The Perfect Marriage

by Debbie Viggiano

  A waiter briefly interrupted them to take their orders. Cheryl selected an eight-ounce steak with all the trimmings, while Matt opted for something lighter and chose a salad.

  ‘So,’ said Cheryl picking up the reins of the conversation, ‘just for the record, you are definitely foot-loose and fancy free? I don’t want to be treading on Rosie Perfect’s corns.’

  ‘I’m single,’ Matt nodded.

  ‘Good. And I just want to say,’ Cheryl smiled winsomely while batting her eyelashes, ‘that I’m absolutely thrilled to be out with you tonight. I’m looking forward to getting to know you much better. Catch my drift?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Matt smiled back. Okay, he was getting the green light from Cheryl. She was knocking the wine back now and flicking her hair about. So why didn’t he feel chuffed? He studied Cheryl’s face. She was a nice looking girl. Good teeth. Lovely hair. She was arching her back now and once again sticking her chest out. Great figure. But she wasn’t a patch on Rosie.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Matt realised he’d completely switched off and hadn’t a clue what his dinner date had been talking about.

  ‘I was saying how much I like football. I’m every man’s dream woman when it comes to talking about the Premier League,’ Cheryl gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Are you a footie fan?’

  ‘Oh, right!’ Matt forced himself to look appreciative. ‘Yes, I love a bit of football. I’m a big Manchester United fan. I’ve been explaining the game and who all the players are to Luke.’

  The waiter interrupted them momentarily with their mains. There was a pause in conversation while condiments were set down, napkins spread across laps, and wine glasses refreshed.

  Cheryl picked up her knife and fork. ‘This looks delicious. So, you were saying?’

  ‘Where was I?’

  ‘Talking about somebody called Luke.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Luke is Rosie’s son.’

  Cheryl looked surprised. ‘You didn’t mention him when you were telling me about Rosie. So Luke lives with you too, does he?’

  ‘Yes, but only for now, of course.’ Matt toyed with his salad.

  ‘And what does Luke think about Manchester United?’

  ‘He thinks they’re brilliant,’ Matt beamed, ‘although I did explain to him that the team’s loss of form since Fergie left is only a temporary thing. We’ve discussed all the players. Who’s who. Who does what. Who’s the greatest.’

  ‘And has he told you which player is his hero?’

  ‘No, he can’t speak.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. Is there something wrong with him?’

  Matt looked affronted. ‘Absolutely not. Luke is only eight months old.’

  Cheryl looked flummoxed. ‘But you just said you’d discussed with him–’

  ‘That’s because he understands everything I say,’ said Matt proudly, ‘I’m sure of it! I personally think the little chap is a genius. No other baby concentrates as hard as Luke when I’m talking about Adnan Januzaj’s passing skills.’

  Cheryl straightened up. She gave Matt an assessing look. ‘You speak very fondly of Luke, almost as if he were your son.’

  ‘Just practising my paternal instincts,’ Matt assured, popping a tomato in his mouth.

  Cheryl was instantly all smiles again. Oh good. A man who wanted babies. Perking up, she speared a chunky chip. She was aware of her own biological clock ticking, and in the last six months or so the tick had been getting louder. She let her tongue suggestively flick over the chip’s length, before putting both lips firmly around one end and sucking the life out of it. Matt nearly choked on a slice of cucumber.

  ‘Sorry,’ he croaked, ‘it went down the wrong way.’

  Cheryl stuck her chest out again. ‘I bet you’ll make a great daddy one day.’

  ‘I certainly hope so.’

  ‘I can’t wait to make babies with the right person,’ she said throatily.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Matt agreed. ‘Rosie is an absolutely marvellous mother. She has the patience of a saint. And even when Luke gets her up at night, she always manages to look a million dollars.’

  ‘How thrilling,’ said Cheryl, sounding anything but.

  ‘I know. She’s the most amazing woman. I reckon you’ll end up being great friends with her. There’s absolutely nothing not to like about Rosie.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Matt said earnestly, ‘at the risk of sounding like a gossip – which I’m not – she’s been to hell and back, poor girl.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘I’ve never known anybody who has been through what Rosie has been through, and survived with their marbles intact. Anybody else would have had a nervous breakdown and been carted off to the funny farm. She’s really turned her life around for the better.’

  ‘Hurrah.’

  ‘I have the highest admiration for her courage, steadfastness, and sheer determination. She’s such a gutsy woman.’

  ‘In my opinion, she sounds like a head case. Why else would a woman take a job eating dog food?’

  ‘Because that is how amazing she is. She’ll be earning a decent salary doing a horrible job, and all because she has the interests of her child first and foremost in her heart.’

  ‘Three cheers for Rosie.’

  ‘Indeed. She’s tremendous – and such a lady. Really classy.’

  Cheryl put her knife and fork together. ‘Rosie this, and Rosie that. You have real mentionitis. Are you sure she’s only a friend?’

  Matt looked at Cheryl incredulously. ‘Yes!’

  ‘Good. In that case let’s skip dessert and we’ll have coffee back at mine. Is that okay with you?’

  Matt looked at his watch. It was only half past nine. If he went home now, he might be able to watch some of the Laurel and Hardy movie with Rosie. He gave a massive fake yawn. ‘Gosh, I’m feeling so tired all of a sudden.’

  Cheryl put her head on one side. ‘In that case you definitely need a coffee before heading back. Get the bill, and we’ll go.’

  Twenty minutes later they were outside Cheryl’s small house. Matt made no move to get out of the BMW, and left the engine running.

  You can park on the drive,’ said Cheryl.

  ‘Actually, would you mind terribly–’

  ‘You’ll be telling me you have to rush back to Rosie in a minute,’ Cheryl mocked.

  ‘No, of course I don’t,’ said Matt crossly.

  ‘Good. Then come in and have that coffee.’

  ‘Okay, but I really do feel genuinely tired.’

  ‘That’s fine. I have a lovely sofa you can stretch out on. Or,’ Cheryl looked Matt in the eye, ‘an extremely comfortable King sized bed.’

  There. It was out. The offer of sex hung in the air. Matt gazed at Cheryl. She wanted him. This was exactly the situation he’d hoped for. All he had to do was get out of the BMW and follow Cheryl’s shapely legs and undulating bottom up the garden path to her front door. If he made love to Gregory Tibor’s receptionist, he just might stop thinking about Rosie Perfect.

  Cheryl broke the silence. ‘You’re starting to give me a complex. Are you coming in or not?’

  Without saying another word, Matt opened the driver’s door.

  Chapter Fifty

  Matt opened one eye. The bedroom was flooded with morning light. He let his eyelid slam down shut again. He didn’t want to wake up. Not yet. If he opened both eyes, then it would officially be Sunday morning, and the events of last night would have to be acknowledged. Whereas, if he kept both eyes tightly shut, he could pretend last night had never happened – that the images starting to replay through his head were nothing more than a nightmare. Regrettably the events of the previous night began to flood back.

  Once out of the BMW, Cheryl had caught hold of Matt’s wrist and almost dragged him up the path to her front door. Inside the hall, all pretence of coffee had been abandoned. With a strength that had belied her slight frame, she’d pinned Matt up against the hallway
wall and cupped his face in the palm of her hands. As Matt had opened his mouth to say something, she’d leant in and stuck her tongue down his throat.

  Matt had done his best to respond. After all, screwing Cheryl was his Rosie antidote. So, after the initial surprise onslaught, he’d started to kiss her back. Wildly encouraged, Cheryl had pulled away just long enough to refuel her lungs with air, before once again clamping her mouth to his. Her arms had shot up his back and coiled tightly around his neck. Unlike Cheryl, Matt hadn’t had the luxury of taking a second breath. A few seconds later, he’d started to feel light-headed. As the moment went on and on, panic had set in. A fleeting thought of Monday morning’s headlines had danced through his brain. MAN SNOGGED TO DEATH!

  He’d tried to pull away, but Cheryl’s fingers had edged up the back of his neck and tangled in his hair. Realisation had dawned that he was in this female’s vice-like grip and having the life sucked out of him. Just as he’d reached the point of real dizziness from lack of oxygen, she’d briefly released him in order to do something entirely different. As Matt had slumped against the wall gulping in lungfuls of air, Cheryl had moved her hands down to his open shirt collar. Grabbing hold of the fabric, she’d wrenched hard. In a split second every single shirt button had pinged off. Matt had heard the buttons skittering across the laminate flooring like dropped Smarties. She’d just wrecked his favourite Hugo Boss shirt! He’d opened his mouth to protest but once again Cheryl’s lips had slammed down on his. Matt’s head had banged painfully back against the wall. Long fingers had returned to his hair, tugging at the roots. If you want to fuck, babe, you’re going the wrong way about it. It had been the most unarousing bit of foreplay he’d ever engaged in. Rallying, he’d grabbed hold of her wrists and yanked them downward.

  ‘That’s it, baby,’ Cheryl had panted, ‘play rough with me.’

  ‘Rough?’ Matt had gasped. ‘Jesus, you’ve just pulled a fistful of hair from my scalp.’

  ‘And don’t you just love it, big boy.’

  ‘Well, actually I’d much prefer–’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’

  And with that Cheryl had hooked a high-heeled shoe around the back of Matt’s right knee, deftly buckling one leg. Caught unawares, Matt had staggered. Quick as a flash, Cheryl had repeated the same thing to his left knee. Suddenly, like a fallen oak, Matt had crashed down to the hard floor. He could have sworn Cheryl had yelled, “Timberrrr!” She’d certainly been emitting some blood curdling noises.

  Winded, Matt had simply lain on the hall floor staring up at the overhead light, not quite believing what was happening to him. He’d been reminded of the old Peter Sellers films where the Chinese servant, Cato, constantly launched surprise attacks on his boss. Making a yee-ha noise, Cheryl had flung herself on top of Matt.

  ‘Oof,’ he’d gasped, clutching his groin.

  ‘Ooh, sorry, gorgeous. Mustn’t spoil the crown jewels, must we!’ she’d giggled. ‘Here,’ she’d licked her lips hungrily, ‘let me give them a good polish.’

  ‘No, I–’

  But her hands had already found his belt. Seconds later it had been cast aside.

  ‘You can whip me with this in a minute.’

  ‘Please, I–’

  ‘Ooh, I love a man who begs!’ Cheryl had tossed back her hair and tugged at his flies. The fabric had caught in the zipper, but to her such a hindrance was just a minor inconvenience. Grabbing hold of the fabric, she’d given it the same treatment as the shirt. The cloth had ripped away rendering the zip useless.

  ‘Dear God, would you please–’

  ‘Yes, that’s it, beg! C’mon, Matt. Do it again.’

  ‘Please–’

  ‘Yes!’ Cheryl had shrieked. ‘I’m going to come before you’re even inside me.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ Matt had croaked, hoping he could then peel her off him and escape.

  ‘Luckily for you,’ Cheryl had panted, ‘I’m multi-orgasmic.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Get off!’

  ‘That’s it, fight me, baby.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Me too, fight me some more.’

  ‘Gerroff!’

  ‘Arghhhhh,’ the volume of Cheryl’s screeches had gone up a couple of notches as, rubbing and writhing on Matt’s torso, she’d deafened him with the cry of, ‘I’m com-inggggg!’

  ‘And I’m going.’

  Taking advantage of Cheryl’s convulsing body, Matt had shoved her to one side. Hanging on to his trousers, he’d heaved himself up and grabbed his discarded belt. Stepping quickly over Cheryl’s jerking legs, he’d lunged for the front door’s catch.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Cheryl had gasped.

  ‘Home,’ Matt had panted.

  ‘But you haven’t screwed me!’

  ‘And I’m not going to.’

  Suddenly Cheryl had scrambled to her feet. She’d glared at Matt, clearly livid. ‘It’s that fucking Rosie, isn’t it?’

  Matt had turned and, for a moment, they’d just regarded each other, the air crackling with fury and tension.

  ‘Yes,’ he’d eventually said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You wanker. You bloody bastard. Get out!’

  He’d not needed telling twice. He’d driven back to Penshurst like a man possessed. Crashing into the apartment, he’d met Rosie coming out of the kitchen with a steaming mug. She’d taken one look at his tousled hair, gaping shirt, and knackered trousers and nearly dropped her Horlicks.

  ‘Good date?’

  ‘Don’t ask. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Right. Goodnight.’

  And now Matt opened his eyes properly. He was in his own bed. Thank God. His whole body ached from slamming into Cheryl’s walls and floor. Gingerly, he touched his tender scalp. Dear God, the woman was a lunatic. He certainly wasn’t looking forward to seeing her again when he next visited Gregory Tibor’s factory. However, there was another woman he’d be seeing much sooner than Cheryl. And she wasn’t a million miles away either. Flinging back the duvet, Matt got out of bed.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  When Matt walked into his kitchen, Rosie was drinking coffee and reading the Sunday newspapers. Luke was in his playpen babbling to the mirror on his play mobile. There was some toast in the little rack on the table alongside the jars of jam and marmalade. A pot of coffee stood half full.

  ‘Hi,’ said Rosie, glancing up.

  ‘Morning,’ Matt gave a half smile. He felt a mixture of embarrassment and despair wash over him. So much for Cheryl being his Rosie antidote. The woman of his dreams was sitting right here, at his breakfast table, in his home, looking for all the world like a wife. His wife. And in that moment, Matt knew for sure that he wasn’t just in love with Rosie, he wanted to marry her too. She was perfect. Even her name declared it. She was indeed Rosie Perfect. He didn’t care that she came with a baby boy fathered by somebody else. He loved Luke too. Of that, Matt was sure.

  ‘Rosie–’

  ‘How–?’

  ‘Sorry, you go first.’

  ‘No, no, that’s fine. You were saying?’

  ‘Ladies first – I insist.’

  ‘Okay.’ Rosie gave him a sheepish look. ‘I was going to be incredibly nosey and ask how your date with Cheryl went.’ There. She’d said it. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it last night. And if he told her to bog off and mind her own business, then so be it. The truth of the matter was that yesterday evening had been a miserable one for Rosie. Not even Laurel and Hardy had made her smile. Her body might have been sitting in front of Matt Palmer’s vast telly, but her mind had been with Gregory Tibor’s receptionist, and how she was responding to Matt. Did she think him witty? Charming? Clever? And were they in a restaurant? Or strolling hand in hand along a City pavement? Perhaps they were doing neither, and instead sipping Cointreau on Cheryl’s sofa, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes? Or worse, working up a sweat between Cheryl’s sheets, the bedsprings protesting wildly.

  Matt d
eflected the question. ‘Is that coffee still hot?’ He pointed to the half full pot.

  ‘I think so. Try it. If not, I’ll make some fresh.’ Rosie bit her lip. Damn. He didn’t want to talk about it. She shouldn’t have asked. ‘You can finish up that toast, too, if you like. It’s cold, but I prefer it that way. I hate it when toast is buttered the moment it pops up from the toaster.’ Rosie was aware she was starting to gabble, but she was desperate to fill any potentially awkward silences. ‘The bread goes all soggy, and the butter drips everywhere. If you’re not careful, it can make a right mess of your clothes.’

  Matt shot her a look. Rosie’s last few words seemed to hang heavily in the air. A right mess of your clothes. Taking a mug from the cupboard, he poured himself some coffee. Last night, his clothes had indeed been a mess, although the cause had been nothing to do with melting butter. He went back to the cupboard and pulled out a plate. ‘I love cold toast,’ he set the plate down on the table, ‘so thank you, I appreciate the offer.’ Pulling out a chair, he sat down. ‘Can I borrow your knife?’

  ‘Sure.’ Rosie passed the utensil to him. Their hands briefly touched, and Matt experienced such a jolt of electricity he nearly dropped the wretched thing. He couldn’t go on like this. He reached for the butter and plunged the knife in.

  ‘If you must know, last night,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘was an absolute disaster.’ He scooped out a wodge of butter, and began to spread it backwards and forwards over the toast.

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Rosie, feeling secretly relieved. She’d spent the entire evening offering up prayers to God that Cheryl would, in some small way, decide Matt was repulsive. That he’d accidentally fart in the restaurant and engulf them in a smell so putrid she’d stand up and shriek, “Matthew Palmer! You are dis-gust-ing. I don’t ever want to see you again.” The soundtrack to a Taylor Swift song suddenly played through Rosie’s mind. “Everrrrr’. Or perhaps Matt would choose a dish that contained spinach and get millions of green bits stuck between every tooth. And then, when he smiled at Cheryl, she’d recoil in horror as the soundtrack to Bein’ Green by Kermit the Frog played through her head. Or Matt would consume so much garlic that, as he lowered his mouth to kiss Cheryl’s lips, she’d faint… and bang her head, hard, on the floor… or, even better, go into an instant coma... or, better still, hit that particularly vulnerable bit… and die. On the spot.