The Foster Husband Page 19

  ‘There you go,’ I say. ‘You do know what she likes after all – or what she doesn’t like. But look, that doesn’t really matter – it’s about starting a conversation that helps you to see that what she really wants is two weeks in the Maldives.’

  Comprehension begins to dawn across Ben’s troubled face. ‘Right. Do you think that’s what she wants then? The Maldives?’

  I feel like someone who has led an extremely slow and decrepit horse to a drinking trough, only to have it leap in and take a bath, scrubbing merrily at its hooves.

  ‘I don’t know if she wants the Maldives, Ben,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘That is what you will have to find out this evening.’

  I see on the pad that Ben has written MALDIVES in capital letters, and I suspect that this is the only thing he will take away from our entire conversation.

  ‘You’ll be here though, right?’ says Ben. I wonder if he thinks I will hide behind the sofa, offering clues Cyrano de Bergerac-style.

  ‘No, actually,’ I tell him. ‘I’m going out.’

  Ben looks as surprised as I feel. But I can’t stay in moping for ever. It’s time to move on.

  28

  London

  ‘Steady on,’ said Matt when I greeted him at the door, flinging my arms around him.

  It had felt like days since I’d seen him rather than hours. It was strange how the days themselves, from saying goodbye in the morning to the key in the door that told me he was home, passed so interminably that I had found myself crying from the sheer boredom of filling another solitary hour. And yet the weeks of unemployment had piled up behind me with astonishing speed – it made me shudder to realize it had already been three months since I left Hitz.

  ‘Can’t a wife say hello to her husband with a little enthusiasm?’ I asked, hanging off his neck.

  Matt kissed me perfunctorily, a kiss that was designed to make me let go rather than ignite my passion.

  ‘Notice anything different about me?’ I asked, twirling round in the hallway. I liked having little surprises for him when he came home from work. It made things more fun.

  Matt froze with his suit jacket halfway down his arms, like a straitjacket, trapped. ‘It’s a bit dark in here,’ he said. ‘I can’t see properly.’

  I pouted. He was clearly playing for time and hadn’t noticed at all. Sometimes I didn’t know why I bothered. He’d already told me I wasn’t allowed to attack him with questions about Hitz the minute he came through the door, and I’d stuck to my word, even though I was bursting with things to ask. The least he could do was show some interest in my life.

  Matt threw his jacket over the post at the end of the banister.

  ‘Can you put it on the coat rack?’ I asked. He sighed extravagantly, as it was an enormous effort to move his jacket two feet to the left, where it should have gone in the first place.

  When we got downstairs to the kitchen I turned around again, grinning expectantly.

  Matt looked me up and down. ‘Er, new – apron?’ he offered.

  I looked down at my chest, which was covered in a yellow and green checked apron with white lace frills. ‘It’s not a new apron, Matt, I’ve had this for weeks. Honestly, are you completely blind? I’ve had my hair highlighted!’

  ‘Have you?’ he asked, his eyes narrowing as he tried to see the change in my hair. I turned my head from side to side so he could admire me. ‘It looks lovely, but you always look lovely to me, Basher.’

  It was hardly the most heartfelt compliment he’d ever paid me, but he sounded weary, so I decided to accept it gracefully and not push him. Matt’s back was already turned as he crossed the kitchen to pick up a bottle of wine. I fetched a corkscrew out of the drawer and hovered at his elbow, ready to hand it to him when he’d peeled the foil from the neck of the bottle.

  ‘Yes, I went to this place on the high street – it’s a new hairdressers, I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but it probably opened up about three weeks ago? Not far from that cafe that does the breakfast you like? Although they’ve changed the menu since you went last, so maybe they don’t do it any more. Anyway, they had a special offer on for cut and colour for a hundred pounds – the hairdressers I mean, not the cafe – I know I’m not earning any money lately, but really, Matt, it was such a bargain and I really think it’s made all the difference. Don’t you?’

  He took the corkscrew from me and started to twist it into the cork with a methodical rhythm. ‘It looks good, Kate, really.’

  I opened up the cupboard and took out two wine glasses, buffing them to a shine with a tea towel before I put them in front of Matt.

  ‘There you go,’ I said. ‘Perfect. Now, supper’s going to be ready in an hour. I hope you’re going to like it; it’s one of those new Waitrose recipe cards I got the other day. Do you remember, you said you thought it looked nice, so I went back and got all the ingredients. But it takes ages – three hours in the oven! And that’s not even counting all the preparation – so I can make you a snack first if you’re hungry? I’ve got some hummus and breadsticks – shall I do that?’

  Matt put down the wine bottle. He rubbed his chin with the heel of his hand and gave me a slow smile. ‘Come here,’ he said.

  I let him pull me into his chest, crushing my ribs with his embrace. When Matt hugged me, really hugged me I mean, he reminded me of that song about how we’re all two halves of a whole, searching for the missing half and trying to crush ourselves back together. It was as if he was trying to draw me into himself so that he never had to let go. Sometimes it almost hurt, but I never wanted him to stop. It let me feel small, protected, looked after.

  He rested his chin on the top of my head.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he said, drawing in his breath in a gasp.

  ‘What?’ I started, muffled in his chest. Was the casserole burning?

  ‘These highlights – you were right, they’re the most amazing highlights I’ve ever seen. You’re – you’re glowing. These are job-getting highlights, that’s what they are. Your luck is about to change, I can feel it. What kind of a pig of a husband am I not to have noticed before? Please forgive me.’

  I swatted at him ineffectually, my hands still pinned to my sides. ‘Fuck you.’ I giggled.

  He let me go. ‘Sorry, Kate, it’s been a long day. You’re sweet to have made supper. But you don’t have to do this every night. I bumped into Sarah this afternoon. She was in Hitz for a meeting.’

  I moved away, around the kitchen island to check the oven timer. ‘Oh yes? How’s she doing?’

  ‘Not bad – she’s quite enjoying working with Jennifer, I think.’ Matt regarded me over the top of his wine glass.

  ‘Good for her,’ I said, studying the Waitrose recipe card in case I’d forgotten anything. I was still quite new to this home-cooking thing and I had to check and double check constantly to reassure myself that I was doing everything right. It was hard to relax when I might unwittingly be cocking it all up; I wanted to get it all right.

  I knew Matt was feeling the pressure of being the only one bringing in a salary, and I was determined to do everything I could to make his home life perfect. I’d given the cleaner her notice, partly to save money and partly because, if I was at home anyway, shouldn’t it be me keeping things looking nice? And I was saving us a fortune in takeaways now that I’d started making our meals from scratch every night.

  Matt put his glass down on the counter. He opened the fridge and took out the hummus, which I’d bought from the local deli – three points. I hadn’t yet reached the stage of making it myself, but I will admit to going as far as looking up a recipe.

  ‘I offered to do that,’ I said, rushing over and taking the tub out of his hand. I knew he’d get it all over the work surface if I didn’t put it on a side plate first. ‘You sit down.’ I got the breadsticks out of the cupboard and tipped them into a bowl for him.

  Matt, sitting down obediently at the table, raised his eyebrows, amused. ‘Do you think I can’t manage it myself
?’ he asked.

  I made a face at him, and bustled past to take a packet of green beans out of the vegetable drawer, where they were hidden under a pillow of packaged spinach.

  I’d spent ages laying the table, and had even bought some pink and white scented stocks, which I’d popped in a jam jar for that perfect insouciant oh-I-just-picked-these-up-on-my-country-walk vibe. Assuming that a country walk took one past an expensive Highgate florist who wrapped them in cellophane and handed one a sachet of plant food in exchange for a tenner. Also I will confess, though not to Matt, that, lacking an empty jam jar for the necessary laissez-faire look, I had scooped out the contents of a full Bonne Maman apricot confiture and stashed it in a plastic pot in the fridge. Still, it created the right effect, and that was what mattered.

  Not that Matt seemed to notice, obliviously tucking into his breadsticks.

  ‘Yeah, so Sarah said she’s been trying to get you out for a drink and you keep telling her you’re too busy.’

  I shrugged and ripped open the plastic packaging, lining the beans up on the chopping board. ‘Just diary clashes,’ I said.

  I chose my sharpest knife from the magnetic strip next to the oven, and sliced the ends off, brushing them onto the kitchen counter. I’d put them in my new composter later – though I had no idea what to do with compost it was something I felt I ought to learn. There was no point sitting idle while I looked for work.

  ‘You know how it is,’ I said. ‘She’s busy too, with her new job and all.’

  Sarah had managed to get a new job with Jennifer Heston’s start-up, and Kirsty was freelancing with them on a couple of projects, but it had been made clear to me that I was surplus to requirements. Jennifer and I had competed for the same jobs too often for her to feel comfortable about welcoming me in to her new business.

  Matt poured more wine into his glass and held the bottle out to me. I shook my head and put my hand over my glass. I was trying to cut down these days.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘She just seemed to think you might be avoiding her. And I thought so too. You haven’t been out with your friends for weeks.’ He offered me a gentle smile of sympathetic enquiry, of ‘asking you this hurts me more than it hurts you’.

  Except it didn’t. It hurt me more. I just didn’t want to let him see.

  When I was at Hitz I used to get approached at least once every few months by some production company trying to lure me away. I thought a new job would be mine for the asking within weeks. But for all the lunches and phone calls I’d initiated, for all the meetings I’d had and the Christmas parties I’d attended, full of networking ambitions and hope, no actual offers had come up. Plenty of people had told me they’d love to have me on board, but cutbacks were making things difficult. Several told me they couldn’t afford me, as if I was wandering around with a price tag on, refusing to get out of bed for less than a hundred grand. Everyone assured me I’d find something soon, that someone with my experience wouldn’t be unemployed for long, but it felt as if they were only saying it to absolve themselves from any obligation to exert themselves on my behalf.

  Now the calls had dried up completely. I tried to assure myself that I hadn’t been forgotten. It had been Christmas, then New Year – people were just busy, that was all. And in fact, having this time to myself at home had made me do some serious thinking about work. Isn’t that what a crisis was meant to do? Shunt you out of the life you took for granted and show you other possibilities?

  ‘Why would I be avoiding my very best friend?’ I asked, keeping my face fixed in a neutral mask. I had to keep my chin up. Stay positive.

  I didn’t want to confess to Matt that it was easier to do that when I wasn’t directly confronted by all of my Hitz friends flaunting their new jobs in my face. The last time Sarah and I had met up she’d insisted on paying for everything, forcing my wallet back in my bag before I could even open it. I felt like a poor relation being taken for a treat by her indulgent benefactor.

  ‘Yeah, why would you?’ asked Matt casually, snapping a breadstick in half. ‘I told her that, so she says she’ll ring you this week.’

  I didn’t tell him that she already had. I’d let it go straight to voicemail. It was easier that way. Sometimes it just felt like the most extraordinary effort to be perky and cheerful when Matt came home, let alone having to put it on for other people.

  ‘Great,’ I said.

  ‘So, what else have you been up to today?’ asked Matt, scooping hummus onto his breadstick.

  ‘Oh, you know, stuff,’ I said.

  I knew he didn’t think the things I did around the house really counted – those were just domestic distractions, not actually important. He meant, how many jobs have you applied for, did you rewrite your CV and have you sorted out the car insurance like I asked? Quantifiable achievements that he could understand and praise me for. He didn’t appreciate how demeaning it was to have to offer up my day for approval, like a toddler presenting her finger paintings to an indulgent parent.

  He looked up, frowning a little as if he didn’t quite recognize me. ‘I was just thinking on the way home, maybe it would be a good idea for you to, I don’t know, join a gym or something. Get a bit of an exercise routine going.’

  I turned around to face him. ‘Matt Martell, that is fighting talk to a woman with a large knife in her hand. What do you mean I should join a gym?’

  How dare he? I may have put on a few pounds since I’d given up work, but he didn’t have to make me feel bad about it.

  ‘Calm down,’ said Matt mildly, not even slightly perturbed by my brandished weapon. ‘I just meant it’s good to have a routine, isn’t it? Something to structure your day around. And endorphins, you know, a bit of exercise might cheer you up.’

  I gripped the handle of the knife until my knuckles turned white. I seriously thought I might use it on him – or maybe on myself – if he carried on talking that way.

  ‘So you’re saying not only that I’ve got fat, but that I’m a moody cow? Is that right? Anything else you’d like to offer an opinion on?’

  Matt just laughed. ‘Don’t be mental, I’m not saying anything like that.’

  I turned my back on him and savagely cut the French beans in half. A handful of them fell on the floor, but I didn’t pick them up. My spine was so rigid with fury that I felt as if it might snap in two if I tried to bend.

  ‘Kate,’ Matt’s voice adopted a pleading tone. ‘Why are you taking this the wrong way? I just want you to be happy.’

  I spun around, pointing the knife at him. ‘No you don’t. You want you to be happy. And you think if I was just a bit more cheery, just a bit less fat, a bit less unemployed, that you’d be happier. Well, it doesn’t work like that, Matt. So maybe keep your stupid suggestions to yourself.’

  Matt’s face fell. ‘You’re not fat,’ he said quietly.

  There was a long pause while we both stared at each other. I felt like I knew every millimetre of his face. The tiny mole by his right ear, the faint lines that starfished out from the corners of his eyes. But I could not have told you what was happening behind those eyes, and that was new and alarming. I had thought I knew him better than I knew myself. I was used to his admiration, to his adoration even. Now I was horrified that what I saw in his face might actually be pity.

  ‘You seem unhappy,’ he said at last. ‘I wish you’d stop pretending you’re not. And then maybe we could do something about it.’

  I felt my face go hot, and my throat tightened, as if there was a hand around it. I wouldn’t let myself cry – how could I defend myself against being unhappy by bursting into tears?

  ‘I’m not unhappy,’ I said. My voice was unconvincing, even to me.

  Matt’s eyes were sad. He didn’t push it, which made me feel even worse. Once we’d have had a passionate row, now he treated me gingerly, as if I was no longer his equal, capable of standing my ground, but someone to be accommodated; the weaker partner whose fragile emotions must be protected.

 
I didn’t push it either. Not because I was about to agree with him, but because it was an impossible argument to win. To insist in anger that you are happy only serves to make you look miserable.

  So in the end I let him buy me a gym membership, and I pretended that it didn’t make me feel like a surrendered wife; the kind who has manicures and coffee mornings and thinks the maintenance of her appearance is her primary duty to her husband.

  I never went, of course. Sometimes just getting out of bed took all the energy I had. I was more likely to climb to the base camp of Everest than set a foot on a stairmaster. But it made Matt feel better and, as that was the only reason I’d allowed it, the gym membership fulfilled its function for both of us.

  29

  I’m sat in the pub nursing a vodka and soda and trying not to feel conspicuous. Which is hard to do since I’m the only woman in here other than the teenage girl behind the bar, who I have already flustered and alienated by asking if she had a piece of fresh lime to go in my drink. Lime is, it seems, a rarity in Lyme except in the form of cordial – no lime in Lyme, how ironic. It reminds me of the first time I came back from London in the late Nineties, and made the mistake of asking for a vodka and cranberry juice in Mum and Dad’s local. Frankly I was used to drinking Cosmopolitans back then – we all were, perched uncomfortably on bar stools, flicking our hair, self-consciously trying to pretend we were Carrie Bradshaw – but I thought a vodka cranberry would suffice while I was in the sticks. It took years before I could venture in there without all the regulars falling about laughing at my pretensions. Cranberry juice! Can you believe her? Whoever heard of such a thing?

  Of course, now that you can get cranberry juice in Lyme’s Tesco Express, no one I know drinks it any more.

  The other customers – all six of them – are men in unwittingly matching holey jumpers, like a Lyme Regis version of the cameramen I used to work with. As well as the jumpers, they share a certain hoary charm, the kind that makes dirty fingernails and muddy shoes seem like signifiers of earthy toil rather than a lack of hygiene. They all seem to know each other, and they are clearly intrigued as to what I am doing in the bar by myself. I can tell this because it’s quiet enough that I heard the man in the most holey of jumpers (not the most holy of jumpers, that would be weird) say, ‘I wonder what she’s doing here?’