The Perfect Marriage

by Debbie Viggiano

  ‘ROSIE!’ Dave yelled again. Luke was now so upset his breath was coming in great chuggy gasps, and his face had gone blotchy. And that wasn’t the only thing that was blotchy. Dave’s eyes widened in horror as he stared at Luke’s white romper suit. Brown patches were evident. The nappy was leaking, which was hardly surprising as it hadn’t been changed since Rosie had left the previous evening. But Dave absolutely could not, would not, change it. Just the thought of tackling the nappy’s shitty contents made his guts twist. The wine hit the back of his throat again. Clamping a hand over his mouth he fled to the bathroom.

  Chapter Three

  Matt accelerated along the A21 towards London. This stretch didn’t have speed cameras. He floored the BMW X5 M. In seconds the speedo hit ninety. One of the pleasures of driving a motor like this was the effortless ride – it felt as though the occupants were cruising at a mere forty. He gave a sideways glance at his passenger. He knew her name now. Rosie Perfect.

  ‘Feeling okay?’ he asked. She looked like death warmed up, and certainly nothing like the gorgeous, exuberant woman in Cavendish’s last night. She’d made a beeline for him, and tugged at his sleeve. Licking her lips lasciviously, she had sworn undying sex to him. Right there in front of his client.

  ‘I’ve felt better,’ Rosie whispered.

  Matt overtook an Audi. He hadn’t had a Sunday morning like this one before. Typically he slept in. Then he’d doss about in front of the Sports channel, burnt out from the working week’s activities. Saturdays were better. He usually hit the gym or played five-a-side football with his buddies – hectic schedule permitting. And hectic it was. For Matt was ‘a fixer’. Somebody who streamlined companies. Sometimes the companies got sold off, usually for a filthy profit. When Matt was around, a proportion of people were always made redundant. Last night’s client was a rich industrialist originally from Yorkshire. Due to the recession, business was suffering. Gregory Tibor owned pet food factories. Tibor’s Tasty Titbits was right up there with the other top brands. However, pet owners were switching to cheaper varieties. Tibor shares had dropped alarmingly and right now the pet food chain’s industrial belt needed tightening. Matt had been assigned to sort the wheat from the chaff. During their business meeting, Gregory had asked to see the sights. When a client said those two words, he didn’t mean Buckingham Palace. Matt had more receipts from Spearmint Rhinos than Sainsbury’s. But last night Spearmint Rhinos had been a no-goer. Matt had been nearer to his own stomping ground visiting Gregory Tibor’s Kent-based factory, although the setting was Erith rather than Penshurst. Afterwards, it had been easier to whisk his client off to a good Italian restaurant followed by The Cavendish Club. The latter was known for its often famous clients. Gregory was agog at the possibility of bumping into Lewis Hamilton or Nicole Scherzinger. Matt wasn’t quite sure how Rosie and her gaggle of tanked-up friends had clinched their entrance wearing flashing pink Stetsons.

  The BMW zipped along, merging onto the M25 and, a little while later, the A2. As the vehicle shot through the Blackwall Tunnel, Matt glanced at Rosie. ‘Not far to go now. You’ll soon be home and then you can sleep off your hangover.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Rosie rubbed her eyes. ‘My little boy will be needing me.’

  ‘You’re a mum?’ Matt couldn’t help being surprised. ‘You don’t look like one.’

  ‘Maybe not right now,’ Rosie pulled at the hem of her too-short dress. ‘But I will later. When I’m dressed in baggy joggers and covered in regurgitated spaghetti hoops.’ She gave the ghost of a smile.

  Last night, when Rosie had lurched across the dance floor to him, her smile had been full on and seductive. Gregory Tibor’s ego had been mildly dented that Rosie had accosted Matt instead of him, but within seconds the hen in Rosie’s party had staggered over too. She’d linked arms with Gregory, who was badly out of sorts with chat up lines. Not knowing what to talk about he’d launched into business spiel about Tibor’s Tasty Titbits, whereupon the woman had laughed throatily and said she’d rather hear about Tibor’s Tasty Todger. Gregory’s eyes had glazed as the woman suggested Gregory join her and her friends at some swanky hotel. Gregory’s expression had been an open book – him and half a dozen naked women...Hugh Heffner eat your heart out. As Gregory was between marriages, he had been only too happy to put up a hand in farewell to Matt.

  At that point Matt should have left The Cavendish Club and gone, belatedly, to a mate’s stag do. But the night had not been so young. Plus he had a seriously drunk woman to prop up – a woman whose friends had abandoned her. By this point Rosie had lapsed into incoherence. Rather than abandon her too, he’d taken her back to his place.

  ‘Take a left here,’ Rosie said.

  Matt was soon negotiating residential roads lined with Victorian terraces. Some of the properties had upped and come. Others hadn’t. Like this one. Matt stared at Rosie’s house. Geez. It looked like it needed demolishing. Masonry was crumbling, and paintwork peeling. An ornamental stone cat by the front door stared balefully at him.

  ‘Do you want me to see you in?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Rosie unclipped her seat belt and swung the door open. She paused for a moment. ‘I’m very sorry about last night. Thank you so much for the lift, Mr Palmer.’

  ‘Please, it’s Matt. And you really don’t have to apologise. It was fun.’

  Rosie flinched slightly. She hadn’t dared question Matt Palmer about what had happened in his bed. She didn’t want to know. If she didn’t know, then she wasn’t guilty. Rosie slid out from the BMW. She walked up the path, aware that Matt Palmer was watching her. She had noted his incredulous look when she’d pointed out her house – and how the incredulity had turned to horror. Last night Rosie had been in such a hurry to embrace freedom for a few hours, she’d left without her house key. Berating herself, she rapped her knuckles loudly on the front door. It was pointless ringing the bell. It didn’t work. Like Dave. Funny that he should have so much in common with a doorbell. She rapped again. She could hear Luke wailing. Rosie tried to peer through the frosted panes of glass. She could make out the shape of the hall table and coats hanging on pegs. A minute ticked by. Then two. Tension began to knot in her stomach. Where was Dave? Luke’s cries were really distressing. Behind her a car door clunked. Footsteps were coming up the path.

  ‘Is nobody in?’ asked Matt.

  Rosie turned. ‘Yes, yes. My husband is home.’ Rosie suddenly felt gripped by panic. What if Dave hadn’t been able to cope after all? What if Rosie’s plans to force Dave to interact with their son had seriously back-fired? Mental pictures flashed through her mind. Scary images. Dave so appalled at having to pick up Luke, the shock had given him a heart attack. He might be prostrate on the floor – alive but unable to respond. Rosie knelt down and peered through the letterbox.

  ‘Dave?’ Her voice was shrill. No response. What if Dave’s heart attack had actually been fatal? And he couldn’t respond because he was dead? ‘DAVE! CAN YOU HEAR ME?’ Rosie bawled. Evidently Luke could because his cries redoubled. The letterbox clattered shut as Rosie stood up. She looked at Matt with fearful eyes. ‘S-something bad must have happened,’ she stammered. ‘I need to get inside – now.’

  ‘You want me to break in?’

  Rosie looked stricken. ‘Yes. Yes, just get me inside. I need to get to my baby. Hurry. Please hurry.’

  Matt didn’t hesitate. He picked up the stone cat and smashed it hard against one of the glass panes. The noise was awful. Carefully, he stuck his hand through the gaping hole and released the catch. The door swung open. Leaping over broken glass, Rosie flew up the stairs. Matt pounded up behind her. The baby’s cries were pitiful. As they crossed the landing, the stench of puke and shit hit their nostrils. Rosie was filled with foreboding. She raced into Luke’s bedroom. One moment she was rushing towards the cot, her arms outstretched, and the next she was flying through the air. She slammed into the Peter Rabbit wallpaper. Concussion stars and orange carrots exploded in her vision. An empt
y wine bottle clunked to a standstill against Luke’s cot. Matt watched, horrified, as Rosie slumped to the floor. Dear God. He wanted to rush to Rosie, but instead his feet propelled him over to the cot. Reaching down, he scooped up the distraught infant. The poor little chap was covered in crap and snot.

  ‘Okay, little fella, I’ve got you. Now let’s sort Mummy out.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said a voice. Matt spun round. A wild-eyed woman stood in the bedroom doorway. She was holding aloft the stone cat. ‘Put the baby back in the cot. One false move and I’ll bludgeon you to death.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Rosie’s neighbour. And I’m making a Citizen’s arrest, you murdering pervert.’

  There was a groan from the far corner. Gingerly, Rosie put her hands to her temples. Her poor head. It wasn’t having a great day. First a hangover, now concussion.

  ‘Karen?’ Rosie hauled herself to her feet.

  ‘Get behind me, Rosie. Quick! I’ve got you covered.’

  ‘But Karen, you don’t understand. This is–’

  ‘JUST DO IT!’ Karen screeched. Rosie scuttled over to Karen. ‘You stay right there, arsehole,’ she waggled the cat at Matt. Luke immediately broke into a fresh round of wailing. ‘Now for the second time, put the baby down.’

  ‘Okay!’ Matt edged nervously round the cot, lowering Luke onto the mattress and making sure the whole thing was wedged firmly between him and the madwoman. ‘I meant no harm. I’m just somebody who has given Rosie a lift home.’

  Karen paled. Her raised hand wavered. ‘You’re a taxi driver?’

  ‘He’s somebody I met last night,’ Rosie muttered. ‘I’m so sorry I failed to show up last night, Karen. Did you wait long for me?’

  ‘Geez, Rosie,’ Karen lowered her arm. ‘I didn’t wait at all. Your friend, Lucy, called me half way through the evening. She said she was dragging you off to Goldhill Grange whether you liked it or not.’ She put the stone cat down, relieved not to be splattering someone’s brains out on a Sunday morning. ‘So why did you break in? Did you forget your key?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosie went to the cot, rubbing her forehead. Right now she could really use some painkillers and an ice-pack. ‘That and also the fact that Dave wasn’t answering the door. I was worried sick about Luke being on his own.’ She picked up her son, holding him tight. ‘Hush, darling. Mummy’s home. Let’s get you cleaned up and fed.’

  ‘Rosie, can you show me the bathroom please.’ Matt held out his hands. ‘I’d quite like to get cleaned up myself.’

  ‘Of course. It’s the door at the end of the landing.’

  Karen sucked her stomach in as Matt went past. He was quite a looker. Not that she should be noticing, being a happily married woman twenty-three days of the month. For the remaining five days of the month she turned into a screaming banshee and told her husband, Mike, she was leaving him. Mike took no notice of Karen’s PMT and merely spent the time keeping a low profile. After Matt had disappeared to the bathroom, Karen felt faintly embarrassed at calling the guy a pervert. But then again, she was due on.

  ‘What’s the deal with him?’ she hissed as Rosie set about cleaning up Luke.

  ‘Oh, Karen, I’m so ashamed. But now isn’t the time,’ Rosie nodded her head meaningfully in the direction of the bathroom as she applied Sudocrem to Luke’s bottom. ‘I’m more concerned where Dave is. What sort of father leaves a baby unattended?’

  ‘A bloody useless one,’ Karen muttered. ‘It’s about time you got shot of him.’

  ‘I can’t leave him because I’ve nowhere else to go.’

  ‘So turf him out instead.’

  ‘I can’t do that either. This is his house. Dave’s parents left it to him in their Will.’

  Karen made a sound of exasperation. ‘So where do you think Dave has got to?’

  ‘Ladies?’ Matt’s voice floated down the landing.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Karen. ‘You have your hands full.’

  Rosie nodded. Expertly she smoothed the tapes down on Luke’s clean nappy and snapped him into a fresh romper suit. Swinging Luke onto her hip, she went to see what Matt and Karen were doing. She pushed the bathroom door open. And froze.

  Chapter Four

  Rosie stood in the bathroom doorway clutching Luke tightly. Matt and Karen stared back at her anxiously. To the side of them was the toilet bowl. And there, with his head down the pan and snoring soporifically, was Dave.

  ‘He’s lucky not to have drowned.’ Matt was the first to speak.

  ‘Pity he didn’t,’ muttered Karen.

  Rosie sighed. ‘Well at least he’s covered on the life insurance.’

  ‘Shall I push him in another couple of inches?’ Karen’s lips twitched.

  Rosie gave a wan smile. ‘Thanks, but jail isn’t my next career move.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Karen shrugged, ‘in this marriage you’re already in a prison of sorts. Just think, you could escape from all this,’ she waved a hand expansively at the dilapidated bathroom, ‘and have a nice warm bed, three cooked meals a day, have time to go to the library, use a computer, learn a new career, and probably earn more pocket money than this layabout ever brings home.’

  ‘He can’t help being unemployed,’ Rosie pointed out.

  ‘Perhaps if he’d pulled his weight at work, he wouldn’t have been made redundant.’

  ‘Ladies,’ Matt interrupted, ‘I really think we ought to get this fella out of the bog.’

  Karen wrinkled her nose distastefully. ‘Rather you than me.’

  Matt nodded. Leaning over Dave, he grabbed him by the shoulders. Hauling Dave backwards, Matt settled him into the recovery position on the bathroom floor. ‘I think your husband could benefit from a shower.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rosie agreed, ‘but he’s a big boy and can do that himself – when he’s sober and awake. Right now I’m more concerned about my son and getting him fed.’ Rosie turned on her heel, and made her way across the landing and down the stairs. Right now she felt incredibly guilty. Guilty over last night, guilty over trusting Dave, and guilty for Luke not having his Mummy around. And there was another emotion now unhappily mixing with all this guilt. Humiliation. Humiliation that Matt Palmer probably thought her an irresponsible parent, and humiliation that Dave should be up there, spread-eagled on the bathroom floor, half comatose from booze, and all in front of both her neighbour and a stranger – the latter of whom, for some inexplicable reason, Rosie wanted to impress. Shame washed over her. She couldn’t impress her way out of a paper bag these days. Emotionally Dave had sapped her dry. Thanks to the enforced poverty they lived in, she wore second-hand clothes and hadn’t visited a hairdresser in over a year. Life was nothing but drudgery. Her days and nights were one long round of looking after her little boy and working her way through chores at home, while Dave went off to supposedly search for work. When Rosie had finished her chores, she would then strap Luke into his pushchair and go out to clean other people’s houses. It was the only way she could earn a living at the moment without paying for a babysitter. Rosie had looked into child-minding as a profession, but it simply wasn’t viable with the house in its current state. Who needed a power shower when the leaky roof let in a torrent of rain? When Rosie had finished cleaning for her clients and was back home, Dave would eventually turn up, demoralised at yet another day of fruitless interviews whilst attempting to hide a litre bottle of cider within the folds of his jacket.

  Rosie sighed and shoved a pre-made bottle of milk into the microwave to warm through for Luke. Upstairs she could hear floorboards creaking as Matt presumably attended to Dave. Incoherent sounds suddenly filtered down the stairs. Was Dave finally waking up? Rosie groaned. She really wasn’t up for explanations of why she’d failed to come home last night. As the microwave pinged and Rosie removed the bottle, she nearly dropped it in fright. Above her, a terrible commotion had broken out.

  ‘You fucking bastard!’ Dave yelled. There was an ominous crash followed by the
sound of Karen screaming.

  Rosie grabbed the bottle and, hanging on to Luke for dear life, flew up the stairs and into the bathroom. Matt was lying horizontal on the floor with Karen hunkered over him. Dave was standing by the sink with his fists balled up.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Rosie panted.

  Karen turned a pale face to Rosie. ‘Dave punched Matt.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  Matt groaned by way of confirmation and attempted to sit up. ‘Never better.’

  Rosie inwardly quaked. Had her husband found out she’d spent the night in bed with Matt? She looked at Dave with fearful eyes. ‘What did you do that for?’

  Dave shot Rosie a look of contempt. Despite his groggy hangover, his face was suffused with anger. ‘I had to, don’t you see, Rosie? This person on our bathroom floor is responsible for everything that’s gone wrong in our lives.’ Rosie gaped at her husband uncomprehendingly. Dave enlightened her. ‘This is the man who made me redundant.’

  Chapter Five

  Matt was back in his car and driving down the A2, heading towards the greenery of Kent. It was only half past eight in the morning but the sun was up and shining away. Just like Matt’s eye. Matt grimaced. Dave Perfect might be a pisshead, but he couldn’t half pack a punch. But then again, Rosie’s husband had felt justified for his actions. Matt couldn’t remember the guy. But then why should he? He’d been hired, by the likes of many other Gregory Tibors, to go into factories and offices in all manner of industries in order to trim the fat and make a leaner, more efficient business. Rosie’s husband might have bleated that Matt was to blame for their current economic crisis, but Dave’s protests hadn’t rung true. The man was clearly in the grip of alcohol addiction and that didn’t happen overnight. Rosie’s mate, Karen, had been only too vocal about her disdain of the guy. And you only had to look at the threadbare carpets, lack of curtains and hotchpotch furniture to know in an instant that money had never flowed like a river through the Perfect coffers.