Trophy Life Read Online Free PDF Page A

Weren’t they so metropolitan and popular?
    Yet here she was on a Friday night alone at home with a mangled chicken.
    Ten minutes into her perusal, her phone vibrated and a small bar appeared at the top with a message from Harry reading, ' Sorry, will be late, eat without me xxx' .
    Sighing into her almost empty glass of Malbec, Amy drained the last dregs and went to tackle the poultry on her own.
    When Harry did finally arrive home the clock by their bed read 11pm.
    'Nightmare,' he boomed as he entered their room, an actor entering stage left. 'On the phone to Poochy Paul for an hour and a half. There’s been another breakdown of communications over the custody arrangements.' He was already undoing the cufflinks on his shirt as he spoke.
    Amy smiled. Harry wasn’t allowed to discuss the names of his clients, even with her, so they always spoke in code, giving the clients nicknames based on something to do with their situation. In the early days of their marriage Harry had indulged Amy a bit, laughing as she made them up and occasionally chipping in. Nowadays, Amy tended to come up with the names entirely on her own. In any event, Poochy Paul and his wife Canine Carla were currently involved in a dogged dispute involving the living arrangements of their Pomeranians. The matter had been rumbling on for so long that Amy felt like she knew them both.
    'Still arguing over Christmas?' she asked, unable to hide a smile at the ridiculousness of it all.
    'Yes, Christmas and Chanukah and what happens when they fall on the same days and when they don’t. We’re very keen to get those eight days and nights.' His tone was completely serious. He sounded like an earnest newsreader talking about house prices. As he spoke, she watched from their bed as he smoothly unbuttoned his shirt and trousers and got ready for sleep. Every step of his routine – and it was a daily routine completed meticulously without fail – was carefully choreographed for maximum efficiency. The suit, which would be dry cleaned tomorrow, was hung carefully to avoid wrinkling. The shirts folded before being placed in the hamper for Una to wash.
    'My mum saw that Mail article today. Read the whole thing to me. She seemed very proud,' Amy told him.
    'Oh yes, well,' he smiled dismissively. 'It’s good for the firm. They had that silly photo as well.' As he said this, she watched as he surveyed himself in the mirror, as if recalling the photo. He seemed pleased with the result. 'What’s the plan this weekend? I might have to work,' he non sequitured, still not looking at her, focused now on spreading moisturiser evenly on his jawline.
    'We’re going to Julia’s tomorrow, then we have dinner with Giselle and James for her birthday and I’m seeing your mother on Sunday. You said you were golfing, right?' She decided that she would do something as well while he busied himself, so she began rubbing in hand cream, squishing it between her fingers and extending up her arms. For some reason it felt very grown up, perhaps as she remembered seeing her mother do the same when she was a child.
    'Yes, just with some of the uni lot,' he said, finally, carefully, lowering himself onto their bed. He kissed her on the forehead as he always did. 'Anyway, I am pooped. Let’s go to sleep.'
     
     
    ***
     
     
    The next morning, Amy found herself in Julia’s chaotic but cosy kitchen in Finchley, sitting next to Isabelle’s pasta sauce covered high chair, her chubby one year-old hand waving the spoon around like an overzealous conductor. She narrowly avoided being hit by some flying courgette.
    Amy’s older sister, Julia was filling a kettle while her two elder children, son Flynn, three and daughter, Jenny, five, ran around the living room, overseen by her husband Mark. Everything about Julia screamed practical mum. Her long, once glossy hair was safely tied into a top not, away from infant hands. She wore a sensible outfit of shapeless jeans and baggy jumper.
    'Can you