His Perfect Wife by Natasha Bell

Author:Natasha Bell
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Crown/Archetype
Published: 2018-12-03T16:00:00+00:00

* * *

A few days later he opened the paper to find James Gandolfini had died. He scanned the article, learning the actor was in Italy with his family. After a day of sightseeing in Rome, his son discovered him collapsed on the bathroom floor of his hotel room. He’d had a heart attack and died sometime later in hospital. Despite the freshness of Amelia’s sneers at celebrity culture and despite knowing nothing about James Gandolfini beyond the roles he played, Marc felt sad. More than that. Reading quotes from politicians and producers, directors and other actors, all paying tribute to the “ferocious actor,” “gentle soul” and “genuinely funny man,” Marc’s eyes began to fill with tears.

“You’re ridiculous,” he told himself and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He was ridiculous. He could only have seen James Gandolfini in a handful of roles, most memorably of course as Tony Soprano, which yes, he’d enjoyed as much as I had, but that didn’t mean he had any link to the man himself. The death of the real actor had nothing to do with the character he played, however good the series. Before reading it in the paper that day, he might even have struggled to name the man. Yet, the sadness he felt was real. It stayed with him as he read the rest of the paper, lingered throughout the day. In the shower and again while waiting for the kettle to boil, he was struck afresh by the horror of a child finding his father unconscious. He thought about Charlotte and Lizzie, about being their only parent, their sole guardian. He made himself a salad for lunch, wasted twenty minutes reading an old Independent article about the best exercise for a healthy heart, then consciously walked fast enough to work up a sweat and feel his heart rate rise on the way to pick them up.

Char met him at the gate first, a grin on her face but mud scuffed from ankle to knee of her trousers.

“What on earth happened?” Marc said in dismay. It was a Tuesday, he’d only just washed her uniform.

“She scored the winning goal,” Lizzie said as she walked up, a touch of pride in her voice.

“That’s great, sweetie, but you’ll have to wear your skirt tomorrow.”

“No way,” said Charlotte.

Thrown by her uncharacteristic stubbornness, Marc faltered, but eventually murmured less than authoritatively, “I can try to wash your trousers tonight, but I don’t know if they’ll be dry by tomorrow.”

Char crossed her arms and stared at him.

They walked home in almost silence. When they got through the door, Char dumped her bag in the hallway and raced up the stairs to her room. A few minutes later she descended in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and handed Marc her folded school trousers, before silently returning to her room.

“Is there something wrong with Char?” Marc asked her sister.

Lizzie shrugged. “She likes playing football with the boys, I guess she can’t do that in a skirt. Did

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