Getting Rid of Matthew (14 page)

"Can I help you?" he asked "Oh…yes…I'm…erm…I'm Eleanor." She felt bizarrely nervous. Maybe it's because I'm an utter fraud, she thought, wondering if she should just back out the door she had come through and leg it. But Sonny had looked around at the sound of her voice and was coming over, hand outstretched, smiling.

"Eleanor. Thanks so much for coming over." He took her hand and shook it firmly. "So…this is it, what do you think?"

"It's…er…"

"It's a complete fucking state is what it is," he said, laughing. "But it will get finished on time if it kills me. Come through to the back and I'll show you the plans."

An hour later, Sonny had convinced Helen that the restaurant was bound for great things and Helen had convinced Sonny that she had fantastic and original ideas for promoting it. She'd actually gotten so carried away with her plans for features (she knew, she just knew that Lesley David from the
Mail on Sunday
would go for a piece on Catalan specialties because she owed her one) and promotions and a glittering launch night, that she'd forgotten about her adolescent crush on Sonny. She'd invite all of Global's celebrity clients that she had gotten to know over the years to the launch. She knew the D-listers would attend any event where they stood a chance of getting in the papers, and she knew the photographers would attend any event which promised a cocktail of D-listers and free alcohol. She was just congratulating herself on how well she was handling the situation when Sonny did two things which threw her right off balance again.

He asked her out to dinner.

He asked her what her surname was.

And to deflect attention from the second, she found herself agreeing to the first.

* * *

She called Matthew from the restaurant's candlelit toilet. For some reason, she found herself lying to him and telling him she was meeting Rachel.

"Sophie won't…you know…mind, us going out to dinner?" she said to Sonny when she came back out, putting her phone away.

Sonny looked confused. "Sophie? Why?"

"Well, I just thought maybe you and her…" She stopped when she saw that Sonny had started to laugh.

"Me and Sophie? God no. God…no."

"Oh."

Sonny was still helpless.

"I mean…I love her and everything, but really…no. Don't worry."

"OK." Helen was starting to feel embarrassed. By asking him that question, she'd given away that she was interested, but she couldn't allow herself to be interested, not till she'd sorted the Matthew situation out. Try as she might, though, she couldn't bury the feeling that she was pleased that he wasn't Sophie's boyfriend.

Sonny had gotten a grip. "Sorry," he was saying, "I'm not laughing at you. It's just, it's impossible to imagine me and Sophie…I mean, she's lovely, but it just couldn't happen…God, no…"

Helen interrupted him, laughing. "OK, I believe you. Let's go, shall we?"

The evening was perfect. Well, it would have been perfect if it hadn't been for Matthew and Sophie and the fact that she wasn't really Eleanor or a real PR person. Sonny was attentive and funny. He wasn't sixty, he didn't have a family, he was uncomplicated. Helen knew she must be coming across as uptight, what with all the lies she was having to tell and the history she was making up for Eleanor, but he was acting like he was enjoying her company anyway. A few glasses of wine in and she was sailing dangerously close to the wind, getting her
Helens
and
Eleanors
mixed up and contradicting herself all over the place, but he didn't seem to notice. Everything amused him and he made her feel as if she were the most entertaining, witty person he'd ever met. For Helen, it was the ego boost to end all ego boosts. She just had to keep reminding herself that that was all it was.

At nine thirty, while they were waiting for their coffees to arrive, Sonny suddenly put his hand over hers. Helen froze. She was feeling distinctly fuzzy from all the Pinot Grigio. She looked at him, and he was looking right back at her.

Say something, she told herself.

Sonny cleared his throat. "Eleanor…"

"No." She withdrew her hand. "Sorry, I can't do this."

"OK." He was looking hurt and a little bit pissed off.

"It's just, I have a boyfriend but, well, I didn't mention it before because…it's a bit of a complex situation."

"I see."

"No, you don't. I think it's over, I just haven't told him yet. God, no, that sounds awful. I'm trying to find a way to end it that'll give him the least possible pain, and that's just taking longer than I thought."

"Eleanor, it's no big deal. I like you, but we've only just met, so it's not like I'm going to be heartbroken if you knock me back. Well, just a bit."

He was smiling at her now; that was a good sign.

"It's probably for the best, anyway, seeing as we're going to be working together for the next few weeks. And then, once we're not working together, if it turns out you no longer have a boyfriend, then, who knows, I might try again, if you're very, very lucky. And, of course, if I haven't met someone better in the meantime."

"No chance." She laughed. It was fine, it had been a moment, but it was all over and they could still work together. They managed to make jokey conversation over their coffee and they made each other laugh, but something had gone out of the evening and they were both aware of it. A slight formality had crept back in and Helen noticed they were both furiously avoiding eye contact. At one point his hand brushed hers when they both went to pick up the bill, and they jumped apart as if they'd been stung.

But when they said good-night, he kissed her on the cheek and stayed there for just a fraction of a second too long. Before either of them really knew what was happening—and, thinking about it afterward, Helen really couldn't say who'd instigated it—they had maneuvered themselves around and it had become a full-blown snog. No, not a snog, she thought, that was too adolescent, too drunken and reminiscent of girls' nights and Ibiza and having to ask their name in the morning. This was a kiss, grown-up and loaded with meaning and things that they wanted to say but couldn't. This time, though, he pulled away, embarrassed and apologetic.

"I'm really sorry, I don't know what I was thinking of."

"It's OK," Helen said, still reeling. "It was…nice."

But Sonny wasn't having it. "No, no, I just promised to leave you alone till you're ready, and then I do this. I never move in on other people's girlfriends. I mean, really, never."

"I'm the one with the boyfriend," Helen said. "I'm the one who should be apologizing."

"We won't do it again." Sonny was moving backward, creating a physical barrier between them.

"Definitely not," Helen agreed.

"Well, hopefully someday. Just not now."

"Exactly."

Neither of them quite knew how to end the conversation and move on, and they stood awkwardly for a few moments, their breath white in the cold air, hands rammed into their pockets to stop them making a grab for one another, like two hormonal teenagers. Then Sonny pecked her on the cheek again—this time as if he were saying good-bye to his grandmother.

"Night, then," he said.

"Night," said Helen, stepping out into the road to flag down a taxi. She waved at him as it moved off, feeling guilty about Matthew already. But she knew that the possibility was still there that something might happen in the future, and she couldn't help smiling.

* * *

Matthew, she thought when she got back home and found him on the sofa in his Calvin Klein pajamas, eager to hear how her night had been, is an old man. It wasn't his fault, and it shouldn't necessarily have been a problem—plenty of people had very successful and happy relationships where there was a massive age gap—but somehow it had become one. When she was fifty, he would be seventy. Was that what she wanted? To spend the rest of her life with a man who was drawing his pension?

If I really loved Matthew, I wouldn't be thinking like this, she thought. If I really loved him, I would've told Sonny that there was no chance, that I was in a happy relationship and that I couldn't work for him after what had just happened. She had said to Sonny that it was over, that she was just waiting for the right time to tell him. And, looking at Matthew now, she was forced to acknowledge the thoughts that had been bubbling around in her head ever since he'd moved in, and which she had been trying not to allow to surface—that she didn't truly love him. At least not enough.

She just had to decide what to do about it.

18

O
N SATURDAY MORNING,
Matthew and Helen picked out a large, green-eyed tabby from the local animal shelter. They'd gone for a kitten, but there were none to be had, and anyway, he'd almost begged them to choose him, rubbing up against the side of his cage when they walked by and rolling over, purring, when they stopped to look. They named him Norman. Helen knew that Matthew was interpreting this act of domesticity as some kind of nesting instinct on her part. She didn't like to tell him that Norman was bait.

She had slept badly, waking often and veering between feelings of elation and guilt. Before the kiss good-night and all the complications that it had given rise to, Sonny had pressed one of his cards into her hand so that she could call him after the weekend and tell him how her plans for the campaign were going. It was hidden, now, in the back pocket of her jeans, and Helen felt alternately thrilled and dismayed knowing it was there. She knew she should tell Matthew about the restaurant and her potential break, but she couldn't work her way through the tissue of lies she'd need to get there. They were pretty much avoiding the subject of work now, anyway, since Helen had asked Matthew whether he could put in a good word for her anywhere.

"It'd look bad, coming from me. Like I'm just saying you're good because you're my girlfriend."

"But you've worked with me for years, it's perfectly legit that you'd give me a reference. I used to be your assistant, for God's sake."

"Maybe in a few months, when all the gossip dies down. You could temp till then, or didn't you say EyeStorm needed someone?"

"They need a secretary. I don't want to be a secretary. Not anymore."

"Well," Matthew said, "you know what they say, beggars can't be choosers."

Did he just say that? Helen thought, furious.

"Did you just say that? I've lost my fucking job because of you and me. Don't you feel any responsibility?"

"Oh, come on, Helly, don't be so melodramatic. You didn't have to give your notice in. There was absolutely no reason why you couldn't stay at Global."

"You. Are. Fucking. Unbelievable. And don't call me Helly."

She'd stormed straight out the front door and walked around the block a couple of times, and then she'd realized she had nowhere to go and it was starting to drizzle, so she'd gone back home again. Matthew, irritatingly, had clearly anticipated her arrival, because he had just made a large cafetiere of coffee.

He'd apologized, she'd acted indifferent, he'd groveled, she'd capitulated. Same old story.

* * *

Sunday morning was dull and rainy. Helen and Matthew flopped around the flat, unable to summon up the energy to go down to the shop on the corner and get the newspapers. She made a halfhearted attempt to tidy up, knowing that critical eyes would be all over the mess later. Increasingly, Helen felt this was what her Sundays had become, a day of waiting for Matthew to pick up the girls and bring them over. A day given over to other people. She fought the temptation to sneak out with her mobile to call Sophie and to casually contrive a conversation about Sonny:

So…how do you know Sonny?

So…what about Sonny, anything I should know?—not that I'm interested. Any wives, children, boyfriends knocking about? Any communicable diseases, mental health issues, religious fundamentalism?

So…I'm thinking about shagging Sonny one of these days. What do you reckon?

She distracted herself by making lists of her publicity-grabbing ideas for the restaurant: Salsa dancers? No, too tacky. Free sangria, ditto. Maracas, bullfights, tortillas…what the fuck else was Spanish? Helen's only experience was from a week in Ibiza five years ago—when she was already too old for it to be anything other than sad—and that was a blur of dancing, drinking, sunburn, chips, and sleeping. Very authentic. Oh, God, she thought, I can't do it. What would Matthew do? Or Laura? OK, forget Spain for now, think about who the restaurant is aimed at. Professionals, a young, hip, Noho crowd, business lunchers and pre-theater goers. She listed the words in her notebook. She made another column headed "Positive Attributes" and wrote Barcelona chef, authentic recipes, fresh ingredients, Sonny. Then she blushed like a schoolgirl in the throes of her first crush and snapped the notebook shut.

"Are you OK?" Matthew was saying. "You look hot."

"It's just airless in here. I'm fine."

"I'll make you a cup of tea," he said, stroking her hair on his way past to the kitchen.

* * *

"I don't want to go. It's boring."

Claudia sat at the kitchen table, lunch untouched in front of her, face like an undertaker.

"Don't you want to see Dad?" Sophie was getting used to this Sunday lunchtime ritual, but it irked her having to persuade her children to go and spend the afternoon with the woman who had ruined her marriage. Deep down, she knew that the girls were never going to think of this Helen as their new mother, but the possibility was always there that they would grow to like, and even love her. That would be a good thing, Sophie tried telling herself. Whatever makes the kids happy has to be for the best. But she knew she was kidding herself.

She could remember how, when she was at primary school and about seven years old, her friend April's parents had gotten divorced. Barely giving it a second thought, daddy's girl April had moved in with her father and his new girlfriend and, after a couple of months, she was a bridesmaid at their wedding. April had even begun to refer to the other woman as "my mum." The first time, Sophie had said to her, "What, your real mum?" and April had explained, "No,
she's
Mummy and Mandy is Mum." Just like that, April's mother's position as the central woman in her daughter's life had been usurped. Sophie tried to remember what had made her friend move in with her dad in the first place, when she had a mother who clearly adored her, but she couldn't, because at the time she'd just accepted it.

She put a dish of homemade crumble in front of Claudia; she could usually bring her around with food.

"I don't mind going," Suzanne was saying, ever obliging.

"I want to see Dad, but I don't want to see her." Claudia wasn't budging. "And all we'll do is sit around her smelly flat and she gives us rubbish sandwiches and tries to talk to us about school and it's so boring."

Sophie smiled at her youngest daughter. She loved how difficult she was.

The doorbell rang. Matthew was bang on time as ever—in fact, Sophie suspected he sat in the car around the corner if he was a couple of minutes early. He was trying to do this by the book. Usually, he let them know he was there, then retreated down the drive to wait for the girls, but today, when Sophie opened the door mid–good-bye, he stood on the doorstep. She felt her heart rush up to her head and start pounding on the sides to get out.

"Oh…hello," she said warily.

"How are you?" Matthew asked formally.

"Good…I suppose. Yes…You?"

"Yes, yes, good."

Christ, thought Sophie, you'd think we'd never met before. They stood awkwardly for a few moments while the girls looked on hopefully, as if some sort of breakthrough were about to happen.

"Well…anyway…" said Sophie, desperate to move the conversation on.

"Erm…I wanted to ask you about Suzanne's parents' evening. It's next week, isn't it, and I was wondering, that is, I'd like to come as usual, if that's OK."

"Oh. Of course. I'll see you there, I guess."

"I just didn't want it to be awkward, with the teachers and all of that."

"Matthew, of course it's going to be awkward. Everything's awkward now. But that's how it is, so we'll just have to deal with it."

"Right." Matthew shifted his weight uncomfortably. "And I was wondering if I could pick up my golf clubs. If that's OK."

"No, sorry."

"No?"

"I threw them in a skip. I think that bloke from number one-four-six might have taken them out again. You could go and ask him."

"You threw my golf clubs in a skip?" He didn't know why, but he was smiling.

"I did. Sorry."

"And all your other stuff," Claudia was saying. "I helped."

Matthew laughed. "Well, I never get time to play, anyway. Come on, girls. I'll see you at the school," he called over his shoulder as he got into the car.

"Bye," Sophie called after him.

* * *

"What's that smell?" Suzanne wrinkled her nose as they shut the front door behind them.

Helen came out into the hall brandishing Norman in front of her like a furry shield. "That smell," she said, "is Norman. Or at least, it's Norman's litter tray."

"Ohmygod, Ohmygod, Ohmygod," Claudia was screaming. "You've got a cat, let me hold him."

Helen was transfixed by Claudia's expression. Could it be…was she smiling? It was hard for her to tell, never having seen her even approximate a pleasant look before, but yes, there were teeth, and the corners of her mouth had turned up into unfamiliar territory. Hallelujah, thought Helen.

"Of course you can," she said, handing him over. "We got him for you, for your birthday. You can think of him as your cat."

"I don't like cats." Suzanne made her way down the hall to the living room.

Great.

"You do, though, don't you, Claudia? And…I brought home a load of makeup samples we got from one of our clients at work, and I thought you could have a rummage through, Suzanne, see if there's anything you want."

"Yuk," said Claudia, nose buried in the cat's soft back.

"Cool," said Suzanne.

"Where did he come from?" Claudia was asking. Helen allowed herself to smile at the little girl.

"Well, we went down to the Pawprints shelter down the road, and they…"

"What, they just let you take him?"

"Yes…"

"They can't do that." Claudia's smile had collapsed. "You could be anyone. They're meant to do home visits and check up on you first."

"We're not anyone, are we, though, Claude," Matthew said, trying to defuse the bomb.

"But they don't know that. What if someone horrible went in there and just said, 'Give me that dog,' and they did, and then they neglected it or tortured it?"

Oh, for fuck's sake, Helen thought. That didn't last long.

"You're right." She bent down and scratched Norman behind the ears. "That's exactly why we went there, because if they were just going to give him to anyone who asked, we figured it was better they give him to us than to someone else. Because we know we'll be nice to him. We know all the animals at Battersea or the RSPCA will go to good homes, because they'll check up, but who knows where poor old Norman could have ended up if we didn't take him?"

"It's still wrong." Claudia wasn't backing down easily.

"I agree. But he's here now, and he's all yours."

She watched Claudia's face for a sign of her expression softening, and thought she saw just a hint of one.

"And he is lovely, isn't he?"

Norman was playing his part to perfection, a big soft purring lump in Claudia's arms. She kissed his nose.

"Yes," said Claudia, "he is."

Two and a half hours later, they'd had their best afternoon to date. Suzanne was made up like a French prostitute (Oh, God, Sophie's going to love that, Helen thought) and Claudia was giving Helen detailed written instructions on cat care, while Helen pretended that she didn't already know about the difference between wet and dry food and the need to clean out the litter tray regularly.

* * *

Back at home, Sophie waited for the inevitable moaning that followed a Sunday afternoon visit. She opened the front door when she heard Matthew's car pull up, and waved a vague greeting. Claudia shot out of the car before it had even fully stopped. She ran up the driveway

"I'vegotacat. I'vegotacatandhe'satabbyandhisname'sNormanandhe'smine."

Sophie started to say, "You've got a what?" but the sight of her eldest girl made up like Marilyn Manson stopped her in her tracks.

"What on earth have you been doing?"

"Helen gave me loads of makeup." Suzanne was affecting an air of thirty-year-old sophistication, despite the fact that she was only twelve. She looked, thought Sophie, like a clown.

"Right, good for her. Only for special occasions, though, OK? No makeup to school."

Claudia was tugging on her arm.

"Mum, I've got a cat."

Sophie looked toward the car, which was backing out of the gate. Matthew waved.

"Where?"

"At Dad's. Helen got it, and she says he's mine."

"You know you can't bring it home. You know I'm allergic."

Claudia sighed impatiently.

"That's the point, stupid, he'll live with Dad and Helen, but he's mine and I get to see him every Sunday."

"Right. Good old Helen. You like her now, then, I take it?"

"No." Claudia pulled a face. "I still think she's a bitch, but I won't mind going round there anymore."

Sophie put her arms around her daughter. "Great."

But she knew there'd been a shift and it bothered her.