The Soulmate(22)

19


AMANDA

AFTER



It’s true, I hadn’t anticipated that Gabe already knew about Pippa and Max. What sort of couple could know this about the other and then move on with their lives as if it were inconsequential? When I realised, it should have tipped me off about the kind of people I was dealing with. The pair of them pride themselves on loyalty, as if it’s all they could possibly need for a good marriage. They forget the most important thing about loyalty: sometimes it’s warranted . . . sometimes it’s not.





20


AMANDA

BEFORE



‘Before I ask you to marry me,’ Max said, ‘there’s something we need to discuss.’

There was no ring. No kneeling. He said it in between bites of his medium-rare steak.

We were in a lovely restaurant, but then we ate at lovely restaurants most nights. Why cook when we lived near some of the best restaurants in the world? We never needed to book ahead of time. Reservations just appeared for Max, as did window tables and dishes that weren’t on the menu but which Max had a hankering for.

‘All right,’ I said, setting down my cutlery.

I had understood things were going in this direction. We’d been dating for over a year, I’d met all the key people in his life and passed all the tests. I knew the role I needed to fill, and I did a good job of it. Max needed someone to accompany him to functions. Someone to organise his social life. Someone to attend to his physical, mental and sexual needs. Someone he could trust.

Max filled his role equally well. He was a gentleman; the kind of man who looked into my eyes rather than at my breasts, who spoke to me respectfully, never mocked me or put me down. He was considerate of my needs sexually and provided for me financially.

It was time, not just for the outward appearance but because it was practical. Max’s business was poised to explode. At work, he was hiring manager upon manager, staffing up teams, delegating. But he needed someone to manage his home life. I knew Max’s first love would always be his business, and I was fine with that. Unlike my mother, I was going to marry with my head.

‘So what do we need to discuss?’ I asked.

As Max put down his own knife and fork, he looked as close to nervous as I’d ever seen him. His cheeks were flushed, though later he would blame the red wine.

‘I don’t want children, Amanda.’

I’ll admit, that surprised me. While I hadn’t known Max to show a lot of interest in children, I’d assumed he’d be the old-fashioned type – happy to have as many as his wife wanted as long as he only had to pay them a cursory interest. I knew enough to know he wouldn’t be the type of father to get down on the floor and play or change dirty nappies, but the strength of his assertion – that was puzzling.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘May I ask why not?’

He shrugged. ‘You know about my mum and my brother.’

I nodded, even though I knew very little. Both had died by taking an overdose of pills, but even that I’d only gleaned from Max’s speeches at suicide-prevention fundraisers.

‘These kinds of mental health issues can be hereditary. I don’t want to take that chance with my own child.’

I sat back in my seat as I digested this. I wasn’t a woman who desired children particularly, I had just assumed they’d probably come along. To be told suddenly that they were off the table took some adjusting, if only to alter some of the fuzzy-edged visions of the future – the first words, the family holidays, Max walking a daughter down the aisle.

‘You’re disappointed,’ he said, after a few moments.

Was I? Maybe I was, a little. But it wasn’t a deal-breaker.

‘If you decide to accept my proposal, and I sincerely hope you do, we will have a good life. Travel, art, music, food. I will support you in anything you want to do. I will be a real partner to you. But I warn you, I will not change my mind on this.’

‘I need to think about it,’ I said, even though I’d already decided. As it turned out, I was highly efficient at adjusting my future visions. I’d already replaced them with adults-only resorts, trips to Europe, gala dinners and lazy Sunday brunches. It would be fine, I realised. It would be great.

I waited four weeks before I told Max I would marry him. But I had a condition of my own.

‘I want fidelity.’

My condition, I was aware, was perhaps not typical in marriages such as ours. After all, I understood the lay of the land. Powerful men like Max tended to have a mistress or two. Some of them used discretion, whereas others provided their wives with a very nice lifestyle to compensate them for looking the other way.

‘My father didn’t have a lot of great attributes,’ I continued, ‘but infidelity was the worst of it. He humiliated my mother time and time again. I am not interested in a marriage like that. If you want to marry me, I insist on fidelity.’

I spoke powerfully, pragmatically and without emotion. And so it surprised me when Max reached across the table to place his hand over mine. ‘That works for me.’

He handed me a ring he’d purchased; it cost more than the home I grew up in.

We married six months later, and the pictures were in all the magazines. A few months after that, my sad fertility stories started making headlines. In every single story, the reason we didn’t have children was attributed to me.