The Foster Husband Read online

  ‘Nearly Christmas, then,’ says Dad. ‘Got to get in a bit of practice.’

  ‘Dad,’ I say. He looks instantly wary at the tone of my voice.

  ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘Dad, do you think that Prue and Ben are a good match?’

  Dad snorts into his pint glass. ‘Puh! Who knows? He’s got a skin on him like a rhinocerous. But he’s going to need it being married to your sister. He stands up to her, though. I like that. He might be a pain in the arse to work with, but he seems to make Prue happy. I suppose that’s what counts.’

  I consider him carefully before I ask my next question. I want to be sure that I’m ready to take whatever answer I am given.

  ‘Did you think that Matt and I were a good match?’

  His eyes widen in alarm, and he looks around the room as if someone might come to his rescue, but there are only two old men sat in the corner, quietly scolding each other about crossword clues in the paper spread out between them. Minnie is asleep under the table.

  ‘Well,’ he says, finally. Carefully. ‘I don’t know, Kate. Other people’s relationships are always a mystery, aren’t they? No one really knows what happens between two people except those two people. But yes, I did think you were a good match. I thought he was a good man.’

  ‘I thought he was too,’ I say. The Christmas lights have made me maudlin. Or maybe it’s the wine in the middle of the day. Alcohol sometimes hits me like that – sends me down instead of bringing me up.

  Dad clears his throat a few times. ‘You know, er, Kate. I – I’ve spoken to Matt a bit over the last few weeks.’

  My head snaps up. ‘You’ve what?’

  Dad leans back into his chair, out of my reach, as if I might be about to belt him one.

  ‘I know – your mother said I should stay out of it, but Kate, he keeps ringing the house and saying should he come down here and . . . God.’ Dad sighs helplessly. ‘I just felt sorry for the man. No matter what he’s done.’

  I feel like I might be sick. The wine churns in my empty stomach. I can hardly look Dad in the eye, but since he’s avoiding looking at me, too, it’s not much of a problem. The two of us stare around the room as if we’re doing random eye exercises or something.

  ‘He . . . he said he wanted to come down here?’ I ask.

  Dad sighs deeply and turns his pint glass round and round on the beer mat, as if he’s trying to screw it into the tabletop. ‘I told him not to, Katie-bird. I hope that wasn’t wrong of me, but your mum and I thought you needed some time to think by yourself.’

  So Matt has wanted to come down here all along? My parents have told him not to disturb me? I can’t be angry at them when I know they were doing it with the best of intentions, but my emotions are all over the place at the idea that Matt hasn’t been staying away because he wanted to, but because he was told to.

  ‘Did he . . .’ I push the wine away from me. I know I won’t be able to drink it. I can feel it curdling the contents of my stomach already. ‘What did he say . . . about it all?’

  Dad frowns and looks me directly in the eye. I don’t rate his acting ability in the slightest. That look alone tells me that Matt hasn’t told him the half of it.

  ‘Katie-bird,’ says Dad gently. ‘It’s not for me to go prying into the details, you know that. The problems you have are between the two of you.’

  I smile at him gratefully, glad that he hasn’t been burdened with all the sordid details. But if Matt isn’t calling to put across his case, tell his side of the story, explain everything, then what is he calling for? Surely he knows I can’t speak to him?

  ‘But, what have you been talking about then?’ I ask.

  I feel a strange anxiety that my dad is in danger of taking’s Matt’s side over mine. This is the first time I’ve sat down and spoken to my father about my relationship since I got to Lyme. And yet it seems my husband has been in regular contact, calling up for intimate family chats. Trying to win over my father, a man who has probably spent no more than an hour on the phone to me in total in his entire life.

  ‘Well,’ says Dad, tapping his fingers on the table. ‘Cricket?’

  ‘Dad, it’s November,’ I say.

  ‘Well we have, actually,’ harrumphs Dad. ‘And his work and that sort of thing. Just, God, it’s not like we’re crying into the phone, Kate. But the man sounds desperate. He just needed to talk to someone.’

  We sit in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘He just wants to know how you are,’ says Dad. ‘I don’t think it’s disloyal to tell him.’

  I consider Dad carefully. The two old men in the corner squabble over the clue for four across. It isn’t disloyal of Dad. I know that. But what is Matt playing at? That is what I would like to know.

  ‘What did you tell him?’ I ask nervously. Of course I hope Dad has presented me as radiating good health and beauty, plus a serene maturity and composure, but with an added side of hysterical good humour and happiness.

  ‘I said you were doing pretty badly,’ says Dad.

  ‘Jeez, thanks, Dad,’ I say. ‘Solidarity and all that.’

  Dad’s face darkens suddenly and he looks like he’s about to start shouting, but when he speaks his voice is dangerously low. ‘What did you want me to say to him, Kate? That your mother and I lie awake at nights worrying that we have no idea what is going on in your head? That you don’t speak to anyone about anything? That you’ve hidden yourself away here and none of us seems able to reach you?’

  I bite my lip and feel tears spring up into my eyes.

  ‘It’s like the shutters have gone down, Katie-bird,’ says Dad. ‘You’re keeping all of us out. You were just like this when you were a teenager. When you came back from that party at Eddy Curtis’s and didn’t speak for two days.’

  ‘Dad—’ I say, but it comes out as a strangled sob.

  Dad presses on. It’s as if he can’t stop himself from talking now he’s started. The words are pouring out of him and every one seems to cut me like a blade.

  ‘We let you run away that time. We didn’t press you – we thought it was for the best. Whatever happened, you wanted to leave it behind you and we let you.’

  I sniff and wipe my nose with my sleeve.

  ‘It was a mistake,’ says Dad. ‘We thought we were being kind, but we weren’t. And now you’re doing it again. And,’ I hear his voice begin to waver, and his chest starts to rise and fall fast as if he’s trying to catch his breath. ‘And, sweetheart, it breaks my heart to see you do this to yourself all over again. Why won’t you let us help you?’

  And to my utter horror, my big, brave, bearded father starts to cry, his head bowed into his chest, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. His shoulders shake and he puts a hand over his face as if he’s ashamed for anyone to see him cry.

  But it’s me who is ashamed. That I’ve brought my father to this. The old men in the corner stare at me accusingly, or at least that’s how it seems. I want to go and hug Dad, but I’m too scared that it will make him break down even more. It seems kinder to sit still and let him have a moment.

  ‘Dad,’ I say, trying to keep my own voice steady. ‘You and Mum – you have helped me. You have, really. Just because I don’t want to have big chats about everything doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for you being there for me.’

  Dad looks up angrily. ‘No, Kate,’ he says. ‘It’s not good enough.’

  I hear, You’re not good enough. I know it.

  He continues. ‘Kate, we’re a family. What happens to you happens to us – do you understand? Not to the same degree maybe, but if you’re sad, we’re sad. If you’re happy, we’re happy. Your mother always says a parent can only be as happy as their unhappiest child.’

  He wipes his eyes and blows his nose with a thunderous noise. The thought of my concerned parents sitting together discussing their wayward elder daughter makes my heart crack right down the middle.

  ‘I’m sorting myself out, Dad,’ I promise. ‘Everything’s going to be okay.’


  Dad’s eyes are red-rimmed as he contemplates this. He blinks several times. Then he shakes his head harshly. ‘No, Katie-bird, it’s not enough. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. You can talk to your mother, or your sister – yes, I know, what she’s like, but she might surprise you. You just need to talk to someone, do you understand?’

  I nod, dropping my chin down so that I don’t have to see Dad’s pleading face, which, for some strange reason, reminds me at this moment of Matt’s.

  I know my father must be desperate to initiate this discussion in the first place, let alone insist on pursuing it when I am offering him no encouragement. He stays silent, waiting for my answer. Half of his second pint disappears while we sit together in the quiet of the darkened pub.

  ‘I just don’t know what good it will do, Dad,’ I whisper at last. ‘What’s happened has happened. Talking won’t change it.’

  ‘It can’t change what’s happened, no,’ Dad agrees slowly, ‘but it might change what you do next. Because your mum says I have to be patient with you, but, Kate, I can’t understand what you’re playing at. You’re just living in Barbara’s house doing nothing all day every day—’

  ‘I decorated the house!’ I protest.

  Dad laughs scornfully. ‘Kate, you know what I mean. Decorating the house is a good thing, and I’m sure it was satisfying for you, but what do you want long term? Are you going to stay there for ever? What are you going to do for money?’

  ‘Dad, my whole life’s just fallen apart. I’m just giving myself some breathing space. Of course I’m not going to stay at Granny Gilbert’s for ever.’

  Dad persists. ‘Your life won’t just put itself back together while you hide away. You have to put it back together yourself. Refusing to talk about everything isn’t healthy, Katie-bird. You’re worrying us all.’

  ‘Dad, please,’ I say. ‘Don’t push me. It’s not like you’re Mr Emotional yourself. Don’t you understand, I just need to get things straight in my own head before I go sounding off to other people.’

  ‘Like you did about Tim Cooper?’ says Dad. ‘Did you ever get that straight in your own head?’

  All the breath leaves my body, as if I’ve just fallen from a great height. I stare at Dad as if he has taken off a mask to reveal himself, Scooby-Doo style, as the evil villain of the piece.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about Tim Cooper,’ I warn him, my voice shaking. I pull my wine glass towards me. Even though I know it will make me feel sick to drink it, I lift the glass to my lips and sip with revulsion, as if I am drinking poison.

  ‘Your mother and I waited. We waited for you to tell us about it, Kate. And you never, ever did. I can’t let that happen to you again. Or to us. It’s affecting all of us, can’t you see?’

  ‘What do you think you know about Tim?’ I ask.

  Dad’s face hardens and he seems to shrink in his chair. ‘Kate, I’d have killed him with my own hands if I’d known at the time. You know that, don’t you?’

  I nod, my lips pressed tightly together. I did know. That was one of the many reasons I had said nothing.

  Dad sighs deeply, and shifts so that he is leaning forwards across the table. He lowers his voice still further. ‘You know that Tim moved to Australia, don’t you? Your mum said she told you.’

  I nod again.

  ‘Well, I don’t think she told you why, did she?’ Dad sinks the rest of his pint. I offer to go up to the bar to get him another, but he sees straight through my ruse and bids me to sit still while he talks.

  ‘Tim was accused of assaulting his girlfriend,’ says Dad. ‘She’d tried to break up with him and they had some sort of a fight that got out of hand.’

  I freeze in my seat. I’m not sure I could move if I tried.

  ‘Did she . . . was she okay?’ I ask.

  Dad looks at me. ‘Physically she got better. I don’t know if you ever get over something like that – from someone you trusted,’ he says. ‘Anyway, it didn’t go to court. It was her word against his, and he had no previous history of abuse.’

  I can feel myself start to shake a little, not so much that Dad would notice, but a light tremor that runs through my chest, as if the rhythm of my heart has been disturbed. I knew Tim would get away with it. I knew it would be his word against mine. Hadn’t everyone known I’d been sleeping with him for months and months willingly? Didn’t every girl in town want to sleep with Tim Cooper? There was no point in saying anything at all.

  ‘Kate?’ says Dad, interrupting my thoughts. I look up. ‘Kate, the thing was that his girlfriend said he talked about you. That after he attacked her he was full of shame and remorse – he was crying and saying he knew he’d done something bad. That he’d done it before. To you.’

  My eyes widen at the idea that Tim felt anything other than that he’d got away with it.

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ I ask.

  ‘Katie-bird,’ says Dad, exhaling in exasperation. ‘Why didn’t you?’

  There is a long silence during which we both studiously avoid looking at one another. When I finally speak, the words emerge croakily, as if I haven’t spoken for hours. But perhaps it’s because the words are coming out of a part of me that’s been quiet for a very long time.

  ‘I just wanted to get away, Dad,’ I say. ‘I didn’t want to see Tim or anyone ever again. I knew he’d get away with it. I knew no one would believe I hadn’t slept with him willingly.’

  ‘We’d have believed you,’ says my dad gently. ‘Your mum and I. We’d have believed you.’

  ‘But, Dad,’ I say. ‘I was drunk, I was stoned, I let him do it – don’t you understand. I could have fought back, but I didn’t. It was my fault too.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ says Dad angrily. ‘He was a dangerous, violent man, and it wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘But what if it was?’ I ask, my voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Could you forgive me then?’

  ‘Forgive you?’ says Dad, choking on a sob. ‘What do we have to forgive you for, Katie-bird?’

  ‘Oh God,’ I cry, burying my face in my hands. ‘So many things, Dad. So many things. I don’t even know where to start.’

  40

  London

  Going into Soho felt bizarrely daring, as if I’d leapt onto a plane and flown to Buenos Aires on a whim. It had been so long since I’d gone out in town – or gone out at all, come to think of it – that I felt my heart race nervously in anticipation. It was hard to remember that going out had been practically a daily occurrence for me once; that I’d never have imagined feeling anxious at the idea of it. I hadn’t called Sarah to tell her I was coming; I was sure she’d tell Matt, since he seemed to be telling her what he was up to these days. I didn’t want him to know. Let him worry when he got home and found I wasn’t there. Maybe a taste of his own medicine would be good for him.

  I knew Sarah would be in the Crown, but my stomach tensed at the idea that Matt might be there, too. I had no idea where he went when he was late home. He could have been in the office, or he could have been at a work event. He rarely bothered to share any information with me. It was perfectly possible he would be in the Crown and I almost hoped he would be. Perhaps it would be better to confront him like this, dressed up, made up, to remind him of the girl I used to be. To make him see what he was missing by never coming home.

  Across the tube carriage I could see a man looking at me, checking out my legs in the short dress I was wearing. It was nearly too cold to get away with not wearing tights, and a little voice in the back of my head warned me that bare legs and high heels looked more than a little slutty, but I wanted to be looked at. I’d had enough of being invisible. I stared back at the man, who quickly looked back at his newspaper, probably alarmed by the challenge and confrontation in my face. See, Matt? I thought. Other men find me attractive. Other men don’t ignore me. True, I seemed to have terrified this man rather than enticed him, but I didn’t care.

  I had fortified myself with a large vodk
a and tonic before I left the house, and the unaccustomed alcohol coursing through my bloodstream had given me a dose of confidence to match my rage. Why had I ever stopped drinking? I had forgotten how alcohol loosened me up, made me feel as though I had something to say, like I was someone. And it wasn’t as if giving it up had made any difference to trying to get pregnant.

  I squashed that thought down. I was going out to forget all about it. Except, I suddenly remembered, I still had the pregnancy test packaging in my handbag. I would have to get rid of it as soon as possible.

  Stepping out from the underground into the chaos of Leicester Square made my confidence waver momentarily. Everyone was moving so fast; there were too many people crowding around the tube exit, pushing and shouting. Young, anoraked men outside the station tried to push free magazines into my hand. Music blared from a stretch limo that was pulled up by the pavement. I was shocked to realize how unaccustomed I was to the pace of the centre of town. Belsize Park was hardly the arse end of nowhere – it was still Zone Two after all – but it was residential, slower. No one was in a desperate rush on the Heath, or in my local cafe.

  I felt as if I’d been recently released from an institution, afraid of the everyday. Once I’d despised tourists, stopping slack-jawed in the middle of the pavement, blocking everyone’s way with their small-town awe at the bright lights of the city. Now I felt like one of them, hesitant and uncertain.

  Come on, Kate, I told myself, squaring my shoulders, and flicking back my hair. Pull yourself together. Remember who you are. That didn’t help. Remember who you used to be, then. That did, a bit. I ducked back behind the station, avoiding Leicester Square and taking a less busy route through the alleyways of Chinatown. This was more like it. See how I remembered the back streets and the shortcuts? See how it was all coming back to me with every step I took towards the Crown, towards my old life?

  I’d taken the longer route, rather than changing tubes, because I wanted to give myself a few minutes to reacclimatize to Soho, instead of just rocking up to the pub straight away. Walking through the streets was like going on a tour of my past. Here was the tiny Italian-American diner where Matt and I had sat at the bar for hours drinking Old Fashioneds and ignoring the pointed stares of the people queuing behind us. Here was the cafe where I used to buy my lunch every day, four salads for a fiver, plus a pitta bread for free if you smiled sweetly enough at Stelios. I even felt a fond pang of recognition for the sex shops; the same thick-necked bouncers stood outside impassively regarding passers-by.