Getting Rid of Matthew

by Jane Fallon

  "It'd look bad, coming from me. Like I'm just saying you're good because you're my girlfriend."

  "But you've worked with me for years, it's perfectly legit that you'd give me a reference. I used to be your assistant, for God's sake."

  "Maybe in a few months, when all the gossip dies down. You could temp till then, or didn't you say EyeStorm needed someone?"

  "They need a secretary. I don't want to be a secretary. Not anymore."

  "Well," Matthew said, "you know what they say, beggars can't be choosers."

  Did he just say that? Helen thought, furious.

  "Did you just say that? I've lost my fucking job because of you and me. Don't you feel any responsibility?"

  "Oh, come on, Helly, don't be so melodramatic. You didn't have to give your notice in. There was absolutely no reason why you couldn't stay at Global."

  "You. Are. Fucking. Unbelievable. And don't call me Helly."

  She'd stormed straight out the front door and walked around the block a couple of times, and then she'd realized she had nowhere to go and it was starting to drizzle, so she'd gone back home again. Matthew, irritatingly, had clearly anticipated her arrival, because he had just made a large cafetiere of coffee.

  He'd apologized, she'd acted indifferent, he'd groveled, she'd capitulated. Same old story.

  * * *

  Sunday morning was dull and rainy. Helen and Matthew flopped around the flat, unable to summon up the energy to go down to the shop on the corner and get the newspapers. She made a halfhearted attempt to tidy up, knowing that critical eyes would be all over the mess later. Increasingly, Helen felt this was what her Sundays had become, a day of waiting for Matthew to pick up the girls and bring them over. A day given over to other people. She fought the temptation to sneak out with her mobile to call Sophie and to casually contrive a conversation about Sonny:

  So…how do you know Sonny?

  So…what about Sonny, anything I should know?—not that I'm interested. Any wives, children, boyfriends knocking about? Any communicable diseases, mental health issues, religious fundamentalism?

  So…I'm thinking about shagging Sonny one of these days. What do you reckon?

  She distracted herself by making lists of her publicity-grabbing ideas for the restaurant: Salsa dancers? No, too tacky. Free sangria, ditto. Maracas, bullfights, tortillas…what the fuck else was Spanish? Helen's only experience was from a week in Ibiza five years ago—when she was already too old for it to be anything other than sad—and that was a blur of dancing, drinking, sunburn, chips, and sleeping. Very authentic. Oh, God, she thought, I can't do it. What would Matthew do? Or Laura? OK, forget Spain for now, think about who the restaurant is aimed at. Professionals, a young, hip, Noho crowd, business lunchers and pre-theater goers. She listed the words in her notebook. She made another column headed "Positive Attributes" and wrote Barcelona chef, authentic recipes, fresh ingredients, Sonny. Then she blushed like a schoolgirl in the throes of her first crush and snapped the notebook shut.

  "Are you OK?" Matthew was saying. "You look hot."

  "It's just airless in here. I'm fine."

  "I'll make you a cup of tea," he said, stroking her hair on his way past to the kitchen.

  * * *

  "I don't want to go. It's boring."

  Claudia sat at the kitchen table, lunch untouched in front of her, face like an undertaker.

  "Don't you want to see Dad?" Sophie was getting used to this Sunday lunchtime ritual, but it irked her having to persuade her children to go and spend the afternoon with the woman who had ruined her marriage. Deep down, she knew that the girls were never going to think of this Helen as their new mother, but the possibility was always there that they would grow to like, and even love her. That would be a good thing, Sophie tried telling herself. Whatever makes the kids happy has to be for the best. But she knew she was kidding herself.

  She could remember how, when she was at primary school and about seven years old, her friend April's parents had gotten divorced. Barely giving it a second thought, daddy's girl April had moved in with her father and his new girlfriend and, after a couple of months, she was a bridesmaid at their wedding. April had even begun to refer to the other woman as "my mum." The first time, Sophie had said to her, "What, your real mum?" and April had explained, "No, she's Mummy and Mandy is Mum." Just like that, April's mother's position as the central woman in her daughter's life had been usurped. Sophie tried to remember what had made her friend move in with her dad in the first place, when she had a mother who clearly adored her, but she couldn't, because at the time she'd just accepted it.

  She put a dish of homemade crumble in front of Claudia; she could usually bring her around with food.

  "I don't mind going," Suzanne was saying, ever obliging.

  "I want to see Dad, but I don't want to see her." Claudia wasn't budging. "And all we'll do is sit around her smelly flat and she gives us rubbish sandwiches and tries to talk to us about school and it's so boring."

  Sophie smiled at her youngest daughter. She loved how difficult she was.

  The doorbell rang. Matthew was bang on time as ever—in fact, Sophie suspected he sat in the car around the corner if he was a couple of minutes early. He was trying to do this by the book. Usually, he let them know he was there, then retreated down the drive to wait for the girls, but today, when Sophie opened the door mid–good-bye, he stood on the doorstep. She felt her heart rush up to her head and start pounding on the sides to get out.

  "Oh…hello," she said warily.

  "How are you?" Matthew asked formally.

  "Good…I suppose. Yes…You?"

  "Yes, yes, good."

  Christ, thought Sophie, you'd think we'd never met before. They stood awkwardly for a few moments while the girls looked on hopefully, as if some sort of breakthrough were about to happen.

  "Well…anyway…" said Sophie, desperate to move the conversation on.

  "Erm…I wanted to ask you about Suzanne's parents' evening. It's next week, isn't it, and I was wondering, that is, I'd like to come as usual, if that's OK."

  "Oh. Of course. I'll see you there, I guess."

  "I just didn't want it to be awkward, with the teachers and all of that."

  "Matthew, of course it's going to be awkward. Everything's awkward now. But that's how it is, so we'll just have to deal with it."

  "Right." Matthew shifted his weight uncomfortably. "And I was wondering if I could pick up my golf clubs. If that's OK."

  "No, sorry."

  "No?"

  "I threw them in a skip. I think that bloke from number one-four-six might have taken them out again. You could go and ask him."

  "You threw my golf clubs in a skip?" He didn't know why, but he was smiling.

  "I did. Sorry."

  "And all your other stuff," Claudia was saying. "I helped."

  Matthew laughed. "Well, I never get time to play, anyway. Come on, girls. I'll see you at the school," he called over his shoulder as he got into the car.

  "Bye," Sophie called after him.

  * * *

  "What's that smell?" Suzanne wrinkled her nose as they shut the front door behind them.

  Helen came out into the hall brandishing Norman in front of her like a furry shield. "That smell," she said, "is Norman. Or at least, it's Norman's litter tray."

  "Ohmygod, Ohmygod, Ohmygod," Claudia was screaming. "You've got a cat, let me hold him."

  Helen was transfixed by Claudia's expression. Could it be…was she smiling? It was hard for her to tell, never having seen her even approximate a pleasant look before, but yes, there were teeth, and the corners of her mouth had turned up into unfamiliar territory. Hallelujah, thought Helen.

  "Of course you can," she said, handing him over. "We got him for you, for your birthday. You can think of him as your cat."

  "I don't like cats." Suzanne made her way down the hall to the living room.

  Great.

  "You do, though, don't you, Claudia? And…I brought
home a load of makeup samples we got from one of our clients at work, and I thought you could have a rummage through, Suzanne, see if there's anything you want."

  "Yuk," said Claudia, nose buried in the cat's soft back.

  "Cool," said Suzanne.

  "Where did he come from?" Claudia was asking. Helen allowed herself to smile at the little girl.

  "Well, we went down to the Pawprints shelter down the road, and they…"

  "What, they just let you take him?"

  "Yes…"

  "They can't do that." Claudia's smile had collapsed. "You could be anyone. They're meant to do home visits and check up on you first."

  "We're not anyone, are we, though, Claude," Matthew said, trying to defuse the bomb.

  "But they don't know that. What if someone horrible went in there and just said, 'Give me that dog,' and they did, and then they neglected it or tortured it?"

  Oh, for fuck's sake, Helen thought. That didn't last long.

  "You're right." She bent down and scratched Norman behind the ears. "That's exactly why we went there, because if they were just going to give him to anyone who asked, we figured it was better they give him to us than to someone else. Because we know we'll be nice to him. We know all the animals at Battersea or the RSPCA will go to good homes, because they'll check up, but who knows where poor old Norman could have ended up if we didn't take him?"

  "It's still wrong." Claudia wasn't backing down easily.

  "I agree. But he's here now, and he's all yours."

  She watched Claudia's face for a sign of her expression softening, and thought she saw just a hint of one.

  "And he is lovely, isn't he?"

  Norman was playing his part to perfection, a big soft purring lump in Claudia's arms. She kissed his nose.

  "Yes," said Claudia, "he is."

  Two and a half hours later, they'd had their best afternoon to date. Suzanne was made up like a French prostitute (Oh, God, Sophie's going to love that, Helen thought) and Claudia was giving Helen detailed written instructions on cat care, while Helen pretended that she didn't already know about the difference between wet and dry food and the need to clean out the litter tray regularly.

  * * *

  Back at home, Sophie waited for the inevitable moaning that followed a Sunday afternoon visit. She opened the front door when she heard Matthew's car pull up, and waved a vague greeting. Claudia shot out of the car before it had even fully stopped. She ran up the driveway

  "I'vegotacat. I'vegotacatandhe'satabbyandhisname'sNormanandhe'smine."

  Sophie started to say, "You've got a what?" but the sight of her eldest girl made up like Marilyn Manson stopped her in her tracks.

  "What on earth have you been doing?"

  "Helen gave me loads of makeup." Suzanne was affecting an air of thirty-year-old sophistication, despite the fact that she was only twelve. She looked, thought Sophie, like a clown.

  "Right, good for her. Only for special occasions, though, OK? No makeup to school."

  Claudia was tugging on her arm.

  "Mum, I've got a cat."

  Sophie looked toward the car, which was backing out of the gate. Matthew waved.

  "Where?"

  "At Dad's. Helen got it, and she says he's mine."

  "You know you can't bring it home. You know I'm allergic."

  Claudia sighed impatiently.

  "That's the point, stupid, he'll live with Dad and Helen, but he's mine and I get to see him every Sunday."

  "Right. Good old Helen. You like her now, then, I take it?"

  "No." Claudia pulled a face. "I still think she's a bitch, but I won't mind going round there anymore."

  Sophie put her arms around her daughter. "Great."

  But she knew there'd been a shift and it bothered her.

  19

  SOMETIMES WHEN HELEN COULDN'T SLEEP, she got up and wandered around the flat, switching on the TV, making coffee, reading. That had been harder since Matthew moved in, because after a while she'd hear him calling for her to come back to bed, complaining that just knowing she was up was keeping him awake.

  On Sunday night, though, she'd had to do something. She'd woken at one thirty, her mind racing immediately, and she knew straightaway that there was no chance she was going to do anything other than lie staring at the crack in the ceiling for the rest of the night. She looked across at Matthew, deep in sleep. She rolled over and got out of bed as gently as she could, and tiptoed out to the hall, closing the door. The living room was dark and unwelcoming; tiny flakes of frost covered the outside of the windows. She could see her breath in front of her, so she turned up the heat, pulled on a sweater, and switched on the lamp in the corner. In six hours, she'd have to get up for work.

  She got out her notebook, trying to concentrate, and read through the list she'd made earlier. Pitiful. Maybe she should just stick to providing the D-listers and placing some features. Stick with what you know, she thought. She allowed herself a brief second to drift off into thinking about Sonny again, then pulled herself back. For fuck's sake, what was wrong with her? OK, so a half-decent (all right, very decent) man, who was her own age and had all his hair, had paid some attention to her. OK, so he'd intimated that he might still be interested further down the line, once she had sorted out her tragic personal life. So what? It happened every day. But, of course, it didn't, not to her. That was the point. What if Sonny could be the next big love of her life but it all got fucked up because of Matthew? For God's sake, she thought, pull yourself together, you've barely met the man, let's not get carried away by a random pang of lust.

  She looked at her watch on the table and tried to calculate how many hours it was till she could call Sonny and try to pretend to be having a casual work conversation. Nine thirty was too early. It'd look too keen. So was ten, for that matter, because he might think she only started work at ten and she didn't want him to think his was the first call she'd made. Ten twenty, she decided randomly. Eight hours away.

  * * *

  At seven a.m., Helen woke up on the sofa, pins and needles raging down her right arm. It took her a moment to remember why she was there. She made some tea and then, checking that the bedroom door was still closed, she got out her mobile and dialed Rachel.

  "What the fuck?"

  "Sorry, Rach, I know it's early."

  She heard Rachel slump back down on her pillow. "It's only Helen," she heard her say to Neil.

  "Christ, Helen, I thought I was having a heart attack. I still might. This'd better be good."

  "I've met a man. And I've got a job."

  "OK, now I'm interested. Put the kettle on," she heard Rachel call over her shoulder.

  "It's only for a couple of weeks, but it's proper PR."

  "OK, man first. What do you mean, you've met a man? You have a man."

  "I know it's insane, but I think I might really like him, and he knows I've got a boyfriend, and he said he'll wait till I sort myself out, and then who knows…"

  "Is he gay?"

  "No! I don't think so. He's just…nice. It's good that he wants to do it properly."

  "How do you know he wants to do it at all?"

  "I don't. Well, I do, because he kissed me, but what if he hated it and then he was just being polite and actually he was thinking, thank God she's already got a boyfriend? Oh, God, this is ridiculous."

  "I hate to be the one to say it, but what about Matthew? I thought you were trying to make a go of it."

  "I don't know if I can. Oh, God, Rach, it's so fucked up. I've so fucked up."

  "You have to make a decision. Don't mess people around, it's not fair."

  Helen heard the thunder of the boiler starting up as the bath taps were turned on.

  "Oh, God, Matthew's up, gotta go."

  She could hear Rachel saying, "Don't do anything stupid" as she clicked the phone off.

  * * *

  As it turned out, Helen's mind was on anything other than Sonny at twenty past ten. All hell had broken out in the ge
neral office. It transpired that Friday night's office drinks had gotten a bit out of hand after Helen had left. Helen-from-Accounts, not used to drinking, had had one glass of champagne too many, and called husband Geoff to insist he come to the Crown and Two Chairmen and meet the girls. Geoff had ordered round after round, flashing his Burton's wallet, with its Friday night fresh-out-of-the-ATM notes, and refusing to let anyone else buy a drink. At around half past nine, they'd played a hilarious game of truth or dare and while Geoff had taken a dare each time (going up to a very straight-looking man at the next table and asking him if he wanted a quick hand job—"No, thank you," taking an empty wineglass back to the barman and demanding a fresh one because it was corked—"Fuck off"), Helen-from-Accounts always chose truth. Some of the facts she had let slip to the other girls included:

  Geoff's pet name for her clitoris was her peanut.

  Helen's pet name for Geoff's penis was Sergeant Sweeney ("Because he's always standing to attention," she'd shouted, and Geoff had guffawed).