Getting Rid of Matthew (25 page)

Ten minutes later, Jenny emerged from Laura's office, slightly pink around the eyelids but staring defiantly at Helen as if to say, "I know you're loving this, but I'm not going to let them get to me." Helen knew it was a bluff—what Jenny had done was too serious not to merit proper repercussions. She had effectively ruined two campaigns for two paying clients who had put their faith in Global. OK, so Leo had been given a cut-rate price but that wasn't the point, and anyway he was Matthew's son, and Helen knew that that fact alone was going to make him treat her actions seriously. As for Sandra—poor Sandra had blown any chance she had of redemption in the eyes of the public. There was no chance of that nomination now: she had reached her sixteenth minute and there was nothing she could do about it. There was an argument to say that this was her own fault, that had Jenny not invited her, she would have gone out somewhere else and gotten drunk and made a fool of herself. But the point was, she hadn't. Jenny had told her that Laura wanted her there, had plied her with drink, had failed to provide her with an exit plan, and had left her to hang herself in public. Helen smirked back at Jenny. Got you.

Later that afternoon, Matthew shut himself away with Laura and then with Jenny, and next thing Jenny was packing up the contents of her drawer into a cardboard box, Annie and Jamie at her side like two mourners at a funeral. Helen was desperate to know what had happened, but she knew she couldn't ask. She e-mailed Helen-from-Accounts.

"What's going on?"

She got a reply almost immediately.

"She's being moved to IT to be a general assistant. Typing up memos for the computer boys. I feel quite sorry for her."

"I don't," Helen typed in reply.

Just before the end of the day, Jenny stopped by Helen's desk on her way out with her third boxload.

"He tried it on with me, too, you know." She smiled malevolently at Helen.

"By 'he' I take it you're referring to Matthew?"

"About three years ago. Took me out to lunch and held my hand and told me I was beautiful. I turned him down, of course. God, can you imagine? Gross."

Helen thought back. Three years ago she had had her pregnancy scare. She looked at Jenny, long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. Yes, it figured.

"Bye, Jenny." She smiled disconcertingly. "Have fun in the basement."

* * *

"Jenny told me you made a pass at her once," Helen said to him later that evening, just to see how he'd get out of it.

"She said that? No way. God, that's her revenge for being demoted, can't you see?"

"If you say so."

He took hold of her arm, turning her to face him.

"Helen, I haven't always been a saint, I know that's true. The fact that I was married when we got together should tell you that. Maybe I did try it on with her once, I honestly can't remember. And if I did, I'm really really sorry. But that would have been before I realized exactly how much you mean to me. I've changed. You know that."

There it was again. That thing that Matthew had—charm? Disingenuousness? Naïveté? She didn't know what it was, but it got him off the hook time and time again. He had a habit of pulling it out of the bag just at the point when you thought you'd had enough, and waving it in your face. It was the fact that he always believed it himself that made it so utterly winning. She knew she should hate him, but she just couldn't. He didn't have a malicious bone in his body; he was just weak. She felt pity for him—it must be awful to be so spineless, so emotionally immature, so reluctant to admit you were growing older. Hurt as she was, she felt she wanted to protect him from himself, from his own worst instincts. Sophie would be a match for him now. She'd toughened up; she wouldn't take any of his shit. She'd keep him in line and he would probably thank her for it.

29

T
HE PROSPECT OF SHEILA'S FUNERAL
was sending Helen into a cold sweat. There was no way she could go. Sophie had already told her on the phone that Matthew had called her and asked her to be there.

"Oh, really," Helen had responded, intrigued.

As if that weren't bad enough, Leo was also planning on going, according to Sophie. She didn't see how she could just state that she didn't want to go, as she had with Leo's launch. This was her boyfriend's mother's funeral, for Christ's sake; he was entitled to expect her support. Illness was the only answer. A sudden bout of violent food poisoning coming on in the morning before they were about to leave ought to do it. Something tangible and unquestionable. Matthew would never fall for claims of a bad headache or a temperature; she needed to present him with something he couldn't argue with.

Helen was no actress, so she planned her sickness with military precision. It was important that she and Matthew ate different things the night before; she would order a takeout and let him choose first. Then, the next morning, she would get up early and put on a little pale makeup, drink a cup of salt water, and then make herself throw up loudly in the bathroom. It shouldn't be hard—she'd stick her fingers down her throat or something. If all else failed, she'd just make the noise and hope for the best. The church was booked for Thursday afternoon at two, with sandwiches and drinks in Amanda and Edwin's house nearby afterward. Matthew had booked a B and B just up the road, despite Amanda's house having four spare bedrooms, thinking, rightly as it happened, that Amanda would not welcome Helen.

Helen had suggested—knowing that she wouldn't be there—that it might be nice to stay in the same hotel as the kids. Matthew had been by turns suspicious, then nervous, then delighted. Once Helen had convinced him that she had no intention of flaunting her personal victory in Sophie's face, he had taken her suggestion as proof that she was ready to move their relationship on to a new stage. She told him that she missed seeing the girls, and because he wanted to believe her, he did. And so Matthew had duly asked Sophie where they were intending to stay, so that he could inquire about a room there, too.

* * *

"Helen's coming," Sophie said to her, over a glass of wine in the pub on Tuesday night. "I finally get to meet her."

"How do you feel?"

"Sick. Angry. Dying of curiosity. Nervous. I'm already worrying about what I'm going to wear and when to get my hair done. I mean, is that any way to be thinking about your mother-in-law's funeral?"

Helen laughed. Sophie continued.

"She'll be looking at me, feeling all superior, wanting me to be frumpy and housewifey, and I'm not going to give her the satisfaction. I'm going to look drop-dead gorgeous."

"I'm sure Matthew's mother would appreciate the effort."

Sophie paused. "He wants us all to stay in the same hotel, you know."

Helen pretended to splutter her drink and made too good a job of it, causing the bubbles to go up her nose. She coughed. "Why?"

"He thinks it would be a good idea, for the children, you know, that we all show we can get along."

"And can you, do you think?"

"I doubt it. I told him I'd think about it, but to be honest, I know what I think already—it's a terrible idea. I get to be humiliated, not just at the funeral but all evening, as well. Great."

"I don't know." Helen seemed to be mulling over the idea. "Isn't it worse for her? You and Matthew are getting along well these days. The girls will be delighted the whole family's there together. She'll feel like an outsider. Plus…" she took a deep breath "…the fact that Matthew doesn't want to spend time with her alone down there tells me he's not feeling so great about the decision he made. She'll be furious."

"I suppose I've got to meet her sometime." Sophie sighed.

"And it might as well be when she's at a disadvantage. Think about it—she'll have his whole family looking at her disapprovingly all day, and then you there in the evening. It's hysterical."

"More than anything, I want to get a look at her close up."

"Maybe you'll like her," Helen said. "Imagine that."

* * *

The office felt much calmer without Jenny. Annie had less reason to hang around and Jamie on his own was harmless enough. Matthew was being looked after by a temp—a pleasant fifty-something-year-old woman who just kept her head down and got on with it. Helen-from-Accounts had taken to coming and hanging around the general office at lunchtimes, without fear of being taken the piss out of except by Helen, who did it with a certain amount of affection. Whenever Helen mentioned that Friday was her last day, Helen-from-Accounts looked crushed for a few moments, like a five-year-old who's been told to mime in the school choir because she can't sing, before she remembered not to be selfish, and then she would gush to Helen about how thrilled she was for her.

Wednesday evening, Helen told Matthew that they were having takeout because there was no food in the fridge. They decided on Indian.

"I'll have a chicken dhansak, pilau rice, a peshwari naan, and a saag dal," Matthew said, without even looking at the menu.

"Mmm…I think I'll have a prawn balti." Prawns were always good for blaming a bad stomach on.

"Actually," Matthew was saying, picking up the phone, "that sounds good. I'm changing my order. I'll have the same as you, no rice, two naan."

Fuck, thought Helen.

"Hold on! I haven't had a chicken tikka masala for ages. I'm going to have that."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

* * *

"This chicken tastes funny." She pulled a face. "I hope it's OK." She poured herself another glass of wine when he wasn't looking and knocked it back.

"Don't eat it, then. Here." He handed over his plate, still half full. "Have mine, I've had enough, anyway."

"No, no, I'm sure it's fine, really." She pushed his plate away and carried on stuffing large forkfuls of the chicken into her mouth.

"We've got a big day tomorrow, you don't want to risk making yourself ill," he said, annoyingly guaranteeing that he would be able to tell her he told her so when the time came.

* * *

They had planned to get up at nine, so at ten to, Helen made a few moaning noises and rubbed her stomach.

"I don't feel too good," she said, making sure he was awake to hear her performance.

She clutched her stomach and mock staggered to the kitchen, where she drank a disgusting salt-water concoction, and then into the bathroom, where she leaned over the toilet bowl and started to dry heave noisily. She was feeling distinctly queasy from a combination of the hot curry and the salt and she managed to throw up a little—enough to induce a pallor and a cold sweat. As she looked in the mirror, she thought she resembled Linda Blair in
The Exorcist
—perfect, no need for makeup. She waited a moment for Matthew to come and knock on the door, asking if she was OK. Nothing. She opened the door a little farther and repeated the performance, this time feeling genuinely overwhelmed as the wine and the curry sauce and the salt all got their revenge. She upped the noise to a level not even Matthew could sleep through.

"Jesus. What's going on?" she heard through her groaning. Bingo.

Matthew was standing in the doorway, concerned. She wiped her mouth and turned to look at him, a clammy sheen covering her white skin. The stench of vomit and curry was making her eyes water, so God knew what effect it must be having on him. Helen lay down on the cold, tiled floor dramatically. She knew it would pass, but at the moment she felt like she was about to die and she knew, from the way she looked, there could be no doubting her sincerity. Matthew leaned over her and flushed the toilet, peering in at the orangey-brown mess inside.

"I told you not to eat that fucking curry. Jesus, Helen, today of all days. Have a bath, you'll feel better when you clean yourself up."

And he walked out, shutting the door behind him.

Helen lay there for a moment, stunned. Was that it? Have a bath and you'll feel better? No "Oh my poor darling, are you OK"? No "Go back to bed and don't even think about coming to the funeral"? She pulled herself up to her feet. She had to act fast before she started to look too healthy again.

Matthew was in the kitchen, making tea and whistling to himself tunelessly.

"I think I need to go back to bed." Helen clutched her stomach and then faked a retch, clutching her hand to her mouth.

"We have to leave in an hour."

"Matthew, I'm ill." She was sure he was being deliberately obtuse.

"You'll start feeling better now it's all out of your system. Tell you what, go and lie down for half an hour and then I'll run you a bath. You can put your makeup on in the car," he said magnanimously. This was a disaster.

"I'm going to be sick again." Helen gagged again and rushed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her and making loud hurling noises into the toilet bowl. Her head was starting to throb with the effort of the performance. She stood up, looking into the mirror again. Jesus. Pale sweaty skin, hair on end, panda eyes where the residue of yesterday's mascara had run onto her cheeks. She looked like a woman who had reached rock bottom, and maybe she had. This plan had to work, there was simply no alternative, and she could see the desperation oozing out of her reflection. Good-bye dignity. Good-bye self-respect. One more noisy dry heave and she was done. She splashed cold water onto her face before she came out again.

"I don't think I can go."

"Of course you can. We can stop on the way if you think you need to be sick."

There was nothing for it for Helen but to run to the bathroom and repeat the whole charade again, only this time when she'd done she looked up and there was Matthew standing beside her.

"See." He smiled at her. "You've stopped bringing anything up already. You'll probably have a few stomach cramps and some false alarms, but the worst is definitely over."

"Matthew, I feel like death." Oops, slightly inappropriate, today of all days, she thought. "It's true, I might've stopped being sick, but I guarantee you any minute now, it'll start coming out the other end."

Matthew looked slightly nauseous and she thought she'd got him, but it wasn't going to be that easy.

"Take some kaolin, lie in bed for…" he looked at his watch "…twenty-five minutes, we can stop on the way, by the time we get to the church you'll feel fine."

"No. I can't go. You don't know how bad I feel."

"You're being ridiculous. It's a bit of food poisoning…"

"How the fuck can you tell me how I feel?" Helen was panicking. Not only was it out of the question that she attend the service and come face-to-face with Sophie and Leo, but this was a perfect opportunity for Matthew and Sophie to spend some time together and get a bit closer.

"I feel like shit, OK?" Oh, God, she hadn't meant it to be like this. In her fantasy, when Matthew saw how ill she was, he would insist that she mustn't think about coming to the funeral. She would have protested how much she wanted to go. He would have kissed her and said he knew she wanted to be there to support him, but it was out of the question. She had never meant for them to have a fight—today of all days. She genuinely wanted to put her arms around him and tell him she hoped it wasn't too awful and that he'd feel better once it was all over, but now she couldn't risk letting him think she was giving in. "I'm sorry about the funeral, I really am, but I'm going back to bed and staying there."

"I told you not to finish that chicken."

She couldn't resist rising to the bait. "Oh, so it's my fault now? I deliberately gave myself food poisoning to get out of going to your mother's memorial service?"

"Well, it's fucking convenient." She would have sworn he stamped his foot petulantly.

"You'll have your whole family there, OK? I'm really sorry, but I have to go and lie down. Come and say good-bye before you leave."

Half an hour later, she heard the front door slam shut.

* * *

Sophie arrived at the church ten minutes before the service was due to begin. There was drizzle in the air, and she had to decide whether to go inside the little fifteenth-century stone church and risk bumping into either of the sisters before it was absolutely necessary, or to hover among the graves out of sight of everyone and risk her hair frizzing up. In the end, she put up her umbrella and found a side porch, which seemed like a safe place to hide. She was feeling pathetically nervous about meeting Helen and the anxiety was making her feel light-headed. The girls had run inside and were no doubt now being fussed over by their aunts. Sophie was checking her makeup in a small handbag mirror when, out of the corner of her eye, she recognized Matthew's slightly loping walk over behind some trees. She jumped as though she'd been caught by her teacher having a sneaky cigarette and snapped the mirror shut, shoving it into her coat pocket. She must have missed Helen walking in front of him or else she was still in the car, because Matthew seemed to be alone. Head down, hands in his pockets, he looked miserable. Well, it was his mother's funeral, after all, so he was hardly going to arrive blowing a whistle and letting off party poppers, but he looked beaten down. Older than she thought he'd been looking recently. He made his way straight into the vestibule, and Sophie decided to wait a couple more minutes for him to parade Helen around before she went in and got a look at her. Ideally, the service would just be starting and she could delay the meeting until afterward. She wished the girls were out here with her; she needed moral support.

Two minutes later, she checked herself out in the mirror again and decided she had to bite the bullet and get it over with. Stepping into the small outer room of the church, she saw everyone had gone on through and seated themselves, waiting for the organ to strike up. She looked around frantically for Suzanne and Claudia, and saw them beckoning furiously for her to come and join them. Relieved, she edged her way along the row and then noticed Matthew, sitting on the other side of Suzanne. A moment of sheer panic nearly caused her to fall over, and she steadied herself on the wooden railing, then she forced herself to look up again and saw that he was seated at the end of the pew. Where was Helen? She looked at the row behind and saw only old ladies, hats on, ready for a good cry, and Leo doling out hankies. She smiled a hello at him. Claudia was tugging at her sleeve.