Beth Durant worked from a small but plush office on a busy third floor in the heart of Covent Garden. Verdant pot plants sprawled along the windowsills and shelves, blending tastefully with the lush green carpet and framed splashes of modern art on the walls. Her desk was large, its gold- edged leather top almost completely obscured by deep but orderly piles of papers. Matt sat opposite her, twiddling the handle of his coffee cup and trying to dredge some kind of insightful remark from the blurry depths of his brain. Something that would suggest zeal and commitment. Anything to divert attention from the emotions he was really experiencing, the fearful indifference to Andrea Beauchamp and all her kind, the sudden lack of conviction not only about the importance of interviewing anybody but about his ability ever to watch a play again and say anything intelligent in response.
‘More coffee?’
‘Ah, yes.’
Matt watched as she crossed the room to a sleek chrome machine in the corner. She was wearing an elegant dark trouser suit, with a jacket tailored into her waist, and buttoned so as to reveal a turquoise triangle of a T-shirt and the slope of an impressive chest. Peeking beneath the hem of the trousers were soft, flat-heeled black leather shoes that looked both comfortable and very expensive. The second coffee tasted even stronger than the first; he could feel the caffeine belting round his system, pumping his heart, making his palms damp.
‘So you are still keen?’
For a moment Matt wondered what she was referring to. ‘About Andrea … very much so. Though what these creatures ever reveal in their exchanges with the media is questionable,’ he gabbled, aware that he was merely echoing Oliver. ‘And she’s taking so long, isn’t she? To make up her mind, I mean. Not that I’m saying …’ He left the sentence hanging, seeking refuge in another glug of coffee and wondering suddenly what the point of the meeting had been. There was nothing that could not have been discussed over the telephone.
Beth Durant pressed her hands together and smiled as kindly as she dared, inwardly toying with the notion of offering some sort of commiseration. Oliver Parkin had warned her of Matthew Webster’s altered circumstances. Even if he hadn’t she couldn’t help thinking that she would have noticed that something was amiss beyond the dreaminess evident in most people after a long break out of the office. Although he looked not so much dreamy as dazed, she decided, eyeing her visitor over the pyramid-top of her hands. There was an air of dishevelment about him that was new, a ruffled, vulnerable, unloved look, something to do with the slightly skew- whiff sprouting of his short hair and the nick of blood on his chin. ‘I’m sorry. I asked you here because I really did think I —’ She was interrupted by the ring of her phone. ‘Ah, now this could be what I’ve been waiting for. Excuse me.’ She picked up the receiver, turning slightly away from him to take the call.
Matt slumped a little lower into his chair, letting his facial muscles relax, feeling momentarily – absurdly – let off the hook. It had been a bad morning. Joshua, perhaps sensing an air of urgency beyond the regular challenge of getting him through the wide door of Bright Sparks by nine o’clock, chose that morning to demand matching socks and a particular sweat-shirt still buried at the bottom of the laundry basket. During the course of the tantrum provoked by this state of affairs he had imprinted small, but perfectly visible, strawberry jam stains on Matt’s clean shirt, ironed specially the night before. He had been forced to wear an old grey one instead, which he did not like as much but which offered the advantages, rare in his wardrobe these days, of being clean and uncrumpled.
‘March fourth? I’ll see. One moment.’ The chair spun round, returning Matt to the firing line. ‘Tuesday, March fourth, three o’clock at the Ritz,’ Beth whispered, pressing her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Shall I say yes?’
Matt nodded, black specks dancing before his eyes.
‘Thank you very much,’ he said when the phone was back on the hook, making a note of the date in his diary and reaching for his coat.
‘It’s my job,’ Beth replied lightly, glancing at her watch, a fine bracelet of gold which Matt had noticed her fiddling with while she was on the phone. ‘This calls for a celebration, don’t you think? Not even Julia Roberts would have been so hard. On second thoughts, I take that back,’ she added with a sparkling laugh, clearly thrilled with her victory. ‘Twelve o’clock’s not too early for lunch, I hope? And this one’s on me – I’m feeling generous.’
‘That’s very kind, but I’m not sure I —’
‘Oh, come on now, it’s Friday. I know you’re officially on holiday, but surely one course and a glass of wine would not be too arduous? There are about a thousand places to choose from – but then I’m sure you know that,’ she added with an apologetic laugh. ‘I just love the ambience of this part of town, with all those jugglers and opera singers and violinists – in Washington guys like that get moved on by the police. Back home nobody lingers over mealtimes any more, not even on a Friday. It’s all fast food stuff – good fast food, you can get everything from sushi to Creole – but even so … Have you made up your mind yet?’ she added, sliding the question in so unexpectedly that Matt, who had been steeling himself to refuse, found himself saying yes instead.
They sat in the window of a small wine bar, with tourists and shoppers streaming past on the pavement, some of them occasionally pausing to study the menu pinned to a post outside or to stare in through the glass itself, as if scrutinising exhibits in a case.
‘I’d love to go for all the creamy dishes but I have to watch my cholesterol,’ Beth complained, frowning at the menu and shaking her head.
‘Well, I haven’t a clue about mine,’ Matt confessed, laughing. ‘I don’t even know my weight except via which hole I’m using for the buckle on my belt.’ He patted his stomach, which these days felt hollow no matter the amount or quality of food fed into it.
‘How can you not know your weight?’ Her eyes widened with incredulity. ‘I get on the scales twice a day. I know what I weighed last week and last year, I know that I was fattest at my brother’s wedding and thinnest at my mother’s funeral. It’s like an integral part of me, of my identity, of the way I feel okay or messed up.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh God, one sip of wine and I’m shooting my mouth off. Don’t listen to me. Let’s just drink to Andrea Beauchamp and a great interview.’
It wasn’t until after they had finished eating and were sitting with cups of coffee that Beth broached the subject of the calamities in Matt’s private life, emboldened by a large glass of wine that had accompanied her spaghetti vongole. ‘I know it’s none of my business, Matthew, but can I just say how sorry I was to hear of your break-up? Oliver Parkin told me, which you may think was indiscreet of him, but I’m glad that he did. Having endured some of the same stuff myself, believe me, I know what you’re going through. Part of the reason I came to London was to get away from my ex. He’s what they call a big player in the political scene. Though we split two years ago we kept coming across each other, getting in each other’s hair. Washington is an unbelievably small city in that respect – all the same people meeting each other round dinner tables and at social functions. It was driving me crazy, hearing stuff about him all the time, knowing that he was hearing about me.’ She shuddered.
‘Not a problem with which I am confronted,’ confessed Matt with a short laugh. ‘I don’t know how much Oliver told you, but my wife has done a very thorough job of leaving me. Another man, another life. I don’t even know where.’ He paused. ‘She used to be an actress, you know, but gave up on it completely when our son, Joshua, came along. At the time she seemed happy enough to do that, but now I can’t help thinking she might have had a sort of mid-life crisis … I found these photos, you see, really glamorous ones, like for a portfolio or a casting or something. I keep asking myself why she had them done, who took them, whether it’s the photographer who…’ Matt broke off, embarrassed suddenly at this further evidence of his new inclination to bare his soul to half-known females, wondering if it was
genuine advice that he sought or an altogether less edifying desire for attention. He still felt mildly ashamed of how his thoughts had strayed during his tea session in Laycock Road, how he had betrayed his well- intentioned audience without them even realising it.
‘And your little boy, what have you told him?’ Beth pressed, her eyes wide.
‘That Mummy is on a long holiday,’ he admitted, thinking how flimsy the explanation sounded out loud. ‘And I’m not sure when she is coming back.’
Beth groaned. ‘Jesus, that’s so sad. At least Rob and I didn’t have kids. And we both hated each other, which kept things simple,’ she added cheerfully.
‘Much easier all round,’ Matt agreed, grateful to her for giving them the opportunity to laugh.
A few minutes later they were heading their separate ways, Matt towards the Tube and Beth to her office. After at least ten strides Matt could not resist turning to look back, finding with some surprise that she had done the same. They waved again, their hands just visible over the sea of jostling heads crowding the stretch of pavement between them.
13
Returning home with Josh later that afternoon, Matt was relieved and somewhat amazed to find two messages responding to his advert in the corner-shop window. Chuckling to himself over the fact that Mr Patel’s fluorescent marker should have proved so effective, he phoned back the first of the callers immediately, having to resist the urge to offer her the job on the spot.
‘Mrs Rollings? My name is Matthew Webster. You called about my advertisement.’
‘Oh, yes, it would suit me perfectly. Just the thing I’m looking for.’ Her voice sounded faintly wheezy and rather older than it had on her message.
‘And you’ve plenty of experience of looking after children?’ ‘With five of my own, I should think so.’
‘Five?’
‘I collect my twins at three and the others at four, so I could easily fit in another.’
‘The thing is, I’m not sure that —’
‘So lucky to have a boy. Mine are all girls. We were going to try again – Bert was mad for a boy – but you get past it, don’t you, going back to all those broken nights and nappies? And I had a terrible time with my veins. I tell Bert, I think my poor old legs would explode if I put them through it again.’
‘With five of your own, you’ve probably got your hands full —’
‘Not at all. We’re in Drake’s Crescent. Is that near you?’
‘I’m not sure I —’
‘When did you want me to start? His nursery’s not the place at the bottom of Stenning Road, is it? Because that’s just round the corner from us.’
‘No —’
‘Shame. That would have made my life ever so easy.’
‘Well, thank you for calling, Mrs Rollings. I’ve had quite a bit of interest expressed in the job, so I’ll get back to you, if I may.’
‘As you please,’ she replied, sounding far less friendly, ‘but I’m on hold for five hours’ ironing in Bickley Road and they won’t wait for ever for an answer.’
Matt dialled the second number with a rather heavier heart, chiding himself for his naívety in ever having imagined that some magic solution to his logistical troubles was going to fall into his lap.
‘Is that Josephine Davies? My name is Matt Webster. You left a message about my advertisement for childcare.’
‘Yeah, I did. I want to work with kids. I’m looking for some experience.’
Matt almost groaned out loud. ‘In that case …’
‘Job-wise, that is. I mean, I spend loads of time with kids – friends’ little brothers and sisters and that. And I’ve done proper baby-sitting too. I love it, you see. When I leave school I’m going to study to be a nursery nurse. Do it as a profession. I was going to train to work with kids in hospital, be a proper nurse – but I wouldn’t like to see them sick or dying and stuff.’
‘So you’re still at school?’ said Matt gloomily, prolonging the discussion in order to let her down lightly.
‘Yeah, I’m sixteen, but I’m leaving in the summer and I’m free all Wednesday afternoons and could help most days from four until late.’
‘So no homework, then?’
If the girl registered the sardonic edge in his tone she gave no sign of it. ‘I do that in the mornings. I wake up really early, get it done before breakfast.’
‘I see. And what are you like with an iron?’ Matt asked, touched in spite of himself by her persistence.
‘Oh, I love ironing,’ she squealed. ‘Honest, I do, I’m not just saying that because I want the work, even though I do. Your ad mentioned evening sitting – I’d be great for that ’cos I could do the ironing while your little boy was in bed.’
‘And your parents, are they party to these grand plans?’
‘They don’t mind,’ she replied quickly, the first tinge of wariness creeping into her tone.
‘Look, I tell you what, perhaps you could come round so we can meet and chat a bit more about the possibilities. I was really looking for someone who could start earlier in the afternoons, but I often have to work evenings as well so we might be able to sort something out. If Joshua likes you, that is,’ he added. ‘I’m afraid he can be rather fussy about his friends.’
Instead of sounding intimidated, the girl laughed. ‘What does he like, then? What’s he into?’
‘Hamsters and watching cartoons, mainly, though I try to discourage too much telly,’ Matt added quickly. ‘You ought to know that the pair of us are on our own, and that he … well, he misses his mum sometimes. He loves building things too. We’ve got heaps of Lego and all that kind of thing.’
‘So when shall I come round?’
They settled on the following morning. Feeling faintly hopeful, Matt took a bottle of beer into the sitting room in order to contemplate a final round-up of his options. Joshua, fired up with the pizza and chocolate yoghurt that had constituted tea, was springing from chair to chair, wearing a pirate hat and eye patch that he had made at school that day.
A nanny was too expensive. An au pair was too intrusive. Mrs Rollings had sounded gruesome. Though still balking at the idea of calling upon the temporary assistance of his father, Matt was beginning to realise that taking such a step would not feel nearly so bad if he could offer a young energetic girl to help out alongside. Josephine’s limited hours would dovetail perfectly with Dennis in that respect, and might even, with only a little stretch of the imagination, prove the perfect solution for when he himself finally got to the point of working from home.
Matt closed his eyes, imagining a time when the structure of his daily life had receded back to the comfortable invisibility he had once taken for granted. The main cause of these deliberations, meanwhile, was working himself into a piratical frenzy, commanding imaginary enemies with an imaginary sword. A way of escaping, Matt supposed, opening his eyes and watching fondly; a way of controlling the world, like sorting beads and counters.
‘Hey, calm down there, Captain Bluebeard, or you’ll fall in the sea and get eaten by the crocodiles.’
‘Crocodiles,’ yelled Josh, leaping off the arm of the sofa and tussling with a large teddy that had served many similar combative purposes in the last couple of years.
‘You be careful now,’ Matt warned over his shoulder, retreating through the open double doors into the kitchen. ‘Dad’s going to call Granddad and then it will be time for your bath.’
Dennis picked up the phone after just one ring, his kindly, wry tone suggesting that he had been waiting for just such a request all week.
‘I’ll come on Sunday, if that’s all right. Give me time to sort out a few things first, shut up shop so to speak.’
‘Dad, I’m so sorry to have left it to the last minute – I kept thinking something would turn up. It won’t be for long – just a couple of weeks at most.’
‘I know, I know. I don’t mind in the least. When I said I wanted to make myself useful I meant it. Do me good to get away for a bit,’ he
added.
‘And I’m lining up a really nice girl to help out in the evenings, so you won’t have to do too long a stint on your own,’ continued Matt, aware that he was leaping ahead of himself, but wanting desperately to offer something in return for the unwavering goodness of his father’s response, for there being no hint of reluctance or martyrdom. ‘I’m interviewing her tomorrow morning. She sounded very promising on the phone – rough round the edges maybe, but full of heart.’
‘Whatever. We’ll manage just fine, don’t you worry. I’ll come by train. Try to be with you before dark.’
As Matt put down the receiver there was a loud thump from the sitting room. A moment or two of silence was followed by a dry alien wail that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Racing out of the kitchen, he found Joshua sprawled behind the sofa, surrounded by a small pool of blood, purplish red against the blue pile of the carpet. The eye patch, pushed back off his face, looked like a comical hair-band. There was so much blood that it took Matt a moment or two to locate the actual wound, a two-inch gash across the centre of his forehead, neat and gaping.
‘Okay, okay, you’re fine.’ Seizing a crumpled pillowcase from the mountain of ironing behind the sofa, he wiped away the worst of the mess and pressed hard against the cut till the flow of blood eased. A few minutes later they were speeding down Kennington Road, Matt wishing he had a siren to stick on his roof and Joshua holding the pillowcase against his forehead with a quiet, touching obedience that was far worse than the howls.
On seeing the age and state of the patient, the receptionist’s lazy look altered in an instant. Although the waiting area was almost full, they were quickly ushered down a corridor and into a small room with a bed and a desk. A nurse came in a few moments later. After a brisk inspection of Joshua’s forehead, she applied a clean pad to the cut, which was still bleeding but less profusely, and got out a sheet of paper.
A Family Man Page 10
