by Jane Fallon
Helen got some wine while Louisa cried all over Matthew and told him what'd gone on in a series of incoherent, sobby sentences. Louisa had scarcely acknowledged Helen's existence yet, except for a quick once-over when she first came in. Now she was so wrapped up in her own misery that she was ignoring the baby's attempts to electrocute herself by poking her fingers in the back of the TV, so Helen had to step in.
"Erm…should she be doing that?"
Louisa gave the baby a cursory glance.
"Jemima."
Jemima? What sort of a fucking name was that?
Jemima, of course, being two years old, took no notice, and Louisa was already back to sniveling all over her older brother, so Helen had no choice other than to hoick the baby away from the television herself. She held her at arms' length, then placed her down next to her mother. No way, she thought, am I going to be babysitter to this child.
"I'm going to bed," she announced to the room. "Louisa, the sofa's all made up. Jemima'll have to sleep in with you, I'm afraid. Help yourself to anything. I'm sure Matthew will show you where stuff is."
Louisa didn't even look up from her crying.
"OK, night, then." Helen backed out of the room.
* * *
Between Matthew tripping over a chair as he made his way to bed at midnight, Jemima crying, and Louisa getting up and making herself tea at six, Helen had maybe three hours of sleep. So she wasn't in the best of moods when she came into the kitchen and found Louisa feeding Jemima at the table.
"Morning." She tried to inject a bubbliness into her voice that was alien to her.
Louisa looked at her coolly, gazing out from red, swollen eyes.
"So now you know what effect your actions will have had."
Oh, great.
"Excuse me?"
"You're seeing it from the other side. How a woman feels when her husband's gone off with someone else, left her alone with her children. It's not pleasant, is it?"
Why did all of Matthew's family speak like Barbara Cartland had written their script for them?
"Matthew's the one who left Sophie, not me."
"But if women like you weren't out there beckoning, men wouldn't be tempted."
"Women like me, meaning what, exactly?" Helen was considering how it would feel to punch Louisa square in one of her red pig's eyes.
"Women who think that marriage means nothing, women who think that their bit of fun is worth more than another woman's years of commitment and emotional investment, women who think it's OK for children to grow up without a father, women who don't have a man of their own."
"Well, thank you for that succinct and scarily accurate assessment of my character. Just one thing—have you ever considered that some women push their men away? Drive them into the arms of other people by bitching and nagging and…boring them to death? By being sanctimonious and superior and…self-righteous?"
And with that, she flounced out the front door and off to work without saying good-bye to Matthew. She knew that he'd be furious when Louisa reported back—indeed, she knew she'd be furious with herself when she calmed down a bit—but Louisa had started it, for fuck's sake.
* * *
Geoff Sweeney, or Mr.-Helen-from-Accounts, to give him his full name, had noticed that his wife was wearing a striking new pink hooded top, instead of her usual navy suit for work this morning. At thirty-four, she had adopted a style that would best suit someone twice her age. Knee-length skirts with tights—tan in summer, navy in winter—and low-heeled court shoes, a tailored M and S jacket which had acquired a slight sheen with age, and a button-up shirt. Her jewelry was always gold in color and consisted of a plain-link chain around her neck with the word Helen spelled out in slanty handwriting in the middle, and a matching gold-link bracelet. The necklace was just a link or two too tight and the Helen, resting too snugly on the front of her throat, flapped up and down when she spoke. All she needed was a name badge to complete the impression that she had just stepped out from behind the counter of the NatWest.
Helen-from-Accounts' hair was short and manageable, cut in a bob, crying out for some product to control the slight frizz that crept in when the days were too warm, too wet, or too stressful. Beneath the bob was a face that resembled a small, timid shrew. She was neither pretty nor ugly, just nondescript. If her nose had been larger or her chin more pronounced, then her face might have had the distinctiveness to make an impression. As it was, she washed over people unremembered. Her voice wavered nervously and, listening to her, people felt an overwhelming urge to speed things up and finish off her sentences themselves. In fact, they often did so, so she frequently found herself squeezed out of conversations and consequently became increasingly uneasy in social situations.
"The girls in the office all wear stuff like this to work," she told Geoff and he was pleased that she seemed to be making some new friends at last. He kissed her good-bye as she got into the car.
"Love you, bunny," he said.
"Love you, too." Helen-from-Accounts waved at him over her shoulder as she drove off.
* * *
"Look at her. What the fuck is she wearing?"
Annie laughed as she watched Helen-from-Accounts through the glass window in the Accounts office.
"She as much as admitted it to us at lunch yesterday, you know. Well, she said she thought Matthew was attractive and, let's face it, there can't be many people who'd admit to that."
Helen looked up from the pile of mail she was sorting through in Reception just as Helen-from-Accounts waved a cheery greeting to Annie.
"Sad," said Helen, nodding. "She's really sad."
That's something else I can add to my personal profile, she thought as she walked through to her desk:
Husband-thief
Child-orphaner
Liar
Massive bitch
She sat down and turned her computer on.
When she got home that night, Louisa was still there, cooking for Matthew in the kitchen, snotty toddler running riot, looking at Helen as though she were the interloper.
13
MATTHEW'S GIRLS HAD GONE over to their father's as usual on Sunday afternoon. History had been made, because Claudia had spoken without being prompted and without saying anything insulting. The landmark exchange had gone something like this:
Helen: Hi, how are you?
Claudia: OK.
Helen: Do you want to have a look outside and see how your bulbs are coming up?
Silence. An eye roll followed and Claudia turned her attention to her dad. But a voluntary OK was still better than nothing and Helen felt like she'd won a victory. She hadn't been able to get Suzanne on her own to continue her fact-finding mission about Sophie, but she'd learned a few interesting facts from things Claudia accusingly let slip to her father:
Sophie had called a solicitor to talk about filing for divorce.
She had drunk most of a bottle of wine on her own on Wednesday evening and then thrown up on the living room carpet.
Louisa had called her to tell her that the woman Matthew had gone off with was a stupid bitch and that it would never last. Claudia smiled at Helen for the first time ever while she relayed this last gem.
"Claudia! Apologize to Helen. Now."
"It's OK, Matthew, she's only repeating what someone else said. And I probably deserve it. Don't tell her off."
Claudia had looked at Helen for a moment as if she were thinking "OK, she's got me out of trouble. Interesting." And she discovered that she felt a bit bad for having told the story in the first place. But not so bad that she wouldn't do it again.
* * *
Helen had an assignation. Monday, twelve forty-five, at the entrance to Fit For Life on City Road. She had thought about canceling it all morning, all weekend in fact, and had even half-dialed Sophie's number a couple of times. But, at quarter past twelve, she got up from her desk and walked to Tottenham Court Road tube station, as if going to see your boyfriend's estranged wife for an exercise
session were the most natural thing in the world. She was approaching it the way she would a first date, fussing about what she was wearing, how much makeup to put on, whether to be fashionably late or politely early. Would Sophie prefer a friend who was trendy and girly or sophisticated and womanly? Or even sporty and boyish? Just remember your name is Eleanor, she said to herself as she got off the underground at Old Street.
The week before had passed fairly uneventfully. Louisa had finally left on Friday morning. In front of Matthew, she'd acted civil, although a bit cold, and Helen had managed to avoid being alone with her for a second time, hiding in the bedroom in the mornings till Matthew was out of the bathroom and chatting with his sister. The subject of Helen's marriage-wrecking ways hadn't come up again and Jemima's attention-grabbing tantrums had provided the perfect diversion whenever conversation had run low. Each evening, Louisa had borrowed the phone to call both Jason and his new girlfriend in turn and shout abuse. On the second night, when Jason didn't answer his mobile, Louisa left a message telling him that Jemima was gravely ill and that he must call her back as a matter of urgency. He did, of course, and Louisa answered like a demented fishwife, telling him that he'd never see his fucking daughter again and that if she ever was, in fact, seriously unwell, he'd never even get to hear about it till it was too late. Helen knew she should feel sorry for her, but she just couldn't find it in herself.
Before she left work on Friday, Helen had called Sophie to say that her ankle was better and to make a plan for Monday. Truthfully, Sophie had forgotten all about her, having more important things on her mind, like the breakup of her marriage. But when Helen had reminded her of her offer, Sophie had been gracious and even, Helen thought, friendly. Sophie, in fact, was irritated by this imposition on her time. True, she would have been going to the gym at lunchtime anyway, as part of her new regime, but the thought of having to make polite conversation with a total stranger—even one who seemed perfectly normal and amiable—weighed on her all weekend. She was a loner by nature, anyway—a state which had been solidified by her devotion to her work and family, meaning that she had no time for friends. Still, she had agreed with this Eleanor that she would show her around, so she had to go through with it. She'd just make it as quick as possible, be polite, and get out.
* * *
Sophie had never been good at making friends. At school, she was always the third girl in a gang of three. The one who knew that, after a while, the other two were meeting up behind her back in the evenings. If she was asked who her best childhood friend was, she wouldn't have been able to come up with an answer. It would be Kelly and Michelle when she was seven, Charlotte and Catherine when she was nine, Ella and Nadia at twelve, and Olivia and Emma at fifteen. Asked the same question, none of these girls, she knew, would even remember her, let alone pick her. She wasn't unpopular—that wasn't the problem—but she'd never been able to understand how those singular bonds worked, how to sustain an intimacy with someone which involved phoning them two or three times a day and seeing them whenever you could persuade your parents to let you.
It was inevitable, then, that when she married Matthew she would quickly let all her girlfriends slide. She'd blamed it on her work schedule, but it was just easier to do the couples thing with the wives and girlfriends of Matthew's friends. Amicable enough, but nothing intimate. There was no question of them ever meeting up independently of their husbands, and none of them had any idea what they would talk about if they did. Sometimes, inside the cozy safety of her tight-knit family life, she felt heavy with loneliness. But only sometimes.
* * *
Helen got to Fit For Life with two minutes to spare. It was one of those gray and windy early February days which turn London from a vibrant city into a drearily oppressive and claustrophobic tangle of gray stone and angry people, and Helen suddenly felt crushingly depressed. What was she doing here? Why couldn't she just accept that Matthew had chosen her and be happy? She found herself wondering where her old life had gone. OK, so she didn't like it very much at the time, but now it seemed idyllic. It used to be that she lived for the Matthew days, the Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays when he came over. Now she couldn't understand why she never used to revel in the other four nights of the week, when she would be left alone to suit herself.
"Eleanor. Hi."
Helen paused just a fraction too long before she realized that that was her, and looked up.
"You look like you're having a bad day."
She gave Sophie her best "Look how friendly I am" smile.
"No! I'm fine. Raring to go."
They went through the formalities of signing Helen in (Eleanor Pitt, in honor of Brad, who happened to be on the cover of a copy of Heat in the reception) and chatted about the dismal weather on the way to the changing rooms. Once inside, Helen realized with alarm that the space was communal, with no cubicles, so she and Sophie would have to change side by side.
"You've been to a gym before, presumably," Sophie was saying as she took off her coat and then pulled her cream sweater over her head, revealing a white lacy bra underneath.
Helen forced herself not to look, and then felt like the school-gates pervert when she couldn't resist giving Sophie a quick once-over as she stepped out of her brown trousers.
OK, nice figure. Bigger tits than me, bit of a crinkly stomach, a few stretchmarks, a touch of cellulite around her thighs but, frankly, not bad. Nothing that Matthew could ever have complained about, anyway. He'd seen this woman, this stranger, naked every day for the past fifteen years. How odd was that?
"Yes, it's just, 'cause I've moved…"
I really should have written myself a biography, she thought, terrified that she was going to give herself away somehow. Had she told Sophie she'd only just moved in when she'd met her the other day? She couldn't remember.
Apparently she had.
"Oh, yes, how are you finding it?"
"Good, good. Yes, good."
Great, Helen thought. If she could just keep up this scintillating level of conversation they'd be best friends in no time.
* * *
They started off on the cross-trainers. Sophie kept up a bit of a commentary about how the machine worked, and Helen, who had been to the gym twice a week every week for the past five years, pretended to be interested. Helen could sense that Sophie just wanted to get the session over with, not in a hostile way but in an I-wish-I'd-never-offered-but-seeing-as-I-did-I'd-better-be-polite way. She knew exactly how she'd be feeling if it was her who was in Sophie's position. Trying to make conversation, she asked Sophie if she had any children, but Sophie just replied, "Yes, two" and left it at that. She tried asking her questions about her work, and that killed about a minute and a half, then Sophie asked about hers and she made a few more things up and tried to file them somewhere in her memory where she'd be able to find them again if she needed to. More small talk as they moved across to the rowing machines—the merits of the blood-group diet over Atkins (Helen couldn't care less and she was pretty sure Sophie couldn't, either), Big Brother, Harvey Nichols versus Selfridges. They'd reached the all-time low of the state of the transport system in London, and Helen was about to call it quits and cut the session short, when a miracle happened. A man fell over on one of the running machines. And not just any man. A big, fat man with a bad comb-over. And when he fell, he didn't just fall—he stumbled for a while first, wildly grasping about to steady himself like an obese Fred Astaire in mid–tap routine, then he seemed to give up and landed face-first, sliding backward to end up on the gym floor.
It was number one on the list of things you shouldn't laugh at. Well, numbers one to four or so, really.
A fat man
With a comb-over
Falling over
And hurting himself.
It might have been relief at the distraction, but Helen could feel herself starting to laugh. She heard a snort and looked over at Sophie, who had gone red in the face and was shaking. This was ludicrous, two grown wo
men who really should know better in hysterics over someone else's misfortune. The man was sitting up now and being attended to by a couple of more compassionate samaritans, who were throwing the odd disapproving look in Helen's and Sophie's direction, but his comb-over was standing up on top of his head and he looked like a chicken. Helen had tears appearing in the corners of her eyes and Sophie was trying hard to cover her rudeness by pretending to cough. Both of them had pretty much given up all pretense of rowing.
"Sauna," Sophie just about managed to say.
"Mmm," was all Helen could get out in reply.
It was a breakthrough.
* * *
Suddenly conversation seemed easy. Helen pretty much managed to forget that Sophie was Sophie, and Sophie got over her lack of practice at making girlfriends, and they found that they chatted away effortlessly about pretty much nothing and made each other laugh a bit. By the time Helen had to leave to get back to the office, she was satisfied that she had picked her Sophie scab enough—she knew (intimately) what Sophie looked like, how she spoke, what made her laugh. She had fleshed her out into a real person.
She had poked at the kernel of guilt that had lodged inside her and made it grow. What she had done was an unforgivable thing to a real, living, breathing—worse still, nice and undeserving (although who exactly would have been deserving Helen couldn't now think)—woman. By meeting her, she had made herself feel as bad as she could and now she had to learn to live with it.
