On the morning of his appointment with Mrs Cherry he awoke early with a stomachful of nerves, aware that, in terms of Joshua’s personal happiness at least, this was the next vital link in the chain. As he was leaving the house the postman, arriving at the bottom of the steps, pushed a single envelope into his hands, of bright yellow, handsomely addressed in sloping black ink. Matt, thinking with a surge of quite illogical hope of Andrea Beauchamp, tore at the flap, only to find that Louise had mustered the courage to make contact after all.
Dear Matt
You are probably wondering why you have not heard from me. The truth is I have longed to get in touch many times, but have managed to resist. Anthony is trying very hard. He guessed there was someone else, though I haven’t – and never will – tell him who. More importantly, he has realised that part of why it happened was because he had been neglecting me. We have decided to move to the country, Dorset probably, though Gloucestershire is lovely too. Looking at houses is helping to keep me busy, and happy, as I have always been a country girl at heart. I know you do not want to admit to what there was between us, Matt, but that makes it no less real for me. The number of times I thought of you, the dreams I had of how things could be between us, so real it was sometimes like they had actually happened. But enough. Looking back won’t help us to move on. In case you’re wondering, I won’t be in touch with Kath either. I could never be her friend after what she has done to you. I hope you have forgiven me for telling you about Graham. No one loves the bearer of bad news, do they?
Hugs to Joshua. Take care of yourself. You are very special and deserve to be happy.
Louise.
Everyone had their own version of their life, mused Matt, shaking his head in wonder as he screwed up the letter and dropped it into his wheelie bin. Everyone was at the centre of their own drama, casting acquaintances and lovers in subsidiary roles, the extent of which was often beyond the participants’ wildest imaginings. He thought of Kath and what her story of their marriage would have been, how vastly different to his; being trapped with a hateful husband, an intoxicating illicit romance, the tragedy of leaving her son. To an impartial listener it would seem like a rich narrative indeed, with Kath glittering in the role of heroine, the wronged wife, sacrificing motherhood on the altar of her new love. Everyone read from their own scripts, he realised, encouraged rather than depressed by the thought, contemplating how good he was at judging such things from a theatre seat and how hopeless in real life.
After checking the A–Z, he locked up the car and set off down the street, whistling softly. It was going to be another hot day, but he was ready for it, having at the last minute traded his sensible grey suit for a pair of clean shorts and a smartish T-shirt. He wanted to present himself to Mrs Cherry as he was, to be frank about his situation, what he wanted from a primary school, what Joshua wanted.
The Garden turned out to be a twelve-minute walk away, in a handsome Victorian house at one end of a maze of streets Matt wouldn’t have known existed unless he had consulted the map. A man in dirty white overalls was up a ladder painting the G of Garden as Matt approached, reminding him, though he barely needed it, that this was a brand-new establishment with no track record and no recommendation beyond that of a woman who seemed to hold him in the lowest regard.
‘I thought we’d sit in the garden,’ said Mrs Cherry, slipping her fingers free of his hand almost before he had got hold of it and turning to lead the way down a long central hallway to a glass door. ‘The place is still swarming with workmen, but they break for lunch any minute and I’ll show you round then. I’ve made a pot of tea, or would you prefer something cold? All I’ve got is orange juice, I’m afraid.’
Matt followed her through to the back of the house, their footsteps echoing on the bare boards. She was tall and slim, with gingery brown hair swept into a loose French bun and startled blue eyes that looked both alert and perpetually amused. Although she was probably in her mid-forties, her demeanour was of a woman much younger, an impression heightened by the simple blue cotton dress she was wearing and her girlish flat-heeled sandals.
‘I can see where you got the name for the school from,’ said Matt, admiring the huge space stretching before them, most of it laid to lawn, apart from the nearest third which was taken up by new, soft-looking tarmac and several sets of climbing frames. At the far end of the grassed area were two small, robust-looking goals, still covered in polythene.
‘The curriculum will include all sorts of sports,’ said Mrs Cherry with a laugh, noting the direction of his gaze.
‘Good,’ said Matt, smiling. ‘Football is Joshua’s new passion – Peter Pan doesn’t get a look in these days.’
‘Ah, Joshua, yes, he sounds a lovely child. I’ve heard all about him,’ Mrs Cherry explained, seeing his look of puzzlement, ‘from Sophie Contini.’
‘Oh yes, Sophie, of course.’
‘We met on a course about eighteen months ago and have kept in touch,’ she explained. ‘The idea of starting the school was only just beginning to take off – I was still waiting to hear if I’d got the grant. I don’t know how much Sophie has told you,’ she continued, ‘but I’ve run a small nursery for many years now, just a couple of roads away – started it when my own lot were small and I couldn’t find anywhere I liked. Anyway, for years parents have been begging me to extend on up to primary level. Not having the space there I kept putting it off, and of course finding the right site was hard …’ She clapped her hands. ‘But you haven’t come here for a history of the bureaucratic and logistical nightmare of getting a new school off the ground. Would you like to look round now? Still ladders and paint pots, I’m afraid, but we’re nearly there. Half the ground floor has been converted for the hall and kitchens, which leaves room for two small classrooms and one cloakroom, and of course the staffroom and my study – a cubby-hole, but I’m sure I’ll manage. On the first floor we’ve got two further classrooms, each with cloakrooms, which leaves the top floor for art and craft – one huge room full of light. Oh yes, and there’s the library, which is in the basement. Sounds dreary but I think the conversion has worked particularly well down there – it’s spacious but really snug and with lines of ceiling lights everywhere to make up for the —’
‘Mrs Cherry, I … it all sounds wonderful. But presumably Joshua isn’t the only one wanting to be considered … and I can’t help being surprised you’ve got any spaces left. Most schools seem to have closed their lists months ago.’
They had got as far as the doorway into what was obviously the main hall. In the far corner, across a considerable yardage of freshly varnished floorboards, a young man in splattered jeans was leaning on an upright piano sipping from a mug and smoking a cigarette.
She laughed. ‘Yes, well, in an ideal world my lists would have closed months ago as well – I shall be more organised next year. And yes, Joshua is among several children hoping to be accepted. I shall meet all of them for a short interview – quite different from the grilling he got at St Leonard’s, I assure you …’ She hesitated. ‘Obviously, Mr Webster, it would be unprofessional of me to make any guarantees, but I cannot envisage any enormous problems. I’ll give you the forms before you leave. We need a small deposit, I’m afraid, of fifty pounds, but happily the fees themselves are well below your usual private institutions – for the time being anyway,’ she added, making a face. ‘In fact,’ she confided, lowering her voice, ‘I had been hoping to lure Sophie herself over here, but then who can blame her for choosing Italy instead. She’s been talking of making such a move ever since I met her …’
‘Italy?’
‘Her sister and brother-in-law run a language school there. Near Orvieto. Sophie’s going to join them. She’s bilingual … I assumed you knew …’ She broke off, looking momentarily puzzled, before pushing open another door, revealing a room with windows fronting on to the garden at one end and a huge white board at the other. ‘Not very big, but then that’s what I believe in – small classes, individ
ual attention. We’re going to have no more than ten in each room, with a maximum of twenty in each of the three years. The reception class is the one that’s now almost full. The other two will obviously take a little more time …’
For the remainder of the tour Matt said very little, distracted not by the obvious and happy fact that he had found a place and a person to whom he could entrust the next three years of his son’s education, but by the notion of Sophie going to Italy. Deserting the sunny grime of south-east London for olive groves. Deserting him.
37
He wasn’t an impetuous man, Matt reminded himself, striding with what felt like enormous impetuosity in the rough direction of Sophie Contini’s home, his head raging with uncertainty as to what he would say when he got there. That he didn’t want her to go to one of the most attractive countries in Europe? That he had always treasured the sight of her damp underwear? That she was the most intriguingly hostile female he had ever known? He had no argument to offer, he realised gloomily, slowing his pace, in danger of coming to his senses. Just a perverse and indefensible sense of loss at the prospect of her not being around, like the loss of something unvalued but taken for granted being suddenly snatched away.
Matt altered his pace so often and took so many wrong turns that by time he arrived at the correct doorstep he was uncomfortably hot. His hair, which had been swept neatly back from his face for the interview with Mrs Cherry, was flopping round his eyes and ears. If she wasn’t there it was a sign he shouldn’t have come, he told himself, ringing the bell and nervously checking his watch. Seeing that it was still only half past two all his apprehensions were momentarily overtaken by gloom. Of course she wouldn’t be there. It was a Friday. She was a teacher. Joshua himself would only just be coming out of school, to be greeted by Dennis, whom Matt had collected from King’s Cross that morning, full of dry quips about edging into his eighth decade.
When the door opened Matt was so surprised he took a step backwards. Instead of picking on one of the more cogent expressions of the feelings that had propelled him to her door, his terror got the better of him. ‘I didn’t think you’d be in,’ he muttered, clasping his hands behind his back in a bid to disguise the fact that they were trembling. The pose, coupled with the look of wariness in her eyes, made him feel suddenly like a doorstepping salesman with a suitcase full of products no one wanted to buy. Intrigued by his silence, she opened the door a fraction wider, revealing the fact that she was clad only in what looked like a man’s shirt and small white ankle socks. ‘I’m not very well. I took the day off.’
‘Well, in that case, I’m sorry, I …’ he muttered, beginning to back
away.
‘No, come in, I’m feeling much better now.’ She opened the door wider, frowning over his shoulder. ‘Where’s your car?’
‘Er … I walked. From The Garden. I wanted to say thank you.’ He grinned, confidence flowering under the discovery of a legitimate pretext for his visit. ‘Mrs Cherry, she’s great, the whole place looks great. And so willing to consider Joshua. I can’t thank you enough … I …’
‘Unless you don’t want to catch my germs,’ she added, ignoring this torrent of gratitude and starting to close the door.
Matt shook his head, made mute by the realisation that he would love to catch whatever she had and more besides.
Inside, the hall felt pleasantly cool and dark. She poured him some fresh lemonade, which she said she had made herself, and then sat quietly watching him while he drank it. So quietly that he felt bound to speak.
‘And I also wanted to apologise for that night – after the funeral I —’ ‘No need.’ She crossed her legs, revealing a smooth triangular portion of thigh.
‘If there’s no need,’ he burst out, trying not to look at her legs, images of them attractively packaged in running shorts flashing unhelpfully across his brain, ‘why the hell did you cut me dead in the street the next day?’
‘What are you talking about?’ She rolled her eyes, looking impatient. ‘The next morning – I saw you running – in the high street round the corner from me. I was with Josh. You just completely ignored me.’
‘I didn’t see you.’
‘You did. You looked right at me.’
She burst out laughing, bringing spots of colour to her cheeks, which were otherwise very pale. ‘I probably wasn’t wearing my lenses – I often don’t when I run in the morning. The sweat gets in my eyes and irritates them.’ She began to laugh again, but then seemed to check herself, getting up and running herself a glass of water at the sink instead. ‘So that’s cleared that up, then.’
‘Yup, I guess it has.’ Matt pushed away his empty glass, reading the note of dismissal in her tone and feeling utterly helpless in the face of it. He stood up, pushing his hands into his shorts pockets. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Okay, then.’ She put her empty glass down on the draining board.
‘Fine.’ He pushed his chair out of the way, anger at his ineptitude getting the better of him. ‘I just can’t seem to accept that you don’t like me, can I? If it wasn’t so sad it would be extremely amusing.’
‘I do like you,’ she muttered.
‘Do you? Oh, good. In that case perhaps you would indulge me with a little of that honesty you’re so keen on. I’ll start, shall I? Because, dumb as it sounds, I actually came here to tell you … to tell you that I don’t want you to go to Italy or any other part of the globe, because for some mystifying and utterly infuriating reason I can’t get you out of my mind – just the thought of you …’ He broke off, diverted by the memory of Louise’s delusions and how he must appear to this poor bemused, half- dressed woman who had been trying to sleep off an illness. ‘I’m sorry. I really am going now. God, what you must think of me. I —’
‘I think,’ said Sophie quietly, folding her arms, not moving from her position in front of the sink, ‘that it’s fucking typical that —’
‘It’s all right, I’m out of here, out of your life.’ He raised his hands as if surrendering under attack and began backing towards the door.
‘I haven’t finished.’
‘I don’t think I want you to.’
‘I think it’s fucking typical,’ she repeated, eyeing him steadily, so steadily that he stopped moving and dropped his hands to his sides, ‘that the moment I decide to get my act together, to change my life, do something to jump-start me back towards at least a hope of personal happiness, you come along and decide to say all this.’ She flung her arms out and slapped her thighs.
‘Look, I’ve said I’m —’
‘I’m going to fucking Italy because of you, you great dope. I’m going because you were right – I have spent two years blocking out my own problems with everybody else’s. And because ever since Josie got me to talk you into employing her I’ve been looking for excuses to be near you.
Because, even in your objectionable state the other night, I could think only that a kiss from you, even a drunken, beery kiss, would be absolutely bloody wonderful. And when that happened, when I had sunk so low, I decided the only thing to do was to accept this offer that my sister’s been pushing at me for months and go somewhere where I might have a chance of forgetting you altogether.’
Matt folded his arms, feeling his heart thumping in his chest.
‘And please stop grinning because I’ve signed the contracts and I am going, I bloody well am. I risked everything for a man once before and it didn’t pay off. I tell you, Matt, it didn’t pay off at all …’
It was a moment or two before he realised she was crying. Which made it easier to cross the room and put his arms round her. Instead of melting at his touch, she began pummelling his chest with her fists, sobbing profanities. Matt held on tight, not minding the fists or the language, just absurdly happy at the feel of her tears through his T-shirt, wetting his skin.
‘Shit, shit, shit.’
‘So you’ve liked me all along,’ he murmured, kissing the top of her head. ‘You were horrible beca
use you liked me.’
‘You didn’t need me,’ she retorted, pushing the words out through a hiccoughing sob, ‘you had so many others … bees round a bloody honeypot. Just because you’re good-looking, with an angelic child … you were revelling in it.’
‘Now there you are wrong, I never revelled in it … well, all right then, maybe fractionally, right at the beginning, when frankly I would have seized on anything that didn’t make me feel like a total reject … I didn’t have a clue to what to do, I was just thrashing around, grabbing at anything for comfort …’
‘You talked about being in the queue for me … well, that’s how I’ve felt about you … people, women especially, tripping over themselves to help you … Maria Schofield and her cronies, that hateful Louise woman, not to mention your agent —’
‘You mean Beth —’
‘When Dan left me no one came flocking to my aid – I was ostracised, the scarlet woman who had got her comeuppance.’
‘I didn’t want any of them. I want you.’
‘Why?’ She looked up at him, her cheeks smeary, her nose pink from crying. ‘I’ve been horrible to you for months and months.’
He grinned. ‘I know. Perhaps that’s why; because you were the only one who didn’t seem to want something from me, who recognised that I had to sort myself, that there weren’t any miraculous short cuts … This Dan – are you sure you don’t still love him?’
‘God, no.’ She reached across the sink for a square of kitchen paper and blew her nose dismissively. Matt kept his arm across her shoulders, fearful that if he let go she might slip from his grasp.
‘Does this mean you’ll come to lunch on Sunday?’
‘Matt, have you been listening to anything I’ve said? I’m about to leave London and start a new life. To prove to myself that …’
‘You don’t need to prove anything, Sophie, not to me.’ He put his finger under her chin and tilted her mouth to meet his. He kissed her gently, barely brushing his lips against hers, not wanting either to hurry the pleasure or scare her away.
A Family Man Page 29
