by Tracy Bloom
‘He was so touchy,’ she said eventually. ‘He didn’t want to talk about anything. Didn’t want to tell me anything about what he’s been up to. It’s just not like him. He’s normally so open, isn’t he? He’ll tell anyone anything.’ She shifted a now calm Millie to her other shoulder. ‘Then I found a text on his phone.’
‘You don’t just find texts, Katy. You go looking for them.’
‘Okay, so I looked at his phone,’ she said guiltily. ‘And he’d texted someone called “A” and thanked them for yesterday. He told me he hadn’t seen anyone yesterday. He hadn’t been anywhere – and yet he had. He must have.’
‘It could be nothing, you know,’ said Daniel.
‘I asked him,’ sniffed Katy.
‘Asked him what?’
‘If he was seeing someone.’
‘Oh lordy, you didn’t, did you?’
‘I had to know, Daniel. But it came out all wrong. I didn’t mean, are you seeing someone, as in, you know . . .?’
‘Seeing to someone?’
‘Well yes. I didn’t mean that. I just meant, was he seeing someone. Not doing anything with them. But Ben thought I meant he was having an affair or something, and I didn’t mean that, honestly I didn’t.’
‘So what did he say?’
‘Oh Daniel, what have I done?’ she sobbed.
‘What did he say?’ Daniel repeated.
She scrabbled for a tissue in her pocket.
‘He said that I shouldn’t tar him with my own brush,’ she blurted. ‘Then he left.’
‘To go to a microbrewery,’ Daniel muttered.
They sat in silence until Katy got up to take Millie back to bed. Daniel waited for her to leave the room, then stood up to blow the scented candles out.
‘Don’t think you’ll be needing these tonight after all,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The mobile phone lay there like an unexploded bomb on the crisp white linen tablecloth next to the salad fork, as though it was part of the table setting. A stiff bishop’s-hat-shaped napkin sat on top of a plate which would be removed, unused, as soon as a complete stranger who you wanted nowhere near your crotch had laid the napkin awkwardly on your knee. Matthew knew that Alison loved all the unusual etiquette that came with a high-end restaurant. Napkins so rigid they slipped instantly to the floor, multiple sets of cutlery indicating that you would be paying at least a fiver a head extra for additional washing-up, and sombre waiting staff in impossibly fashionable attire who could dampen the mood of anyone who actually intended to enjoy themselves whilst eating in the said establishment.
Matthew was surprised that Alison thought it acceptable to have a mobile phone clearly visible on the table at such an achingly elegant restaurant. Being contactable, should a disaster occur at home, clearly overrode her usual high standards of social etiquette. She was, however, quick to explain her poor table manners to the waiter when he arrived to supply them with water out of a receptacle designed to make you think you’d already spent twenty quid, and you hadn’t ordered anything yet.
‘I have twins,’ she announced to the chisel-faced twenty-something whilst pointing at her phone.
He merely raised his eyebrows, forcing her to continue her explanation as to why she had her phone on the table.
‘They’re five months old,’ she said. ‘It’s the first time we’ve left them, so I need to be contactable.’ She stared at him, awaiting his approval.
‘Of course,’ nodded the waiter, clearly baffled as to why she was sharing this irrelevant information when he was used to the daily lunchtime clamour of mobiles ringing and people in suits getting up abruptly from tables to pace the room.
‘So our chef’s specials today are . . .’ he began, standing up straight and mentally preparing himself to reel off a list of dishes that sounded like a shopping list of food combined with spa treatments.
Alison put her hand up to interrupt him.
‘We are on rather a tight schedule this evening, so you can dispense with the list of specials and we’ll order straight away, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course, madam,’ said the waiter with a curt bow. ‘What would you like?’
‘I’ll start with the calamari and then I’ll have the John Dory, please, but with new potatoes rather than the gratin potatoes.’
‘Of course. And you, sir?’
‘Calamari for me too, and then I’ll have the fillet, medium rare.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘And please can I have French fries rather than the thick-cut?’
‘Of course. Now I believe you ordered champagne to be at the table,’ the waiter said, reaching behind Matthew to draw a bottle out of an ice bucket. He showed the label to Matthew and asked if he would like him to open it.
Matthew glanced up at Alison, who looked stony-faced but gave a barely perceptible nod.
‘Yes, please,’ said Matthew, grinning at Alison in an effort to get her to reflect it back. She didn’t. She looked away and picked her phone up for quick glance at the screen.
‘I can’t believe you asked for French fries,’ she hissed as soon as the waiter had left.
‘But . . . but . . . you changed your side order,’ he protested, champagne glass in mid-air, ready to raise a toast to their babies.
‘To something healthier,’ she protested. ‘I haven’t lost all my baby weight yet.’
‘So it’s okay to change to something healthier but not something that isn’t?’
‘Yes,’ she hissed back.
He hadn’t heard that rule before. He loved French fries. He was in a restaurant and he was having steak. What could possibly be wrong with that?
‘Sorry,’ he said, deciding to agree so they could get their evening into a better mood. ‘Now, can I propose a toast, please, to our beautiful children?’
She blushed slightly and reached for her glass, raising it to his.
‘To our family,’ he said simply, chinking his glass against hers. They held each other’s gaze, suddenly embraced by joy that they had at last become a family. Matthew took a gulp of the fizzing liquid and reached for Alison’s hand across the table. This was more like it.
‘Our family,’ he murmured again, enjoying the sound of it. He watched as Alison bit her lip, trying to keep control of her emotions. He intertwined his fingers in hers and they clung together in a determined grip.
They were still looking intently at each other when the phone sprang to life, buzzing loudly and illuminating the dimness surrounding their candle-lit table in a highly intrusive manner. Matthew’s hand was dropped like a stone as Alison gasped and grabbed hold of the phone as though any seconds lost could be a matter of life and death.
He tried to read Alison’s face as she furrowed her brow, quickly swiping and tapping in order to access whatever message was coming their way. To his relief, he saw a smile emerge.
‘Yes!’ she said with a small fist pump. ‘I knew he could do it.’ She raised her eyes to Matthew, absolutely beaming. Perhaps this poorly timed text wasn’t the bad news it might have been.
‘Ben managed to get Millie to sleep by seven forty-five. I knew he could do it. He really struggled last night but I told him to hang in there, she’d learn. And lo and behold, there she goes, a whole three quarters of an hour earlier than normal. Brilliant.’
She looked back down at her phone and started to tap back a reply to Ben’s message. Matthew couldn’t believe his eyes. Before parenthood, if they’d been out for a meal, Alison would have demanded that his phone stay in his pocket at all times. Texting at the table? Alison? This was unheard of.
‘Can’t you reply later?’ he had to ask. If it had been him sitting there texting, he knew Alison would quite likely have grabbed the phone out of his hand and dumped it in the ice-filled champagne bucket.
‘Won’t be a sec,’ she said, without looking up.
Matthew grasped his hands together in his lap tightly. He hadn’t planned this whole evening to spend it w
atching the top of Alison’s head whilst she texted some other bloke, least of all Ben. He reached for his glass and downed the rest of his champagne, then lifted the bottle out of the ice bucket, spraying ice-cold droplets of water onto the crisp white linen.
‘More?’ he said abruptly, in an attempt to divert Alison’s attention. She shook her head, still not looking up. He topped his own glass up and slammed the bottle back in the bucket.
‘You’ll knock it over,’ she said, without looking up.
Matthew sat and seethed. Alison put the phone back in its position next to the salad fork and looked up at him grinning.
‘I’m so proud of him,’ she gushed. ‘And he sounds over the moon.’ She clapped her hands together in glee. ‘What must Katy be thinking? I bet she never thought Ben would take control like this.’
‘Harrumph,’ Matthew grumped. ‘I can’t actually believe that Katy is leaving the childcare to that idiot.’
Alison was about to reply when the starters arrived in front of them and her frown disappeared momentarily, morphing into a grateful smile.
‘I think that is utterly unfair of you, Matthew,’ she said the minute the waiter was out of earshot. ‘He just needs guidance, that’s all. And he really listens when he knows it’s important. Do you know, he actually filmed me on his phone showing him how to purée carrots so he didn’t forget how to do it. That’s how seriously he’s taking it.’
‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’
‘I said he filmed me puréeing carrots so he could watch it back again and make sure he got it right.’
‘You let him film you?’ asked Matthew, putting the knife and fork back down again for fear of actually wanting to throw them at something.
‘Yes,’ she replied, inserting her first mouthful of calamari. Matthew watched her chew and empty her mouth before she continued. ‘He actually said I should think about doing some more videos and put them online to help other stay-at-home dads. He said I was really good at it, thanks to my background in training.’
Matthew leaned back in his chair, raking his hands though his hair. Ben had filmed his wife, in his house? There was something very wrong about this latest revelation, but he couldn’t quite grasp what it was or how to articulate his displeasure. He took a few breaths, unsure of his next move, whilst an image of Ben leering behind a phone whilst Alison performed in front of him, disturbed his brain.
‘You won’t be doing it again, will you?’ he said rapidly. All he wanted now was for this nightmare to be over. He was even more confused as to what Ben’s motivations might be for re-entering their lives. One thing was clear: he needed to eject him as quickly as possible.
Alison was shaking her head and chewing, waiting to empty her mouth before she spoke.
‘No,’ she said, lifting her napkin up to dab the corner of her mouth. Matthew breathed out. That was all he needed to hear. ‘No, I actually think he needs to come back weekly to update me on how he’s doing with Millie’s routine. He’s started well but he has to stay strong, or else he could be back to square one before he knows it. I need to keep him motivated. We also need to go through other weaning foods.’
Matthew stared at her, his eyes wide, his food so far untouched.
‘No,’ was all he could finally squeak out, shaking his head from side to side.
Alison paused, her fork midway between plate and mouth.
‘No,’ he repeated. ‘He won’t want to come back.’
‘Why do you say that?’ she asked.
‘Well, he’s probably got his own friends to hang out with, hasn’t he? Can’t believe he wants to spend his days with you.’
‘What are you saying?’ she demanded. It was her turn to put her knife and fork down.
‘Can’t you see he’s using you?’ he said quickly. ‘He’ll get what he wants then you won’t see him for dust. And anyway, shouldn’t he be asking Katy about all this? Not taking up your time. You’ve got enough to cope with without holding his hand every step of the way.’
Alison looked questioningly into his eyes as he prayed for the unlikely event that she would agree and vow never to see Ben again. She glanced to her side, presumably to check out the proximity of the next table before she let him have it.
‘How dare you?’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘What gives you the right to tell me whether I have enough to cope with?’
‘I’m just looking out for you,’ Matthew insisted. ‘You’ve just had twins. Surely they need your undivided attention right now?’
‘What are you implying?’ spat Alison. ‘That I can’t cope? That I’m not looking after my children properly?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well, it certainly feels like it. All you ever do is interfere. Like you think you can do better.’
‘No, I don’t!’ Matthew said defensively.
‘You keep trying to butt in,’ she ranted. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ She glared at him, eyes bulging.
‘I’m good at it, really good at it,’ she continued, working herself up into an emotional state and now on the brink of tears. ‘And at least Ben can see that. At least he makes me feel like I know what I’m doing even if my own husband doesn’t.’
Matthew gasped. The last thing he wanted to hear was that Ben was doing something he wasn’t.
‘But you don’t even like Ben,’ he protested weakly. ‘You used to think he was an idiot too.’
‘He needs me, Matthew. He listens. He appreciates what I’m doing.’ She paused for a second before blurting out, ‘He told me I was eye candy.’
She stood up and thrust her napkin onto the table, then picked up her mobile phone and ran towards the door.
He stared after her, her last words going round and round his head, oblivious to the stares of the adjacent tables. His phone beeped in his pocket. Perhaps it was her.
He lifted it out and read the new text. It was from Ian.
Have you shagged her yet?
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘I cannot believe the Brewery Tap closes at midnight,’ declared Braindead as they marched through the damp, drizzly streets of Leeds. Their hands were thrust deep in their pockets and their shoulders hunched, as though rigidity would keep out the biting chill of the bleak January night. The Christmas cheer of December had well and truly disappeared, leaving the city feeling hollow and naked, leading to thoughts of hibernation rather than joy and goodwill to all men.
‘I just don’t understand the licensing laws in this country,’ Braindead continued. ‘I thought it was all sorted. You could stay open as long as you wanted. Seems to me the rubbish places can stay open as long as they like, whereas it’s the quality pubs still shut early. What’s that all about?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Ben. He’d drunk too many pints of Midnight Bell to really care. Still, he was disappointed too that time had been called, as he knew he wasn’t ready to go home and face Katy. ‘It’s probably down to customer demand or something,’ he offered Braindead.
‘Well, I’m a customer and I demand that only the decent pubs are allowed to stay open late and the crap ones have to shut early. That way the crap ones are incentivised to improve. Actually, that’s genius. Why has no-one thought of that?’
‘I think because it depends on how you define decent and crap. Your crap could be someone else’s brilliant.’
‘My crap could be someone else’s brilliant?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re just trying to confuse me now.’
‘No, I’m not. Bloody hell, it’s cold.’ Ben pulled his arms in as tight as he could to his body.
‘You’re telling me,’ said Braindead, shivering beside him. ‘Why couldn’t I have been born somewhere like Spain? A country where you never need a coat, that’s where I’d like to live. You can go straight out at night without agonising for hours on end as to whether you want to spend all night freezing your tits off or all night worrying about where to put your coat. And to think, in Spain you never have to l
ose your coat. How brilliant would that be? I would save a fortune.’
‘You’re right, Braindead, you should move to Spain,’ Ben muttered.
‘And all the bars open all night, don’t they? You go there on holiday and everything’s open. The crap bars and the good bars.’
‘But they all sell crap beer,’ Ben reminded him. ‘Last time we all went to Spain you didn’t stop moaning because all you could get was weak lager.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Braindead, his shoulders sagging slightly. ‘I’ll just have to put up with this country then.’
They turned right, down another street, and both came to an abrupt halt.
‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Ben. ‘What on earth is going on in there?’
They surveyed the long line of short-skirted, vest-topped young women who were jostling two or three abreast in a long queue to get into the Pink Coconut nightclub, located halfway up the street.
‘Oh my days,’ declared Braindead, his eyes lighting up. ‘Christmas has finally arrived. Will you look at that? Women. Everywhere. I don’t care what’s going on in there, we are going in.’
‘Seriously?’ exclaimed Ben. ‘What on earth do you want to go in there for?’
‘Er,’ said Braindead, pulling a face. ‘To meet a woman, of course. It’s my one criticism of the Brewery Tap that your chances of meeting an unattached woman in there are slim. But look at this,’ he said, spreading his arms wide. ‘Surely I can’t fail amongst all this?’
‘I’m not going in there,’ said Ben, shaking his head.
‘Oh come on,’ replied Braindead. ‘I can’t go in on my own. No-one will come near me.’
‘You won’t pull anyway. Not anyone decent. No-one ever pulls anyone decent in a club.’
‘You did,’ replied Braindead.
Oh yeah, Ben remembered. He’d forgotten that he’d actually met Katy in this very club.
‘It was a theme night, though,’ he defended. ‘Don’t you remember? You were with me. It was one of those stupid school discos.’
‘And theme nights are different, are they?’
‘Yeah. Non-clubbers go to theme nights. Neither me nor Katy would have been there if it hadn’t been a theme night. In fact, we were both there under duress because other people had begged us to go. It was pure chance that we met in a club really.’