembered trying to placate him, to make him laugh. When Joe finally did arrive they had five minutes before the photographer had to go to another job (he couldn’t let them down—Vogue). Both Alice and Joe were amazed that in such a short space of time he managed to produce pictures this beautiful.

Alice gazing directly into the camera, the sadness in her eyes already apparent, looking pensive, and wistful, and very beautiful. Joe kissing Alice’s forehead, an apology for the delay, his profile in shadow, her profile a sharp chiaroscuro of light. Joe cuddling Alice, his strong arms wrapped tightly around her, chin nestled in her shoulder, a cheeky smile on his face, her eyes lit up with laughter and love.

They had been taken three years ago, but it felt like a lifetime. What had happened to them in the last three years? Where had the laughter and intimacy gone?

At three minutes past nine (of course Nobu accommodated the last-minute change—Joe Chambers is, after all, one of their best customers), Joe takes the steps, three at a time. He charges through the restaurant to the table at which he knows Alice is waiting and scoops her hair gently away from her neck, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

“Three minutes,” she warns, grateful that he did not make her wait tonight.

“I told you I wouldn’t be late,” he grins. “You look beautiful. I’m sorry. Happy anniversary.” And he places a small turquoise-blue box on the table in front of her.

“Yet another guilt present?” Alice jokes, as Joe stiffens.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean every time you’re late you bring me a present.”

“Not every time, darling.” He relaxes. “And this is our five-year anniversary.”

“Five years. Can you believe it?” Alice is playing with the white ribbon on the box, wondering whether tonight would be the night for another talk, whether tonight he might listen when she says she needs Joe to spend more time with her. But she knows it will probably descend into another argument, and tonight is their anniversary. Perhaps she will try to save it until tomorrow.

“The happiest years of my life,” Joe says, as he says every year on their anniversary, and Alice still doesn’t know whether he means it.

“Are they really?” she says tonight, putting the box down and staring at him. “Are these really the happiest years of your life?”

“Alice,” he warns with a sigh. “I’m not prepared to have that discussion tonight. I’m not going to sit here and talk about how unhappy you are with my hours because I can’t change that right now, and I’m not going to have an argument on our anniversary. Open the gift. Let’s just have some champagne and have a lovely evening.”

Alice unwraps the Tiffany box and opens it to reveal a small diamond heart on a long platinum chain.

“It’s beautiful,” she says.

“Here. Put it on.”

Alice leans her head forward obligingly and Joe slips it on, sitting back to admire his good taste and his beautiful wife. He is aware that he is not the only one, that these days Alice always garners admiring glances. He chose well. She is a good wife, and she makes him happy. She’s not as passive or as forgiving as he had once thought, and he could live without the rows that seem to be more and more frequent, but he doesn’t think many women would put up with him, and on the whole Alice is probably far less demanding than any of the others.

And look how beautiful she has become, how the Plain Jane has blossomed into this stylish, sophisticated creature. She is everything he has ever looked for, and he leans forward, taking her face gently in his hands as he says, “I love you.”

“I know,” she smiles.

“No. I really love you.”

“I really love you too.”

“I love you the most,” he smiles, for this is their game.

“No. I love you the most.”

“Okay,” he shrugs with a playful smile, and they both laugh and kiss, all animosity now forgotten.

They have a wonderful evening. The chef’s specials were, as always, delicious, the champagne warmed their hearts, and they have been both tender and playful. Alice is almost high with joy, for this is the Joe she fell in love with, this is the Joe she doesn’t often see anymore.

He has been charming and funny and flirtatious. Perhaps he has flirted with their waitress a little more than Alice is comfortable with, but she is used to his ways now, and pretends not to notice.

“Doesn’t it bother you,” Emily once said, “how he flirts with anything in a skirt?”

“Absolutely not,” Alice had lied. “He’s all mouth and no trousers. He’ll look but he won’t touch.” And although she knows this to be true, knows that he would never be unfaithful, that he is basically just an insecure little boy at heart who needs to be constantly reassured that women still find him attractive, she still finds it exasperating that he continues to flirt in her presence.

“What?” he says, shrugging. “Why are you giving me that look?”

“You know why.”

“I’m not flirting. God, Alice, you always think I flirt with everyone.”

“That’s because you do.”

“I’m just being charming.”

“Smarmy, more like.”

“Anyway. You’re the one I chose. You’re the one I’m married to.”

“Hmmm.” Alice raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

The bill has been paid and Alice and Joe are just finishing their coffee. Joe’s hand is already stroking Alice’s thigh under the table, and they are smiling at each other, knowing what that means, knowing that tonight will not be an early night after all.

“Alice! Joe!” A piercing French accent rings out, and Joe’s hand leaps off Alice’s thigh as they both turn round to see Valerie and Martyn.

Alice doesn’t like Valerie. She has known her for some months now, has bumped into her at several charity events, and on each occasion Valerie has said they must have lunch, but of course neither one has phoned the other.

Truth be told, Alice is more than a little scared of Valerie. While Alice is aware she now looks the part, she also knows that, much like a little girl playing make-believe, she is pretending. Valerie, on the other hand, is the real McCoy. Originally from Geneva, Valerie was brought up in New York, and now flies between London, New York, and Paris. So polished she’s almost gleaming, and so hard you’d hurt yourself if you bumped into her, she is witty, caustic, and the current darling of the society pages.

She also flirts mercilessly with Joe every time she sees him, and the only small mercy is that—extraordinarily—Joe doesn’t flirt back. “She’s a ball-breaker,” he said, when Alice first mentioned her. “A scary woman. Not sure I like her.” Alice breathed a deep sigh of relief.

“Valerie.” Joe stands up, plants a kiss on each cheek, and shakes hands with Martyn, her current, and rather insignificant save for his small fortune, boyfriend.

“Alice!” Valerie bends down to kiss Alice, enveloping her in a cloud of Calèche. “You look so in love, the two of you, sitting here gazing into each other’s eyes. So romantic!”

“Do we?” Alice says brightly, thinking, Yes, see how happy we are? That will teach you not to flirt with my husband. “It’s our anniversary.”

“Oh, chérie, congratulations. How wonderful. How long?”

“Five years.” Alice continues to stake her claim.

“Mon Dieu! That’s practically a lifetime! My first marriage lasted nine months and that was long enough, thank you. Aren’t you getting bored?” Valerie turns to Joe and raises an eyebrow.

Joe looks nervous. “Bored? With my beautiful wife? Absolutely not.”

“But they say that variety is the spice of life,” she says lightly. “After five years”—she turns to look at Alice—“I’d be looking for a little variety.”

“We don’t need variety,” Alice smiles through gritted teeth. “We have each other. Come on Joe, love. Let’s go home.” A dramatic pause. “To bed.”

Valerie raises an eyebrow and smiles. “Enjoy yourselves, my darlings. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”