A Family Man

by Amanda Brookfield

  ‘You can’t just reinvent yourself, Kath. Nobody can.’

  She smiled suddenly, her face lighting up in a way that reminded him of the creature he had fallen in love with six years before. ‘Oh, but that’s where you are wrong, Matt, really wrong. I can. I have.’

  She strode away across the lawn towards the house, swinging her hips so vigorously that the old man sneaked an admiring stare. Matt remained on the cold metal seat, swallowing the hollow realisation that while Kath might have given up the stage soon after they met, she had never stopped playing a part. He signalled to the old man, gesturing at the empty seat. The man did a mock salute in response and came tottering over, conjuring from his jacket pocket a small silver hip flask.

  ‘Get some of that down yer,’ he growled, unscrewing the lid and handing it across to Matt. ‘And if you don’t mind my saying so, I think you’re well shot of that one.’ He nodded in the direction of Kath, who had linked arms with Louise and was leading her back through the French doors. Matt managed a bitter laugh. ‘So do I, as it happens, so do I.’ He tipped the narrow mouth of the flask to his lips, relishing the burn of the whisky across his tongue and down the back of his throat.

  ‘Left you a farewell, has she?’ he remarked, nodding at the envelope.

  ‘Yes, and do you know what?’ replied Matt. ‘I think I’ll leave it with this little fellow over here.’ Picking up the envelope, he tore it into tiny strips which he stuffed, several at a time, into the gnome’s fishing basket, alongside a miniature plastic trout and a box of worms.

  33

  It was with some trepidation that Matt asked for the car keys. Whereas his state of inebriation still felt distant and manageable, held in suspension through shock perhaps, Louise looked as stupefied as a boxer struggling to come round from a hard blow. She was slumped in a hall chair, her hair flopped over one half of her face and her legs stuck out stiffly in front of her, like a puppet with no knee joints.

  ‘Keys please, Louise,’ she sang, dangling the keys at him and then trying to swipe them from his reach. ‘Kath’s gone,’ she said next, pointing at the front door. ‘Taxi. Airport. We had a chat.’ She put her finger to her lips. ‘Big chat. Girl talk. Mum’s the word. Poor Matt, poor, poor Matt.’ She shook her head mournfully.

  ‘Come on, then.’ Matt tapped his feet in a show of impatience, thankful that he had resisted following up the old man’s whisky with any more wine. Before embarking on a search for Louise he had even managed a half-decent conversation with his mother-in-law, expressing both condolences and – more of a challenge – an open invitation for her to see Joshua whenever she chose. Aware that the subject of Kath was then only a breath away, he had hastily excused himself with talk of traffic and baby- sitting deadlines.

  ‘What I need,’ said Louise, ‘is a drink.’ She pulled herself upright and looked about her, as if a full glass might be within reach. ‘Oh, I say, steady on,’ she exclaimed with a giggle, as Matt, ignoring the request, slung one of her arms across his shoulders and heaved her to her feet.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Home,’ he replied grimly, steering her through the front door and across the road to the muddy field that had served as a carpark. Although the day was hot, the ground, soaked by a recent bout of heavy rain, still oozed moisture underfoot. As they entered the field, Louise broke free, staggered for a moment, and then embarked on a skipping dance along one of several squelchy ridges left by the tyre tracks of manoeuvring cars.

  Specks of mud spurted up her ankles. ‘I want my keys back,’ she declared, charging the last few yards to her car and flinging herself at the bonnet as if greeting a long-lost friend. ‘Please let me drive, Matt – it’s my car – please.’

  ‘You can drive tomorrow,’ he replied dryly. ‘Now stop quibbling and get in.’

  ‘Ooh,’ she crooned, sliding into the seat beside him, ‘a man who takes control. I just love that.’

  Ignoring her, Matt started the engine. After a bad couple of moments when the back wheels spun against air and Louise shrieked with excitement, they lurched out of their muddy slot and across the field. Once on the open road, Matt wound his window right down, partly to counteract the heat and partly to keep his senses clear, a challenge made no easier by his passenger, who had embarked on a stream-of-consciousness-style evaluation of the events of the afternoon and life in general.

  ‘Kath said happiness is everything, that we’ve only got one chance and to make the most of it and that a life of sacrifice only makes you bitter and resentful and miserable and unlovable. I know she’s hurt you, but I really think she might be right. And you’ve got to admit, she looked fabulous – like some kind of film star or something, which is funny if you think about it because that’s probably what she always wanted to be, deep down. And she does want you to be happy, you and Josh, and me, she wants me to be happy too. But to move right away – I wouldn’t like that. You’re not going to move really, are you?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Matt jumped at the question. He had been driving automatically, seeing nothing beyond the racing tarmac of the road, only half connected to consciousness. Keen as he was to get home, he realised that he had to sober up if they were to complete their journey safely. Seeing a large roadside pub a few minutes later, he swung into the forecourt, coming to a stop next to a sandwich board promising cheap meals and a friendly welcome to coaches.

  ‘Oh, goody, I need the loo,’ declared Louise happily, tottering to the bar after him. ‘And a large glass of red wine. And lots and lots of sandwiches. I’m starving.’

  Inside, Matt had to fight his way through a crush round the bar. He ordered Louise’s wine with some reluctance, together with a round of cheese-and-tomato sandwiches and a pint of iced orange juice for himself. By the time Louise returned from the toilets his drink was half gone and he felt almost ready to return to the car. The sandwiches, on thin, floppy brown bread, with swirls of margarine curled along the edges, looked unappealing.

  ‘There’s a lovely garden out the back —’

  ‘Let’s just drink up and go.’ He eyed her wine, hoping suddenly that it might induce sleepiness instead of loquacity for the final leg of their journey home. He wanted more than anything to be alone, to be allowed the space and silence to absorb what Kath had told him. A sort of creeping relief had begun to seep through him. All the uncertainty was over. Josh was truly his. Kath could bugger off back to her new lover and be damned.

  But Louise had other plans. ‘This way,’ she trilled, seizing her glass and the plate and nodding at him to follow. ‘It’s lovely, see?’ She gestured through the open back door of the pub at a half-acre of fruit trees and white metal trellises, crawling with pink and white roses. Although a handful of rustic picnic tables were dotted about the place, most people were sitting on the grass. In the far corner a wooden climbing frame swarmed with small children. Matt swung his legs over the first empty seat they came to, taking a sandwich even though he wasn’t hungry. Deliberately ignoring Louise, he sipped the last inch of his orange juice and watched the antics in the playground through half-closed eyes. After a few moments his thoughts began to drift, back to that first afternoon in the park after Kath had gone; Louise all horrified sympathy and Joshua having his head stamped on. The tide of relief swelled again. Hurt as he was by Kath’s ugly revelations, he felt released. He knew the bulk of the truth at last; enough to close the chapter and move on.

  A lazy wasp hovered round the rim of his orange juice before settling on a blob of pickle left by the previous occupiers of the table. Aware suddenly that Louise had not spoken for a while, he glanced up. She was staring at him intently, looking so blanched and serious that he feared she might be about to throw up.

  ‘Okay?’ He smiled at her.

  ‘Matt, tell me how you feel.’

  Disinclined to rake over the intimate details of his conversation with Kath, Matt shook his head. ‘It’s over, that’s all that matters. She’s gone, really gone this time, and she’s not coming bac
k for Josh. Ever. And to be honest’ – he stretched, raising the palms of his hands to the sky – ‘I feel nothing. Except contempt. And even, deep down, a certain amount of pity. At some stage whoever she’s with will start not to be enough and she’ll have to repeat the whole business again, reinvent herself for someone new.’

  ‘No, I mean, about us. How do you feel about us, Matt?’

  ‘Us?’

  She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m not stupid, Matt, I’ve read the signs. I know that you’ve been going through the same hell I have – it would be too corny, wouldn’t it, too pat, too dreadful, one break-up leading to another …’

  ‘Louise, what are you talking about?’

  She broke off, shaking her head in a show of affectionate despair.

  Both hands were cupped round her now empty wineglass and two flecks of wholemeal bread were stuck to her chin. ‘I know I’m pissed, which is why… oh, Matt, I care for you so much. And I know you care for me. I’ve seen all the signs, all the signals that you …’

  ‘Signals?’ he whispered, as yet too incredulous of the direction the conversation was taking to think how to stop it.

  ‘You can’t hide chemistry, can you, Matt? And God, it’s not as if we haven’t fought it.’ She took hold of his hands, leaning forward, her hair falling into her eyes. The morning’s smooth sweep of blue eyeshadow had receded to a thin greasy line across the middle of her lids, visible only when she blinked. ‘I’ve tried with Anthony, God how I’ve tried. And you – making a go of it with that dreadful American woman, when you knew all along it was hopeless, fighting the truth, growing between us all the —’

  ‘Stop.’ Matt spoke so loudly that not only the people at the neighbouring table but a fat black Labrador, sprawled on the grass next to them, looked up in alarm. ‘Louise, you do not know what you are saying,’ he scolded gently, lowering his voice. ‘You have drunk too much. I don’t mind – let’s just forget it ever happened.’

  She ran her hands up over her face and through her hair, clearing it from her eyes, which he saw now were faintly bloodshot, the inner rims red against the sticky tangle of her mascara. ‘You mean you don’t care for me at all?’ Not only her bottom lip but her entire lower jaw was trembling.

  ‘Oh, Louise, how could you have …? I mean, I like you, of course, and I’m incredibly grateful for all the ways you’ve helped me, but it never crossed my mind that —’

  ‘But you started it,’ she gasped, ‘with that kiss …’ ‘What kiss?’ He snorted in disbelief, truly amazed.

  ‘That afternoon at my house … and then the theatre, that doll’s-house

  play with that woman stuck in that hateful marriage – like you knew that’s how it was for me, which it is, so trapped and alone, Anthony never there. You were so understanding and kind … oh God.’ She was crying properly now, wrenching out each word between sobs.

  ‘Louise, please,’ pleaded Matt, ‘you don’t mean any of this. I know you don’t.’ Finding a grubby but presentable hanky in his trouser pocket, he pressed it into her clenched hands. ‘You’re just overwrought. We both are – it’s been a hell of a day. You love Anthony, of course you do. He is perfect for you, clever and rich and handsome, which I will never be. Kath doing her disappearing act screwed both of us up for a while, made us lose perspective …’ He spoke softly and urgently, saying anything that came into his head, wanting only to move on from so terrible, so absurd a misunderstanding. And it seemed to work, because she stopped crying and buried her nose in his handkerchief, trumpeting away the residue of her tears. Shaking his head in wonder, Matt reverted his attention to the wasp, which had returned to his now empty glass, accompanied by two fatter looking peers. Picking up the beer-mat, he slipped it deftly over the top, trapping the three insects inside.

  ‘Better?’ he asked, injecting as much normality into his tone as he could; as if bringing her round from a fainting fit instead of from a declaration of love. Louise stared back at him. Her eyes were puffy and smeared. Strands of damp hair stuck to her cheeks and forehead.

  ‘Bollocks to you, Matt Webster.’ ‘Look, Louise, I only —’

  ‘You’re right, you are crap at relationships. Totally crap. And do you know something else? Kath thinks so too. And Graham.’

  ‘Graham?’ He laughed. ‘What the hell has Graham got to do with this?’

  For a moment she looked uncertain, as if conscious of having taken a step farther than she had intended. ‘Because that’s who Kath is with, that’s why. She told me this afternoon. It was Graham all along. Behind your back, all that time.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’ He laughed again. ‘Kath never liked Graham.’

  ‘After his marriage bust up, that’s when it started. She told me everything this afternoon, swore me to secrecy. For your sake,’ she sneered, ‘not to hurt you any more than she has already. And if you’re wondering when, there were plenty of opportunities, with you always shooting off somewhere – Chichester, Stratford, Edinburgh – and then when Joshua started nursery.’ She giggled. ‘I think your friend had regular morning meetings south of the river.’

  ‘Not true,’ whispered Matt. ‘Graham would never do that. Besides … in New York he said there was nobody.’

  Louise interrupted him with a clap of her hands. ‘New York – now that’s the best bit. Kath was there all the time, camping out in a hotel round the corner. She said you found her clothes, all new ones bought by Graham, hidden in a basement or something because of your visit. She said it was like being in a Raymond Chandler novel, trilbies and dark glasses, spying round lampposts, sneaking sex at lunch-times. They were sending texts all the time, emails to him at work… in constant touch, she said. And where do you think she got that suntan anyway? A week in Sydney, that’s where.

  They’ve been house-hunting.’ She paused, saving the best till last. ‘Kath was only there today because of you, because you told Graham about Lionel. That’s how she found out.’

  Matt stood up so quickly that black specks danced in the corners of his eyes. He held out his hand. ‘My handkerchief, please, if you’ve finished with it.’

  Louise stared disconsolately at the damp crumpled square of cotton for a few moments before handing it over. Then she traipsed after him back to the car, not speaking now because there was nothing left to say.

  34

  It was getting dark by the time they got back to London. The lights were on in Louise’s front room. Though the curtains were drawn, the central bay window had been left open. Strains of something classical were drifting out of it – Mozart perhaps, or Puccini. Beneath the window the electric blue of a ceanothus bush glowed in the half-light, as if radiating all the sunlight absorbed during the day. Matt got out of the car first and handed Louise the keys. Her face looked ghostly, her hair bedraggled. Though he hated her, he was grateful too. At least he knew it all now, the ugly extent of it.

  She walked slowly across the drive to the front door, her shoes crunching on the gravel, her head hung in what looked like shame. Matt watched from the gate, feeling an ache of something akin to envy as the door swung open, revealing a mouth of welcoming light and the solid figure of Anthony there to greet her. He caught a glimpse of them reaching for each other before the door closed, slamming the image from view.

  He had told Louise he would find a taxi but now it seemed a better idea to walk. The air was heavy; he could feel the heat of the day pulsing through the soles of his shoes. Segments of fresher tarmac were still soft underfoot, melted from subjection to the sun. On the radio in the car there had been talk about the onset of a heat wave that could last into July and beyond; premature worries about low reservoirs and hosepipe bans. Matt, his jacket slung over his shoulder and his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, walked fast, zigzagging his way through the leafy toast rack of roads. On either side of him sleek convertibles gleamed in driveways, their bonnets dusted with the confetti of fallen blossom.

  He felt too hollow even to cry. Nothing had changed, yet everythin
g had. It was like going back to the beginning – to January – only far, far worse. The depth of the deception took his breath away. So sustained, so absolute. Not only a lost marriage but a lost friendship too. Except worse, because loss suggested there was something to mourn, something once possessed and cherished, instead of mere delusion. No memory felt safe any more, not even of the earliest times, before Graham and Kath had met. The woman whom he had married had not loved him. The man whom he’d imagined to be a friend had merely been seeking a foil for his own brighter light. Being clever had counted for nothing in the end. His life had been a fiction, a bad play … a living death. Matt alighted on the memory of the phrase with a bitter laugh of recognition, thinking that it wasn’t Kath’s life it had described so much as his own.

  By the time he reached Camberwell High Street, his smart, infrequently worn black shoes had rubbed a raw spot on the back of his left heel. Several bars and pubs were still open. Clusters of drinkers, spilling out on to pavements in search of cooler temperatures, were joshing and chatting like guests at a street party. Matt slowed by a particularly rowdy group, scanning their expressions, seeking something – a friendly face, some key to their jollity. Wanting to delay the return to his own life, so dark and uninviting, he elbowed his way through the group to the pub door. Propped next to it was a young man on a sleeping bag, with a scrawny dog and a cap full of change. Matt handed him a five-pound note before going inside, resisting the urge to squat down and confess that in spite of his suit and shaven face he knew only too well how it felt to be alone and unlucky.